Prisoner of the Iron Tower (30 page)

Stupid girl!
Raindrops mingled with the tears running unchecked down her cheeks. No mortal man could have survived such a blast. And even if Gavril had somehow been thrown free, he would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks far below, his bloodied and broken body washed away by the tide.

“Back to Azhkendir?” Linnaius said. Rain ran down his thin nose; a drop was hanging on the tip.

“It can’t be true,” she said, as obstinate as a child. “It just can’t be.”

“How can you be sure?” he asked.

Suddenly she understood what he meant. “Oh no,” she whispered. “I can’t do it. Don’t make me. Don’t . . .”

He shrugged. “Who else is there who can confirm—once and for all—that Gavril Nagarian is dead?”

She said nothing, remembering her grandmother’s teaching:
“The newly dead are very difficult to trace. There is always chaos and confusion. Many refuse to accept that they have passed beyond the bournes of this world. Others, with unfinished business here, strive to return by any means possible.”

This would be the hardest task she had ever undertaken, searching for her lover’s spirit.

Tears choked her; tears of bitter anger.

I’ll sing him back,
she vowed fiercely.
I’ll sing his spirit back into another body.

But whose body would she choose? Semyon? The young lieutenant who had treated her so chivalrously at the mausoleum? The Emperor Eugene? And where would their spirits go? Wouldn’t it be a kind of murder, to force an alien spirit into their unwilling bodies? Wouldn’t it send them mad?

Now she remembered Lord Jaromir lurching toward her, possessed by his father’s spirit-wraith. She saw again the incipient madness in his golden eyes.

“No!” she sobbed aloud. “No, not that.”

Besides, she could still feel Gavril’s arms around her. She could still see the warmth in his blue eyes when he smiled at her, still hear his voice saying her name. How could she dare to think she could recreate that intimacy using a stranger’s body?

“We must go.” The Magus touched her arm.

“No. Not yet.” She shook his hand away.

“Surely you can perform your ritual anywhere? Does it have to be here, where Lord Gavril died?” There was a slight hint of tetchiness in his voice.

“I have nothing of his to perform a summoning, so it must be here,” she cried, her voice raw. It was true. She had not one single token of love, no lock of hair or ring to remember him by. Just his last promise, when they had parted on the snowy moorlands.
“I will come for you.”

Now it was never to be. Instead she was going to have to wander the eternal vasts of the Ways Beyond, searching for her dead lover.

“If it must be here, then here it must be,” said the Magus. “But come sit in the sky craft; at least it’s dry.”

“The sky craft?” Kiukiu gazed around, seeing only boulders and scrubby bushes, bowed over by the sea wind.

The Magus moved his bony hands with extraordinary rapidity, like Sosia whisking a linen cloth from a dining table. There lay the craft, no longer concealed by his clever artifice, and inside it her gusly. As she lifted the instrument onto her lap, it felt as heavy as if it were made of lead. The strings would not stay in tune. She moved slowly as though in a dream. Everything took too much effort.

This was the hardest task she had ever attempted. Her fingers began to pluck the strings; the slow, sad notes began to issue from her throat as though someone else were singing them.

Where shall I look?

She was singing herself into the trance, letting each pitch resonate through her whole body until her spirit broke free and began to drift away. . . .

And if I find him, will he even know me?
Kiukiu passed through ragged festoons and swags of dark mist. She had set all her thoughts on Gavril, not knowing where this would take her in the Ways Beyond. And now she found herself in a vast hall, filled with a crowd of milling, aimless souls, all wandering about, lost and confused.

A distraught woman rushed up to her, crying out, “There you are at last, Linna, I’ve been searching for you for so long—”

Kiukiu saw the look of bitter disappointment as the woman realized she was not the one she was searching for.

Almost instantly a little boy stretched out his arms to her imploringly. “Where’s my mother? I can’t find her. Help me.”

Kiukiu steeled herself to ignore the harrowing pleas and walked on, scanning the hall in vain. How could she ever track Gavril down in this chaos? She halted, closing her eyes, willing his image into her mind, keeping all her thoughts fixed on him and him alone. When she opened her eyes again, the others had faded and were nothing now but whispering shadows. She passed on through the echoing vaults of the hall, trying to block out the whisper-voices of the newly dead. And all the time, the pain in her heart burned like a brand. Her feet dragged. For when she found him here, as find him she must, she would know for sure that her life had lost all meaning.

She had no idea how long she had been wandering onward through the gloomy vastness of the hall when she found herself facing a tall portico. Shreds of mist fluttered and flapped like gauze curtains across the opening.

“Where
are
you, Gavril?” she cried. “Why can’t I find you?”

