by Dave Duncan
VI
Journey’s End
• 1 •
Convinced that Fedor had come to take her back, Tasha clutched Olga’s hand and shrank down low on the bench behind her, cowering against the chimney stonework. Lord Wassail rose and his Blades closed in around him. Viazemski and his men drew off to one side; the newcomers to the other, and there was a three-way confrontation.
“Death and blood! What have we?” The giant Czarevich was shedding fur in all directions—hats, robes, boots. He was looking at the streltsy, though, not at Tasha. “The traitor himself!” He took his sword back from a helper and slung the baldric around his great bulk.
“No traitor, Your Highness,” Viazemski retorted, bowing low. “Your royal father’s most loyal servant.”
“We’ll let him decide that.”
“I have caught fatter fish for you, Highness. Look there!”
Fedor’s emotions were never a secret and the sight of Lord Wassail clearly astonished him. He frowned uncertainly when he saw Tasha—she tried to look away, but his eye held hers like a snake freezing a bird. He laughed and came strolling over with his men trailing after him. One caught his arm and muttered a warning, pointing at the Blades.
He brushed the hand off impatiently. “I was told yesterday that you were indisposed, Cousin.”
Tasha shook her head and clung even tighter to Olga.
He chuckled and turned his sneer on Lord Wassail. “You have some explaining to do, old man.”
“I am completing my mission, Your Highness, escorting Her Majesty to Chivial.”
“Show me your passport. No one leaves Skyrria without my father’s permission.”
Tasha hoped Lord Wassail would produce a paper, any paper, because the Czarevich was a notoriously poor reader. Instead he just said calmly, “I interpreted his final remarks as dismissal.”
“Not enough. Good chance, Cousin!” Fedor smirked at Tasha.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her fear amused him. Why couldn’t she be brave, like Sophie?
“Two birds with a single shot! This has been a profitable trip. Hand over your weapons, all of you. Viazemski, your lot first.”
The streltsy bristled like cornered wolves, showing teeth. Their leader smiled unctuously. “That would not be advisable, Your Highness. You need our support. Those Blades are deadly.”
Tasha saw the explosion coming. Cousin Fedor would never tolerate argument.
“Disarm!” he bellowed. “You are coming back to Kiensk with me—in chains! I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but you’ve dragged me into something nasty, and I won’t stand for it.”
Viazemski looked as if he were weighing odds, choosing sides. “My men and I will be happy to lay down our arms if the Chivians do so first.” Which would be never, of course.
“If I may make a suggestion, Czarevich?” said a new voice. Everyone turned to scowl at Beaumont’s dazzling smile. “Why cart him all the way back to High Town? Why not just torture the truth out of him here? It will help pass the time.”
“What do you know about this?” Viazemski demanded. “I know someone’s lying about me. How did the Czarevich get involved?”
“Truth is always so elusive!” Beau said sadly. “Don’t worry—you’ll think of something convincing when they start on your fingernails. If not, there’s always toenails. Until they go too, I mean.”
Fedor chewed his beard as he tried to work this out, while Beaumont seemed to be having the time of his life. Tasha had never seen anyone stand up to Fedor before. Could the Blade really be as confident as he sounded?
“Tell us, Viazemski,” he said, “have you decided to accept His Lordship’s offer of employment? I can testify that he is a generous and honorable master. He believes strongly in the two-edged nature of loyalty and takes very seriously his duty to stand by his servants. Right now, for instance, should you feel the need of armed support, I am certain he would direct us to aid you in your righteous struggle against imperialism.”
“Have you been slandering me?” Viazemski roared.
“Voevode, I wouldn’t know how to start. But I do think you had better choose sides, once and for all. Big Lumpkin, there, has a round score of beards behind him, but most of them are aristocratic trash. You have seven, plus your formidable self, and Lord Wassail has four. The odds are acceptable. I’ll hamstring His Nibs for you, if you have scruples about shedding royal blood, but I think the rest had better die, don’t you? Tidier that way.”
