Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  “Effective, isn’t it?” Linnaius said, with the slightest hint of a smile. “You had no idea I was there, did you, lieutenant?”

  “How did you pull off that little trick?”

  “Shadowsilk.” The Magus turned away—and merged with the shadows again. In the firelit darkness, it was impossible to tell whether he was still in the room or not.

  “Extraordinary,” Eugene said softly. The Magus reappeared, shaking his head as though shrugging off a hooded cloak. “What is this remarkable shadowsilk, Linnaius?”

  “Suffice it to say that it is not woven in the conventional manner, highness, and that each cloak takes much time and craft. I have manufactured enough for a dozen, no more.” Linnaius offered Eugene the cloak to try: a shimmer of shadow draped across his outstretched arms.

  When Eugene wrapped the evanescent cloth about himself, he felt a shiver of the Magus’ sorcerous glamor that set the hairs on his body prickling. The sensation was not in the least pleasurable. He shrugged off the cloak, relieved not to have to wear it a moment longer.

  “But if we’re to be fried alive, what use is this clever little conjuring trick?” Alvborg said.

  Now Eugene was certain: the nonchalant drawl the young man affected hid genuine apprehension.

  “The aim of your mission,” he said, “is to tantalize the Azhkendi forces, to distract them, to lead them astray.”

  Alvborg turned to him, one eyebrow skeptically raised.

  “Even though we have no accurate charts or maps, and it’s perpetually blizzarding—”

  Eugene nodded. “This mission will prove a considerable test of your ingenuity, lieutenant. You will cross the Saltyk Sea not at the narrowest point from the tip of the isthmus here,” he pointed to the coastline, “but twenty miles farther north. If our intelligence is correct, you will make landfall near the fishing port of Narvazh. I want you to be sure the people of Narvazh see you before you move farther up the coast.”

  “And if we’re challenged?”

  “You retaliate. Azhkendi casualties will bring the druzhina swarming like flies to carrion—which is exactly what we want.”

  “And if we run head-on into the Drakhaon himself?”

  “Magus.” Eugene turned to Linnaius. “You’ve prepared a device for the lieutenant to use if he finds himself and his men in an extreme situation?”

  “To be used only in the direst need,” Linnaius said. “A different kind of ammunition for your carbines.” He undid a soft leather pouch belted around his waist and placed a small, pointed metal capsule on the desk. The metal gleamed dully in the firelight like pewter, and it gave off a low buzzing sound like a drowsy bee.

  Alvborg extended his hand toward the capsule—and then sharply drew it away, as if he had been stung.

  “That’s no ordinary bullet. What the deuce is it?”

  Linnaius smiled. “The alchymical elements contained within are extremely volatile, lieutenant. When they are exposed to the element of air, they create clouds of a noxious gas that will confuse your enemy, giving you time to escape. Make sure that you and your men do not breathe in the fumes they give off when they explode.”

  “Why?” Alvborg said.

  “The fumes contain an alchymical poison. Breathe in a little and you suffer confusion, dizziness, sickness. Breathe in a little more and your lungs are seared.”

  “Clever. Clever—and cruel.” Alvborg nodded. Eugene could not tell from his expression if he approved or disapproved. “And how long, highness, are we to carry on this game of cat and mouse?”

  “As long as you can hold out, lieutenant—longer still, if you wish to receive your full reward.”

  Two Tielen ice yachts skidded across the gray ice. Though it was midday, the frozen Saltyk Sea was shrouded in freezing snow fogs, and the sun could not be seen through cloud.

  The navigator crouched over his compass, shouting out instructions to the helmsman. The thick ice creaked and groaned beneath the yacht’s smooth-honed keel, and the wind gusted noisily in the single canvas sail.

  Alvborg looked at his men, who sat huddled together against the cold, clutching their carbines in gloved hands.

  Poor deluded fools. Who in their right mind would volunteer for a desperate mission like this? Hugging his heavy greatcoat closer to him, he crossed his arms and stared out into the rolling fogs.

  What the devil had made him agree? At this moment, the disgrace of court-martial and debtor’s prison seemed quite a welcome alternative.

