Brokedown Palace (18 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Brokedown Palace
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László stopped it, then turned back to his Captain of Guards.
“Yes, Viktor?”
“Look at it, Your Majesty.”
The King did so. He ran his thumb carefully over the notches, then looked at Viktor again.
“Yes?”
“I attacked the roots.”
László blinked twice, then looked back at the notches marring the sabre’s edge.
“I see.”
Rezs
looked from one to the other. “What is it, Your Majesty?”
“Never mind, Rezs
. We will continue this later. Leave me now.”
The old man bowed and picked up the parchment along with several others that lay on the table. He gathered them to his bosom as a mother will her baby, and, bowing again, left the room with one brief glance at Viktor, containing equal parts of confusion and resentment.
When his shuffling footstep had faded from hearing, László said, “I take it you did them no damage?”
“None,” said Viktor. “They’ve grown. They are thick and well buried. I see no way to hurt them.”
The King nodded and stood up. “Very well, then.”
“Are you going to ask Vilmos to help?”
“Not just yet. I will if I have to. First, though, I want to see something. Come with me.”
He led the captain out of the room and down, until they came, with much winding and little ceremony, to Miklós’s room. They stood for a moment in front of a curtain of drab gray cloth—moth-eaten and ragged as it was, it seemed to be a wall separating the corridor from another universe altogether. King and captain looked at each other. Then, as one, they stepped through.
At first glance, Viktor saw no difference from the night before. His eyes lit on the broken shutter, the still-made bed, the layer of dust covering the hardwood dressing table. He started to take another step forward and realized that his path was being blocked by the very object of his search.
It came almost to his chest—green, full, and bushy. It looked like a small tree, perhaps, such as grew on the banks of the River. He studied it closely while next to him the King did the same. The leaves were long and narrow, and there were tiny buds buried within. He brought his head closer and looked carefully inside one
of the buds. It consisted of several tiny stalks, each of which had a pair of connected, fingerlike appendages around it.
Viktor blinked and pulled back, surveying the entire growth. The leaves were so thick, it was impossible to see to the trunk. He pulled a handful aside, and was unsurprised to discover that the center was even thicker and stronger looking than the roots had been.
“It is odd,” said the King, “how long it took us to notice it.”
“Yes. And that we didn’t when we were here last night.”
They knelt next to it, pushing more leaves aside, and studied the floor beneath it.
“Does it seem to you,” said László, “that the stem is tearing the floor apart?”
“Yes,” said Viktor. “The longer this continues, the worse it will get.”
The King nodded. “Well, then,” he said, “let us see what Állam can do.”
Viktor stepped back. The King drew his blade with a flourish, and held it back, palm down, to cut crosswise. Viktor drew his breath in, staring at the sabre. The air before his eyes seemed to crackle and spark, and he could almost imagine he saw a kind of aura, a reddish haze, outlining Állam. László cut, then, and Viktor heard the same dull sound as before, with the same faint, metallic overtone. Two of the thousands of leaves fell from the tree.
The King inspected his blade, then resheathed it. Viktor sent him a puzzled look.
“It isn’t notched,” said László. “Or bent or broken. I want to keep it that way.”
“But we can’t—”
The King cut him off. “Now,” he said, “we speak to Vilmos.”
“Yes,” said Viktor.
They turned their back on the growth, and Viktor followed the King out of the room.
 
THEY FOUND VILMOS JUST COMING UP FROM THE CELLARS.
“How are the norska?” asked László.
“Fine,” said Vilmos. Viktor kept his reaction to himself. “Were you looking for me?” asked the giant.
The King nodded. “I have a request.”
“Yes?”
László’s jaws worked, then he said, “It concerns those roots in the cellar. We want—”
“Ah! You want me to tear them out.”
“Yes. If you … that is, I know I—”
Viktor held a grimace behind his face. To be King, yet to be made uncomfortable in asking a service from a subject, was absurd. But Vilmos smiled and gently put a hand on the King’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Laci. Sándor asked me to do this already.”
Viktor could see that there had been something between them, but made no effort to guess what it was; it was sufficient to him that the King seemed relieved.
“Thank you, Vili,” he said.
“It is nothing.”
László nodded. “We’ll be in the audience chamber.”
