Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  “The Chivians will be here by noon tomorrow,” Igor said. “That sister of yours must be gone at dawn and the Temkin woman with her.”

  “To Faritsov?”

  “Of course. We will apologize for her absence and send for her. She can come back when her face is healed.”

  Then it would be too late in the year to travel to Chivial. Sophie was suddenly too exhausted to care. She was drifting off to sleep when Igor’s voice made her jump.

  “You disgust me.”

  She shivered. “How I have displeased Your Majesty?”

  “Nothing you have done. You behave well. You just are.” He was much drunker than she had realized. “I forgive your behavior tonight. You did well under the circumstances. The guards who let you out will be punished, so don’t try it again.”

  “Is that fair?”

  “Yes. They had to displease me or you and they chose wrong.”

  “And Fedor?”

  “He will teach my streltsy not to befriend him.”

  After a while he said, “A Czar should make lots of babies so the people do not doubt him.”

  “I am willing.”

  “But what I said about Fedor… He really will kill any child of yours.”

  She believed him.

  Igor grunted. “Unless.”

  “Unless what, sire?”

  “Unless he is its father.”

  She sat up. “You are joking!”

  “Lie down!” he grumbled. “There’s a draft.”

  She lay down and he pulled the covers snug around himself.

  He chuckled. “No. We’ll let Fedor give you the baby. He’s more inclined to it than I am. You’d rather bed with a lusty young lad your own age, anyway. The brat will be safer if it’s his.”

  “Your Majesty! You cannot—”

  “Now go! I want to sleep.”

  She obeyed, sliding out of the bed, donning her robe, and returning to her own room. As she was climbing in beside Tasha, she heard the bolt click.

  • 7 •

  “Good chance to you, Sir Arkell,” Lord Wassail declaimed cheerily. It was a fine morning. Cane tapping, he walked briskly along the paved path to the river. “Today we arrive in Kiensk, I understand.” Percy, Kimberley, and Hagfield trailed after him, well laden.

  “Good chance to you, my lord. Let us hope so. We have been this close to Kiensk at least three times before.”

  “Ah, so you say. But rivers twist and roads wind. Some of the forests were thick enough to hide the sun. How can you be so certain, mm?”

  “I have a memory for maps and a knack for direction.” The boy was confidence personified. “Kiensk lies that way. Sprensk, where we were two weeks ago, is a couple of days over there, Dvonograd about ten days’ ride that way…We’ve been led in circles.”

  Wassail chuckled as he accepted the lad’s steadying hand to descend the slimy steps. “Just teasing. You haven’t been wrong yet, any of you.” This prolonged trip had not been all bad, for his health was much improved. Leisurely boat trips and short treks were restful—he had not needed a healing since Dvonograd. Food and accommodation had been superb, all the way, and the countryside enviable. He approved of Skyrria, so far. “If His Majesty said circles, obviously circles it has to be. I hope I can talk him out of circles for the return trip, though.”

  Fine morning or not, summer had gone. Tomorrow would be Ninthmoon.

  Beaumont aided him down into the big river boat. “Even if you do so, the timing will be tight, my lord. We must cross the border no later than the middle of this month if we’re to make Fitain before really bad weather strikes. We’d avoid a Skyrrian winter, then, but we can’t expect easy roads anywhere. We cannot remain more than four or five days in Kiensk.”

  Wassail settled on the thick cushion provided for an honored guest; he scanned the heaps of baggage amidships and the dozen or so brawny rowers, many of them already stripped to the waist for their exertions to come. A few of them he recognized as streltsy and others had been rowers on the Dvono. He did not need Arkell to tell him that most of their journey had been unnecessary.

  There were six boats in the convoy. Prince Dimitri was in the one directly ahead—scion of an incredible royal lineage all the way back to Tharik; pleasant enough lad, if not the brightest jewel in the crown. Pursuivant Dinwiddie was with him, Sir Dixon in the craft directly behind. The boorish Viazemski usually traveled in the last boat, keeping watch for strays.