The listeners had been shifting, dividing into two factions. Viazemski’s men clearly preferred him to the prince who had beaten three of their fellows to death in Great Market.
The Czarevich seemed uncertain how to proceed, but then his gaze fell on Tasha again and he beckoned. “Come here, Cousin. You’re not safe there.”
She shook her head.
“Come here, Cousin! You don’t want to make me angry, do you?”
He moved forward with bovine obstinacy. She cowered back against the stonework at the end of the bench.
“Tasha, I’m warning you. You won’t like it if I have to get rough.”
She did not try to stand; her legs would not hold her if she did. She could not breathe…
Lord Wassail stepped between them. “Czarevich, you are addressing the Queen of Chivial. I ask you to be more respectful.”
“Stand aside, you festering old fool!”
With no more warning than that, the world went mad. Fedor raised a fist to swipe the old man out of his way. Sir Arkell’s sword flashed out to block the giant, who was a good head taller than the Blade. Fedor reached for his own hilt and Arkell’s wrist moved. That was all…Tasha saw his wrist move…no more than a gesture…but the point of his sword jabbed through the Czarevich’s beard. Fedor dropped to his knees and pitched forward. Lord Wassail uttered a strangled cry and toppled back into Sir Beaumont’s arms. Swords flashed out all over the hall and voices roared.
Tasha had hit the floor and rolled under the bench before her mind made sense of it all. Where was Olga?
“Stop! Stop! All of you!” Viazemski shouted. “Wait!”
Tasha stared into the astonished eyes of Czarevich Fedor, level with hers as she cowered in her refuge. A river of blood spurted out of his beard, a torrent, an ocean, more blood than any mortal frame could possibly contain. She had seen pigs’ throats cut often enough. They bled into a bucket, but not this much. He raised a hand to his neck as if he would plug the leak with his fingers.
“You’re dying!” she said. Strangely, she laughed, although it should not be funny. Why was she laughing? He was Igor’s heir. He mustn’t die!
Fedor blew a string of red bubbles. Beyond him, Lord Wassail lay on the floor with his Blades kneeling around him. His face was blotched and screwed up in agony; his breath came in irregular rasps. He pawed at his chest.
“Wait!” Viazemski yelled again. “Your leader is dead! Do you think the Czar will forgive you? Not Igor! He’ll have every man in this hall ripped and roasted and fed alive to his dogs.”
The listeners growled like angry wolves, but for a moment nobody moved.
Fedor had stopped bleeding. His eyes were not moving and his face was a sickly paper color. She could not mourn him, Tasha decided. Skyrria would do better without him. Dimitri was now heir to the throne. No…the baby that Sophie carried…
The old man was dying too. The hall had stilled to watch, fallen silent in the presence of death. His rattling breath stopped, started, stopped.
After a moment, Beaumont closed the staring eyes.
The three Blades rose as one and drew their swords. They leaped forward. The screaming started. Sir Cuthbert followed them into the melee of blood and clashing steel, stamping boots, shrieks of rage, and howls of terror. Tasha squeezed her eyes tight shut and clapped her hands over her ears. Mostly there were no words, just sounds of animal fury or terror, and heavy thumps, but rarely someone would curse or beg for mercy. Something warmly wet splashed over her hand. T
he door thundered against the wall again, an icy gale swept around her. The yells and stamping grew rarer, meaning fewer fighters. The door boomed again, blown shut, and the hall fell silent, almost silent, just someone, somewhere, whimpering in agony. Cautiously she opened her eyes. She was splattered with blood, but not her own.
The world had gone mad.
There were bodies everywhere: Fedor, Wassail, the young custler—who had found a sword somewhere and been run through—and Viazemski, face down. It was his gore that had splashed her.
“Olga!” she yelled, scrambling to her feet. “Olga?”
