The Tin Princess

by Philip Pullman

  "Just around the next bend," Becky said. "Not far now. Just keep going. Lean on me. Stop if you want to. Rest. Take as long as you like. But it's not far now..."

  All Adelaide's strength was used up. She couldn't answer; she could barely see; a perpetual whimper shook her chest, and Becky could even see a line of blood appearing, a frightful thing, at the tip of each fingernail. The perspiration shone on her face, and the carefully coiffed hair was stuck in damp streaks to her forehead and across her eyes. Becky reached up to wipe it away, and felt the trembling in her very skull.

  At the top of the steps, just around the next bend, was the little parade-ground with the flagpole at the centre, with the platform for the funicular railway at the far side. Nearly there, nearly there... But as they rounded the bend and Adelaide's poor blistered feet fumbled for the last six steps, a shadow fell across them.

  Becky looked up at the giant form, the dark brooding eyes, of Otto von Schwartzberg.

  And Adelaide faltered. She stopped. "I can't," she whispered. "I'm finished, Becky, I want to die, I can't do it..."

  Otto von Schwartzberg's expression was inscrutable; he might have been planning to strike her dead or to lift her in his arms to the summit, and no one could guess which; and such was his colossal presence that no one - not even the Count - knew what to do, for a second or so. And the flag was drooping, drooping...

  Then, into that stillness, a figure leapt from the summit of the Rock and landed lightly in front of Otto von Schwartzberg. Fair-haired, dishevelled, bleeding, with torn jacket, he stood tensely in front of the giant. He was grasping something in his left hand.

  "Move," he said. "You're in the Queen's way. Move at once."

  No one had spoken to Otto von Schwartzberg like that before, in any language. He stepped aside, and Adelaide took the last steps on to the platform, and the whole city saw the flag appear, and the whole city cheered.

  The Eagle Guard - the sentries who patrolled the Rock day and night - sprang forward as the Count barked at them, and took the Adlerfahne from their Queen's hands just as she sank in Becky's arms, unconscious.

  All around there were scenes of extraordinary jubilation. Hats were thrown into the air, the flag rose proudly up the flagpole, the rooftops and the Rock echoed with cheers and the little explosions of firecrackers and a fanfare from the trumpets of the Eagle Guard. Where Otto von Schwartzberg had gone, no one knew. The Count was concerned about Adelaide, but in Becky's reticule there was a bottle of smelling-salts. She found it, uncorked it, waved it under Adelaide's nose, and the stinging shock made the girl draw away and shake her head. She opened her eyes - they fluttered, they blinked - she looked up, and saw the Red Eagle flying in the blue air.

  "I done it," she whispered.

  Then there was a wheeze and clank of machinery, and the pretty wooden carriage of the funicular railway rose into view. Out of it stepped the Archbishop, frail and anxious and stained with the blood of the King, and then Jim handed him what he'd been carrying: the iron crown of Razkavia.

  Becky helped Adelaide up, and under the flag she'd carried to the Rock the new Queen stood, pale and trembling, and was crowned, and everyone on the summit knelt to pay her homage.

  Chapter Nine

  DISPOSITIONS

  For an hour or two after Adelaide was crowned, there was a wild confusion of excitement and grief throughout the city. Thousands of people had seen it happen, but it was still scarcely believable; it wasn't until Adelaide had recovered enough to ride down the Rock in the funicular railway that it began to sink in. The open barouche that had been going to take Rudolf back to the Palace as King now had to take her alone as Queen, and she sat in it, pale and shivering now the shock of it was reaching her, with the iron crown on her dark hair and an expression that was indomitable. She was ravaged; she could never hide the play of thoughts over her face; and that, as Jim was coming to see, was her strongest hold over the people - over her subjects. She could hide nothing, so they believed her.

  But the situation was full of peril. Jim commandeered another horse and rode beside the carriage all the way to the Palace, more than half expecting another bullet, with the Count riding at the other side. Garlands, cheers, shouts of support rose all around, and through it all she sat with exactly the right expression: a cheerful grin wasn't in order, but neither was misery. She looked grim, proud, determined, sorrowful, fearless. Jim caught the Count's eye, and knew they were thinking the same thought: by some miraculous fluke, Razkavia had found itself exactly the right ruler. Little Adelaide from Hangman's Wharf was a Queen, every inch of her.

