by Simon Hawke
“I knew,” she said. “You saw him?”
“He nearly killed me.”
“Only nearly? Then he must be slipping.”
“At first, I told myself that you must have arranged it somehow, but I don’t see how you could have. Besides, if he had killed me, it would have spoiled your plans. For both of us.”
“That’s true,” she said. “What happened?”
“He came up on me as I took the Observer. Even as I struck, I knew he was behind me. I don’t know how I knew. I simply knew. He fired as I turned and I felt the beam graze me.” He lifted his shirt to show her the burn on his left side, just beneath the large latissimus dorsi muscle. “I activated the remote with one hand and fired with the other. I had no chance to aim. I had one very brief glimpse of him, no more than a dark shape. I never saw his face. In the same instant that I felt the pain of my wound, I was back here again. But it was he. I know it.”
“Are you sorry that you missed him?” she said.
Drakov was silent for a moment. “No,” he said, finally. “I want to see his face. I want him to see my face when he dies. And I want him to know the reason for it.”
“He knows,” said Falcon. “It’s the only thing that would have brought him here.”
“You would have liked it otherwise,” said Drakov. “You would rather that you were the reason.”
She did not reply. She sat there, smoking, watching him without expression. Nothing in her face gave any indication of what she was really thinking, but then, nothing ever did.
“What is your real name?” said Drakov.
She did not answer.
“Did Forrester know?”
Again, no reply.
“Did anyone? Ever? Or did you just spring full blown, as if from the head of Zeus, with walls and moats and drawbridges, a veritable fortress of isolation and self-containment?”
“Is there a point to any of this?” she said. “Because, if not, I would like to get some sleep. I’ve had a very long night.”
“With Rupert Hentzau.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re jealous. For you, that would be the height of hypocrisy.”
“Hypocrisy?” said Drakov, with a slight smile. “That you, of all people, should accuse me of hypocrisy. I called you a fanatic, but I was wrong. Or rather, I was correct in calling you a fanatic, but incorrect in pinpointing your fanaticism. I have no doubt that at one time, your involvement with the Timekeepers was sincere. Insofar as you are capable of sincerity. You were a passionless woman in search of something to be passionate about, but when you found it, not in the struggle to bring the Time Wars to a halt, but in the arms of the man who is my father, it proved to be too much for you. You could not cross your moat and raise your drawbridge and hide behind your walls. You met a man whom you could not control. Worse yet, with whom you could not control yourself. He made you love him and for that, you cannot forgive him.”
“You’re becoming a real bore, Nicky.”
“My apologies. It was my impression that you had grown bored with me a long time ago. But you never tired of Moses Forrester, did you?” He reached into his pocket and took out the ring that she had given him. He tossed it to her. It landed on her lap. “Perhaps you should take this back,” he said. “It means much more to you than it does to me.”
She made no move to take the ring.
“Does this mean that I cannot count on you?” she said.
“You may count on me,” said Drakov. “I will see this thing through to the end with you, come what may. Tell me what it is that you expect of me and I shall do it. But I find it somewhat ironic that the Timekeepers have been reduced to one man whose cause is revenge for the wrong done to his mother and one woman whose cause is revenge for the wrong that she perceives was done to her. Somewhere along the line, the original objective of the great cause became obfuscated. Perhaps it happened with the two of us. However, I am beginning to suspect it happened with the death of Albrecht Men-singer. There is an old proverb that says when one considers embarking upon a course of revenge, one should first build two coffins. I have been giving some thought to designing mine. I’ll leave you to make your own plans.”
“Where are you going?” she said.
“For a walk through cold, dark corridors. It seems, somehow, the appropriate thing to do.”
After he had gone, Falcon glanced down at the ring that he had thrown to her. She crushed out the cigarette, picked up the ring, stood up and walked over to one of the embrasures. She closed her fist around the ring and drew it back, to throw. For a moment, she simply stood there with her arm cocked, then she lowered it. She opened her fist and glanced down at the ring once more. Then she put it back upon her finger.