  “Something’s wrong with this compass, lieutenant!” yelled the navigator above the wind.

  Alvborg fought forward against the buffeting gusts to peer down at the compass. The needle was swinging wildly around beneath the glass case.

  “Where’s Azhkendir?”

  The navigator shrugged.

  Damn it all, hadn’t Magus Linnaius warned him they might encounter such a problem? But the Magus had shrouded the warning in obliquely mystical talk of inexplicable climatic phenomena emanating from Azhkendir.

  “My grandfather used to say,” began one of the soldiers lugubriously, “that the Azhkendi protect their shores with the spirits of dead warriors. If you don’t starve to death going round in circles, they lead you astray to where the ice is thin and drag you under.”

  “Tales to frighten silly children,” Alvborg said with a weary sigh. Why had he been cursed with a bunch of superstitious idiots to command? “Besides, his highness is relying on us. There’s no turning back now. We don’t even know which way is back.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Elysia gazed down from her window. The crowds still surrounded the Winter Palace, their pitch torches a blur of flame in the foggy Muscobar night.

  Matyev’s voice kept echoing through her mind. All his talk of philosophical societies had been nothing but a blind; he was a revolutionary, one of Velemir’s “damned insurgents.” So, she saw now, was Altan Kazimir.

  And what was she? An artist, a freethinker from a country that had deposed its prince and substituted a democratically elected government. Matyev had been right; her sympathies should lie with his cause, not with the aristocrats. And yet here she was, inextricably involved with the ruling family.

  And the only man in all Muscobar who could save Gavril had allied himself with the opposing side.

  “Madame Andar! You’ve got to help me!”

  Elysia looked up from her packing to see Astasia, back pressed against the door as though to prevent anyone from entering. Didn’t anyone knock in the Winter Palace?

  “What are you doing? Why are you packing?”

  “My work here is finished, altessa. I’m going home.”

  Astasia ran across the room to her side.

  “Madame Andar. I can never love Prince Eugene. I love your son. What shall I do?”

  Elysia continued to fold her clothes and place them inside her trunk.

  Astasia seized hold of her hand. “Can’t you take me with you to Smarna? Can’t you smuggle me out, disguised as your maid? Please say you will!”

  Elysia gently extracted her hand from Astasia’s. “Dear altessa, that kind of disguise only works in absurd romances and operas. This is real. You can’t escape this marriage, but perhaps you can make it work to your advantage.”

  “No!” cried Astasia. “Now you sound just like them. And I’d thought you were different. Like Gavril . . .”

  Count Velemir appeared in the doorway.

  “Altessa,” he said, “I hoped I might find you here. Your mother is looking for you.” He looked weary, his face gray except for the angry gash where the stone had struck him.

  “Let her look,” Astasia said, and for a moment Elysia glimpsed a little of the Grand Duchess in her daughter’s petulant expression.

  “It was Madame Andar I came to see,” the count said.

  “I won’t marry Prince Eugene. I can’t go through with it! And you can tell Mama I said that.” Astasia burst into tears and ran from the room, slamming the door.

  “Do
you have any coffee?” Velemir said, easing himself into a chair.

  Elysia, suspecting he had not just come for coffee, abandoned her packing. “There’s still some in the pot. Do you take sugar?”

  “Thank you. But no cream.” He drank two cupfuls without speaking. “I’ve been up all night.” He drew one hand ruefully over his chin, feeling the stubble. “I apologize for appearing before you unshaven.”

  “I don’t think any of us have been able to get much sleep.”

  He was silent a moment, studying the coffee grounds in his cup.

  “So why did you come to see me, count?”

  “To ask you if you would consider changing your plans.”

  “What, stay here?” Elysia returned to her packing. “To be threatened by revolutionaries, shot at by the palace guard? No, thank you.”

  He set down his coffee cup and he said, “I have news.”

  She turned around. “Of Gavril?”

  “Of Azhkendir. It is reported by my agents on the northern borders that several nights ago, about sunset, a blue light lit the whole sky over Azhkendir, and the ground shook.”

