by KJ Charles
“Fifty thousand?”
“It would tempt any man, and I want him tempted.” His lips curled. “That would be the ideal outcome. I will wager that Sapt will be watching; it is quite possible he will kill his own man rather than see him change sides. And if that were to happen—”
“You could drop the true king in the moat, call Sapt a regicide, and seize the throne,” I agreed. “It’s certainly worth a try. And if he does not accept the offer?”
“Do what you can,” Michael said. “If you have a chance to kidnap him privately and conveniently, or to kill him and remove the body, take it. If we can make the play-actor vanish, by whatever means, there will be a great hue and cry. We can plant word that the king has tired of virtue and fled to the fleshpots of Munich, betraying the princess and his people together, and in due course ‘discover’ him dying or dead of dissipation. We can fill him with opium to make sure.”
“That is excellent,” Bersonin said, probably because it involved poisoning.
“Marvellous,” I said. “Then I shall speak to Mademoiselle de Mauban and make all ready for tonight.”
She was seated in her bedchamber, looking out of the window. She was dressed for an evening party, complete with long satin gloves, in no way appropriate for the weather. I know nothing of women’s fashion, but I knew Michael.
“He bruised your wrists, I suppose?”
“Only the left. He needed the right intact so I could write the letter.”
“It was probably unwise not to agree at once.”
“He’s put me in the centre of his plot,” she said. “My handwriting on a lure for the king. If this goes wrong, he’s made sure I’ll be on the block next to him. If I last so long, since he has also put me in a summerhouse with a man engaged in stealing a crown, whose life hangs by a thread.”
“I’ll be outside,” I said for what that was worth. “Toni, I think you should vanish. I know you fear for your daughter, and Michael’s spite, but if you aren’t alive to look to her, I doubt anyone else will look to her either; Michael won’t care when she is no longer a useful bargaining chip. You run, it’s only sensible. I’ll see if I can get him to send me to her, in the manner of Snow White and the huntsman, and if he won’t do that, I’ll just have to make him talk.”
She shook her head. “I can’t take the risk. I can’t.”
“You could look for her from outside. I’ll help you.”
“How? Michael has my bank books, my papers, everything. He has my jewels locked away each night. How can I search Europe with no money and a vengeful duke pursuing me? What will I do, return to earning on my back? I’m so tired of men. I’ve spent my life smiling and flattering and listening and soothing, pandering to their moods and raising their flaccid pricks, and I have had enough. I won’t become some wandering magdalen howling for her lost child, and I will not leave while there is a chance to find Lisl.” She kept her voice low, but it throbbed with passion. “I am going to do this, Jasper. I want my daughter and my money and some peace. And I will burn all Ruritania to ash if that’s what it takes to get them.”
ANTOINETTE’S APPOINTMENT with Rassendyll was for midnight; accordingly Bersonin, de Gautet, and I arrived at the rendezvous at half past ten. The summerhouse was in the grounds of a grand but empty residence. The gardens were overgrown, the shrubbery excellent for concealment, if scratchy. Antoinette came directly from some soirée at just past eleven o’clock and went directly to the summerhouse. It was somewhat dilapidated with a rickety door that would not stand up to many kicks.
Rassendyll arrived at half past eleven, and the faint sound of hooves suggested he had a companion. He walked up the path alone, holding a bull’s-eye lantern, and I was tempted to shoot him simply as punishment for making himself such an obvious target.
He let himself into the summerhouse, and I heard Antoinette, her marvellous voice pitched low and clear to carry well, even while she spoke as though agitated.
“Don’t talk. We’ve no time. Listen! I know you, Mr. Rassendyll. I wrote that letter at the duke’s orders.”
“So I thought,” Rassendyll said, as smugly as if he’d done something clever.
“In twenty minutes, three men will be here to kill you,” she went on.
“Three—the three?”
“Yes. You must be gone by then. If not, tonight you’ll be killed—”
“Or they will.” He spoke with the kind of self-confidence that comes from never having faced serious opposition. I was taking quite a dislike to the player-king.
