The Zenda Vendetta tw-4

by Simon Hawke

  Flavia looked at him intently. “Rudolf… am I to take it that you are-” she became a little flustered. “Are you proposing to court me?”

  Finn pretended to look embarrassed. He did not have to pretend too hard. “It does seem rather ridiculous, does it not?”

  She shook her head, which he saw out of the corner of his eye, but he acted as though he had not noticed.

  “Here we are, already betrothed, with the entire kingdom knowing we shall wed, and I come to you like some stammering suitor. I should have thought to bring flowers, I suppose.” “Flowers? From you?”

  “Why not? I can give flowers if I choose to! Is that so very foolish? You find it amusing?”

  “No. No, I find it…” she shrugged, at a loss for words. “I don’t know. Remarkable, I suppose. Somehow, I cannot picture you bringing flowers. Rudolf, what is this? What’s gotten into you?”

  Finn stood up, irately. “Damned if I know,” he said. “I feel like a complete fool.”

  “You are not sounding like a fool,” she said. “But, Lord knows, you do not sound like yourself.”

  For a moment, Finn took that literally and wondered if his mimicry was slipping, then he realized that it wasn’t what she meant. She stood up and came to stand by his side, putting a hand on his arm and turning him slightly so that she could look into his eyes.

  “What is it?” she said. “Is this some sort of joke? Have you come to play a prank on me, the way you did when we were children? Are you having second thoughts about the wedding now that you are king? Is that what this is? You propose to court me so that at some time during…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned.

  “What?” said Finn.

  She stood back from him a moment, then came up close to him again. “Have you grown?”

  Oh-oh, thought Finn. Get her off this tack, but fast!

  “Grown? What are you talking about? How could I have grown? I was speaking seriously and you decide to address yourself to the question of my height? If you don’t want to discuss this, why then, say so! Don’t attempt to change the subject!”

  She squeezed his upper arm where her hand had rested. “And your arm is larger, too,” she said. “It was not so firm or large when we danced together at the last ball. You’ve been training?”

  “Of course I have been training,” Finn said, suddenly feeling that he was losing control. “I am king now. I should be more fit, I must take better care of myself. I have responsibilities.”

  She backed off from him slowly, shaking her head and staring at him with bewilderment. “I find it hard to believe that you are Rudolf,” she said. “I do begin to believe that you really have changed!”

  “I am the same man I have always been,” said Finn. ‘I’ve just been thinking about things; that’s all.”

  “That, in itself, is quite a change,” she said. Then she flushed. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be insulting.”

  “It seems that I shall have a sharp-tongued queen,” said Finn. “Well, a man could do far worse. So, do you agree or don’t you?”

  She looked baffled. “Agree? To what?”

  “To our spending more time together. To my bringing you flowers if I choose to. To carriage rides through the city streets. To walks in the country or some such thing; I don’t know, what do people do when they are courting?”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Those sort of things, I suppose. How would I know? No one has ever courted me before.”

  “A fine pair we make,” Finn said. “I know. Let’s call in Fritz and Helen. We shall ask them what they do.”

  “Don’t you dare!” she said.

  “Such a reaction! Now I really want to know what it is they do.”

  “She blushed. “You would only embarrass both of them. Leave them be, please. We shall spend more time together. You shall bring me flowers. We will go for carriage rides and walks. That all sounds quite sufficient. I shall do whatever you command.”

  “Well, now you’ve ruined it,” said Finn.

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean it that way. You may court me if you wish. I would be delighted.” Her brow furrowed. “Is that what one should say?”

  “It’ll do, I suppose,” said Finn. “Well. Shall we make a beginning, then? Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to dinner?”

  “But I thought that was all arranged already,” she said.

  “I’ve already dressed, you see, and-”

  “Damn it, Flavia, will you or won’t you?”

  “Oh, I see. Forgive me. Yes, of course, I would be very pleased to have you escort me to dinner, Rudolf.”