6
It was almost dawn when Lucas left the palace, and the city was beginning to come awake with a sleep languor. Wagons filled with produce were pulled by toil-weary horses toward the square; here and there a light burned inside a shop as someone made ready to open up for business. No one paid Lucas any mind as he walked through the streets. It was still dark, but if anyone came close enough to see his blackened face, no one remarked upon it.
Though the capital of Ruritania, Strelsau was not a large city, even by the standard of its time. With the exception of a few large estates within the old quarter, houses that held their own with lawns and gardens as defenses against the encroaching buildings, Strelsau was a tightly packed city. Buildings stood close together, sometimes separated by narrow alleyways no more than shoulder width; the streets were cobbled; the architecture a mad jumble of many different styles. The Grand Boulevard of Strelsau would have been just another back street in most other large cities and some of the back streets were no more than hard-packed earth. But for all that Strelsau gave forth the flavor of some medieval city, it was very clean. Despite its lack of character, it had a sort of Prussian orderliness and, in that, perhaps it found what character it had. Bedraggled paupers walked side by side with well-dressed citizens and neither gave the other a wide berth. The sense of community and congruence was obvious; each had a place and each had a function to perform and that was as it should be. Forrester’s phrase, “vestpocket kingdom,” seemed particularly apropos. Strelsau was warm and cozy. A minicity in a tiny nation with a homey sort of pageantry and spirit all its own. Nowhere was there any sense of urgency. It was hard to believe that here there were two feuding factions, one Elphberg Black, one Elphberg Red, each passionate in support of its chosen champion. It was harder still to believe that here there was a plot afoot to murder the true king and seize the throne. Things like that simply didn’t happen in such a cuckoo clock of a town, where doors should open and tiny figures should march out and dance as some folk tune was played to mark the hour. Further, it was beyond any credulity that this romantic little diorama could be the scene of an historical adjustment-surely, nothing could possibly be wrong here-and a focal point of temporal continuity. It seemed to make about as much sense as expecting a volcano to burst up through the cobblestones, showering everything with burning rock and ash and burying everyone under molten lava. Yet, in a sense, the earth did churn away beneath the streets, though only Lucas seemed to feel the heat that came up from the stones beneath him.
That secret passageway was a godsend. One of Lucas’s biggest worries had been how to keep in touch with Finn while he was in the palace. He had given Finn one of the communicator sets that Derringer had issued them, but it helped knowing that he could actually get in and out of there unobserved, without having to put up with the strain of ducking the palace guard and climbing the walls.
The communicators were designed in such a manner that they could be worn all the time. They were made up of two miniaturized components, a tiny throat mike that could be taped in place over the larynx with a flesh-colored adhesive strip or even secured beneath a small graft of plastiskin, and a small receiver worn inside the ear. Like the pickup, the receiver could be stuck with adhesive within the ear itself, positioned by a p
air of tiny tweezers or it, too, could be grafted in by plastiskin. The latter method would involve a minor operation to remove both devices, but it offered maximum adhesion and concealment. With the plastiskin adhesion method, only the closest of inspections by someone knowing what to look for would result in the communicator apparatus’s being detected. The equipment was not military ordnance, but the result of trickle-down technology from the law-enforcement field. The average soldier would have no use for such devices, but to a commando team out on an adjustment, they were extremely helpful. Lucas had given Derringer’s set to Finn and they had each taken turns putting them in place for the other with strips of plastiskin from a first aid kit. Now, they could simply forget about them. There was, however, one distinct disadvantage to the communicators, and it was for this reason that they seldom used them. Aside from the fact that they were relatively short-range, it was possible for their frequency to be picked up. If the Timekeepers had similar units or compatible equipment, they might be able to home in on their transmissions and monitor their communications. It was a risk Lucas felt prepared to take, since it would reduce Finn’s vulnerability somewhat. They would merely have to operate on the assumption that they might be overheard and keep their transmissions short, infrequent, and worded with that possibility taken into consideration.
