Ryswyck

by L D Inman

  “Hold your fire!” Barklay bellowed at the doorway. “Damn it, hold your—”

  His inattention was too good an opportunity to waste. In a blink, du Rau twisted free, lunged for the field glasses on the windowsill, and spun to fling them at Barklay’s face as he turned. Barklay ducked; predicting the movement, du Rau dodged around him, slipping under his warding arm. Outside, Reynard was yelling desperately over the din of rifle fire. Du Rau had a chance to filch Barklay’s combat knife from his belt on the way to the door. He got it, but at the cost of his speed, and he did not have a good grip on the handle when Barklay recovered his balance. He turned swiftly and let du Rau have the force of his arm across his ear. The knife skittered across the floor—but between du Rau and the doorway there was clear space.

  “Emmerich,” Barklay panted, holding his hands up and open, “don’t go down there. You’ll be killed for certain.”

  Du Rau, regaining his footing, looked at him witheringly. Then he said: “Did you not promise I could walk you down by knifepoint?”

  “Conditionally,” Barklay said, with a wry half-smile. Below, it sounded as though the conditions for that promise were rapidly diminishing: the rifle fire was petering out, giving way to a smattering of pistol shots. In the distance they could hear Reynard giving furious orders.

  “This has been an obscene waste of my time,” du Rau said.

  Barklay smiled. “I live to serve.” He leaned back and cocked his head, trying to get a view of the action outside.

  Swiftly, in his silent sock feet du Rau swept up the knife in two strides; in another stride he was in range as Barklay turned sharply back to him; they collided at du Rau’s full force and weight, and fetched up hard against the wall. Barklay gave a small cough, and his knees buckled. As he slid down the wall, they parted enough that Barklay could see, with an unfocused blink, that du Rau still held the knife where he’d struck home. A faint smile rose in his face as he sank down to rest against the wall, face to face with du Rau as he moved with him. His right hand flapped up toward his brow, and down sharply again; his blue gaze passed through du Rau’s, and then dissolved.

  Du Rau was alone in the room. The gunfire had stopped. He eased Barklay down sideways to the floor and drew out the knife as he stood; a rush of blood followed, spreading across the front of Barklay’s fatigue jacket. Du Rau stared down at it for a moment, trying to reorient himself under the bare lights.

  Downstairs, he heard men’s cautious crunching steps, and abruptly he was alert and aware again. He went out to the landing and called down firmly: “This is Bernhelm. I’m coming down.”

  “My lord?” called a voice in return. Reynard.

  Du Rau descended the pocked steps. There was still a haze of dust in the lower room, disturbed by the shapes of his palace guardsmen as they picked their way among the inert forms of the dead enemy. At the fore, Reynard pushed back his helmet, then pulled it off altogether. “You all right, my lord?”

  “I’m fine,” du Rau said. “Looks like the Verlakers preferred not to be taken alive. Pity.”

  He saw Reynard’s gaze check the bloody knife in du Rau’s hand, scan the rest of him for visible injuries, and rise at last to his face; only then did he respond to what du Rau had said, with a compressed, exasperated look. “I’m sorry, my lord. This was not how—”

  Du Rau waved the apology away with his knife hand. “Never mind, Reynard. The end result is acceptable enough. Unless you have a different plan, I would like to return to the palace now.”

  “Yes, my lord. There’s a vehicle ready for you. And Lady Ingrid has sent you a change of clothes for the journey.”

  So Barklay had been right. “I’ll change on the way.” He finished descending the stair and strode past them, neatly avoiding the dead and the broken glass. “Collect the bodies—General Barklay is upstairs—strip them, and bring them along.”

  He emerged into the barren sunlight, Reynard close behind. When he had reached the rank of armored vehicles, he cast a glance back at the low, abandoned concrete building, rifle-pocked and derelict.

  “Something must be salvaged from this disaster,” he said.