  Finn offered her his arm. She took it. As they came out into-the sitting room, Fritz and Helen were sitting very close together. They instantly sprang apart the moment that they saw them.

  “Well, come on, Fritz, plenty of time for that sort of thing later,” Finn said. “We have a dinner to attend.”

  Sapt carefully eased himself over the stone wall, keeping low so that he would not make a silhouette. He dropped down soundlessly onto the grass below, wincing slightly as the impact jarred his back. I’m too old for this sort of thing, he thought. I should be in the old soldier’s home, sitting in a cane chair with a pipe in my mouth, a glass of warm milk at my elbow, and a wool blanket over my lap. Instead, I’m scaling garden walls like some septuagenarian Don Juan. Damn that Rassendyll, anyway.

  Still, the man was a surprise. Who would have guessed that a real soldier lurked beneath that dandy’s exterior? How quickly he had assumed his role! How effortlessly he seemed to have taken control of the situation, almost as though he were a real king! He had the makings of one, that much was certain. He would have to be sure to ask him what rank he had held in the English army and in which regiment he’d served, what sort of action he had seen. The man was no dilettante playing at strategy. He knew what he was about. If only Rudolf could be more like him! Rassendyll would make a damn sight better king than he would.

  He quickly pushed that thought aside. Even thinking it was treasonous. Staying low, he moved across the tree-sheltered lawn in the darkness, taking careful stock of the surroundings. Rassendyll would expect a detailed report. He was surprised that he hadn’t asked him to draw a map. Perhaps he would. Strange, he thought, how he makes me feel. He can’t be but half my age. Yet it is as though he is the experienced veteran. It’s the mark of a born leader. A true officer. One who leads by both example and charisma. It was something one could learn, but not at so young an age, certainly. Rassendyll appeared to come by it naturally. How had the English army allowed him to get away? He still had years of good service left in him. Perhaps there was some disciplinary problem. That was the trouble with men like that. They made outstanding officers if they could survive their superiors early on in their careers. Men with such natural abilities did not do well under inferior officers. It was a question that he would not ask. Such things were better left unspoken.

  He crossed the wide expanse of lawn quickly, heading toward the little summerhouse situated at the end of the garden near the statue of a nymph. It was a small, latticed gazebo, open at both ends, set up on a platform of cobblestones arranged in a pattern of concentric circles. Situated on a slight rise, it gave a commanding view of the landscaped garden and the sloping lawn on the opposite side. Sapt immediately noted that it was fairly isolated, with no bushes or trees anywhere close to it that would afford good concealment for an ambush. However, it would be dark enough at midnight to enable one or more people to approach the little summerhouse completely undetected, especially if they came up on it from one of its latticed sides. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like anything about the whole affair, but Rassendyll was firm on going, damn him. In a way, Sapt could even understand it. If it was managed carefully, this meeting could mislead the enemy, giving them the impression that they were desperate enough to try anything. It all rested with Rassendyll. If he was right, then perhaps it would not be a trap, though the opportunity for it would be excellent. S
omething about it simply didn’t smell right, though. Was Michael being so obvious merely to be devious? Did he hope to buy the imposter off? Or was it even Michael who had sent the note? Rassendyll was correct in saying that there was only one way in which they would learn the truth. Still, it would be a risky business.

  Sapt began to look for probable avenues of retreat in the event that something should go wrong. It did not look promising. Open ground upon all sides for a distance of at least some thirty or forty yards. A running man would make an easy target, but there the darkness that would serve any possible assassins would serve Rassendyll, as well. He could still be brought down, though. The question was, how to minimize those odds?