  Arkell and the servants moved to the bow, Beau settled on a thwart nearby as if he had something to discuss. While the boatswain began beating stroke and the boat pulled away from the steps, Wassail took another approving look around. The left bank was meadowland, although he could see far too many herds of black cattle for the available pasture. It had been stocked up just to impress him. Opposite, of course, stood the palace where he had spent a very comfortable night.

  He caught Beau’s sharp eye on him. “Fruit rotting on the branches,” he said triumphantly. “Trees need pruning.”

  “Nests in the chimney pots,” Beau countered.

  “Fumets all over the orchard!”

  Beau challenged that one with a frown. “Surely it is normal for beasts of the chase to enter into such a demesne at night to feed?”

  “Never so many,” Wassail insisted.

  “In that case—the windows. There’s dirt in the corners of every pane.”

  “You’ll see that anywhere!”

  “No, this is always the same, meaning a uniform layer of dirt and a single cleaning.”

  “Now you’re reaching!” Wassail said, and they chuckled.

  Every night a fine palace was offered for the travelers’ rest, but no host or hostess ever appeared. Elaborate stories would be offered to explain their absence, but Sir Hubert— the former Master Hakluyt—was convinced that the owners were all dead. The visitors had made a game out of finding evidence that the palaces had been specially refurbished for their visit.

  “It troubles me, my lord,” Beau said, suddenly serious. “It’s so stupid! Does he think we don’t know the sun rises in the east? That we can’t see water damage that would have any sane homeowner re-leading his roof in no time? Empty houses smell empty.”

  “Autocracy is stupid by nature, son. It assumes that one man can always be right. If some of my ancestors hadn’t made that mistake, I might be—” Wassail abandoned the notion as treasonous. “Not all kings of Chivial have been as brilliant as our own beloved Athelgar, but they all must heed the Lords and Commons, and that’s healthier.” If Athelgar had paid more heed to his Privy Council, Wassail might never have become involved in this present madness. That idea felt treasonous too.

  Any Chivian-speaking spies Viazemski had planted among the rowers would understand nothing of this conversation, which was being conducted in a random mixture of Chivian, Fitanish, Isilondian, and Dolorish words, a language named “Beauish” after its inventor.

  Oars creaked in rowlocks. A white heron flapped across the stream above its own reflection, and Beaumont stared absently after it, looking very young—young enough to be the grandson the spirits had not granted to carry on the Wassail name.

  After a moment he said, “It was a stupid thing to try, and it was done so badly! I have this feeling that the emperor-whose-name-I-won’t-mention may be clever himself, but he has morons carrying out his orders. You suppose that’s true of all autocrats, my lord? That they surround themselves with stupid people?”

  “It’s true of most. They won’t tolerate criticism. They distrust clever subordinates.”

  “Ah!” Beau was smiling again. “Reminds me. Is our one-armed friend clever, would you say?”

  “Like a wild boar, but more dangerous.”

  “He is still very anxious that our binding conjuration remain a state secret, my lord.”

  “It’s safe with me.” Wassail knew that his aging memory had just been given a tactful jog. Personally he thought there would be little harm done if the Czar tried sticking swor
ds through all his streltsy’s hearts, assuming they had any.

  “He has a request.”

  Wassail distrusted that babyish innocence. “Namely?”

  “He has a paper he wants signed and sealed by you, testifying that the bearer—whose name is fictitious and immaterial—is an honest, worthy gentleman, in whom you have every confidence.”

  “I’d sooner sign my own death warrant!” Wassail studied Beau’s hurt expression for a moment, wondering what was being brewed this time, then said, “You want me to perjure myself?”

  “Oh, don’t call it that, my lord!” The silver eyes twinkled. “That’s so crude! A momentary lapse of exactitude! Ever since Dvonograd, I have been working to convince that scum that I am his truest friend in all the world and you are his next best and he can trust us to save him no matter what.”

  “I didn’t know he needed saving.”

  The Blade grinned happily. “Being what he is and working for whom he does? Oh, he is certain to need saving from somebody someday, and sooner rather than later—as I have explained to him. He hadn’t known about gift-of-tongues conjuration until we came. I explained that, too. I have assured him in your name that if he wishes to accompany us when we leave Skyrria, we shall be delighted to take him with us and help find him a new life somewhere, to live in luxury on all his ill-gotten loot.”

