Brokedown Palace (11 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Brokedown Palace
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Andor stood at the spot where the carriage stopped (the coachman knew his business), dressed in his royal best: tight hose, black boots, dark blue tunic, and silver cloak (the combination did much to disguise the slight bulging of his middle). His hair had been carefully done, as had his nails, and he had bathed in lightly scented water (heated indoors, now that the fountain didn’t work anymore). Even his teeth shone. Behind him stood an honor guard of twenty soldiers in two ranks.
The Count of Mordfal stepped down first, graciously declining Andor’s offer of assistance. He was a solid man of about five-and-forty, with short legs, a muscular build, and a neat fringe of graying beard. He bowed to Andor, then allowed the Prince to assist his daughter from the carriage.
Mariska of Mordfal (“Countess” by courtesy) was, at fifteen, the personification of grace. She had dark, slanted eyes and very dark hair piled high and held in place by small, tasteful gems. Her skin was pale, her face thin, her legs a bit long for her height (which was average, if not a bit short), and she had generally a look of frailness and delicacy about her. In her left hand she clutched a small white fan.
Andor handed her down, noticing that she put no weight on his arm. She stood facing him, fully erect, for just a moment. Then she gave him a graceful curtsy. Andor mentally compared her (on his brother’s behalf) with Brigitta. The wench was more curvaceous, perhaps, but couldn’t compete with the Countess of Mordfal for natural grace and poise. It occurred to him suddenly that she resembled Viktor, the Captain of the Palace Guard. He almost turned to him to look, but realized in time that the captain might interpret this as an order to do something.
As she rose from her curtsy, he stepped back a pace so he could address both guests at once. He said, “On behalf of the King, I
welcome you to the Palace and offer you all the hospitality we have. The King wishes you to look upon his Palace as yours.”
The Count bowed again and said, “Thank you, Prince Andor. We are honored far above our station.”
Andor returned the bow, saying, “If it would please you to see the King at once, he is awaiting you. If you would rather refresh yourselves after your journey, your rooms are prepared with, I trust, all that is necessary.”
“The journey was easy,” returned the Count. “We should be happy to see the King as soon as it is convenient for him.”
Andor bowed once more, then offered Mariska his arm and led them both to the Palace proper. Behind them, the coachman shuffled off to see to his horses, asking someone about the quality of oats in these parts. As Andor led his guests through the doors, he was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the cracks in the stonework of the floor and the warping of the walls inside the entry. Neither of the guests gave any appearance of noticing, however.
Andor conducted them to the Great Hall and had a page run off to tell the King they had arrived. He offered them brandy, which the Count accepted but the Countess declined. Andor looked around the room. It was nearly empty, save for a far corner where Vilmos and three guards were playing some sort of card game. Andor smiled to himself. Good. At least he would be spared the necessity of introducing Vilmos to the Count and Countess. How could he have explained that the monster wearing the rags of a peasant was a Prince of the Blood? He hoped the card game would keep them occupied for a long time. He turned back to studying the Countess, wondering how she could be so calm and self-assured. She caught his eye and sent him a small smile, then her eyes strayed to the fan she was holding, and she clutched it tighter.
Andor felt himself becoming envious of her poise, and despised
himself for it. He must ask the Goddess to banish this from him; it was unworthy.
At that moment the King was announced, and the three of them rose. “Thank you, Prince Andor,” said the King.
“Your Majesty,” said Andor, bowing. Then he bowed to the guests and departed the room, his task completed. As he turned back toward his own rooms, he expelled air from his lungs with a great sense of relief.
Suddenly, without knowing why, he made his way toward Miklós’s room, which he had not looked at since the young Prince had vanished.
He pushed the curtains aside hesitantly, as a child going where he knows he doesn’t belong. Direct sunlight came in from a window and struck his eyes. He saw where the shutter had broken off and fallen. He thought of fixing it, but some feeling of disquiet about being here prevented him from entering the room. There was something about the room that frightened him, but he couldn’t identify it.
He was unable to understand that this room, with its dust covering, broken shutter, and shattered furnishings, epitomized the decay of the Palace around him. He was even less able to understand that it was this sense of decay and corruption that had caused his unhappiness over the last few months and years.
Also, the sun was in his eyes. This, as much as anything, must be blamed for the fact that he didn’t see, though it was directly before him, what was growing from between cracks in the flooring at his feet.
He backed out carefully, as if threatened by the ghost of Miklós. He let the curtain swing shut and watched the patterns its shadows made on the floor as it swayed to and fro before settling.
