Shades of Empire (ThreeCon)

by Carmen Webster Buxton

  “There,” he said. In this next instant he saw the newcomer, and he frowned. “What the hell are you doing here, Barranca?” He scrambled to his feet. “How did you get in?”

  Count Barranca’s smile was grim, his eyes cold. Alexander had seen men look like that in the Corps right before a fight. “You provided a way in yourself, Excellency. I was very grateful to you.”

  Antonio’s frown darkened. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand? It looks like a stylus. If you’re thinking it’s mine, it’s not.”

  “I know it’s not, Excellency,” the Count said. “It’s not a stylus at all, actually. It’s an extremely efficient energy pistol, and it works quite well.” He lifted it just slightly as he clenched his hand. There was a distinct hum, and Antonio clutched his chest in surprise.

  “Sergei always said—” he gasped, and then he pitched forward onto his face and fell flat on the floor.

  “What a shame,” the Count murmured. “Now we’ll never know what Sergei always said.” He stepped closer to Antonio’s body and pointed his ersatz stylus at the back of the Emperor’s skull. He depressed the firing switch for several seconds and then he was satisfied.

  “I think that makes him irretrievably dead,” he said. “What about you, Alex? You look a little worse for the wear.”

  Alexander was already in shock from what he had just witnessed, and now he was stunned to hear his nickname. “You know me?” he said, as Count Barranca came closer and inspected his wounds.

  “Not personally,” the Count said, stepping behind him to unfasten the restraints. “But Thad told me a little about you. He said to say hello if I saw you.”

  “You know Thad?” Alexander said, even more astounded.

  “In a way. I must say, I’m amazed you got inside the house again. I didn’t think you would, but Thad said you were very resourceful. When the Princess sat almost silently through breakfast and then rushed off, I knew something must be up, so I came to find out.”

  “Thank you,” Alexander said, his arms falling limply to his sides as the restraints were released. “But don’t worry about me. Untie Cassandra and get her out of here. Paznowski will be back any moment.”

  Count Barranca glanced at the Cassandra, who was still tied to the bedpost. She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Are you all right, Lady Cassandra?” he asked.

  She blinked and licked her lips. “He didn’t rape me this time, if that’s what you’re asking. Alex is right. Paznowski will be back.”

  “I’ll wait for him, then,” the Count said, his expression still grim. “In for a minim, in for a credit, as the saying goes. Do you mind if I leave you as you are for a few minutes? I don’t want to get caught by surprise.”

  Cassandra had just assured him that she didn’t mind at all when the door opened again.

  Sergei Paznowski took in the scene in a matter of seconds. Peter Barranca raised his weapon, but Paznowski ignored him. Instead he dropped to the body on the floor and knelt over it, his face contorted by grief.

  “Oh, my Emperor, oh my beloved!” he wailed. “My dearest one! My heart’s delight!”

  Alexander watched in astonishment as Paznowski rocked back and forth over Antonio’s body, keening his sad shriek the entire time.

  “Oh, my Emperor,” Paznowski sobbed. “How could I have left you?”

  He rolled Antonio onto his back, and held the dead emperor’s head in his arms.

  “Don’t worry, my Emperor,” he said, sounding very much like a mother soothing a frightened child. “Don’t worry, beloved. I would never let you take such a journey alone.”

  He stretched out next to Antonio’s body so that they lay side by side and fumbled in his shirt for something. From where he sat, Alexander could see that the man had put the barrel of a pistol in his mouth. He said nothing, and in seconds Paznowski’s body slumped lifelessly across Antonio’s corpse in a macabre embrace. Peter Barranca moved to inspect it, and the adviser’s corpse rolled at his touch. The inside of Paznowski’s skull had been cooked to a cinder.

  “Well,” the Count said, “I don’t quite know what to say. That was rather disturbing, in a way.”

  “Untie Cassandra!” Alexander ordered, staggering to his feet. “You’ve got to get her out of here before anyone else comes in.”