  “Spirits preserve me,” Wassail muttered. Back in Chivial, the prospect of letting that Viazemski horror loose on Eurania would have appalled him. Out here in the wilderness, he had to consider survival—not just his own, but of all those dependant on him. Values changed. If saving a monster’s hide was a necessary price, then he would have to pay it and hope nobody ever found out.

  Beaumont was gleeful. “We had difficulty setting out mutually acceptable terms and warranties, my lord. I described those bankers’ drafts you carry, but his simple soul cannot believe a piece of paper will change into bags of gold on demand. Naturally he won’t accept anything with his own name on it, either. Much too incriminating! In the end we agreed that he would write a testimonial for your signature, as a token of good faith. If I may say so, it is a masterpiece of romantic fiction.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Trust him, my lord? You are joking, aren’t you? He doesn’t trust me either, so that’s fair. But if all else fails us, perhaps he won’t. Who knows? He may be useful, that’s all.”

  Just as Sir Huckster Hakluyt had turned out to be a fountain of information about Skyrria, and might be of more use in future. Considering his youth, Beau had an astonishing eye for the terrain.

  “Very well, I’ll sign it.”

  The Blade produced a roll of parchment from his cloak. “Conveniently, Sir Arkell has already attached your seal, my lord.”

  • 8 •

  Kiensk at last! After so long, any destination would have been welcome, but this one looked much better than Arkell had expected—so good, in fact, that he decided the riverbank had been specially cleaned up for the Chivians’ arrival. Boats were tied up along the stone quay at suspiciously regular intervals; lumber, grain sacks, and other cargo were tidily stacked against the stockade that served as city wall; there were more horses in view than horse droppings.

  The lead boat had gone on ahead to carry warning, so the reception party was waiting when Wassail stepped ashore around noon. Bands played hobnail Skyrrian music like cats quarreling in a thunderstorm, peacock Pursuivant preened amid an exaltation of Skyrrian heralds, and a dozen hairy grandees glittered welcome in the sunshine. Why would men deck themselves up in so much jewelry and gold brocade, and then hide behind such jungles? Even the liveried pike-bearing men-at-arms had whiskers down to their belts. Strike a spark and they would all go up like dry hay.

  Igor was not present, of course, because monarchs did not skulk on docks. The Senior Beard was presented as Chief Boyar Skuratov, who must correspond roughly to Lord Chancellor, and he had brought other important hair-balls to support him—astrologers, conjurers, hereditary boyars of This and That, every one leaning on a staff of office. Prince Dimitri was there, too, looking as if he had an imminent appointment with the Imperial Tormentor. Curious!—last night he’d been bellowing out bawdy songs at the prospect of being reunited with his wife. Arkell caught Beau’s eye and confirmed that he had noticed the change.

  The three Blades crowded in around their ward. The scene had an uncomfortable stench of unreality about it, as if even the participants were taking this staged pomp seriously. The line of black-clad men on the rampart showed no weapons, but could be streltsy archers.

  The reason for Dimitri’s unhappiness was revealed when Chief Beard Skuratov announced, with deep regret, that, contrary to all previous reports, Princess Tasha was not currently resident in Kiensk; she was home with her sister-in-law at Faritsov. She would be summoned immediately, of course. Dear Dimitri had been sending his darling Yelena letters for the last month and receiving replies almost daily—how odd that he had not known where she was!

  So died any chance of leaving Kiensk and Skyrria before spring.

  Arkell made a mental note to buy some fur underwear as soon as possible.

  The open carriage provided for His Excellency’s triumphal entry into Kiensk resembled a converted hay wagon, but it was drawn by eight spectacular white horses. Wassail and three Best Beards climbed aboard. The heralds expected the Blades to ride with the mounted escort; Beau insisted that he and Arkell cling like footman to the back of the carriage, and Oak ride right behind them. Then Wassail, in turn, became uncooperative. By the terms agreed, Sir Dixon and his men would not enter High Town, but old Walrus insisted on seeing and approving their quarters before going to his, so the parade route was adjusted to pass through the Foreigners’ Quarter. By this time the Beards were looking testy.