O
NCE THERE LIVED A POOR FARMER WITH THREE SONS. One day, the farmer needed wood for the fireplace, because it was growing cold outside. “Go into the forest,” he told his oldest son, “and bring back wood so we don’t freeze to death.”
So the oldest son took the axe and went into the forest. He came to a place where paths went off in two directions. He took the path to the right. Soon he saw a wolf sleeping by a stream. It was the biggest wolf he had ever seen. He was filled with fear and turned to go the other way.
But when he got back to the place where the paths met, there was an old hag standing there. “Good morning, mother,” he said.
She said, “Good morning, eldest son of the farmer with three sons. Why have you turned away from the other path?”
“Oh, mother,” he said. “There is a great wolf that way.”
“That is a good reason,” she said. And she turned him into a teckla. He had not run three paces when the wolf came up behind him and gobbled him up.
Soon the farmer grew impatient. He said to his middle son, “Go and find your brother and bring back wood so we don’t freeze to
death.” So the middle brother went out. When he came to the place where the paths diverged, he took the path to the left and soon met the old hag.
“Good afternoon, mother,” he said.
“Good afternoon, middle son of the poor farmer with three sons. Why have you not gone the other way, where a great wolf guards the path?”
“I did not know it was there,” answered the youth. “But I have no fear of wolves.” And he promptly turned and walked back to the place where the paths met. There he saw a great wolf waiting. He took up the axe he found at his feet (which his brother had been carrying) and was about to set to the wolf when the hag came up behind him and turned him into a cock. Then the wolf gobbled him up.
Soon the farmer said, “Well, I don’t know of your two brothers, but we still need wood so now you must go and get it so we don’t freeze to death.”
So the youngest son went out, and when he reached the place where the paths divided, he saw there was an axe on the road. He picked it up and looked around very carefully. Soon he saw the old hag standing on the left-hand path.
“Good evening, mother,” he said.
“Good evening, youngest son of the poor farmer with three sons. Why are you waiting here?”
“How do you know who I am, mother? And what has become of my brothers?”
“I know what I know,” said the hag. “And as for your brothers, one was gobbled up by the wolf because he was too cowardly, and the other was gobbled up because he was too rash.”
“Well,” said the youngest son, “I am neither too cowardly nor too rash, but I wish to have my brothers back.” Then he struck the old hag a great blow with his axe so she fell dead at his feet. He
went down the right-hand path until he saw a great wolf sleeping next to the stream.
He removed his boots so that his feet would make no sound and crept up on the wolf, and he struck such a blow that it died at once. Then he cut open its belly and out popped a teckla and a cock.
As he was wondering what to do next, the hag came up to him, only she was no longer a hag but a beautiful lady, and he saw that she was the Demon Goddess.
She said, “You have shown yourself to be a youth of courage and sense. So now dip your hand into the stream and see what happens.”
So he dipped his hand into the stream and poured the water over the teckla, and there was his brother, whole and sound. Then he dipped his hand again and poured the water over the cock, and there was his other brother. Then he dipped his hand a third time, and found that his hand was filled with silver coins.
He dipped his hand five more times, until each of the brothers had a pocketful of silver. Then he said, “That is enough. We need no more.”
And the three brothers collected wood and returned to their home with enough silver to live in comfort for the rest of their lives. And if they have not died, they are still alive to this day.
The Coachman
U
NDER COVER OF DARKNESS, MIKLÓS PULLED THE RAFT into a hidden spot beneath lilacs that had already lost their leaves. It was, in fact, from this very spot that he had departed two years before. He stared at the Palace, looming dark and huge against the stars, and shuddered as he thought of that night. His hands opened and closed.
The need for a decision on what action to take became suddenly real and immediate. He tried to envision his next step. Should he walk up to the Great Gate nearly half a mile away and demand entrance and an escort, then allow himself to be conducted—where? To see his brother? He would look like a prisoner. No, that wouldn’t do, at least not at night. Sleep, then, until morning? Like a beggar waiting outside the door? Or sneak in like a thief? And what if he was caught?
He studied the outlines of the Palace towers as best he could. Odd, he thought, how he had never noticed before that the River served as a defense against attack. He knew the Palace had been built as a seat of the Crown, not as a defensible fortress; yet, by design or chance, elements of defense had been included. He saw
many things that went toward defending the Palace, things he had never noticed before. The height and thickness of the walls, the positioning of the towers, the way the wings faced the main doors. Why were these things so clear now, when the Palace itself was barely visible?
He began walking along the bank until he came under the portion of the Palace that hung over the River (housing the latrines and the garbage gate). He watched his own actions with a peculiar sort of detachment, as if he were dreaming. He found the loose board among the planks that had been used to replace the crumbling sandstone near the water line.
