Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  Swithin, struggling not to laugh at the spectacle, was left the only other person on his feet. Chivians did not kowtow! Besides, the death of kings could raise passions to perilous levels, so he must remain on guard—BURL, 356. The Czarina glanced at him again. He made a slight bow; she nodded acknowledgment. Still nobody spoke. Or wept.

  The room was almost full. Arkell entered and knelt just inside the door. The Czarina’s eyes opened very wide. Then the reality of the new situation finally caught up with her. She gasped and staggered. Swithin made a fast leap to steady both her and the child. He guided her to a chair, muttered an apology for his effrontery as he released her.

  “No, I am in your debt,” she murmured. “I am fortunate that you Blades are so quick.” She sat down. “Welcome home, brother. I fear you bring sad tidings?”

  Heads rose all around as Dimitri hoarsely made formal announcement of the new monarch. Backing away from the Czarina, Swithin caught Arkell’s eye and just for a moment—

  Then the gleam was gone and everyone was scrambling up to join in hailing Czar Boris the Third, frightening His Imperial Majesty very much.

  Swithin alone was stunned to silence. It couldn’t be! But it was. It had not been the news of her husband’s death that had driven the Czarina close to fainting, it had been the sight of the third Chivian swordsman. Swithin took a harder look at the infant who was now Czar of all Skyrria—pretty little scrap, he was, with his silver curls and wide gray eyes.

  Beau was standing beside Arkell. They were both exhausted by the long ride, of course, but Arkell did not look nearly as pale as Beau did, staring at the new emperor.

  It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be!

  But it might be.

  • 6 •

  A woman should display distress on learning that her husband had just been torn to pieces. Sophie wanted to burst into song.

  And Beau was back. Beau was back. Beau was back…

  But if Igor’s dread grip on Skyrria had been a curse, it had also provided stability and security for her son. Now he was Czar, poor mite, his safety must be her prime concern.

  The solar was crammed almost to suffocation and the most probable conspirators had arrived like ravens descending on carrion: Marshal of the Army Sanin, Court Conjurer Ryazan, Chief Boyar Skuratov, even sly Imperial Astrologer Unkovskii. She handed the Czar to Princess Nikon, his governess, a bleak but trustworthy woman of an ancient family so fallen from greatness that even Igor had seen no threat in it. Boris, thankfully, did not complain.

  “We must leave you to your grief, Sophie,” Dimitri said. “Many urgent matters require attention.”

  She nearly laughed aloud—Dimitri as regent would not last a month. She would never trust her son to him. “You are so kind, brother! Grief, I fear, must wait. You have your own family to console, and we shall release you as soon as we possibly can. Chief Boyar, let us hasten to the Hall for the oaths of allegiance.”

  Ignoring Dimitri’s bewildered expression, she led Nikon toward the door. “Bring His Majesty,” she said. “Your charge is doubly important now. We must increase his guard. Ah, Marshal Sanin!” She flickered the helpless-damsel smile that worked best on Sanin’s inflated views of his own worth. “Our safety is in your hands.”

  His eyes glittered. No doubt a new ambition had just presented itself. “Your Majesty may rely on me absolutely.”

  She drew him out of the crowd also, as everyone else cleared a path, bowing and curtseying to Princess Nikon’s burden. “We must take every precaution. And here may be an answer! Sir Beaumont, Sir Arkell! Would that your return had found happier times, but you are both welcome back.”

  “Your Majesty!” They saluted by tapping the hilts of their swords. They had both grown beards.

  “Marshal, here are the two best swordsmen in the realm, unburdened by other loyalties. Would you two noble gentlemen consent to head up His Majesty’s bodyguard—for the time being at least?”

  Such brazen, blatant, crazy effrontery would destroy her if anyone ever suspected her motive, but today she could hope it would be dismissed as the whim of a scatterbrain unhinged by sudden bereavement. She had never seen Beau astonished before.

  “We should be honored beyond words, Your Majesty.”

  “Then pray make arrangements with Marshal Sanin, here.”

