Last Act (30 page)

They were nearly at the foot of the steps, now, and she saw that people were being let through the Rathaus doors in groups. “We go in by trades,” Michael turned to tell her. “It used to be
guilds, of course.” And, anticipating the question she knew she must not ask. “We're the student body. Our leader vouches for us.” One of the shaggy young men had moved forward to hand a sheaf of papers to the man on guard at the Rathaus door. There was a sharp, inaudible exchange as the man leafed swiftly but efficiently through the papers.

“They want to search us,” said Michael. “Sensible enough. No worse than catching a plane.”

But it was. Evidently worse. One of the girls in front of them let out a little protesting yelp, and Anne felt Michael's hand tighten on hers. “We bear it,” he said. She nodded. One of the men just in front of them had had his pocket knife confiscated. Anne thought he was about to protest; thought the searchers hoped he would do just that; but he merely shrugged and went on in. It was her turn. Hands, insulting, intimate hands, and what was obviously a coarse remark in Italian. “American,” said Michael behind her, “
Versteht nichts.
”

American, like Princess Gloria. Clever Michael. The hands finished their task more respectfully; she received a dismissive, unpleasant pat on the seat of her jeans and was inside the hall. It was crowded already, but their party were filing round the back to a position in a side-gallery that commanded a good view of the dais, with its long, heavy table running parallel to the audience. Counting the twelve big chairs behind the table, with the one in the centre larger than the rest, Anne was aware of carefully controlled movement in what seemed their casual group of students. They were settling themselves, obviously, in prearranged positions. She and Michael were side by side, in the second row of the gallery, right in the middle of their crowd of allies. The man in front of her was short, strong and broad-shouldered. He turned and grinned hugely at her, holding out a hand.

“He's your shield,” said Michael,
sotto voce,
as she returned the warm grasp.

Shield? They were all unarmed. She looked round the big hall. Frensham's men were acting as marshals, truncheons at their belts, but apparently otherwise unarmed. She looked up to the gallery at the back of the hall. “Press up there,” said
Michael, as if he had been following her thoughts. “The eyes of the world are upon us, remember.” His eyes seemed to lead hers to the red velvet curtain that hung behind the table on the dais. That must be where Frensham's real strength was. But would he dare use it?

“Ah.” A sigh of pure relief from Michael. “Here comes the diplomatic corps. The conference has taken time off for the election. Thank God for human curiosity.” As the little group of formally dressed elder statesmen were politely guided down to the front rows, he pointed them out to Anne. America … France … England … Russia … “Top men all of them, and a top woman or two. There'll be no indiscriminate shooting in here today.” No indiscriminate shooting. The group around them was talking louder, suddenly, as if he had somehow ordered a rise in pitch. “If anything should start happening,” he said, very quietly. “down between the rows of seats, and stay there. You're our witness, remember. We need you. Here they come.”

A string quartet, crowded together on the left of the dais, was playing what Anne had learned to recognise as the Lissenberg national anthem. The crowd rose to its feet, suddenly silent, as the twelve members of the Diet filed in. Twelve elderly men in crimson robes who bore the burden of deciding what should happen to Lissenberg. Or thought they did. Behind the velvet curtain that matched their robes, Anne thought she saw movement.

Two flunkeys in the familiar palace uniform had followed them in, carrying two more chairs, which they placed on the left of the dais, one broad step lower than the table. One of the violinists played a false note, and Anne, probably the only person to notice, looked quickly and was amazed to recognise Carl Meyer. What in the world was he doing? But the rousing Hadyn march chosen by the first “Hereditary Prince” had come to its crashing climax. Everyone was sitting down. And the man in the larger, central chair, was rising to his feet, to open the proceedings.

“Good God,” whispered Anne. “Josef?”

“Shh—” said Michael.

Josef was speaking in Liss. Inevitable—maddening. She would have no idea of what was going on. His short speech was greeted by a roar of approval. And then a microphonic voice took over in English. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and honoured guests, since the eyes of the world are upon us in this day of our crisis, I have taken it upon myself to arrange that each speech shall be translated, for the benefit of our guests, after it has been made. For this, as for every decision made in this house, I must have your approval.”