He pulled himself inside, past cobwebs and small, scurrying animals, and closed the makeshift latch he had installed as a child. He smiled to think that there had been this breach in the Palace defenses for two years, and that his first act on returning was to close it up.
He found himself walking through puddles in the narrow corridor. It was lit only by the very faintest penetrations of starlight and by reflections of the Palace lights from the River that found their way through the broken slats of the River Wall. He ran his right hand gingerly along a rotted wall that sagged when he pushed against it, almost as living flesh. He shuddered to touch it, but had no other method of finding his way. The corridor ended where the wine cellars began.
The darkness here was absolute; the musky smell only relative. Miklós felt a brief moment of panic when he realized that his bare feet no longer remembered the path to the stairs. He held himself still, his eyes straining to catch the least bit of the light he knew he wouldn’t find. When it became intolerable to remain motionless, he edged his right foot out, sliding it, with his hand extended at eye level, then slowly shifted his weight onto that foot. He repeated this action a few more times until his hand touched a wooden shelf and the bottles on it. This started to bring back memories. It was with
a little more confidence that he sought the sandstone pillar that ran from the cellar up through the Palace, helping to support floors, ceilings, and, ultimately, the roof.
When he found it, closer than he had thought, he used it to guide himself toward the stairway. As he left it he was no longer holding a hand in front of himself. Instead, he brushed his hands together to remove the particles that had clung to them from the crumbling sandstone.
By the time he had crossed the fifty paces to the base of the stairs he was moving with confidence. Without the need to think of where he was going, he was able to concentrate more on what he would do. Up into the Palace proper, certainly; then where? Should he see László first? Or last?
He heard the chittering under the stairs, and smelt the clean/ dirty/clean smell of a nest of norska, and was pleased that Vilmos still raised them.
He was only a few feet from the stairs when he realized that there was another sound. He stopped and listened. Yes. There was someone before him: the sound of breathing was unmistakable. Moreover, he began to smell strong liquor, over and above the scent from the wine casks.
“Who is there?” he said.
A voice he didn’t recognize came back. “That was to be my question, young sir. But, as you have managed to ask it first, I suppose I should answer. I am called Miska.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Now, now,” said Miska. “I’ve answered one question of yours, good fellow. It’s only fair that you answer one of mine.”
Miklós stared into the darkness. Who could this be? A man, sitting in the dark in the cellars of the Palace? Should he reveal his name? Would the man recognize it.
“Have you light?” he asked.
“More questions! I seek answers and receive only questions. Are you a
garabonciás
?”
Miklós laughed suddenly. “Do you know, I think I am! Yes, by the Goddess, I have never thought of it before, but I have traveled far away to a place you have never heard of and returned … and returned. Yes, I think I am a
garabonciás
.”
He stopped, feeling rather breathless. But Miska’s voice remained even. “You are a strange
garabonciás
then, if you can speak of the Demon Goddess.”
Miklós shrugged, then realized the other couldn’t see him. After a moment, there was a scratching sound, a flare, and the room was lit. It took a moment for Miklós’s eyes to adjust to the light. The norska had stopped chittering.
The one who had called himself Miska was holding a torch in his right hand. Next to this hand was a long-necked ceramic bottle of some pale color. He was dressed all in black, with bright silver buttons. His boots gleamed in the torchlight. On his head was a cap, set at a rakish angle, with a bright feather in it. He had long, drooping mustaches and thick black hair. He studied Miklós for a moment, then transferred the torch to his left hand. He picked up the bottle with his right and passed it to Miklós.
The prince hesitated, not wanting a drink just then, but hoping to draw this strange creature out. He accepted the bottle and drank from it. It was
pálinka
; strong but good.
“You are dressed as a coachman,” said Miklós, handing the bottle back.
“That’s well,” said Miska. “I am a coachman. You are dressed as a Prince.”
Miklós smiled. “Am I then? Good. Yes, I am Prince Miklós.”
“As I’d thought. I am the coachman for His Excellency the Count of Mordfal.” There was, perhaps, a hint of irony in the way Miska said “His Excellency,” but Miklós didn’t press it.
“What are you doing down here, Miska-coachman-to-Mordfal?”
“What am I doing, Miklós-Prince-of-Fenario? I am getting drunk, that is what I am doing. I suggest you do the same.”
“No,” said Miklós, “I think not.”
“As you wish.”
On impulse, Miklós sat down on the floor of the cellar. Miska looked at him questioningly. “Tell me a story, friend Miska, and I won’t tell your master what you are doing.”