  “I don’t think so” Barranca said, his tone gentle, even while he began untying the knots that bound Cassandra to the bedpost. “Lady Cassandra was seen to enter this suite, and therefore she must be seen to leave it. It’s you who are here unbeknownst to anyone, and you we must sneak out of here.”

  “But Cassandra—”

  “Be quiet and sit down before you fall over,” the Count ordered. Alexander noted dimly that he was looking considerably less grim. “Lady Cassandra now has an alibi. I thought I’d have to own up to this killing, but as it turns out, Counselor Paznowski has given me a reasonable scenario to account for the bodies. Murder-suicide. It’s perfect.”

  Alexander swayed on his feet. He was still confused by the rapid unfolding of events. “What about Cassandra?”

  “Lady Cassandra can wait in the sitting room for a while,” the Count said. “After an hour or so, she can summon the guards and tell them she was alarmed that the Emperor and his adviser hadn’t come out of the bedroom. Once the bodies are discovered, we’re home free. No one even needs to know you’ve been here.”

  “No,” Alexander said, truly regretful. He hadn’t thought he could be sorry for Merot’s death, but he was if it meant trouble for Cassandra. “I killed someone. A sergeant named Merot. He’s in the salon at the other end of the hidden corridor.”

  Peter Barranca frowned for a few seconds and then shrugged. “Well, it’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps Lady Cassandra could shift the blame onto her husband? She could say he told her he was going to talk to a sergeant named Merot. From what I’ve heard of the man, he wasn’t likely to have many friends. I’m sure we can come up with a plausible reason for someone like Paznowski to kill a man like Merot.”

  Cassandra nodded as she rubbed her wrists. “I can do that.”

  Alexander blinked. It was all too much for him to absorb so abruptly.

  “Please, Alex,” Cassandra said, giving him a one-sided embrace that avoided contact with his wounded shoulder. “Do as he says. I’ll be fine now, really.”

  Alexander decided to let her do the thinking. He was too tired to think for himself. “All right.”

  Cassandra reached up and kissed him firmly. “I’ll see you again, Alex.”

  Alexander couldn’t tell if it was a promise or a threat.

  “Don’t worry,” Count Barranca said. “I can put you in touch. We do have to get moving, though. There’s no time to waste.”

  “Wait!” Cassandra cried. “Alexander’s tunic—Antonio must have taken it off of him!”

  “You’re right,” Barranca said, retrieving the bloody garment from the floor along with Alexander’s belt. “Mustn’t leave any evidence. Come along, Alex.”

  He pushed Alexander into the sitting room and toward the hidden door. Cassandra was behind them when Alexander stumbled and almost fell.

  “Lean on me,” the Count urged, and Alexander put one arm over his shoulder. “That’s better,” he said, grunting from the effort of holding Alexander up.

  Alexander didn’t answer. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. Everything else was going dim.

  • • •

  Cassandra waited until the hidden door had closed behind the two men to pick up the ropes and restraints and put them away in Antonio’s dresser. When the room was as tidy as it could be with two bodies lying on the carpet, she went into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and glanced at the ornate wall clock to time her waiting.

  • • •

  Peter grunted as he dragged the unconscious guardsman from the closet in his bedroom. Alexander Napier was heavy.

  “Let me hel
p you, Count,” Hubert said, jumping forward.

  “Thanks,” Peter said as the younger man shifted Alexander onto Peter’s bed. “He’s going to need a doctor right away. It’s a wonder he’s not dead.”

  “He’ll make it,” Gregorio said, spraying Alexander’s bare chest with chemical bandage. “There’s no sign that any organs were hit.”

  “Have you got the directions?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Hubert said. “We won’t have any trouble finding the place.”

  “Are you sure you can get him out without getting caught?”

  “Sure enough,” Gregorio said. “So long as there’s no hue and cry.”

  “You have an hour,” Peter said. “Then there’s going to be one hell of a hue and cry.”

  “Ah,” the valet said, holding a chemical stimulant under Alexander’s nose. “Should we ask what about?”