  Sophie dived into the doorway before she went totally insane and kissed him.

  Speed was essential, for possession was nine points of a coup. When she set Bo on the throne and knelt to him, he thought it was a game, and laughed. She repeated the oath very loudly. Then she took the throne herself, sat him on her knee, and nodded to Dimitri to come forward. Then Skuratov, Sanin…

  When the Czar began to tire of this new play, Nikon gave him his favorite toy, a stuffed wolf, which he used thereafter to wallop each bearded head as it bent before him, yelling with joy. Perhaps there was some of Igor in him after all.

  “I think His Majesty should retire now,” she said, handing him to Nikon. “Chief Boyar, Marshal…you will confirm for the others that my husband left me in charge in his absence?”

  “Certainly, Your Majesty,” Sanin said soapily.

  Old Skuratov agreed. During the past few months, as Igor’s strength waned, Sophie had cultivated both of them and others also. She had not expected to need their support so soon, but those parting words of Igor’s were enough to carry her over the quicksand. Dimitri looked shocked, but more relieved than affronted. Yelena, at his side, seemed less pleased, but she was no threat.

  “Then my preliminary nominations for my council are as follows—”

  Dimitri, of course, but she could send him back to Faritsov in a few weeks. She pronounced seven names and decided those would do for now.

  “All others may now withdraw. Dear brother, will you please relate to the council the circumstances of my husband’s death?”

  She ordered the knell sounded, Czar Boris proclaimed, the corpse fetched, funeral arrangements made, foreign ambassadors and voevody of provincial districts notified, Marshal Sanin to march on Treiden and disperse the streltsy—as permanently and fatally as possible, but she need not tell him that—Unkovskii to cast the new reign’s horoscope, which she knew would be sensational…

  And so on. Every order given and accepted settled her more firmly on the throne. Mother Tharik’s great voice made the palace tremble: Klong-ng-ng!

  By nightfall, when the knell ended, she had signed a hundred documents, two of which were commissions in the Household Regiment. Senior officers of His Majesty’s bodyguard had access to the imperial quarters.

  She paced her chamber by candlelight. Old Skuratov must go. Prince Grigori Ovtsyn would make a good replacement, she thought. The army should be safe under Sanin as long as he believed she lusted after him. She sat down to make notes, only to find herself pacing again. It was well over an hour before the door opened and Beau slipped in. He was in uniform, wearing a sword with a white stone on the pommel. He had removed the beard.

  They stared at each other and she guessed exactly what he was going to say: “Sophie, I cannot stay.”

  She nodded, not even trying to hide the pain.

  “I never meant to come here and open half-healed wounds,” he said. “It is cruel. I wanted only to rescue Swithin.”

  That must be the gangling boy who had been following Dimitri around. “Even if you could stay, it would be too dangerous,” she said, and yet her heart screamed that there must be a way. “Did you cause Igor’s death?”

  “Not directly. That was not my purpose, either.”

  “It was well deserved. Would you hold your son?”

  He flinched and went over to the crib, warily as if he expected it to attack him. She joined him there, very conscious of his nearness. He was staring, transfixed.

  “Pick him up. He won’t waken.”

  “Better not, not tonight. Later, when he’s seen me around.” Beau’s hand on the rail ignored hers beside it. “He is very beautiful, takes after his mo
ther.”

  “No, he takes after his Great Aunt Euphrosyne, of blessed memory. She had no lobes to her ears either.”

  Beau’s smile flashed, brightening the room, then vanished into sadness. “Oh, Sophie, my love! We broke each other’s hearts once. Would you go through all that again?”

  “Gladly.”

  “Me too.” There were tears in his eyes. “But, Sophie, I cannot. If for no other reason, because it will endanger Boris. No one cared if Igor’s wife was unfaithful. No one would have dared tell him. But High Town is full of eyes. Your son needs you, and you will have many enemies, if you do not have them already.”

  That made sense, but there was another reason, she was certain.

  “Not that you can’t have lovers,” Beau said, turning again to study his son. “In fact, lovers will probably be essential, so you can play the great houses against one another, but nobles. A baseborn foreigner gigolo would be certain suicide.”