  If he thinks that I will remain meekly behind the garden wall, Sapt thought, he’s in for a surprise. There had to be a spot somewhere from which he could keep watch and provide covering fire if the need arose. He began to look around, trying to keep to concealment as much as possible. It was past eight, but there was still a chance he might be seen. It was not that dark yet. He checked the place where Rassendyll would be entering the garden according to instructions. Then he began to walk along the inside of the wall, circling the garden, glancing continuously back at the summerhouse, estimating lines of fire. He found several places where he could wait and watch, but the distance was a bit too great to ensure good visibility in total darkness, even with his excellent vision. He would have to get considerably closer. However, there was no way that he could get closer to the summerhouse from where he was without being in the open. He glanced back towards Michael’s house.

  If there would be trickery afoot, they might be expecting someone to be protecting Rassendyll from a position somewhere between the garden wall and the summerhouse. But between the summerhouse and Michael’s house? Cautiously, Sapt made his way towards the west wing of the mansion, where French doors opened out onto a flagstoned patio that overlooked the garden. From the end of the patio, a flight of stone steps led down into the garden and to a path leading up to the summerhouse. At the bottom of this flight of steps were two very large stone planters in the shape of urns, one on each side. If he were to conceal himself behind one of them, up against the stone wall of the steps, he would be invisible unless someone coming down the steps were to look down over the side and see him. He took up position there to see what sort of view it could afford him. Not bad, he thought. Far from ideal, but closer to the summerhouse than if he stayed by the garden wall on the opposite side. He crouched down, took out his pistol, and sighted. If Rassendyll made his escape towards the garden wall, anyone inside the summerhouse would have to take up position on that side in order to shoot at him. He could barely make out the dark shape of the gazebo now; it would be worse still later. He lined up his sight on the entrance to the summerhouse, locked his arm, and slowly brought it down to rest upon the top of the stone urn. He sighted once again from rest. Yes. It would do. Without moving his arm, he reached with his other hand into his pocket and brought out two of the wooden matches he always carried to light his pipe. He stuck the matches into the earth inside the planter on either side of his wrist, then moved his arm. The matches would remain there as sighting posts. He carefully lowered his arm again, so that his wrist rested exactly between the two matches, and sighted once more. It would serve. Even if he could not see well, using the matches to line up his aim would enable him to shoot anyone who stood in the arched entryway of the gazebo.

  Above him on the patio, he heard footsteps. He froze, cocking his pistol. He looked up, but could not see who it was because the wall blocked his view. It was just as well, because it meant that he could not be seen, either.

  “I told you not to come here!” Sapt frowned. It was Sophia’s voice, kept low, scarcely above a whisper.

  “I am growing tired of taking orders from you,” another voice said. It was a man’s voice, resonant and very deep. “I am growing tired of waiting.”

  “You’re a fool!” she said. “You want to ruin everything?”

  “You know what I want. I want it over and done with. I want him dead. As for the rest of your intrigues, I could not care less. It no longer matters.”

  Sapt did not recognize the voice. Moving slowly, he began to edge around the urn so that he might see who it was.

  “I thought you said that I could count on you,” she said. “Is that how much your word means?”

  The man snorted derisively. “My word? What about yours?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Sapt had edged around enough so that he could see Countess Sophia from the waist up, the rest of her blocked from his view by the stone steps. He could not see the man to whom she was speaking. Slowly, he began to crawl up the steps.

  “What have you done with the other plate?”

  Sapt frowned. Plate? Why would they be discussing plates while they spoke of murder?

  “I’ve moved it.”

  “Where?” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because-”

  “Sophia? Sophia!”

  “Michael!” she said. “Go. Quickly. I’ll explain later.”

  “You will explain now.”

  “Sophia, we’ll be late!” Michael called.

  “Go, I said!”

  Sapt crawled up two more steps. The French doors opened and Michael came out on the patio. This should prove interesting, thought Sapt.

  “Sophia! What the devil are you doing out here?”

  “I thought I’d come out for a breath of air while I waited for you, Michael. Are you ready to leave now?”

  “I have been ready for the past hour! I was waiting for you!”

  Is Michael blind? Sapt risked crawling up one more step, staying low, now only yards away from them. He could see the patio clearly. He could see both Michael and Sophia. But no one else.