She found Olga near the door, dead. She could not find Beaumont, or Arkell, and there seemed to be others missing, too. There had been no time for anyone to don outdoor clothing, and no one would survive very long outside without it. She found Sir Oak cut to pieces, surrounded by bodies. If no one came back soon, she would have to assume that she was the only survivor.
When she began counting the corpses, she realized one of the streltsy was watching her. He lay on his side, hugging his knees. She forced herself to crouch beside him and clasp his red hand. His face was lined, his beard streaked gray, and his robes were a gory mess.
“Can I help?”
He nodded.
“How? Bandages?”
“Dying…” He gasped a few times. “Don’ wan’…take three days doing it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Drink, then?”
“Yes.” She scrambled up. “I can get you a drink.”
She picked her way between bodies to the water buckets and brought the dipper to the dying man. Most of it spilled, but he seemed to get some. He closed his eyes. She waited, but he did not speak again.
Shivering, she hurried over to the fire. It was hot enough, yet she was still cold. She could see no more firewood and what would she do when it went out? She was confused, not thinking very clearly, much as she remembered from the night Fedor hit her. Shock.
The door flew open to admit the snowy arctic blast and a man carrying another over his shoulder. He picked his way between the bodies, over to the fire; she moved away from him and eventually thought to go and close the door. When she dared creep back to the hearth, she barely recognized Sir Beaumont’s face under a mask of dried blood. He was kneeling beside the man he had brought in.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
He looked up at her as if he had trouble remembering who she was. “I’m all right now. Don’t be afraid.” He was weeping, tears turning scarlet as they ran down his cheeks.
“I’m not.” Should she be? Hard to think. “Is Arkell dead?”
“Can’t find any wounds. He had a bang on the head.”
She jumped back as the swordsman rose, but he ignored her and went wandering around, talking to the corpses. “You picked a poor moment to die, my lord. Skyrria’s better off without you, Fedor, but your daddy won’t be pleased. Oak, Oak! What do I tell them when I take Sorrow back to the Hall? Cuthbert, ah, you fought in knightly fashion. And Wilf? Wilf wouldn’t have hurt a bug. Sergei?” He turned his dread mask to Tasha. “Your friend. Why did she run?”
“If you hadn’t played your stupid games with forged letters, none of this would have happened!”
He shrugged, then rubbed his face as if he had just realized how it looked. “Anyone else alive in here?”
She pointed. He went to see. She heard a murmur of voices back and forth. Then Beaumont came back, sheathing his sword.
“Your Majesty…” A grotesque smile flickered under the bloodstains. “You don’t look very majestic. Your Grace, how long will the storm last?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re more familiar with the weather here than I am. I don’t know how many got away—three or four, and they weren’t dressed warmly. How far to Morkuta? Will they come back with help? We must leave before the snow stops, so we don’t leave tracks.”
“We are going back to Kiensk, aren’t we? I insist we go back!”
“And tell the Czar what, exactly?” He flopped down on the bench and stared bleakly at the body of his ward. “I must go and see to the horses. Fedor’s men just left their mounts out there, still saddled. Brutes! How long do we have to stay here?”
“There’s no more firewood.”
“If it’s just for one night, we can put up with it here. If it’s more, we should move to a smaller place. There’s other chimneys.”
“But then we have to go back to Kiensk.” Faritsov would be even better. She wanted Sophie, Dimitri, family…Not this blundering monster.
“Horses first.” Beaumont heaved himself off the bench and shuffled over to the door, where the furs were. Dressed, he disappeared in another cloud of fog and a slam.
“Shame, shame.”
She jumped. Sir Arkell’s eyes were open. She knelt beside him.
“Would you like a drink?”
He gaped a bizarrely unseeing smile at her. “Shame, shame shame shame shame…”
“Stop that!”
“Pity pity pity pity pity…”
“Stop!”
But he didn’t. He kept repeating, “Pity.” On and on and on.
Shouting at him helped her but not him. His wits had gone. She found hers coming back, bringing horror with them. Thirty people dead! The Czarevich among them. What if Sophie failed to bring her baby to term? Dimitri was next in line. How long would gentle Dimitri hold the throne?