The sky was becoming gray as Lucas turned into the side street that led to the rooming house where Derringer had set up his base of operations. He had no idea what he would find there. He hoped he would find Andre. He felt reasonably sure he would. If they were very, very lucky, Derringer’s security system had protected the chronoplate and they might even have a prisoner from the opposing camp. However, he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Luck always had a way of being absent when you needed it quite badly.
He wanted nothing in the world quite so much as a few hours’ sleep. Weary as he was, he was on his guard as he entered the rooming house and slowly climbed the stairs to the top floor. He tried to walk softly so as not to make any noise. He could afford to take no chances. The hall was empty. He moved cautiously. When he came to the door of Derringer’s room, he paused and pressed an ear against it. He could hear voices. Suddenly sleep was the last thing on his mind. He came into the room fast and low, his laser held ready before him. Chairs fell over as the occupants of the room dove in separate directions and someone yelled his name.
Forrester lowered his weapon. “Too slow,” he said.
“For once, I’m grateful,” Andre said, shakily. “I didn’t even realize that door wasn’t bolted.”
“You both need rest,” said Forrester. He sounded exhausted himself. “Come have a drink, Priest. There’s something I have to tell you.”
The morning came with Finn still feeling alert and tense. He had smoked half a box of cigarettes and his throat was more than a bit raw. Sapt and von Tarlenheim arrived to find him dressed, but incorrectly. He had put on his evening uniform instead of his morning uniform and a change was needed before he could begin the first of his monarchial duties, which entailed the greeting of the corps diplomatique. There were papers to be signed, which gave Finn’s co-conspirators a nasty turn for a moment until he claimed that he was unable to write comfortably due to having injured his hand while hunting in Zenda. He did so with such a flash of royal petulance that the chancellor hastened away with many apologies and bows to search his legal books for precedents. He returned with the suggestion that “His Majesty could make his mark” with his left hand. It would be a bit irregular, but it would all be legal provided that there were so and so many witnesses, all of whom would have to swear an oath to testify that the signature was genuine and sign themselves, as well. Sapt did so nonchalantly, but von Tarlenheim looked pained as he swore before “Almighty God and My Sovereign Liege” and half his ancestors, perjuring himself irredeemably both on the secular and spiritual levels. Finn went through it all with a vague air of boredom and impatience, grateful for the fact that he did not have to spend any length of time in conversation with anyone who knew the king well. Sapt had assumed the role of chief factotum easily and he ran interference for him admirably, his stiff military bearing and demeanor proving quite infectious and lending an atmosphere of formality and dispatch to the proceedings.
It was afternoon by the time that they were finished with the scheduled activities for the morning and took time for a meal, which Finn, as his first royal decree verbally issued, ordered served to them in his chambers. The chancellor, a whipcord thin, middle-aged man with sunken cheeks, immensely mournful eyes, and a habit of pressing his lips together every few seconds, hesitantly reminded His Majesty that there were still a number of people wishing to pay their respects, not the least of them being the Duke of Streisau, who had ridden in from Zenda and expressed his wish to dine with His Majesty. Finn waved him off without a word and the chancellor departed, clearly not looking forward to informing Michael of the snub.
Sapt chuckled when they were finally alone. “I must say, Your Majesty,” he said, giving a slight ironic stress to the title, “you appear to have quite a knack for this sort of thing. I did not sleep at all last night, worrying about today, but my worries have been somewhat alleviated. Still, I cannot help but wonder how long we can keep it up.”
“Certainly, we must do something and we must do it soon,” said Fritz, who also appeared not to have slept at all, though his nerves were far more on edge than Sapt’s. “We can’t just sit here and do nothing!”
“Better to sit here and do nothing than to do something stupid,” Sapt said. “Michael is no fool. It may have been unwise to snub him.”