  “You’re married,” she said sadly.

  He nodded.

  With any other man that would not be a problem, but Beau was Beau.

  “To a woman of my own station, Sophie.”

  “She can’t possibly need you more than I do for the next few months! If I can just hold on until spring, until everyone gets used to a Czarina Regent…I must find able ministers— Igor trusted only fools, but I need strong, ambitious men, at least four of them, who will struggle against one another and not gang up on me and force me into some frightful marriage at sword point. Bo needs you! The Chief Boyar is useless, but fortunately he has no son to inherit his post, so I shall appoint a chancellor, Euranian style. And finance—”

  He took her hand. “I can’t help you with those decisions, love, but I didn’t say I was leaving immediately. They say civil war has broken out in Dolorth, and every ship in Treiden will have fled the Baels, so I cannot go before spring. Until then, I will keep Bo safe for you, I promise. No harm will come to him while I am here. Go ahead and build your government without that worry, at least.” He smiled sadly down at the sleeping child. “I will recruit and train a Royal Guard for him, one that you can trust. It is the only gift I can give him.”

  “No. You will have given him courage and honor, for those are in the blood. The Tharik line has been tainted by madness for over a century. If Skyrria gains a sane and dutiful Czar, then that is your gift to all the land.”

  “Being what I am,” he said with an attempt at a smile, “I prefer to believe in upbringing. If he is worthy, the credit will be yours.” He raised her hand to his lips.

  They stared at each other for a long, sad moment with the issue balanced on an edge of pain. Two proud people, she thought—an empress too proud to beg and a nobody with nothing but his hard-won fighting skills and his damnable honor. If she did beg, he might give up even that for her, but she loved him too much to demand such a sacrifice.

  He bowed jerkily and went away.

  • 7 •

  Spring came late to Chivial that year, but Grandon’s weather had no influence on the sea lanes to Skyrria. The first ships usually returned about the end of Sixthmoon—so Isabelle had been informed—and every day she reminded herself she must be patient. She had Maude to care for, she trusted Beau. In the lonely crypts of the night, it was her mantra: “I trust him, I trust him.”

  All she knew was that he had sailed off to Skyrria with Baels and the last ships to return before winter had reported Baels raiding there. King Athelgar had been very wroth over that, for some reason.

  Sixthmoon ended and there was still no word. Maude was four months old, thriving better than Prince Everard, who was half a year older. Palace life was deadly—at times Isabelle could almost wish she was back in Gossips’ Corner, where there were real people, not just vaporous ladies-in-waiting floating high above any jumped-up kitchen maid. Curiously, the only person at court who came close to friendship was Queen Tasha herself, probably because they were both foreigners and both had babies. Also, neither of them bothered to play the nasty little spite games of the Court. Isabelle could never hope to set foot on that ladder, while Tasha was already at the top and could rise no further.

  One morning, when Isabelle had just nursed Maude and laid her down for her midday nap, the door swung open without warning. She jumped and hastily moved to close her gown.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I was enjoying the view.” He dropped his pack and caught her on the first bounce.

  Neither said anything for a while. Then they made a few incoherent noises and went back to kissing. Husbands returning from long voyages were expected to be urgent and she had no desire to slow him down. He was gaining speed rapidly when a loud rap on the door intervened.

  A very flushed Beau said, “Who is it?”

  “Royal Guard. You’re wanted.”

  “Fire and death! I just got here.”

  “Tell that to the Pirate’s Son.”

  “Tell him I’m dressing as fast as I can.” Beau discovered his daughter. “That’s very nice, too. Is it a boy or a girl? Why didn’t you give her earlobes?”

  Isabelle had not been included in the summons, but she called in Maisie the laundry girl to keep an eye on Maude and went along with Beau. Sir Calvert made no objection. Normally a cheerful, talkative type, he answered Beau’s questions with monosyllables.

  “The dispatches have arrived already?”

  “Yes.”

  “His Majesty’s demeanor forebodes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hear Vicious was granted release at last.”