Josef spoke again, more briefly still. Unless anyone objected, the interpreter's voice explained, Josef would take the first shout of approval as his authority. Total silence. Obviously, Anne thought, the English translation would suit James Frensham as well as it did her. But how in the world did Josef come to be chairman of the Diet? She must not ask Michael—not now. The hall was hushed for Josef to speak again.

His next proposal was greeted with another approving shout, and as the interpreter began to translate it, Anne saw James Frensham usher Princess Alix on to the dais. Dead pale, in a long, plain white dress, Alix wore a glittering diadem in the hair that was the only note of colour about her. Frensham, holding her arm protectively, had obviously planned for this occasion, Anne thought, and felt yet another chill of apprehension. His impeccably tailored black velvet lounge suit was at once daytime casual and yet formal enough for anything. For accepting a crown?

At sight of Alix, the twelve members of the Diet had risen, and the crowd now followed their example, an excited babble of talk breaking out. Frensham inclined his head, slightly, graciously, as it were in acknowledgement, but Alix held herself rigid, looking at nothing. Her father's funeral was to take place next day, Anne remembered, the question of the succession having, by precedent, to be settled first. No wonder she looked tormented, hagridden.

Frensham seated her formally, and Anne noticed that Josef contrived to sit down immediately after her, just before Frensham could gracefully do so. She rather thought Frensham noticed it too. He bit that sculptured Florentine lip of his and flashed a dark, speculative glance at Josef, who had risen again, now the audience were seated and silent, and begun to speak. Surprisingly, this time he began in English. “I have had a request,” he said, “from Mr Frensham, that since our transactions concern him closely, and he unfortunately understands no Liss, they should be conducted in English. It is a grave breach of Lissenberg custom.” He kept his tone extraordinarily neutral. “But, situated as we are”—a courteous glance travelled from the diplomatic corps in the front rows to the gallery full of journalists—“it might be good manners to use a language all will understand. I therefore propose that we use English, and will put the question to a show of hands, in the hope that we can settle it swiftly and get to business. Yes?” One of the Diet members had leaned forward to speak to him. “Quite right, thank you. This speech of mine must, of course, be translated into Liss. Then, when you have had time to consider the merits of the proposal, I will put it to a show of hands.”

Once again the interpreter's voice came over the microphone, this time unintelligible in Liss. And unnecessary, Anne thought, watching the quick whispering that was going on throughout the hall. Practically everyone present obviously did understand English. When the interpretation was over, a man at the back of the hall rose to his feet. Herr Winkler. “Permission to put a question, Your Excellency?”

“Granted.”

“This establishes no precedent? We act, now, out of courtesy
to our foreign guests. Future meetings will, of course, be conducted in our native Liss.”

Hardly a question, thought Anne, but it was greeted by a growl of approval.

“Agreed.” Josef did not pause to consult his fellow Diet members. “I will phrase the question as follows: For this one occasion, as an exception, out of courtesy to our foreign guests—and for no other reason—I put it that we conduct our deliberations in English. Those in favour please raise your hands.”

On the platform, James Frensham, frowning more heavily than ever, muttered something to Alix, who shook her head. Anne felt Michael nudge her, and raised her hand among the forest of others around her. The diplomats and journalists were abstaining, she saw, but in the body of the house most hands were raised. A courteous people, the Lissenbergers. It was a considerable concession, she thought, and wondered if it would have been made if Winkler and Josef had not made it so crystal clear that although James Frensham had asked for it, it was not in fact to him that it was being made.

“Thank you.” Josef was on his feet again. “The question is carried unanimously. I will only ask that if something should be said that any member of the audience cannot understand they say so at once and we will translate. This is a day of grave crisis for us here in Lissenberg, and there must be no shadow of doubt about the validity of any decision to which we may come.”