“Listen, listen!” Antoinette said, according to her script. “When you’re killed, your body will be taken to a low quarter of the town. It will be found there. Michael will at once arrest all your friends—Colonel Sapt and Captain von Tarlenheim first—proclaim a state of siege in Strelsau, and send a messenger to Zenda. The other three will murder the king in the castle, and the duke will proclaim either himself or the princess—himself, if he is strong enough. Anyhow, he’ll marry her, and become king in fact, and soon in name. Do you see?”
“It’s a pretty plot,” said the idiot. “But why, madame, do you—?”
“Say I’m a Christian—or say I’m jealous. My God! Shall I see him marry her?” That sounded as heartfelt as anything I had ever heard her say; real feeling throbbed in her voice. “Now go; but remember—this is what I have to tell you—that never, by night or by day, are you safe. Three men follow you as a guard. Is it not so? Well, three follow them; Michael’s three are never two hundred yards from you. Your life is not worth a moment if ever they find you alone. Now go. Stay, the gate will be guarded by now. Go down softly, go past the summerhouse, on for a hundred yards, and you’ll find a ladder against the wall. Get over it, and fly for your life.”
Disappointingly, but not surprisingly, he did not flee. He had that greatest weapon of the ruling class: the smug prick didn’t understand it was possible for him to lose.
“And you?” he asked Antoinette instead, as though they were there for a chat.
“I have my game to play too. If Michael finds out what I have done, we shall not meet again. If not, I may yet— But never mind. Go at once.”
“But what will you tell him?”
“That you never came—that you saw through the trick.”
He murmured something. I heard hasty footsteps and a rustle of skirts, and Antoinette said very clearly, “I want none of your kisses, sir. I want you to go.”
He gave an easy laugh. “If you will not accept my homage—”
“No.”
“Then at least know, madame, you have served the king well tonight. Where is he in the castle?”
Antoinette began to reply, voice low, then cried, “Hark! What’s that?”
I had my cue, and stepped out from my hiding place, making plenty of noise.
“They’re coming! They’re too soon! Heavens, they’re too soon!” Antoinette cried, then, “No, stop! You may shoot one, but what then?”
I had already guessed he would be armed, but it was a kindly thought of hers. I called out, “Mr. Rassendyll, we want to talk to you. Will you promise not to shoot till we’ve done?”
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Detchard?”
He sounded as though he thought he had scored a point. I have no objection to letting men have an inaccurate impression of their own superiority, so I said, sulkily, “Never mind names.”
“Then let mine alone.”
“All right, sire. I’ve an offer for you. Will you let us in? We pledge our honour to observe the truce.”
“We can speak through the door. Stand outside and talk. Well, gentlemen, what’s the offer?”
“A safe-conduct to the frontier, and fifty thousand pounds English.”
There was a tiny silence. I knew, since Michael had ordered investigations, that Rassendyll had two thousand a year, which was a very handsome income and quite enough for a pleasant life. The sum Michael offered was obscene. “Fifty thousand,” he repeated.
&
nbsp; “Paid tomorrow, if you like. He is good for it; I have never known him fail to meet an obligation.”
“It is a lot of money,” he said, with temptation clear in his voice.
“It’s the price of a crown. Take it, Rassendyll. Fifty thousand, your safety, and an experience few men have shared. You must know this imposture can’t hold much longer.”
“How do I know I can trust your safe-conduct?” he asked, and I thought, We have you now.
“You may not think much of my word,” I said. “But you can trust self-interest. I don’t want to die any more than you, and if this business comes out, we are all ripe for the axe. Michael would far rather return the Earl of Burlesdon’s brother home, if that were possible, than have to explain his disappearance.”
“That, I believe,” Rassendyll said. “Well—”
I was on the top step, close to the door, leaning forwards. De Gautet and Bersonin were on the step behind me. Hence, I alone heard Antoinette whisper low, “He lies. Don’t believe him. They are treacherous.”