  7

  “How much of the Executive Committee is at the palace right now?” du Rau asked Reynard. The armored vehicle jounced as he dug one-handed through the parcel Ingrid had sent: fresh shirt, trousers, shoes; a pack of moist wipes, and a pod-shaver. Enough to get him back into the palace with some dignity.

  “House Alliance and Estuary Guard, to start,” Reynard reported; “Lord Admiral Wernhier; Lord Morin—”

  “Lord Admiral Wernhier? What about Lord General Herval?”

  “He’s dead,” Reynard said, laconic as only he could be. “Wernhier has assumed his responsibilities for the invasion.”

  “Wonderful,” snorted du Rau. “Dare I ask who was responsible?”

  Reynard’s lips twitched. “Ultimately? Lady Ingrid.”

  Du Rau sighed. “Save the more detailed briefing for later. For now, message ahead that I want every member of the committee within distance to meet with me the instant I arrive.” He was going to have to put down Barklay’s knife to change clothes. He set it down in the seat next to him, aware of Reynard’s gaze, and reached for the shirt, ignoring both.

  Reynard gave him a precis of the current state of things in the palace while du Rau struggled with the pod-shaver and a small mirror on the uneven road. The result was—well, somewhat presentable. Better than nothing, and no worse than his standards while in the field. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt despite the chill, and left the neck open. Normally du Rau preferred to keep himself immaculate in public, but this was different. He had in fact been hard at work assisting in his own rescue; he needed to make a trenchant statement to restore confidence.

  “Also, Reynard,” he said, “have the general staff assemble as soon as possible to present a thorough briefing on the state of our operations across the strait. Once I know the situation at home is stable, I’ll meet with them.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The caravan roared triumphantly into Bernhelm and pulled up in the palace square with a great show of might for so small a force. Lord General Herval would be furious to have the army shown up by the palace guard—but then du Rau remembered Herval was dead. It was an inconvenient loss…and also a relief.

  Du Rau stepped out alone. A chill wind was blowing across the square, and the shadows were beginning to angle eastward. The stairs were empty of people to greet him, but du Rau knew that he was being watched from the windows of the palace complex and from the offices across the street. He stepped forward firmly. As he gained the first rank of steps, the security troops began to get out of their vehicles behind him, as if this were any normal day he was returning from a trip away.

  And above him, at the top, Ingrid emerged and waited. She stood, cool and elegant, her day-jacket and tunic spotless, her hair neatly bound, as if she had never been carried away by foreign ruffians in a drugged sleep. The weariness in du Rau’s blood vanished. He sprang lightly up the steps to meet her; she came down one step, as she always did, so that he would be the taller as they faced one another.

  “My lord.” She bowed her head and laid her hand across her heart.

  His knife hand twitched, as if to return the gesture; he felt his own position and persona like a loose, ill-fitting skin. Only his shared gaze with Ingrid was fit and right. “Lady,” he said quietly.

  “All is as you ordered,” she told him. “The Executive Committee does not, unfortunately, have a quorum; but the available members are waiting for you in the lower conference room.”

  “I’ll see them now,” du Rau said.

  As he went into the palace, Ingrid followed him, her hand brushing his as she came abreast; and he saw that instead of the usual palace security attending his entrance, a whole rank of Estuary Guard lined the foyer, standing at rigid attention in full parade dress. Du Rau returned Ingrid’s touch, unobtrusively; drew an easier breath, and spoke.
>
  “I thank you, gentlemen. Now you’ve made your point; we both have work to attend to.”

  In response, they snapped him an impeccable salute in perfect unison, and filed away, their polished shoes almost silent on the cold marble floor. They were not younger rank-and-file Guardsmen; bright senior-officer pins flashed as they turned, and du Rau knew the name and house and rank of every one of them.

  Now if only the Executive Committee would be so easy and so gratifying. Du Rau went up the main stair, conscious of more eyes from the topmost gallery (no doubt Reynard had set his men to the less glamorous task of surveilling the palace residents on his return), and made straight for the lower conference room, Ingrid and Reynard flanking him from behind. They stopped at the door as he entered.