He paused for a moment, then went on: “We are now opening our proceedings as the legitimately constituted Diet of Lissenberg. It is our sad duty, today, to name the heir to the princedom, according to the laws and traditions of our country. Our foreign guests are welcome to listen, but they will understand and respect my request that they take no part in these proceedings.” He took a deep breath and Anne wondered what had happened to the inconspicuous Josef who looked after the hostel. This was a man of power, someone who knew how to control an audience. “Two days ago,” he told them, “the worst disaster of our history happened here in Lissenberg. A mysterious explosion destroyed our new opera house, the successful enterprise of our beloved Prince Rudolf, and he himself was found,
just as mysteriously, dead in its ruins. Despite the help so generously given from outside, our police have so far found no clue as to the criminals, for, my friends, let there be no misunderstanding—this was no accident. It was a criminal plot. We do not yet know the perpetrators, nor what, precisely, they intended, but the results are all too evident. Our Prince is dead, our opera house destroyed. When the culprits are discovered they can expect the full rigour of our law. In the meantime, the succession must be established. We all know what the late Prince's intention was. When he sent his eldest son into exile, and wiped his name from the history and records of our country, he stated it clearly. Princess Alix was the eldest of his children. Nothing in the written law of our country prohibits female succession. Princess Alix it should be.” He raised a hand to still a growing murmur— Applause? Dissent? A little of both?—and turned to address his fellow Diet members directly. “Yours is the decision,” he told them. “But there is more. This morning, the Princess announced her engagement to her cousin, Mr Frensham, who has done so much for our country. She has asked me to put it to you that he should be joined with her in her high office. That is correct, is it not, Your Highness?” For the first time he looked directly at Alix, and spoke to her alone.

“That is correct.” Her low voice sounded frozen, as if the words hurt her. They fell like stones into the absolute silence of the hall.

“Thank you.” He turned to look round the table. “There you have it, gentlemen. Princess Alix, heir named by her father, and her husband-to-be, James Frensham. May I have your views?”

“What of the Prince?” asked the man on Josef's left. “The young Prince. We all know his father disinherited him, but did he do it justly, I ask you, and, more important, had he the right? It is we, the Diet of Lissenberg, who must decide this issue, not the wishes of a dead man, and one, if I may speak frankly”—an apologetic glance for Princess Alix, who sat, still as death, ignoring everything—“who did not always act entirely for the best interests of Lissenberg.”

“That's just it,” put in a grey-headed man from the end of the table. “You have gone to the heart of our trouble, fellow
councillor. This is no time to be casting blame, but we all know that our country is on the verge of bankruptcy. And we all know who can save us. I move that we thank our beloved Princess Alix for her wise choice of a husband, and long live Prince James and Princess Alix.”

“Not before they are married,” protested another member.

“I still say, ‘Find the Prince,'” urged the man on Josef's left, and there was a murmur of agreement from some of his colleagues, and an excited buzz throughout the hall.

Josef raised his hand for silence. “Gentlemen—” He spoke low and sadly to his colleagues round the table, and the hall was hushed to listen. “I am afraid you are wasting your time—and ours. I grieve to tell you, but I have it on the authority of Herr Winkler that the Prince is dead.”

Now the hush in the hall was absolute. Even the Diet members were silent for a moment, taking it in, and Anne saw Alix raise a hand to brush away tears. What was this about a Prince? She turned towards Michael, but his hand on hers commanded silence. Josef was speaking again. “So the choice that lies before us,” he summed it up for them, “is between Princess Alix and her husband, or her younger brother or sister, who are now twelve and ten years old. I put it to you, my friends, that this is no time for a regency.”

“You could act,” said the man on his right, and once again the hall seemed to hold its breath.

“Not in this crisis.” Josef spoke as if the suggestion had been the most natural thing in the world. “We must face the fact that, with the opera house destroyed, bankruptcy is no longer a mere threat. It is upon us. Fortunately for us, Mr Frensham himself, as his father's heir, is the late Prince's and Lissenberg's major creditor.” Could there be the faintest hint of irony in his tone? “We have his promise that his first act as Prince of Lissenberg will be to wipe out the debt. Then he proposes to put our affairs in order, and I have no doubt that he can do it. We all know his record.”