  “Winter lightning.”

  “Or Nagarian lightning.”

  The folded clothes she was holding dropped to the floor.

  “Gavril,” she said, stricken. “Oh no. Not Gavril.”

  “You remember my initial suggestion? That you should go to Tielen? Of course, the official reason for your visit would be to formally present your portrait of the Altessa Astasia to Prince Eugene.”

  She hardly heard him at first. All she could think was that Gavril, in spite of all she had done to shield and preserve him, had given in to the malign influence of his Nagarian blood.

  “I don’t see,” she said at last, her voice stifled, “how my going to Tielen would help in any way.”

  “Doctor Kazimir will accompany you.”

  She stared at him.

  “He would never agree.”

  “Oh, I think he may find he has no choice but to agree.” Velemir pushed himself to his feet.

  “No choice?” Elysia caught a sinister undertone to his words.

  “The good doctor should be more careful about the company he keeps.”

  “Last night?” she said. “In the square? But he tried to calm the situation, he tried to restrain Matyev.”

  “I had Kazimir arrested at dawn. The charge is insurrection. Treason. Plotting against the Grand Duke. The usual sentence is death—by hanging.”

  Elysia stood motionless, staring at the count.

  “B-but he is the only one who can help my son.”

  “It’s time,” Velemir said, turning toward the door, “to find out if Kazimir is really as dedicated to the revolutionary cause as his friend Matyev thinks.” He turned back, offering her his hand. “Come, madame. I need you as witness to this little negotiation.”

  The count led Elysia through cold subterranean tunnels whose walls were lined with brown bricks, glistening with water.

  They emerged in a dark and dingy room that stank of mold and stale urine.

  “What is this place? It looks like a prison,” Elysia said, staring around her with distaste.

  “Hush.” He beckoned her through a low, narrow archway.

  Elysia reluctantly followed the count and found herself in a little observation chamber with an iron grille set in the wall.

  The room beyond the grille was dark and windowless, lit only by one brightly burning lamp. Two men sat on opposite sides of a table. One was writing in an open ledger. The other sat facing the grille. He was drooping in his chair; his arms appeared to be tied behind his back. Lank locks of fair hair hung across his face.

  “And the last time you spoke with the insurgent Matyev was in the Tea Pavilion?”

  The man mumbled an inaudible reply.

  The interrogator raised his pen. This seemed to be some kind of signal, as two men appeared out of the shadows and lunged at the prisoner, tugging his hair and jerking his head back.

  Elysia stifled a cry. It was Kazimir. But Kazimir without his glasses, Kazimir with a bruised and bloodied face, peering myopically at his interrogator.

  “What have you done to him?” she whispered angrily. But Velemir affected not to hear her, focusing all his attention on the interrogation.

  “So why, Altan Kazimir, was it you were seen—by many witnesses—talking with the insurgent Matyev in front of the Winter Palace last night?”

  “Not talking, warning—” muttered Kazimir.

  “Warning him?”

  “That he was a bloody fool,” Kazimir said thickly.

  The interrogator nodded to the two men standing beside Kazimir. The next instant, one grabbed hold of the doctor while the other hit him across the face. Elysia, outraged, clutched at Velemir’s arm.

  “Make this stop, Feodor. It’s barbaric!”

  Velemir turned to her.

  “Do you want to save your son, madame?” he asked coldly.

  Kazimir sagged in the grip of his tormentors.

  “Tell us the truth, Doctor Kazimir,” said the interrogator. “Confess. You are part of a conspiracy to overthrow the House of Orlov. Your extremist sympathies are well documented. For some years now you and your so-called philosophical society have been plotting with the rebel Matyev to assassinate the Grand Duke. Why don’t you just admit it?”

  “I have been in Azhkendir,” Kazimir said faintly. Blood trickled down one side of his mouth. “How could I have done all these things so far from Mirom?”

  The interrogator took out a pile of documents and began to read aloud.

  “‘How can we be said to have freedom of speech when the presses are censored? How can our voice, the true voice of the people, be heard when we are gagged? This censorship must end and the tyrants who impose it must be removed from power.’” He laid down the papers on the table and turned to Kazimir. “Your words, Doctor Kazimir? Do you deny you wrote this seditious pamphlet?”

  “No, I—I wrote it. . . .”

  “‘The tyrants who impose it must be removed from power.’ Dangerous words.” The interrogator moved close to Kazimir, spitting the words in his face. “An incitement to assassination, no less.”

  “That was not my intent.” Kazimir tried to move his head away.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Doctor, if you’re to escape the scaffold.”

  “The scaffold?” Kazimir’s face twisted, crumpled—and suddenly he began to weep, his shoulders sagging.

  Elysia turned to Velemir to protest—and found she was alone behind the grille.

  “Well? Do we have the names of the other conspirators yet?” Velemir appeared in the cell.

  “Not yet, excellency.” The interrogator bowed to the count. “But we have a confession. Kazimir admits he wrote these pamphlets.”

  “I see.” Velemir’s face was shadowed, giving no hint of expression. “You can leave me with the prisoner. I shall continue the interrogation alone.”

  Elysia leaned closer, biting her lip in her agitation.

  “You know me?” Velemir said, seating himself opposite Kazimir.

  “Count Velemir.” Kazimir’s sobs slowly subsided. “Spymaster to the House of Orlov.”

  Don’t insult him, you fool! Elysia wanted to grasp the grille and shout aloud. He’s here to try to save you!

  “Spymaster, if you will,” Velemir said, smiling affably, “Foreign Ambassador is my official title. And I’ll be going on a little trip soon, Doctor Kazimir, to Tielen. I’d like you to accompany me.”

  “Tielen?” Kazimir said, sniffling. His face was streaked with blood and tears.

  “If you stay here in Mirom, you’ll be hanged for a traitor and a conspirator.” He leaned toward the prisoner. “My dear Altan, I’m offering you a chance to save your life.”

  “Why Tielen?” Kazimir said suspiciously.

  “Tielen lies adjacent to Azhkendir, and you have unfinished business there, I believe.”

  “Unfinished? I�
��m a wanted man there. Wanted for Lord Volkh’s murder.”

  “Tielen or the gallows. It’s your choice, Doctor,” said Velemir, turning to leave.

  Kazimir started up, one manacled hand raised. “W-wait.”

  Velemir turned back, one brow raised.

  “Tielen.” The words were scarcely audible. “I’ll go to Tielen.”

  “Well, madame?” Feodor Velemir said. He was smiling. “Have I convinced you? Will you go to Tielen too?”

  “Was it necessary to interrogate Doctor Kazimir quite so brutally?” demanded Elysia.

  “My dear Elysia, by the laws of Mirom, the man deserves to die. In the circumstances, we treated him with extraordinary civility.”

  “But he has committed no crime!”

  “He has incited others to open rebellion. A revolution we can ill afford at the present time—”

  “Count Velemir!” A man stumbled in, his clothes and face filthy with mud and dust.

  “Gennadi? What’s happened?” Velemir said.

  “My—lord—” The man was so out of breath that only a dry croaking sound issued from his lips. “Terrible—storm in the Straits,” he managed.

  “The Sirin—”

  “The Sirin?” Velemir gripped hold of Gennadi by the shoulders.

  “Gone down, with all hands.”

  Elysia clapped her hands to her mouth. The Sirin was Andrei Orlov’s command.

  “Survivors?” Velemir demanded. “There must be survivors!”

  “They’re searching. But the sea’s still rough, and they were far from shore.”

  “The Grand Duke must be told at once. Madame Andar, please accompany us.”

  Elysia, bewildered, followed Velemir as he hurried toward the royal apartments. But it seemed as if the news of the Sirin had preceded them. Everywhere doors were opening, servants and courtiers milling in the echoing corridors, all talking together in hushed, anxious voices.

  The Grand Duke and Duchess were at dinner in their private apartments with Astasia, Vassian, and other court officials. Velemir flung open the double doors and went in. Elysia, caught in the melee of courtiers, heard the Grand Duchess’ anguished cry before she could push her way through.