  “Yes.”

  Calvert halted at an inconspicuous door and held out a hand. Beau started to draw his sword, then stopped, frowning.

  Calvert smiled for the first time. “I will see you get it back, brother…on one condition.”

  Beau passed him Just Desert. “Namely?”

  “Remember the day we found you on the Blackwater road and I gave you a ride into Ironhall?”

  “As it were yesterday.”

  “Just don’t tell the King it was me!” He chuckled. “Good luck, brother.”

  “Brother?” Beau repeated softly as he and Isabelle went out to the Queen’s Garden, a dainty place of flowers and shrubs, sheltered from both wind and prying eyes.

  There Tasha sat on her favorite bench beside the hollyhocks, wearing one of her absurdities of lace and osprey feathers, which made her seem like a large white cat sunbathing. Commander Florian stood in the background, being unobtrusive. The King was pacing back and forth on a paved path, from the irises to the tea roses and back again. He carried a rolled paper, tapping it impatiently against his other hand.

  “Rise!” the King said. “We have just learned that Czar Igor died last fall.”

  “That is correct, Your Majesty,” Beau said.

  The royal eyes narrowed. “A gruesome accident, we understand.”

  “Extremely gruesome.”

  “And where were you when that happened?”

  “Beside Prince Dimitri, sire, about as far from the Czar as…he would have been about at the top of that apple tree. We were behind a steel fence.”

  “So you had absolutely nothing to do with his death?”

  Silence.

  Not again! Questions that need not be asked…Isabelle resisted an urge to scream at the top of her lungs or punch her husband in the kidneys. Athelgar glared.

  Then Beau said, “How could I have, sire?” It was not an answer but it came close enough.

  “I will not be known as a barbarian who employs assassins!”

  “Certainly not, sire. Did Ambassador Hakluyt report rumors to that effect?”

  “No.” The King took a turn the other way, as far as the lilies.

  “My sister is doing well as regent, I gather?” Tasha remarked sweetly. She, too, held a letter.

  “She has Skyrria eating out of her hand, if I may be so bold.”

  “You are always bold, Sir Beaumont. She is well?”

  “Extremely well, Your Majesty.”<
br />
  “She speaks highly of your service.” Smiling, Tasha went back to reading.

  The King returned, quietly fuming. “You intercepted Swithin?”

  “I did, sire. He…I may continue?” Beau’s unusual caution was a reminder that his two previous audiences with his sovereign lord had ended stormily.

  “Tell us.”

  “He fought most valiantly when Baelish pirates boarded the Prince’s ship. Your royal brother commended him. I have prepared a report for Grand Master, who may well choose to enter the encounter in the Litany.”

  For the first time the King smiled. “Swithin fought the pirates? How many—”

  “Um, no, sire. He fought the crew.” Beau winced at the royal glare. “He seemed very content the last time I saw him, sire. He has sent a letter to Grand Master reporting on his assignment, and I know it was favorable. He and his ward share a devotion to horseflesh. There were even hints of a romance…

  “…or two.”

  King Athelgar pretended not to hear that postscript. “And Sir Arkell?”

  “Completely restored to health, sire, and extremely happy. He serves the Czarina Regent as both Imperial Librarian and voevode of the Czar’s bodyguard.”

  “How many romances is he pursuing?” asked Queen Tasha pertly.

  “I did not obtain an exact count, my lady.”

  Athelgar said, “You are aware that my brother is now King of Baelmark?”

  “No, I had not heard that, Your Majesty! That is wonderful news!”

  “Is it?” The King uttered a royal grunt and stalked off to inspect the lupins. Tasha was smirking about something.

  Athelgar snarled at some forget-me-nots and strode back. “Beaumont, I am persuaded that I treated you harshly. We never paid the debt we owed you for your escorting our dear wife from Skyrria.”

  “It was my honor to—”

  “Silence!” Athelgar strode closer to glare down at the offender. “You also rile me more than any other man in the kingdom!”

  Beau tried to appear contrite, not very convincingly.