  Meanwhile, soldiers and police were combing the area of St Stephen's Square for any trace of the assassin. But a single shot is too startling a thing to get a bearing on, and each witness had a different idea of where it came from; and the number of windows alone ran into hundreds, and then there were balconies, doorways and the baroque roof-line with its prolixity of pediments and gables and cornices and balustrades... Not to mention the multitude of tiny crooked alleys, no more than half-known even by those who lived in the Square, and never mapped. The search went on, but without any real expectation of success.

  At the Palace, there was immense flurry. Everything had been set up for a King, for the formal reception, and guests were arriving (prominent citizens for luncheon, important foreigners that evening) and suddenly there was no one in charge. As the carriage and escort clattered in under the portico, Jim's enemy the Chamberlain, the Baron von Godel, appeared at the door, bowing suavely, but with a pallor of nervousness as he looked at Jim. The Count leant over to say something quietly to Adelaide, but as Becky wasn't there to translate she had to half-guess his meaning and nod; and turning back to Godel, the Count said, "Her Majesty will go to her private apartments. The reception will take place as planned. I shall see you in the Green Office in fifteen minutes."

  Jim dismounted, handed his horse to a groom, and followed the Count inside just as the second coach, with the Countess and Becky, turned in; and, reassured that Adelaide would have someone friendly with her, he walked after the Count to the Green Office.

  As soon as the door was shut, the Count swept off his plumed hat and dashed it to the floor.

  "Schwartzberg!" he roared in a voice that shook the glass in the window frames and rippled the ink in the crystal inkwell.

  "You think so?"

  "Who else? The murdering wolf... But he didn't reckon on our little English eagle, eh? You don't catch eagles with birdlime!"

  "No, Count. I'm sure it wasn't him. Anyway, if he's as clever as that, there won't be any proof left. I've got another idea -"

  But the Count was preoccupied, slapping his thigh, tapping a thumb on his chin, strolling restlessly between the desk and the window.

  "Taylor, she's good, she's tough - but I'm afraid, my boy, I'm shaking in my boots. What's going to become of us? We'd better prepare a speech for her to make at the reception - or should we cancel it? Her husband's just been shot dead in front of her - who could expect a woman to--"

  "You'd expect a queen to," Jim pointed out. "And a queen's what you've got. If you want my advice, you won't tell her what to say, either. Let her find the words herself. You've seen her touch with the people; trust her."

  "H'mm," said the Count, rubbing his jaw. "I wonder."

  "And we ought to think urgently about the Baron von Godel. Did you know I'd been forbidden to leave the Palace this morning? They sent the Serjeant-at-Arms to search the place for me, and put me under arrest. Did you see Godel's face when he ushered us in just now?"

  "But -" The Count was astounded. He sat down heavily. "But you were..."

  "I got out, of course. Count, there's danger very close - maybe in the Palace itself. I don't trust that man an inch. Couldn't we move him out?"

  The Count spread his hands wearily. "The post of Chamberlain is hereditary. There's nothing to be done about Godel... I suppose we could set up some alternative chain of command... But these things have to be done in
the proper way. Let me think about it."

  Jim would have said more, but there came a knock on the door. The Baron von Godel came in, pallid but unflustered.

  "Her Majesty has just appointed me her Private Secretary," boomed the Count: a barefaced lie, but Godel was in no position to challenge it. "Until she makes further appointments, the work of the Palace will go on as before. Mr Taylor is my personal representative; you will give him every assistance. You understand that? He is not to be impeded in any way. What has happened to the arrangements for the reception?"

  Godel swallowed hard and said, "Everything is in place, Count Thalgau. In view of the tragic circumstances, I have ordered that the band of the Eagle Guard should not play during the reception. Her Majesty will receive her guests in the Great Hall. I think they will all respond to the situation by paying their respects and leaving swiftly."

  "See to that, then. As soon as the reception is over, Her Majesty will receive Mr Taylor and myself in her private office. You will hold yourself in readiness for whatever dispositions she makes."