“Well?” asked a soft voice. Rain glistened on the rocks and slowly dripped from the stunted branches of a sea pine overhead.

Kaspar Linnaius was regarding her inquiringly with his cloud-pale eyes.

She shivered. “No,” she said. Her mind was still filled with the pleading voices of the newly dead. “There were so many, so very many . . .”

He nodded. “Perhaps your trance was not deep enough to take you where he has gone.”

She glared at him. “Are you suggesting I’m not skilled enough to find him?” But he had spoken the truth and she resented it; she had never undertaken such a search before. “What do you know of such things?”

“You must not abandon your search so easily. You must go further in.”

She opened her mouth to make another retort but realized that he was right. She must try again. If only to say one last farewell. . . .

Kaspar Linnaius stood looking down at Kiukiu. Her voice, so strong at first, was fading slowly to a whisper as her fingers ceased to pluck the strings of the gusly. Such potent music. Even he, who understood little of the crude and dangerous magic of the Azhkendi shamans, sensed its energy and power.

Her voice died, her head drooped forward, and her fingers rested loosely on the metal strings. She was out of her body now, lost in the singing-trance. He must act now and swiftly.

Her grandmother’s influence was far too strong in Azhkendir; here, at least, he could work his glamour on her without fear of interference.

He drew from inside his robe an alchymist’s crystal glass, fashioned like a teardrop. The wavering daylight, penetrating the thin, high clouds, spun a swirl of rainbows in the heart of the glass.

It was this forbidden use of his art—soul-stealing—that had brought about the closure of the Thaumaturgical College in Francia and the inquisition and deaths of his fellow mages. The Guslyars of Azhkendir talked with the spirits of the dead, but the Francian magi had learned how to imprison the souls of the living.

He leaned closer to Kiukiu, listening to the gentle, regular rhythm of her breathing, raising the soul-glass toward her lips.

“Now,” he whispered, “now you are mine, Kiukirilya.”

CHAPTER
24

Pavel Velemir tried to shift into a position that would ease the crippling stiffness in his back and legs. His captors had somehow contrived to chain him so that he could hardly move. Kneeling was difficult and standing impossible, except in a ludicrously stooped position.

He let a slow sigh escape his lips.

He had known it would not be easy to be accepted as one of the Smarnan rebels. But he had not planned on being chained up in the Old Citadel with other Tielen prisoners who, one by one, were being taken out into the courtyard to be shot. Now, of the few who remained, one sat white-faced in a dazed stupor, another mumbled prayers over and over under his breath, and a third was so terrified that fear had loosened his bowels with the inevitable disagreeable results.

Poor devils.

As the day wore on, the heat and the smell grew more and more offensive. Even though the citadel walls were at least a foot thick, the Tielens had blasted so many holes in them that they let in the fierce midday sun. Pavel leaned back against the shrapnel-pitted stone and closed his eyes. He had planned on using the “Disgraced at the Winter Palace” story from the Mirom Journal as his alibi, but now he realized that the rebels had been so caught up with their own troubles, his exploits in Mirom would be of no significance to them whatsoever. He would have to think fast if he was to escape the firing squad.

What would you have done in my place, Uncle Feodor?

And then he heard a girl’s voice, passionate and young, raised in argument with the guards.

“You were wrong about Gavril Andar, Iovan! How many more mistakes are you going to make?”

“My conscience is clear.”

The rebel girl with the short-cropped hair. He had seen her giving a cup of water to a sick prisoner. She, at least, showed some compassion. What was her name . . . RaÏsa? Was she his salvation?

Iovan appeared in the doorway, carbine in hand. He came straight up to Pavel. “Get up.” He prodded Pavel with the end of his carbine barrel.

Pavel tried to stand, but the shackles pulled him back down to his knees.

“This one isn’t in Tielen uniform. Why did you arrest him?” asked a strong, resonant voice.

“Lukan!” cried RaÏsa, hurrying to the newcomer’s side.

Pavel looked up and saw another man looking down at him. He was strong-featured, sunburned, with a wild head of silvered black hair. The others, even Iovan, deferred to him, so he must be one of the leaders.

“What is your name?” Lukan asked him.

“Pavel Velemir.”

“They tell me you come from Muscobar.” Lukan’s face swam in and out of focus. “What are you doing in Smarna?”

“I came to join you.”

“I see.” Lukan glanced at Iovan. “And why should we trust you? You could be a spy.”

“Why?” Pavel said. “Because I am a fugitive from the Emperor’s tyranny.”

“You?” burst out Iovan, his voice sour with scorn.

“Because I was working in the diplomatic service before I was publicly disgraced. Because I know things that you cannot possibly know about the plans of Eugene and his ministers.”