  Eventually the band struck up again and the parade lurched forward. Once through the gates, Arkell was astonished by the width of the streets and the open gardens everywhere. Most of the buildings were built of stout logs, but none looked like hovels and some were mansions fit to hold up their roofs proudly in Grandon or even Laville. Over everything loomed the towers and domes and massive walls of High Town, a city within a city.

  The house provided for the Chivians in the Foreigners’ Quarter was humbler and dirtier, but could not be faulted. Sir Dixon declared himself well pleased, so Ambassador-at-Large Wassail shed his knights and most of his lesser followers. The parade proceeded on to Great Market, into High Town, and thus to the gates of the Imperial Palace itself, where he would be accommodated. This was, according to the Chief Boyar, a great honor.

  The guests’ quarters were a separate wing with a score of rooms on three levels, all cold and gloomy, with furniture to match. This was certainly adequate for a mere eight men— one earl, three Blades, one herald, and three servants—but it still felt like a jail. Windows were barred, staircases narrow spirals, and doorways never higher than chest-height. Smelly skins covered the floors and no tapestries or paneling masked the ashlar walls. Beau made a quick exploration and came back down to report.

  “It’s defensible enough, my lord, yet it would be a deathtrap in a fire. There’s only one way in or out.” He frowned. “That feels wrong!”

  “Obviously I can’t help,” Arkell muttered. “Why don’t I go back to Chivial?” Then he had to explain to his ward that the stairs had been curved and the doors hinged to favor right-handed defenders.

  Wassail snorted at the idea of three Blades holding off the Skyrrian Empire. “They’d starve us out.”

  “I’m almost there now, my lord,” Beau said.

  “Spirits! So am I, lad. Where’s that chamberlain?”

  So Percy was sent off to find food and returned leading an army of Skyrrian footmen and pages bearing silver dishes. The fare was familiar—rich and heavy, roast meats, chickens, stodgy pies, rice, fish, cabbage soup. Wassail set to with verve, heedless of his imminent dinner with the Czar. Although this was to be a relatively informal event, Hakluyt had
warned it would still be a major bloat-and-drunk. Having learned to eat when they had the chance, the Blades accepted their ward’s invitation to join him.

  “I am hopeful that I will soon regain the weight I lost on the journey,” Lord Wassail declared as he beckoned for Kimberley to bring him another helping of dessert.

  Autocrats, if Czar Igor was typical, looked much as other men. He wore jewels and gold cloth in abundance, but so did every noble in the hall. He was paunchy and hairy, but that also was the norm. His eyes were perhaps shiftier than most, his nose larger, his mouth unpleasantly sensual. Indeed, the most surprising thing about him was that such an ugly old man had managed to produce so beautiful a grandchild. Then Arkell realized that the golden-haired beauty sitting beside him must be the Czarina Sophie.

  The surly lout was Czarevich Fedor, not the state hangman.

  The Czar had no Blades, but he did have hounds, one seated on either side of his throne. The brown one was larger than any dog Arkell had ever seen, yet the black one was even bigger, probably outweighing most men in the hall. Suddenly the wild stories about Igor’s hunt seemed credible. Every Blade knew about Chivial’s infamous Night of Dogs a generation ago, but the monsters that invaded Greymere Palace then had been mindless killers. These two were impeccably trained; their eyes followed the action with human-seeming awareness.

  Ambassador Wassail presented his letter of credence. Flowery words were spoken and gifts exchanged. The gruff old man could turn a fair phrase when he wanted and he had been well rehearsed by Pursuivant. Presenting a sapphire necklace to the Czarina, he declaimed that if her sister were a tenth as lovely, then King Athelgar would be the second most envied monarch in Eurania. The girl blushed crimson. Igor looked pleased, perhaps at hearing his country included in Eurania, which was a matter of opinion. Fedor just sneered. He barely managed civil thanks when presented with a jewel-encrusted hunting horn.