  “No. That’ll make it much easier to act surprised, don’t you think?”

  “Right you are, sir,” Hubert said cheerfully, hoisting a semiconscious Alexander to a sitting position while Gregorio slipped one of Peter’s shirts over Alexander’s shoulders and began to fasten it for him. It was a little snug, but not enough to look ridiculous.

  “Do either of you know a sergeant of the Corps named Merot?” Peter asked, suddenly inspired.

  “I do, sir,” Gregorio said. “And a proper bastard he is, too.”

  “If anyone asks you,” Peter said, “you saw Merot talking to Counselor Paznowski. They seemed to be having an argument.”

  “Certainly, Count,” Gregorio said. “Will that be all?”

  Peter smiled. “Yes, I think so. If I can keep my head on my shoulders and stay out of prison, there’s a job for both of you at Barranca House any time you want it.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Hubert said, “but I had something in more of a business line in mind.”

  “Whatever you like,” Peter said. “Just get him out of here before it all falls through.”

  Alexander lifted his head in confusion. “What—who—”

  “These gentleman are named Hubert and Gregorio,” Peter said. “They’ll help you get away, Alex, and they’ll take you to Thad.”

  He slapped his forehead suddenly. “I almost forgot.” He reached into his pocket. “Thad sent you a present.”

  He pressed an oval patch onto Alexander’s cheek right over the tattoo, and the Imperial seal disappeared. Peter stroked the patch gently for a few seconds.

  “Is it a bandage?” Alexander asked fuzzily.

  “In a way,” Peter said. “It’s an invisible bandage. Not only does it cover the tattoo, it doesn’t show at all once it warms up. You won’t look like you’re wearing a bandage,”

  “There you are, young man,” Gregorio said, helping Alexander to his feet and taking his arm. “We’re going for a little walk. If anyone asks, your name is Felix Denier. You work as a footman here in the palace, and you’ve had a few drinks too many.”

  “Here you go,” Peter said. He picked up a bottle from the bedside table and splashed whiskey on Alexander’s new shirt. “It’s the details that add verisimilitude to a story.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gregorio said. “We’ll see you later.”

  “I profoundly hope so,” Peter said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Peter Barranca sat and stared at the screen of his book reader without seeing any of the text displayed there. When he realized how long he had been staring at it, he flicked the reader off and put it down with a sigh.

  He got up and paced around the room once, and then threw himself down on the sofa again. He told himself to calm down. Nothing had happened yet. He had to stay calm. He refused to let himself think about Hubert or Gregorio.

  It had been three days since pandemonium had broken loose in the palace following the discovery of Antonio du Plessis’ body lying next to that of Sergei Paznowski. The guards on duty, having been summoned by Lady Cassandra, had reacted predictably at the sight of the two dead men. They held Cassandra there until their officers arrived, and then they began to protest volubly that no one had gone in or out of the suite except Lady Cassandra and Sergei Paznowski.

  The officers subjected Cassandra to intense interrogation, but as they weren’t sure enough of their authority over her to use any truth drugs, all she had to do was insist that she had seen or heard nothing. She did, however, mention Merot’s name. Her late husband had been upset about something, she said, and that was why they had come to the palace at such an early hour. He had told her was angry at a sergeant of the Emperor’s Own Corps, a man named Merot.

  The search for Merot soon yielded the discovery of his body. At that point, the Corps officers had suddenly grasped that it wasn’t merely a question of finding out how their Emperor had died; they no longer had an Emperor. There was no one in authority over them.

  This state of uncertainty had lasted until Arthur Urquart arrived at the palace. On hearing the news, he instantly assumed control as head of the Parliament of Nobles. The Corps, grateful for any hand at the helm, backed him to the hilt. Urquart ordered the palace sealed off and began an investigation.