Lukan glanced at Iovan again. Pavel saw uncertainty in the look that passed between them.

“He’s bluffing,” said Iovan.

“But what if he’s telling the truth?” RaÏsa cried. “What if he really has come from Muscobar to help us?”

“And what if he’s a Tielen double agent? Eugene’s spies are everywhere. And—remember, RaÏsa?—we shoot spies.”

“Do something, Lukan!” RaÏsa pleaded, ignoring her brother.

Lukan’s forehead was still furrowed, the expression in his dark eyes wary.

“Bring him to the council chamber. Let him make his case to the other Wardens of the Citadel.”

Iovan put finger and thumb to his lips and let out a piercing whistle. Two of the militia, who had been lounging around smoking tobacco, hastily put down their pipes and came over.

“Prisoner to the council chamber,” Iovan ordered. “Now.”

Three men and a woman sat at a long table in the blast-damaged chamber. A shaft of golden afternoon sun, sparkling with dust motes, shone down from a ragged hole in the roof. It dazzled Pavel so that he could only make out the shadowy outlines of his inquisitors.

Lukan crossed the wide chamber swiftly and leaned down to confer with the wardens.

“Bring the man calling himself Pavel Velemir before us,” said the woman at the table.

Iovan tugged hard on the chain around Pavel’s ankles; Pavel staggered, almost losing his balance, then lurched forward to stand before the wardens.

“We are the elected Wardens of the Citadel.” The woman spoke briskly. “My name is Nina Vashteli, Minister of Justice in Vermeille. You claim to bring us intelligence of the New Rossiyan government—”

“Ready—aim—
fire!
”

A fusillade of shots rang out from the courtyard below.

Nina Vashteli gave Pavel a sharp, appraising look.

“We show no mercy to our enemies—especially spies.”

Pavel closed his eyes a moment, remembering his fellow prisoners.
Those poor wretches. They’ll never get to see Tielen again, now.

“Can you prove your identity?” Minister Vashteli asked.

“No,” he said. “But I spent many childhood summers here with my mother Xenia at the Villa Sapara. Some of the servants there might remember me.”

Lukan whispered in Minister Vashteli’s ear.

“We’ll send to the Villa Sapara for some of the staff, to verify your story,” the minister said. “RaÏsa Korneli, would you go? Take my barouche.”

“Thank you.” RaÏsa shot a triumphant look at her brother as she hurried from the chamber.

“I’ve attended receptions at the Villa Sapara,” the minister went on. “So has Professor Lukan.”

Lukan nodded; he was gazing searchingly at Pavel now, as though trying to identify some familiar feature. “We’ve both met Lady Xenia and her son. You certainly resemble him. But we must be sure you’re not an impostor.”

“Wait a moment, here!” Iovan strode up to the table. “If this is Pavel Velemir, what has become of that uncle of his? Didn’t he go over to Eugene of Tielen’s side? That same Eugene who is enforcing his imperial tyranny on us today?” He turned around to Pavel, eyes narrowed. “Just where do your allegiances lie?”

Another volley of shots cracked out from the courtyard below. More summary executions by firing squad. Pavel clenched his fists. It could soon be his turn—and he could think of no explanation that would satisfy his inquisitors.

“My allegiances,” he said, affecting a careless tone, “such as they were, lay with Muscobar. I worked in the diplomatic service for the Orlovs. But when Eugene deposed Grand Duke Aleksei, I was swiftly removed from my post and it was given to a Tielen civil servant.”

“No great tragedy,” said Iovan under his breath.

“And as for my uncle”—Pavel let a tinge of discontent color his voice—”his estates should have come to me. I was his only surviving heir. But Eugene humiliated me in front of the court and gave them to one of his favorites—Roskovski, the turncoat who betrayed his own people by swearing allegiance to a Tielen—” He made his voice crack as if in suppressed anger.

“So you would have stayed at the Emperor’s court if he had awarded you your uncle’s estates?” asked Minister Vashteli in the coolest of tones.

She was not going to be easily swayed; Pavel decided he must play his trump card if he was to walk out of the chamber a free man.

He lowered his voice. “There was another reason.”

“And that was—?”

“Astasia Orlova.”

“The Empress?” Nina Vashteli raised one perfectly plucked brow.

“She was not always Empress. And there was once an . . . understanding between us.” It was, in part, true. And how could the insinuation hurt Astasia now? “We used to meet in secret at the soirées at the Villa Orlova.”

“You’re asking us to believe that you—a poor, low-ranking diplomat from Muscobar—and Altessa Astasia Orlova—” jeered Iovan.