  “Well, let us go, then,” said Sophia. “We can arrive fashionably late.”

  “Why cannot women ever be on time?” said Michael. “Come, the coach is waiting.”

  They went back into the house. Sapt had his pistol out as he crawled up the few remaining steps. He was alone upon the patio. How could that be? There were only two ways for the man she was speaking with to go. One would have taken him into the house through the French doors, where Michael was. The other would have taken him down the steps into the garden, directly at him. He had not gone past Michael and it was impossible for him to have gone down the steps without stepping on me, thought Sapt. Unless he vaulted the patio wall…

  He could only have vaulted on one side, the side closest to where he had been standing. Going the other way would have brought him across Michael’s field of vision and his own. Sapt went over to the wall upon that side. He looked down over it into a fish pond with water lillies floating in it. It was wide enough that a man could not possibly have leaped over the wall and cleared it. There would have been a splash. Only there had been no splash. And there was no place on the patio itself where the man could have hidden.

  “What the devil?” Sapt whispered aloud. “How could the man simply disappear?”

  9

  They entered the main dining room of the palace after the chamberlain had announced them to see everyone standing at his place. It made Finn think of a scene out of an historical romance, all those medals and epaulets and sashes, moustaches and muttonchops and beards, bodices and ribbons and chokers and cameos, necklaces and rings and bracelets, pomp and circumstance and splendor. He wondered what would happen if he ordered a hamburger. And a beer. Some french fries on the side, with steak sauce. Being a king, he decided, was very overrated. The job had certain perks, but it had to be tiresome to constantly be the focus of so much formality and pointless ceremony. The occasion, Sapt had explained to him, was a “state dinner” and its purpose seemed to be nothing other than to give the lords and ladies of Ruritania, the ministers and high-ranking officers, the ambassadors and their factotums, assorted minor functionaries and hangers-on a feeling of importance at being pri
vileged to share a table with His Majesty. It made Finn think of the 20th-century British monarchy. A showpiece royal family. They didn’t actually do anything except be a royal family. A nominal royalty, they lived a life that could be described as a photo opportunity in exchange for drawing exorbitant salaries just so their “subjects” could bask in the trivial and pointless glamor of their existence. While the economy of the nation that had once been a major world power continued in a constant downward spiral, they lived in palatial residences (plural, of course, we must have summerhomes and country estates and stables and riding to hounds), spent enough on clothing to feed an average middle-class family for several years, had their little romances extensively documented and their family squabbles agonized over in the press, all the while being treasured like prize canaries in a cage by people dazzled by and starved for their celebrity. Meanwhile, the matters of government were left to politicians, far less glamorous and cultured but much more workmanlike. It would have been the same, undoubtedly, with Rudolf. He would have enjoyed all this, thought Finn. What was it about people, he wondered, that even in so-called egalitarian societies, they seemed to eschew the very concept of class, all the while creating it on all levels of their culture?

  As they moved up to the table to take their places, Fritz and Helga began to walk toward the far end, but Finn caught Helga by the sleeve and indicated the place next to his, where there were two empty seats on his right.

  “Oh, no, Sire,” Helga said, blushing. “Surely, it must have slipped your mind, but that is the Duke of Strelsau’s place.”

  “Well?” said Finn. “Where is he?”

  Fritz cleared his throat. “It seems that he has not arrived, yet, Sire. Doubtless, he has been unavoidably detained.”

  “Well, then, he shall unavoidably sit elsewhere,” Finn said, to the shocked stares of the assemblage. “I have no desire to separate the princess from her close friend and companion. Suppose I should run out of conversation halfway through the meal? Everyone knows what a boring fellow I can be. Flavia would have no one to talk to. Strakencz there, Lord love him, is half deaf and she would have to shout into his ear. Most discommodious for both of them. No, it would never do. Sit down here and you, Fritz, take the place next to hers. I insist.”