  Peter had found himself a prisoner in his suite, unable to leave or to communicate with the outside world. He wasn’t even allowed to use the com to conduct business calls. He had protested, but Urquart had refused to allow any exceptions. Peter hadn’t minded that restriction so much as the fact that Hubert and Gregorio appeared to have vanished from the face of Gaulle. So far as he knew, neither of them had been arrested, yet he had heard nothing from either of them. A substitute valet had shown up at Peter’s door that morning, but the man had claimed to have no knowledge of Gregorio’s whereabouts.

  The door chimed quietly, and Peter jumped to his feet as if he had received an electric shock. “Come.”

  When the door opened, the man who bowed to him wore palace livery, but behind him stood two tall, black-uniformed members of the Emperor’s Own Corps of Guards.

  The servant straightened and spoke politely. “Good morning, Count Barranca. President Urquart requests that you join him in his office for a conference, if it’s convenient.”

  “It’s convenient,” Peter murmured, resisting the temptation to say that he was too busy for a conference. He didn’t even know if Arthur Urquart had a sense of humor in the best of circumstances, let alone whether he had one now.

  The servant bowed again, and waited for Peter to precede him.

  When they arrived at Arthur Urquart’s office, Peter was impressed that the man had chosen an imposing room in the staff facility, rather than simply co-opting Antonio du Plessis’ private office. It showed a certain amount of discretion, and it suggested Urquart had no imperial pretensions of his own.

  “Good morning, Count Barranca.” Urquart rose to his feet as Peter entered. “Won’t you please have a seat?”

  Peter sat down a little warily. He found it telling that they were completely alone. If there was anyone else in the room besides the two of them, he or she wasn’t visible.

  “Now,” Urquart said, smiling warmly as he resumed his seat, “it’s time we had a little talk.”

  “About what, Baron?”

  “About you, my dear Count. What else?”

  “What about me?” Peter said, a little uneasy at this opening.

  “Oh, there’s quite a lot I want to know about you, Count. For one thing, there’s the question of your marriage to Princess Vinitra.”

  Peter’s face froze into immobility. This seemed an odd question after an imperial assassination. “My marriage?”

  “Yes, your marriage. I want to know if you’re intending to set it aside.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Urquart smiled perfunctorily. “Perhaps because you only married the Princess to save your sister’s life?”

  Peter debated. Would it hurt to admit that? Probably not, since the Baron must know the details to have asked the question. “Perhaps I did. What concern is it of yours?
”

  Urquart lifted his brows. “Now really, Count,” he said in a mild tone. “I expected better of you. Princess Vinitra is now the only heir of the du Plessis dynasty.”

  Peter shook his head. “There are several dozen sprigs of the nobility who’d dispute that statement. There are more du Plessis cousins than I have hairs on my head.”

  “Precisely.” Urquart smiled as if Peter had said something clever. “That’s why we could never choose one of them as heir. It would start countless civil wars and set us back centuries. No, Princess Vinitra clearly has the superior claim, and we’ll have to go with that.”

  “You plan to make her Empress?” Peter said, not attempting to hide his disbelief. He hadn’t thought Urquart was stupid.

  “No, not exactly.” Urquart’s expression was hard to read, something between concern and complacency. “Quite frankly, I doubt the Princess had the requisite skills to rule before her brother’s death. I know you broke the news to her, and I know you’ve seen her at least once since then, so I don’t have to convince you she’s in no state to run anything. She needs care, not responsibility.”

  “Well, then?”

  “What I propose is that Princess Vinitra’s child be named our Emperor prospectively. A regent could then serve as guardian of both the child and the Empire.”

  Peter’s jaw almost dropped open but he managed to keep his composure. “Princess Vinitra’s child?”

  Urquart nodded. “And yours, Count.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair and gave the other man a hard stare. There was no point in hiding this part of the truth, at least. On the contrary—the sooner it came out the better. “The baby Princess Vinitra is carrying is not mine. To the best of my knowledge, the only time I ever touched her was when she took my arm at our wedding.”

  Urquart’s bland expression never cracked at this revelation. “So I gathered. The Princess’ conversation is neither coherent nor logical, but it is illuminating if you listen to her ramblings long enough.”