  Ingrid had said there was not a quorum, but du Rau was privately surprised to see so many faces missing around the table. Herval was gone, of course, but of the other heirs only Lord Morin was there to greet him; he looked ill-at-ease. They all scraped to their feet as he entered.

  Du Rau took his place at the head of the table. He did not sit; instead, he dropped Barklay’s knife onto the glassed surface with a casual clatter, and rested two knuckles on the table’s edge.

  “I apologize for the short notice, gentlemen,” he said dryly. “When a quorum is available we will have a proper meeting. For the time being, I will hear status reports. Commander Falkras, I thank you for the Estuary Guard’s welcome downstairs.”

  “Not at all, my lord,” said Falkras, with quiet emphasis. Lord Morin seemed to squirm without moving at his place; he was staring at the bloody knife on the table. They all were.

  Good.

  “Lord Admiral Wernhier,” du Rau said, “is the general staff ready to brief me on our operations?”

  Wernhier dragged his eyes from the knife to du Rau’s face. “Yes, my lord. We have a full briefing prepared for you. If it pleases you we will meet upstairs one hour from now.”

  “That will do. Thank you.” Du Rau took reports from the rest of the men at the table; there was fortunately nothing actionable that would not wait for a full meeting. Somehow the crisis du Rau expected had pulled clean like a slipknot; and as for any doubts remaining in the court—that was what the knife was for.

  Du Rau dismissed the meeting.

  ~*~

  He found Ingrid waiting for him when he went up to their suite, pouring from a teapot into a delicate cup. “Tea, my lord?” she said, lifting the cup toward him.

  “I don’t have time,” du Rau said. “I am meeting with the general staff in an hour. I must bathe.” She followed him into the next room, where he was already levering out of his shoes and reaching for the collar of his shirt.

  “Then shall I be steward of your knife while you do?” she said, sounding amused.

  Du Rau looked down. Barklay’s knife was in his hand again. He felt Ingrid’s impassive gaze, and knew she did not need to ask whose knife it was, or whose blood still smeared its blade. “I suppose I should wash it,” he said pensively. “Smack too much of the old war-lord if I display it unclean.”

  “Even clean it would be effective mounted on the wall behind your com desk. In a glass display case,” she suggested as he looked up, “with a small hammer lying on top.”

  They were alone. So du Rau smiled. He flipped the knife and offered it to her hilt-first.

  Ingrid was the only person in the world he would allow near him with a naked weapon while he was unarmed. If she ever decided to kill him, he would let her.

  He continued into the bath, Ingrid following him with her tea and the knife. “I need to get clean and dressed, and have something to eat. And then if I have time,” he sighed, dropping his shirt to the floor, “I suppose I had better see Dr. Berthau.”

  “You can’t,” Ingrid said calmly. “He’s dead.”

  He stopped in the act of reaching for his trouser buttons and turned to look at her. “Why?” he said, after a moment.

  “It was he who drugged us,” Ingrid said simply. “Set on by Perenel, who was blackmailing him for that little murder Berthau thought we didn’t know about. Perenel was in contact with an agent of Verlac. Reynard is tracking down their dead drop.”

  “And no one has asked Perenel for the details?” He dropped his trousers and peeled off his rancid underclothes, leaving them in a pile with an air of comment, both on Perenel and the ruined clothing.

  “He was killed before it could be discovered,” she told him.

  He paused again to look at her. She was sitting on a padded bench facing the shower alcove, the knife on her lap, sipping from the teacup. “How many people,” he said slowly, “have died in the palace while I’ve been gone?”

  “Four,” said Ingrid. “Well, five, I suppose, if Reynard is finished interrogating the Verlaker captain. I’m only responsible for three of those.” She sounded regretful.

  There was a silence while they looked at one another. “You have my attention,” he said, at length.

  “You wash, then,” Ingrid said, “and I’ll brief you.”

  ~*~

  This is what Ingrid told him:

  The Verlaker soldier drove her back to Bernhelm in a groundcar. When they were in the city proper, he took off her blindfold: she found that they were already being shepherded by armored vehicles, traffic hastily diverting from their escort.