“Pity pity pity…”
What was to become of her, locked up here with two murderers? She must pretend to trust the Chivians for now. Perhaps other travelers would arrive. Someone must come looking for Fedor soon, surely?
The fire was collapsing into embers. She poked them together to make a blaze, and remembered what Sir Beaumont had said about finding a smaller place—no bodies, easier to heat. She could collect the baggage, maybe. She started to do that. Her pack and some food. Her outdoor robes. She couldn’t recognize Beaumont’s. Chilled, she went back to the fire.
Arkell was sitting up. It was “Shame!” again: “Shame, shame shame shame shame…”
“Stop it!” she screamed. He grinned his open-mouth leer at her and spoke louder.
She yelled, “Idiot! Moron! Madman!” She struck him. “Lackwit!”
He blinked. “By the light of legal reason the right is discerned.”
“What?”
“Certainty is the mother of quietness and repose, and uncertainty the cause of variance and contentions.” He laughed like a child pleased with himself. “Here is good counsel and advice given—”
He went on gabbling steadily until Beaumont returned. Retaining his furs, he came to huddle and shiver by the fire.
“Arkell’s gone crazy!” she said, but he could see that and hear that.
“It hath been anciently said, that the heriot shall be paid before the mortuary.”
Beaumont listened to the babble for a while, then shrugged. “He needs time. I’ve found a place easier to heat.”
“We are going back to Kiensk, aren’t we?”
He sighed. “Not me, thank you. Or Arkell. Your Majesty, I am a King’s Blade and you are the King’s wife. I have no ward now. I pledge that I will do everything humanly possible to escort you in safety and honor to your new country and your throne and the husband who awaits you.”
“You? You couldn’t find water if you fell through the ice.”
“It’s not quite hopeless, Your Grace. We must be very close to Morkuta and the Dvono.”
“And the White Hats! And if you get past them, then what? Dolorth! Fitain! Isilond! Months! Brigands! Outlaws!”
“True, but…Well, let’s talk about that when we’re settled in. I haven’t found the woodpile or the well yet. I hope there’s a woodpile.”
He had chosen a tiny office off one of the stables. The horses’ heat had warmed it a little already and by the time he took her there, he had a blaze going in the fireplace. He found lanterns and some oil; he brought all the
baggage they would need, plus several days’ food; he located the well and watered all the thirsty horses. He dressed Arkell in furs for the move and undressed him again in the new quarters. The hall was allowed to freeze and become the mortuary. Beaumont even dragged to it all the stiffened corpses of the men who had died outside. He brought more firewood, laid out bedding, offered to cook a meal.
Tasha refused food. Fully dressed, she lay on straw under piles of furs. She did not truly feel cold, and yet she shivered and shivered and shivered. Flame-danced shadows filled the night with images of dead bodies and blood until she did not know which were dreams and which madness.
Horses fretted and fidgeted, storm wailed in the rafters, and Arkell babbled endlessly. “He said it that knew it best, and had by nature himself no advantage in that he commended…”
“What?” she said. Someone had spoken her name. “Who’s there?”
“Just me, Beaumont. You were screaming.”
“No, I wasn’t! I couldn’t have been. I wasn’t asleep.”
“Well, someone was,” he said resignedly. He sounded alarmingly near.
“How’s Arkell?”
“Asleep. Sleep may help. I had to hit him pretty hard. There’s no predicting how a Blade will take his ward’s death.”
“I thought you went mad.”
“We did.”
“Oh.”
“Some of us recover quickly. Some need longer. Some never do. Are you warm enough?”
“No.” She had no idea what part of the night it was, early or late.
“Arkell helps keep me warm.”
“What is that meant to mean?”
“If you want to join us, I will not take advantage of you.”
“That is a highly improper suggestion!”
“It’s a sensible one under the circumstances,” he said wryly. “His Majesty will not be pleased if I deliver a frozen wife.”