I could have cursed aloud. She went on, urgently, “Michael has told him to give you the money, then cut your throat and take it back. He is a killer. Don’t believe him!”
Fucking hell, Antoinette, I thought, and hoped fervently that the other two had not heard.
“Well, it is a handsome offer,” Rassendyll said loudly to me, in a tone that might have fooled a child. “Give me a minute to consider.” He shuffled around a bit inside, evidently planning something.
I stepped away. De Gautet hissed to me, “You have failed. Let’s kill him.”
“Let’s take him,” I said. “He wasn’t afraid of being overheard, so his companion must be at a distance.”
A voice spoke from the summerhouse. “Gentlemen, I accept your offer, relying on your honour. If you will open the door—” Rassendyll suggested.
“Open it yourself,” I told him.
“I can’t. The latch has caught.”
We could hardly stand here all night with him in the summerhouse. I gestured at the other two to keep him covered with their revolvers when he emerged, reached forwards and pulled the door open.
And the bastard came out at a run, hidden behind a great round shield. Three shots rang out and glanced off the metal, then Rassendyll ploughed into us, and we went down like ninepins. It was a wrought-iron tea table, I realised, as it hit me painfully on the hip. I swore and fired again, with no thought of capture now. My target was already running, but he took a snap shot behind him, and by pure luck the bullet scraped my shoulder. I went down again, as Antoinette shrieked my name. De Gautet sprinted after him; more shots were exchanged, and he came back cursing.
“He has reinforcements outside. We must hurry. Come on, Detchard, get up, and run!”
MICHAEL DRESSED US all down in humiliating terms for our failure. My injury was hardly more than a scratch, but he ordered his doctor to put my arm in a sling, so as to give the impression I was less of a threat. I did not feel greatly like a threat as it was, having been caught by such a childish trick. One point to Rassendyll.
Michael gave hasty orders for the household to remove in case Colonel Sapt or Rassendyll decided to accuse us and perhaps Antoinette of a plot against the king. Antoinette was to travel by train, alone; I wondered if he was dangling her as bait for Rassendyll in some way. She had sabotaged Michael’s best chance, getting me shot in the process, but there was no trace of guilt or fear in her face as she murmured her sympathies and goodnights before disappearing off to bed. I wanted to know what the devil she was up to, and found myself unreasonably angry with her interference.
It is a peculiar thing to be a double agent. I was here to serve Antoinette, I looked forward to getting my knife into Michael, metaphorically or otherwise, and yet after months in his service, I found it all too easy to think of our side, and forget my true mission in the urge to fight and win. The duke’s party had the tricky job of all tricky jobs, and an impressive team to do it with, and I would have dearly liked to see if we could pull the business off for the sheer hell of it. I reminded myself severely that my purpose was not to make Michael king, and then spent the next hour with him and my colleagues talking about ways to do precisely that.
Michael said his people would put it about that I had been shot in a duel over a love affair, and named Antoinette as the lady. I retreated to my room to spend a slightly painful and very wakeful night wondering what the hell was going on.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We regrouped in Zenda the next day, and Hentzau walked with me to see the king’s accommodations.
“Made by order of Michael,” he said, and gave me a smile that did not hold its usual carefree glee. It was a sunless look, and I asked, “You don’t find work as a gaoler congenial?”
“I don’t mind work, and I wouldn’t mind holding a prisoner. This borders on torturing a lunatic. You’ll see.”
The drawbridge that formed the only access to the moated Tower led directly to a flight of stone steps going down below the general ground level to two small rooms, cut out of the rock that rose from the moat. The outer room was windowless, with three mattresses on the floor, and gave the only access to the inner room, which had one square window, a few feet above the moat.
Rudolf was held in the inner room. Hentzau entered, I with him, and said, “Good afternoon, Highness, and how are you?”