  "Certainly, Count."

  He clicked heels, bowed smoothly, and left.

  "Will he obey?" said Jim.

  "At first, yes. He can see which way the wind's blowing... Damn it, this is a perilous time. I think we've got a week to establish control. If by this time on Monday next we haven't got a firm grip on the country, it'll fall. Now go on, Taylor, change your clothes and be quick about it."

  Twenty minutes later, in full fig, Jim joined the guests in the Great Hall. They were representatives of every distinguished branch of Razkavian life: practically the whole of the aristocracy, Mayors, Senators, the Speaker of the Upper House, Councillors of State, eminent lawyers and bankers and churchmen and professors and even a poet and artist or two. Their mood was subdued, solemn, restrained, but every single one of them was itching for a glimpse of the new Queen.

  Only fifteen minutes late, there was a fanfare, and Adelaide's slender figure, graceful in black, came down the stairs. The Countess was there at her side, and Becky only a step or two behind. Jim caught her eye and winked.

  The plan had been for her and the King to stand at the foot of the steps and greet the guests as they came past in order of precedence. But she halted a step or two above, so that she could be seen by everyone, and said in hesitant but clear German: "Welcome to the Palace. My dear husband would have wished me to greet you each personally, and so I will, but please allow me to say something to you all. When my husband was a prince, I vowed before God to be a good princess. When he became King I vowed to serve and honour him faithfully. Now that the burden and the great honour of reigning have fallen to me alone, I vow before you all to serve Razkavia to the utmost limit of my strength. Let there be no doubt in anyone's heart: Razkavia has a queen, and that queen will defend and love her country till the day she dies. Long live the Red Eagle! Long live Razkavia!"

  Then they knew she was theirs.

  That evening, when the excitement of the day had subsided a little, Jim went out to find Karl von Gaisberg. There were several things worrying him, not all of which he wanted to confide to the Count.

  He found Karl in the Cafe Florestan, sitting with four or five others. They greeted Jim with avid curiosity: what had happened at the Palace? He answered all their questions, and then said: "Now as far as I know, the police haven't arrested anyone yet. Frankly, I don't expect them to. But I'm pretty certain it wasn't Otto von Schwartzberg behind this; it's not his style."

  "What was he doing on the Rock, then?" said Gustav. "I thought he was going to knock her down and swipe the flag!"

  "I think he was taking her measure. He didn't actually threaten her. Let's think harder about what actually happened this morning. Were you close enough to see the King as he came down the steps?"

  Karl nodded. "I was at the foot of them, Anton here was further along near the bridge ... I saw it all."

  "I was in the middle of the crowd," said Gustav. "I saw it too."

  "But what did you see?"

  "Well..." said Gustav. "I heard the shot, I saw him fall." "Which way?"

  "Backwards. No - wait..."

  "No!" said Karl. "He was turning to the left - isn't that right?"

  "He did fall backwards," said Anton. "But it was after he'd turned to the left, I thought."

  "I think that's what I saw, too," said Jim. "The bullet caught him full in the breast as he was turning, and it knocked him away from it. Otherwise Ad - Her Majesty wouldn't have been able to catch the flag."

  "By God, that's right!" said Gustav. "She was behind him on that side - he fell back towards her!"

  "So," said Jim, "doesn't that give us a clue about where the bullet came from?"

  They were silent. Then Karl pulled one of the Florestan's tattered menus towards him and got out a pencil. He roughly sketched a plan of the Square, showing the Cathedral steps and a cross where Rudolf had fallen.

  "How far had he turned? He was on the fourth step--"

  "Higher than that, surely?" said Anton. "I could see him clearly from all the way across the Square. I think he must have been about ten steps from the bottom. And he hadn't turned completely."

  "About a quarter-turn?" said Gustav.

  "About that," said Karl. "Did he fall directly backwards, though?"

  "No. Up a bit. Like this..."

  Gustav took the pencil and sketched in the angle. Jim, watching, nodded.

  "I was to one side," he said. "She was directly between me and the King, but I saw the flag begin to fall back towards me. I think that angle's right. Draw a line out from it..."

  Karl did so.

  "Well, what's there?" said Gustav.

