Prisoner of the Iron Tower (31 page)

“She’ll just be glad that you’re free, my dear. As I am.” Elysia placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Go back to Azhkendir. She’s waiting for you.”

His mother still had the same gift for reassuring him as she had when he was a boy. From the calm, steady way she spoke, he almost began to believe that he could soon be free to follow his heart.

“I’ll go, then. Just as soon as I’ve made certain there’s no immediate threat from Eugene.”

It was evening by the time Pavel returned to the citadel, no longer limping and in chains, but washed, shaved, and in fresh clothes. There were armed Smarnans everywhere, many of them young, all carrying looted Tielen carbines. They seemed in ebullient good spirits, swaggering about, flushed with cheap wine and victory. But as he passed through the first courtyard he couldn’t help noticing a cart covered with a bloodstained tarpaulin. From underneath, hands and naked feet protruded.

They had shown their Tielen prisoners no mercy. He felt a dry, sick feeling at the back of his throat. These men had been shot without a trial; they had not been accorded even the most basic of rights. Eugene would not take kindly to this barbaric treatment of his soldiers. There would be reprisals.

He was shown into the council chamber with much more civility than before. Nina Vashteli, Lukan, and the two older ministers were conferring earnestly around an open box on the table. And he couldn’t resist smiling at their evident confusion.

“Now you can settle our dispute,” Minister Vashteli said a little tartly. “Is this your communication device? Or some kind of
objet d’art
?”

“I suppose you could call it both,” Pavel said. He had taken a calculated risk in revealing one of the secrets of the Emperor’s intelligence network to the Smarnans. He hoped it would not end in his execution by one side or the other. He lifted the crystal out of its protective wrappings and placed it on the table.

“What does it do?” asked one of the elder ministers, scratching his head bemusedly.

“It will enable you to speak to one of the Emperor’s staff.”

“In Tielen?” