A Company of Heroes Book One: The Stonecutter

by Ron Miller

  Praxx enters the prince’s chamber as he normally does, without announcement. Ferenc glances up, momentarily startled, then sneers. He hates it when the General does that; it denotes a lack of respect, which, of course, is Praxx’s intent. To the prince, the genius of the Guards had seemed to materialize out of the air itself, as though he has just risen mysteriously through the floorboards like a magician’s apprentice. Praxx has the peculiar and disconcerting ability to seem to move from place to place without traversing the intervening space. When caught in actual motion, he always appears to be gliding, feet motionless, like an ice skater.

  To add to Praxx’s uncanny presence, he is totally bald. Not by choice, as are many of his subordinates, possibly for the demoralizing effect it has on their subordinates, and possibly in fawning imitation of their leader, but because he is in fact genuinely hairless. He has a head shaped precisely like a light bulb ‘though he certainly would not have known this himself since that useful invention has not yet made its way from the Continent, nor would it for some decades yet). He neither resents nor feel pride in his hairlessness, which is the aftermath of a childhood illness; being utterly without vanity, he never considers the possible use of a wig. Which is just as well, as he would have looked ridiculous. However, he is not a person one laughs at; being humorless, he does not tolerate humor in others. His eyes are unblessed by lashes or brows and resemble a pair of chrome-plated ball bearings. His nose is like a cold chisel and his lipless mouth contain two stainless steel teeth, one to each side, perfectly symmetrical, and no others. The cumulative effect is like the spare, hard-edged attempt of a draftsman, more used to steam engines, industrial machinery and organizational charts, to draw a human face using only compass, straightedge and ruling pen. However, if Praxx is machinelike, it is a cheaply made machine; like a gold-plated watch with tin gears, pot-metal parts and a rusty mainspring, he is a frail man with an inordinate number of ill-made things gone wrong inside.

  “Yes, your Highness?” he says, in the kind of voice a dentist’s drill would have if one could speak.

  “Praxx, do I have to demote you to some provincial station to teach you a little courtesy?”

  “I came the moment I received your Highness’ summons,” Praxx replied irrelevantly.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about! I want to know when you arrive...”

  “It’s 3:17 in the afternoon, your Highness.”

  “...and not have you suddenly appear in my room, unbidden!”

  “Then the prince does not require my presence?”

  “Yes! I mean no! Damn it! Stop doing that!”

  “Of course, your Highness.”

  “Yes, well. Ah. Praxx, a, um, serious, ah, problem has arisen.”

  “Your sister, your Highness?”

  “How do you know that? I mean...Oh, ah, Bronwyn? What about her?”

  “She’s been missing from the palace for half a day.”

  “She can be anywhere; how can you say she’s missing?”

  “I know exactly where everyone is at all times. Pardon me, your Highness: with the present temporary exception of the Princess Bronwyn, of course.”

  “What do you mean, ‘everyone’? You had better not have any of your damned spies following me about! I won’t have it!”

  “Of course not, your Highness,” Praxx lied.

  “Well, good then. That’s all right. About Bronwyn...”

  “She managed to elude the man assigned to her. It’s a great surprise to me to learn that she even knew of him. I am embarrassed,” he says, though he doesn’t look it.

  “The hell with your damned embarrassment! Where’s Bronwyn? That’s what I want to know!”

  “I’m endeavoring to discover that very thing, your Highness. And when I find her?”

  “Just bring her to me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes! And, and...ah...anythingshemighthavewithher,” he finishes in a rush, glancing through the window in what he hopes is a gesture of non-chalance, but is not.

  “Your Highness will pardon me, but I don’t understand.”

  “All right, all right. She’s got something of mine and I want it back.”

  “Something of value, your Highness?”

  “Never mind what it is!”

  “But how will I know what to return?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference! Whatever she has with her! That’s all! Bring her back to the palace. She’ll have a box or a package; that is, she might; make sure that you bring that, too. Whatever it is, that is. If she has anything. Unopened! Tell your men that! I mean, if it’s a package. Or whatever. And I’ll have the head of anyone who looks at what she is carrying! I mean, if she’s carrying anything, it’s probably not important and it’s no one’s business anyway.”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  Nothing more would be needed to guarantee the microscopic examination of anything found with the princess than what her brother has just babbled. Praxx disregarded the prince’s threats. Not that it matters either way: the general knows exactly what the prince is after, and had known before he entered the prince’s chamber. He had seen Lord Roelt’s letters long before Ferenc or Bronwyn, he knew that Lord Roelt had requested that they be destroyed and he knew where the prince has disobediently cached them. Out of simple loyalty to the prince, he could himself have easily abstracted and destroyed the incriminating papers. But he feels no particular loyalty toward the Crown ‘why be petty and limit him: he feels no loyalty toward anything). He had quietly observed, through his argus-eyed organization, the theft committed by the princess. He is pleased at having gained knowledge of such increasingly convoluted events: knowledge is power, and he is watching his increase like a flywheel gaining speed. Or like a dynamo, throwing off sparks, already overflowing with potential energy. Or perhaps, even more exactly, like a miser watching his bank deposits accumulating interest.

  “Your Highness,” Praxx asks, “has no idea where the Princess may be at this moment?”

  “No, I don’t! Why should I? That’s supposed to be your job!”

  “Or what she intends to do with your, ah, property?”

  “That’s of no concern to you!”

  “If I can’t find where she is, I might be able to discover where she will be.”

  “Hm. I suppose I see what you mean, I think. Well. If I are you, I’d keep a sharp eye on the Privy Council.”

  “The Privy Council, your Highness?”

  “That’s all I’m going to say about the matter! Except this: if she even steps a foot into their chambers, you’re a dead man, Praxx!”

  “I understand your Highness.”

  Had Praxx possessed a sense of humor, he might have let slip a supercilious smirk at Ferenc’s toothless threat. As it is, his face maintains its usual machine-like expressionlessness; as destitute of emotion as a pencil sharpener. Once outside the prince’s apartments, Praxx allows his formidable brain to work freely on the assorted ramifications of the Problem. It isn’t too difficult, in the abstract, he decides. Until now, he has operated more or less according to the theory that what is good for Roelt is good for Praxx, that what is bad for the prince only made things better for the chamberlain, which in turn is once again good for Praxx. Is this problem of the stolen letters good or bad for Ferenc and/or Payne? And, ultimately, good or bad for Jaeger Praxx?

  Lord Roelt had explicitly ordered his communications destroyed, and with good reason. They contained his plans for the immediate future in altogether too much detail. Lord Roelt does not have the craftsmanship, Praxx decides, that comes from a true distrust of human beings, such as he himself possesses. The general would never have written such letters in the first place; such revelations should only be carried in the memories of couriers, who can be much more easily silenced, if need be, than pieces of paper, whose apparent ephemerality belies an aggravating longevity. But what has been done can not be undone. There is no question but that if the Privy Council gets their hands on the letters
, they will be quick to act. There is not an iota of love lost between the council and Payne. The barons would be informed immediately, of course, as they wield martial power and would be quick to move to protect their own interests. And if the barons openly denounce Lord Roelt, the lesser nobility would follow and then eventually the citizenry. Roelt’s little empire would collapse like a house made of wet paper. The general populace especially would be aroused by the Church. He mustn’t forget the Church. It is only waiting to pounce upon Lord Roelt like a cat hovering over a mouse hole. There would be no stopping the godly wave that would wash the palace clean of the chamberlain and his retinue, like a wet mop erasing a flyspeck. And that would include the Guards and their general. That is the important part to consider. Once he has gotten possession of the letters, all will be well. But is it really necessary to destroy them? Possibly not. In his hands, they are as good as nonexistent, so far as the intent of Lord Roelt’s order went.

  It is not in Praxx’s nature to wantonly destroy anything potentially useful, a quality the letters possess to an unprecedented degree. The possibility of wielding power over Payne Roelt is something Praxx finds unexpected, heady and not a little frightening. He enjoys the exercise of power, but he is no acrobat. These events can bring him considerably closer to the point of the pyramid than he perhaps cares to find himself. It is too easy to topple off that apex. It is far safer and surer to control power than to possess it. Great care would need to be taken in the next few weeks.

  By the time his thoughts have reached those last conclusions, Praxx finds himself in one of the great halls of the palace. He summons to his side one of the tall soldiers who waited there, so rigidly at attention that he is almost indistinguishable from one of the marble columns. The man is a captain of the Guards, in the distinctive fur shako, fur-trimmed short cape, and elaborately frogged black tunic. A thick black moustache droops on his upper lip, like a rodent pinned there by the knifelike nose.

  “Captain,” says Praxx, drawing the man well away from the others, “a matter of utmost urgency has occurred. It is vital that not a word of what I am about to tell you is breathed outside the walls of the palace. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, General,” answers the soldier, who has not only seen with his own eyes what happens to people who do not understand Praxx, but has himself carried out many of those chastenings.

  “Good. Be certain that no one knows what I am to tell you who does not need to know, and then think twice about it. Use only your most trusts men.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “The Princess Bronwyn has disappeared. A cursory search has not found her anywhere within the palace. I want you to conduct a thorough investigation. I don’t want a single room overlooked, however unlikely it may seem that she may be there. Make a clean sweep through the complex. Comb her out like a louse.”

  “The general knows how many rooms and corridors the palace has? It’ll take a great many of my men.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. But tell them as little as possible. Tell them, if you have to tell them anything, that the princess may be kidnapped. Tell them you suspect some faction of trying to disrupt the coming coronation. Yes, that’ll be an excellent reason to impose strict secrecy on the search.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Start immediately; I want the first report this evening.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Also, I want a Guard posted at the Privy Council. I have reason to believe the princess may be on her way there. Surround the building if necessary. She is not to be permitted entrance. Under any circumstances,” he adds darkly. “Do you understand?”

  “I understand, General. And when the princess is found?”

  “Bring her to my chambers immediately.”

  “Yes, General.”

  The captain gives a spring-loaded salute, turns and leaves the hall, his boot heels ringing like some broken clock chiming an endless midnight.

  Praxx receives his first report from the captain long before the deadline. As soon as the man requested an audience, the general knew something is wrong. The palace has literally hundreds of rooms of all kinds ‘though not quite the thousands that Ferenc imagined, there are more than enough all the same) and scarcely a fraction could have been visited in the time that has passed. The soldier came to attention, heels rapping together like a gunshot, fur shako held in the crook of one arm.

  “Well?” frowns Praxx.

  “General, I have news of the princess.”

  “It’s not anything that I really hope to hear, is it?”

  “I am afraid not, General. The search that you ordered had barely begun when I received a report that the princess is no longer in the palace.”

  “What? Why not? She can’t possibly have known of the search; why would she leave the palace? She has nowhere to go but the Privy Council.” Those last two sentences were muttered to himself.

  “General, the princess apparently tried to enter the Privy Council chambers. One of the Guards there attempted to forcibly prevent her from doing so.”

  “The idiot! I want that man’s name!”

  “I have it here, General. The building had not yet been surrounded, but extra Guards had been placed at the entrances. The princess apparently noticed this, and turned to leave. Instead of reporting this to me, the man tried to stop her. He shouted to her to halt.”

  “Musrum!”

  “She ran across the open grounds; the Guard who had challenged her raised an alarm and was joined by two of his comrades. The princess disappeared into the construction area where the new greenhouses are being installed.”

  “Damn. Those are on the south side of the island, are they not?”

  “Yes, Sir, they are.”

  “Is there any chance of her escaping across the north causeway?”

  “No, Sir. The search was begun from the north. There is a virtually solid wall of men stretching from east to west. There has been a roadblock on the north causeway since you issued your orders to me.”

  “Good! Good man. Now, what will her options be, do you think?”

  “I cannot hazard a guess there, Sir. I do not know why she is running.”

  “So you don’t. You don’t need to know that much; not yet, at least. I will tell you this, however: the princess has taken something of great value, something of deadly danger to both the throne and to my position, yours, too, for that matter. You don’t need to know what it is she stole, only that it exists and that the princess has it and has every reason to use it and every intention of doing so. You may, if you wish, consider it a weapon.”

  “What should I look for?”

  “A package, I would expect, about so by so. I don’t know what she would be carrying it in, but it isn’t large and can’t weigh more than a pound or so. When the princess is found, bring whatever she has with her to me, whatever it may be, anything at all. Under no circumstance whatsoever is anything to be examined before I see it. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, General.”

  Praxx paces his austere apartment for several minutes, while the obedient captain stands waiting, as still and patient as a tombstone. The general is thinking: What harm can the princess do if she’s prevented from reaching the Privy Council? The coronation’s only three weeks away; after that, she’ll be powerless. The Council will disband next week in order to allow its members to prepare for the ceremonies. Many of them have homes in distant parts of the kingdom: in seven days they’ll be scatters over hundreds of square miles. Reaching any one individual will do the princess no good at all. All that is necessary then is to prevent her from approaching the Council while it’s still in session. Afterwards, she can be arrested at leisure. But I know the princess. She’ll not give up easily. She’s stubborn, loathes Payne Roelt and would do almost anything to see her brother not ascend the throne. So what will she do? What’re her alternatives if she’s prevented from reaching the Privy Council? Has she any? The barons are Lord Roelt’s only other real enemies
, well, so is the Church, but we’ll be taking care of that soon enough, his most formidable enemies, if it comes to that. Will the princess be able to do anything with them? I don’t see how. They’ve no formal organization, no elected or official leader. No, that’s not strictly true. Baron Monzon, the prince and princess’ cousin, is in fact the leader of the baronage. A powerful man who has the respect of all of the barons, though his power is certainly more physical and charismatic than it is intellectual. There are few brighter stars in the Tedeschiiy constellation, save the princess. Nevertheless, the barons’re looking for any excuse destroy Lord Roelt. After the fiasco last month, and doesn’t that scare the hell out of Payne!, they’d be careful to do it legally. The letters’ll be exactly what they need. Like the Privy Council will be in a week, the barons are presently scattered all over the country. But what if the letters are to fall into the hands of just one particular baron, namely Piers Monzon? He’d have the news spread to the others within days. They’d march in force on the city and that would be that. There’s not a soul who’d lift a finger to save Lord Roelt. Certainly not I! Well, then. If she can’t get to the Council, she’ll try to reach her cousin. But he’s north, on the border, some five hundred miles from here. Can she get there in time? The barons would only need a few days to organize themselves. They can probably delay the coronation by word alone, well in advance of any march. She’d have two weeks, then; seventeen days at the most. It is just possible. How to keep her at bay, then? It isn’t necessary to actually find her, though it’d be reassuring to know exactly where she is. It’s only necessary to block her way to the north, just as we blocked her way to the council. There’re only a few ways to cross the Slideen River, if she’s on the south side of Palace Island.