The king ignored me. He sprawled on the floor, his arms held close to his side by steel chains, which I could see at once were set into the wall too low for him to be able to stand. His face was pale and haggard, his eyes hazed with drink. The air reeked of wine and sweat, and the smell of a chamber pot inadequately cleaned, and of the burning torches, for the window was completely obscured.
“We keep him well sauced,” Hentzau said. “He screams the place down for wine otherwise. I think it might kill him to stop.”
“Do we allow him exercise?”
“No. Our master’s command. He also commanded the chains.”
“This is a foul game,” I remarked. I do not claim I was moved—in my view, those who benefit from the trappings of kingship must accept the position’s incidental risks, such as deposition and death, and I had no doubt of how Rudolf would have treated an enemy. But it was undeniably foul, and Hentzau glanced at me with a wry look and nodded.
“What is blocking the window?” I asked. “The air is thick.”
“A pipe,” Hentzau said. “Have you been told the plan? Take a good look then, and I shall explain outside. I need some fresh air.”
He left Bersonin in charge and we walked some way into the grounds, where we could speak unobserved. We were silent until then, and when we had found a pleasant shady spot under a tree, he remarked, “You look a little drawn.”
“Rassendyll shot me.”
“I suppose he had good reason.”
“Of course. This is a lot of fuckery, Hentzau, and I cannot see a way out of it. I have an increasing feeling that Sapt is not averse to the sight of Rassendyll on the throne. He makes a better king than Rudolf.”
“That damned play-actor has been a spanner in the works from the beginning. He wouldn’t take the money?”
“He was tempted, but no.”
“I loathe people who don’t succumb to temptation,” Hentzau said. “What is the point of temptation otherwise? I share some of your apprehension, my Detchard, but I should tell you about Michael’s plan.”
“Go on.”
“It’s a double bluff. The supposed plan is this: The king is kept in the inner room. Three of us are to be in the outer room to defend the door in the event of attack. If it seems likely to be breached, one of us is to go into the inner room and cut the king’s throat, then tie a weight, left conveniently there, to the body, and put him into the great pipe that now leads from the window into the moat.”
“Have you ever lifted a body?” I demanded. “Especially one slippery with blood? We need a pulley there, if one man is to do it.”
“Good point, for verisimilitude,” Hentzau said. “Then, you see, those of us in the outer room will leave off fighting, nip into the inner room and simply slide down the pipe ourselves—waving to the dead man if we see him sinking, I suppose—swim round to where men with ropes will await us, clamber out of the moat, and come round to surprise the attacking forces from behind.”
“Of course we will,” I said drily. “It makes perfect sense. And for whose consumption is this ingenious idea?”
“Rassendyll’s, of course. It is a greater temptation than fifty thousand: it promises the king’s death at another’s hand. While Rudolf lives, the play-actor’s life depends on his. If Michael produces that wasted shell of a drunkard alive, he signs his own death warrant, but he also signs those of Rassendyll and Colonel Sapt. And if Flavia has accepted the play-actor’s hand or is bearing his brat . . .”
“Rudolf alive is a weapon against every one of them. A last great act of malice that ruins all.”
“Precisely,” Hentzau said. “Whereas if Rudolf dies, and the body is lost forever, then Rassendyll can seat himself securely on the throne at the small cost of killing Michael. That is the bait: that we will kill the king for him.”
“Therefore, we let the plan become known to Rassendyll and Sapt,” I said, working it out. “Either they choose to let the true king rot in Zenda—a choice that could come back to haunt them—or they will be forced into an assault on the castle to save him.”
“To save him, or to make sure he dies—which is necessary if Rassendyll intends to keep his arse on the throne and his cock in the princess. Either way, Michael hopes that Rassendyll will lead an attack. There can be—to the public—no good reason for the king himself to attack his brother’s home, but it is within the true man’s character. We kill Rassendyll and his men, Michael claims he had no idea his assailant was his monarch, a convenient doctor announces that Rudolf was maddened by drink, and the throne passes to Michael for lack of another candidate.”