Miska laughed loudly. “Fair enough, my Prince.” We should explain, I think, that coachmen in Fenario spent their time in the stables with the grooms and stable hands, yet it was considered beneath their dignity to help with the work. So it was that they would help their comrades by telling them stories as they worked, thus relieving the tedium of the day. To this day saying of a story, “It is a coachman’s tale,” is the highest of praise.
“Well, then,” said Miska, “a brief tale only, I think, for the hour is late and I must be getting on with my journey to oblivion. Hmmm. Yes. Would you hear a tale of your own family, my Prince? I will tell you a tale of the occupation. You know of it, I hope: how the Northerners came into our land, and only those of us in the mountains to the east escaped their yoke.
“Well, in that time, the King was trapped in his Palace, like a norska in a chreotha’s net. They were then only beginning to build the tunnels in which we are now pleased to sit, my Prince. But life went on as it would, for many. Yet among the Northerners was a young man who had a barbaric sounding name that I will not try to pronounce, who fell in love with a young woman of Fenario. She loved him too, I should add, but she loved jewels even more. So she begged this Northerner to give her the biggest diamond he could find.”
The coachman took another drink of
pálinka
and offered the
bottle to Miklós. The prince shook his head but didn’t speak. Miska continued.
“The Northerner went to all of the jewelers in the city—for as you know, the finest of the diamonds found in the Western Mountains are sent here—and he found one that he thought was good enough for her. He asked the jeweler for it. The jeweler handed it to him but, foolish man, asked him to pay for it. ‘Here is your payment, ’ the Northerner said, up goes his sword, and off comes the jeweler’s head.
“Well, it so happened that one of the Goddess’s demons was walking around trying to make mischief for the barbarians. He sees this and tells the Goddess. She sends a dream to the King’s youngest son, since I’m told that is how she speaks to your family, and lets him know about it.
“Well, to leave off half the story, this young Prince goes into his father’s bedchamber and takes hold of Állam, the sword of the kingdom. Then he goes into the courtyard, finds a
táltos
bull, and they leap right over the Palace walls. So he goes riding right through the Northern army (who, after all, is going to get in the way of a
táltos
bull?) and comes into town. He finds this Northerner, all cozy in bed with the girl, who is all cozy in bed with her diamond. He barges in, and before you can say
garabonciás
, he runs him right through, while she cries about how she’ll never love another and all like that.
“There is much more, my Prince. I could tell you of how he had to win back to the Palace through the entire Northern army, after she betrayed him to them. I could tell you how Állam swept back and forth in all its battle-madness, killing scores of barbarians at a blow, but that isn’t the end of the story. The end of the story, Prince Miklós, is that when this young man returned to the Palace his father had found out that he had taken Állam, which only the King may wield, and so he had the sad duty of cutting off the young man’s head.
“And that is the end of my story. Come to me when I’m sober, and I’ll tell you a longer one.”
Miklós studied the coachman, who sat back with an ironic expression on his face, drinking
pálinka
from the bottle. “What happened to the girl?” he asked, as he knew he was supposed to.
The coachman smirked. “She married the demon,” he said.
Miklós nodded his appreciation and watched Miska for another moment. Then he asked, “What, exactly, is the point, good coachman?”
Miska snorted. “Point? I don’t know, my Prince. Maybe, within this story, there is a prophecy of the tale of your own life. Maybe more. Maybe the point is the futility of all human endeavor. Maybe it is the triumph of justice, whatever the cost. The point? I don’t know. You wanted to hear a story so I told you a story. Ask yourself the point. If you were entertained, that is enough for me.”
Miklós looked at him some more. At length he stood. “Yes, Miska,” he said. “I was entertained. Thank you. Drink well. Perhaps I’ll see you later.”
Miklós climbed the stairs past the sodden coachman. The story the coachman had told him came and went in his mind as he considered what he should do next. He made no effort to be silent, as he knew the sounds his weight made on the wooden slats of the stairway would blend with the Palace night sounds. He reached the top and slipped past the draperies. The warmth inside made him realize that the cellar had been chilly.
All was still in the Palace itself. He walked past the buttery, the corridor toward the servants’ quarters, the hall that led to his old chambers, and so came to the grand winding stairway that led to the Great Hall (called so mostly by tradition—in the Old Palace the Great Hall had started on the ground level and gone up three stories).
He reached it and found a guard sleeping outside of the door. He walked past and the other never stirred, leaving Miklós to wonder if losing his boots hadn’t been a stroke of good fortune—or else the guard had become so accustomed to the creakings of the Palace that little could have disturbed him.

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