“Why?” said Finn. “You think he might hold it against me?”
Von Tarlenheim giggled. Sapt shot him a venomous look and he instantly put on a sober face. “He may have come with terms,” said Sapt. “We should hear him out.”
“What kind of terms could he possibly offer?” Finn said. “He’s committed himself. There’s no way he can let the king go. Somehow, I doubt that under the circumstances, Rudolf would be very forgiving. No, he must kill the king. He has no choice. But fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on whose point of view it is, he’d have to kill me first and he’d have to do it on the sly. It wouldn’t do for him to have the act witnessed or to have the ‘king’s’ body found before he could concoct some way to take advantage of it. He’ll simply have to play along in the charade until he can find an opportunity to make me disappear.”
“He’s right,” said Fritz. “We must make certain that he has no such opportunity. We must have you watched both day and night.”
“I would advise against that,” Finn said.
Sapt frowned. “Why?”
“The last thing you want to do is make Michael desperate and force his hand.”
Sapt nodded. “You’re right again. By God, Rassendyll, there’s more to you than meets the eye. You seem to be an old hand at intrigue.”
“Let’s simply say that I have an extremely strong instinct for self-preservation,” Finn said. “This is quite a deadly little game we’re playing and the stakes are considerably higher than they were when we began it. Moreover, the odds are hardly to my liking. There are at least seven of them and only the three of us.”
“And Michael enjoys the people’s favor,” added Fritz.
“Well, now maybe there’s something we can act upon,” said Finn. “If Michael enjoys the people’s favor, then Rudolf must be in some disfavor with the people. Why?”
“Why?” said Sapt. “You met him. You saw. He’s an irresponsible young fool who cares for little save his own pleasures. He cares nothing for the people or for the duties of the crown. Which is not to say that Michael loves the people any more. He simply knows the art of currying their favor, whereas Rudolf could not be bothered. Rudolf should sit upon the throne by right, there’s that, but at least he would leave affairs of state in hands far more capable than his. Michael would take direct control and I daresay that the nation would not prosper for it.” “The
n there’s the matter of the princess,” said Fritz. “Yes, I was going to mention that,” said Finn. “Somehow, it seems the two of you neglected to inform me that I would be alone with her.”
“A grievous oversight,” said Sapt. “I don’t know what I was thinking of. Forgive me, Rudolf. You did not make her suspicious?”
“I don’t think so,” Finn said. “But I’m going to have to know how things stood between them. From our brief conversation, it was my impression that she is a trifle cool toward Rudolf.”
“Cool!” said Fritz. “I like that. Cold as ice, would be more like.”
Sapt grimaced wryly. “I never thought that I’d be at all concerned with our friend’s romantic dalliances,” he said, “but at the moment, I am profoundly grateful that young Fritz here has set his cap at Countess Helga.”
“Countess Helga von Strofzin,” von Tarlenheim explained, a bit awkwardly, “is lady in waiting to the princess. We are, I suppose one might say, rather close.”
Sapt chuckled. This time, it was von Tarlenheim who shot him an irate look.
“From Helga, that is, from the Countess von Strofzin-”
“Let’s just call her Helga,” Finn said, “to make things simpler.”
“Yes, well. From Helga, I have learned that Princess Flavia is resigned to wedding Rudolf, rather than looking forward to it. She bears him little love. Well,” he cleared his throat, uneasily, “none at all, to be quite frank.”
“Why’s that?” said Finn.
“Because, well, dear me, how shall I put it-”
“I’ll put it for you,” Sapt said, gruffly. “Were Rudolf not betrothed to her from birth, his feelings toward her might well have been different, but as it is, he regards her as a duty, so to speak, and Rudolf has never been the most dutiful of men.”
“In other words,” said Finn, “you’re telling me that he neglects her, takes her for granted?”
“Well, in a word,” began Fritz, awkwardly, only to be interrupted by Colonel Sapt.