  Karl shrugged. "A block of apartments? I can't remember."

  "My uncle lives there," said Anton hesitantly. "At least, in one of the houses along that side..."

  "What are we waiting for? Let's go and pay a call on him," said Jim.

  Anton's uncle, a prosperous dentist called Weill, was delighted to receive his nephew's friends. Like their neighbours, he and his wife had been on their bunting-draped balcony when the shot had been fired, and had gazed horrified as the King died below them.

  "Well, the shot was very loud, wouldn't you say, Mathilde?" he said. "I thought it came from higher up."

  Their flat was on the third floor. Frau Weill wasn't sure.

  "It was so sudden - it seemed to come from all around. Like thunder," she said. "Anyway, upstairs - who is there? Madame Czerny is too old - eighty-nine, would you believe that? - I can't see her shooting anyone. And Herr Egger wasn't there anyway."

  "Who is Herr Egger?" said Jim.

  "He's a cigar merchant," said Herr Weill. "Very friendly man. Always gives me a fine Havana at Christmas. And I always offer to pull a tooth out for him in exchange, and he always says, 'No, no, I insist, it's more blessed to give than to receive.' But he wasn't there today, I happen to know, because I saw him late last night in the bar of the Hotel Europa, and he told me he'd rented his apartment for the day to a journalist..."

  Herr Weill realized what this could have meant a second after everyone else. He looked upwards, appalled.

  "Surely..." his wife said. "They would have had papers, identification... Wouldn't they?"

  "Have the police been here?" asked Jim.

  "Yes, they came to all the apartments, obviously, and we told them what we'd heard... You don't think..."

  "We'll go and speak to Herr Egger, if he's in," said Jim, getting up. "In the meantime, please don't say anything about this. What I think you might do is write an account of everything you know, just as you told it to us, and deposit it with your lawyer."

  "Yes - yes - good idea - I'll do that at once," said the ashen-faced dentist, hurrying across to a bureau.

  "Herr Egger won't get into trouble, will he?" said Frau Weill. "Such a friendly man! I couldn't bear it -"

  "I don't know," said Jim. "But thank you very much for your help. Which number is his flat?"

>   Herr Egger was at home, and a little put out. He'd brought home a big bunch of roses to present to the lady journalist from Madrid, and she'd gone, without even leaving a card. Well, no doubt her colleague had snapped a fine picture of the King's death; but that was small consolation.

  He received Jim and the students in the sitting-room, with the doors open on to the balcony from which, by now, Jim was certain the shot had come. Herr Egger's pomaded hair and waxed moustache, together with the powerful aroma of eau-de-Cologne and Parma violets he exuded, disclosed a man whose vanity was stronger than his sense of the ridiculous, and Jim quickly realized that they'd better not give him any clue about what they really suspected.

  "I'm looking for a journalist," he said. "I work for an English paper myself, and I believe you rented your flat to one of my colleagues. The thing is, he's got some information for me and I can't find him. You don't happen to know where he's gone?"

  "Ah, you're out of luck, my boy! You've come to the wrong place. I know it wasn't your colleague who rented my flat - and d'you know how I know that?"

  "No," said Jim politely.

  "Because it wasn't a he, it was a she. There! What d'you think of that?"

  "Remarkable," said Jim, feeling his stomach tighten. "A lady journalist, eh? Did you tell the police?"

  "The police?"

  "They called at every household, apparently. Looking for the assassin, I suppose."

  "I don't know if they called here or not; I gave my servants the day off."

  "Very - generous of you. Your lady journalist - what did she look like?"

  "Oh, a stunner!" said Herr Egger roguishly. "Spanish, you know. Dark hair, black eyes, fine..." He gestured to indicate what it was that was fine. "You know. Name of Menendez. Course, I'm familiar with Spanish women. Speak the language a little. Travel to Havana, oh, every year on business. Cigars."

  "Did she leave an address? What paper did she work for?"

  "No address, no. Some periodical dealing with fashion, I believe. Madrid. Had a photographer with her - long case - tripod thing, I suppose. Fine-looking woman. Bit - er - ripe, I'd have said, for a young chap like you."

  "Did she speak German? Or did you speak Spanish?"