“I would rather die than dishonor her reputation!” Pavel said hotly. “But neither can I bear to see her married to that Tielen dictator.”

Minister Vashteli was conferring with the other inquisitors.

“So what can you offer Smarna, Pavel Velemir?” she asked.

“Secrets, Madame Minister. I learned much from my uncle about the workings of the Tielen war machine and the Emperor.”

“We can get as much from questioning the prisoners,” put in Iovan sourly.

“Give me an example.” She propped her chin on her hands and stared at him, pointedly ignoring Iovan.

“Were you aware,” said Pavel, “that Eugene and his armies use a highly sophisticated communication device? And that—if you were to return to my lodgings—you would find one such concealed there, that I have stolen from the palace? One which enables me to listen in to their conversations?”

“Whoever heard such rubbish!” exploded Iovan. “Sophisticated, my ass!”

Pavel found himself taking a certain pleasure in goading the irascible Iovan to these outbursts. And he sensed that Nina Vashteli was intrigued by his revelation and growing increasingly irritated by Iovan.

“Find the device and shoot the spy,” went on Iovan. “How do we know he’s not using it to feed information on us straight back to Tielen?”

The council chamber doors opened and a small, plump woman was brought in.

“What’s this all about?” she demanded loudly. “I want an explanation—dragging me away from my housework without so much as a please or a—” And then she saw Pavel. One hand flew to her mouth.

As a little boy he had called her Chadi after the cornbread she used to make for him. She had been his mother’s cook and housekeeper at the Villa Sapara for as long as he could remember.

“Mama Chadi,” he said, his voice genuinely trembling with relief.

“Master Pavel?” She came forward haltingly, one cautious step at a time. “Look at you, all grown-up—” She reached out, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Give your old Chadi a hug; there’s a good boy!”

He would have run to her and hugged her then and there if his chains had not tugged him back.

“I’m sorry to intrude on such a touching reunion,” broke in Iovan sarcastically, “but this could all be playacting, specially arranged for our benefit.”

“Can you make a positive identification?” asked the minister, ignoring him.

“Beg your pardon, Madame?” Chadi said blankly.

“Who is this man?”

“Well you should know, Madame Minister; you’ve been up to the villa on enough occasions!” Chadi stared at her indignantly. “It’s only my special boy, Pavel Velemir, Lady Xenia’s son.”

Minister Vashteli rose to her feet.

“Accept our apologies, Pavel Velemir. We had to be sure, you understand.”

“Will you be coming back to the villa, Master Pavel?” Chadi asked. “I’ll need to send word ahead. The furniture’s all covered up with dust sheets. . . .”

“You’re not going to let him just walk out of here?” burst out Iovan.

Minister Vashteli turned to stare at Iovan. “Are you questioning my judgment, Iovan?” she asked in a voice of ice. “If we’d listened to you, an innocent man would have been executed.”

Iovan glared at her but did not answer back.

“Lukan, can you arrange some food for our guest? And transport to the villa? He looks in need of a good meal and some clean clothes.” Minister Vashteli walked briskly up to Pavel. “We would like to see this communication device of yours. I suspect we can put it to good use.”

“It’s in my luggage. Several of your loyal rebels relieved me of it when I was arrested.”

“Iovan, see to it. Bring the luggage here. We shall convene again in a few hours. And then, Pavel Velemir, you will show us how to operate your device.”

As soon as his chains were removed, Pavel hobbled straight to Mama Chadi and let himself be hugged, kissed, and properly fussed over. It was a small price to pay, he reckoned, for his life.

The blue waters of the bay slowly darkened to indigo in the balmy twilight. Elysia and Gavril stood on the villa balcony watching the new moon rise over the sea.

The sea looked so calm . . . and yet, if Gavril closed his eyes, he could still see burning ships and hear the anguished cries of drowning men. He could still feel the daemonic rage that had made him attack the Tielen fleet until his strength failed and he crashed into the waves.

“I’ve held them off for a little while,” he said. “But I know Eugene. He’ll retaliate.”

“When will this end?” Elysia said. She sounded weary and heartsore. “Is there no hope of compromise, Gavril? There’s been so much destruction already.”

“I don’t know, Mother.” It was a question that he could hardly bear to contemplate.

“She came back, Gavril,” Elysia said. “Kiukiu came back to the kastel looking for you.”

Kiukiu. How he longed to see her. And yet his heart ached at the thought of what he must tell her.

“She’s a strong-minded young woman. She was ready to set out to find you, without money, without papers.”

He almost smiled at the thought. Yes, that was just the way she was: stubborn, determined, against all the odds. “But what will she say when she sees me as I am now?”