  “Tell me, lady,” said the Verlaker, “do you trust these people?”

  She saw at once what he had observed. Some of the armored vehicles belonged to palace security, and some bore the markings of Lord General Herval’s battalion. The weapons trained on them from the latter were not being aimed with as much careful precision as one would like.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  The soldier kept their vehicle at a steady, unthreatening speed. “Tell me what to do, ma’am,” he said, “and I’ll back your play.” Generous of him, considering the Verlakers were the ones responsible for all this mess in the first place.

  She looked at him. “You haven’t thought this through?”

  “No point,” he answered. “Too many variables.”

  She didn’t reply; no point indeed. General Barklay and his rabble may not have thought it all through, but Ingrid had had plenty of time to think. With both Bernhelms taken, the heir candidates would be torn between vying with one another to recover them, and declaring them lost and unsealing the succession documents. Or, perhaps, disregarding the succession altogether. Lord General Herval’s presence in this escort suggested more the latter than the former, which was altogether what Ingrid would expect. What she wanted to know was whether Reynard Travers was still alive, and if he had control of these men from the palace guard. She could work her way up from there.

  “This is what I want you to do,” she told the Verlaker captain. “I want you to escort me up into the palace with your knife at my throat and your sidearm drawn. Take me into the lobby and demand to talk to the man in charge. Watch how they react: if they look at one another or if they all look at one man. If that one man steps forward, and identifies himself as Lord General Herval—shoot him.”

  At his disquieted sidelong look, she said: “You are a soldier. Surely you are capable of shooting a man on command.”

  “I am,” he said, “but what is my excuse for doing so, ma’am?”

  She said: “He is the executive of operations for the invasion.”

  The captain almost laughed. “I said excuse, ma’am, not motivation.”

  “Perhaps you’re not as big a fool as you look,” Ingrid said. “Your excuse and my goal are the same: to see who steps up next. You, because you are hoping to cow the man into turning you free, and I, because I want to find out if my head of security still lives, and if he has allies who can help me get my husband back.”

  “What if the answer to those questions is no?”

  “Then you keep hold of me and demand safe passage to wherever your escape rendezvous may be. You probably won’t get it, but it might buy me a lit
tle time. You can give me up if I signal you by addressing you as ‘captain.’”

  “And what if it’s not Lord General Herval in charge?”

  “Feel free to identify and shoot him anyway.”

  “So then he’s a traitor,” the Verlaker said.

  “Merely short-sighted and greedy for command. You shouldn’t have placed temptation in his way.”

  “I always did hate politics,” sighed the captain, and then, almost inaudibly: “Merciful wisdom, grant me to die today or not at all.”

  ~*~

  The Verlaker captain fulfilled his role admirably: he manhandled her impersonally up the long steps to the palace doors, his sharp knife whispering at the neck of her gown and his gun checking every watcher as he passed. She tried to match his stolid heavy movements, but he seemed all boots, so it was difficult. The doors were opened for them, and they passed through and into the main lobby.

  Ingrid looked up at the galleries all around the grand staircase, counting heirs among the men and women, courtiers and officials. Yes, Herval was there; so was Morin; but no Perenel or Dederich. There had been plenty of warning that Ingrid and her captor were coming, plenty of time for them all to come out to gawk. This in itself was heartening; it meant that no one had enough clout to keep the others away and do away with Ingrid quietly. She nudged the Verlaker with an elbow, dragging her bound hands askew in front of her; he came to an obliging stop and murmured, “Why, it’s just like a play.”

  “Shut up,” she muttered without moving her lips.

  The Verlaker raised his voice. “I want to talk to the man who’s in charge here.” She could feel his rough bellow in her bones.

  There was a hesitation as eyes darted round the galleries; but no one stopped Herval from stepping to the head of the staircase. He looked down upon them in dignified displeasure. “Take your hands off Lady Bernhelm at once.”