“I’ll do it now.”
Vilmos walked back down to the cellar. As Viktor and László started back up, one of the Palace Guard caught up to them.
“Your Majesty, Prince Andor and Lord Sándor are returning.”
The King looked at him. “Alone?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
He turned to Viktor. “Should we await them here?”
“I can hardly meet them like this, Your Majesty.”
The King looked him over, trying to deduce what he meant, until his eyes came to rest on Viktor’s empty scabbard.
“Very well,” he said, almost smiling. “Stop by the armory, then meet me in the audience chamber.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Viktor, bowing slightly. He followed the maze of hallways to the guard hall in the east wing, and received a new sabre of the armorer. He noticed the way the loud, bantering voices of guards dropped into respectful whispers as he approached, and smiled to himself.
About time I changed boots
, he decided.
They know the sound of my walk too well
.
He retraced his steps to arrive at the stair leading up. When he reached the entrance he found Vilmos emerging from the stairway. At once, he noticed a strange, faraway look in the giant’s eyes.
Odd
, he thought ironically.
One might almost believe he’s been thinking
.
Vilmos almost walked into him before noticing the captain.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
Viktor grunted. “Well?”
Vilmos opened and closed his mouth, then shook his head.
“You couldn’t do it?” Viktor prompted.
“No … yes. I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?”
Vilmos shook his head once more. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “There was something—there is something about those roots.”
“What?”
“I just … I couldn’t bring myself to touch them.”
Viktor stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. But I stood there, and they seemed so frail—”
“Frail!”
“Yes. I touched one and pulled a little, and it would have been so easy to just pull a little harder … .”
“I don’t believe it.”
“But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I don’t know. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
Viktor snorted, feeling disgust well up in the back of his throat. “Couldn’t bring yourself to do it,” he said. “Something that put notches on my blade and remained untouched against Sándor’s wizardry, and you have the power to destroy it, yet you won’t. I don’t believe you, Vilmos.”
The giant looked at him, quizzically. “You saw them?”
“Of course I saw them. You were there.”
“Yes. That is right. Didn’t you … feel anything?”
“Yes. I felt—” He stopped, then went on. “I felt fear, at first. Then anger.”
Vilmos shook his head. “But didn’t you feel anything
for
them?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Vilmos sighed. “Never mind.”
“I think,” said Viktor, “that you should inform the King of this, before you go back to playing with norska.”
Vilmos nodded sadly. “Yes. Of course. I’ll do that.”
He turned away. Viktor leaned against the wall and watched his retreating back. He had the sudden feeling that the ground was no longer stable—that things upon which he had depended were falling away. The King unable to give orders, the wizard unable to kill a tree. And the tree itself, by the Goddess! Growing right in the middle of the Palace! He sighed and started to follow the giant up to the audience chamber. As he walked past the double doors to the courtyard, he saw that the main gate was opening again. A lone figure came through it and began walking directly toward the entrance of the Palace, past the idol of the Demon Goddess. Viktor waited.
“Good afternoon, Brigitta.”
She nodded brusquely and continued past him.
“Brigitta …”
She stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“Where have you been?”
She looked him up and down. “I do not believe I must give you an account of my actions.”
He frowned. “I didn’t mean to ask for an account.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I was only … never mind.”
She nodded and turned away again.
“Brigitta, wait.”
This time when she turned around he could detect a trace of exasperation in her face.
“I would like to show you something,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Are you aware of what has happened in Miklós’s old chambers?”
She peered at him. “Happened?”
“There is something growing there.”
“What do you mean, growing?”
“Come with me.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
“You have just been with Prince Miklós, haven’t you?”
“And if I have?”
“Perhaps you wonder why the King has been wroth with him.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then, the next time you see Prince Miklós, you may ask him to explain what this is and how it came to be in his chambers.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Let us go, then.”
He led the way toward Miklós’s chambers. They passed Vilmos on the way, who grunted at them. His brows were drawn together,
as if they’d been knitted there. His massive face was drawn into itself, prunelike. A few paces behind him was Mariska.
“Were you coming to see me?” she asked.
Brigitta shook her head.
“No, Countess,” said Viktor. “We are going to look in on Miklós’s room. It is just down the hall—”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve been looking at it myself.”

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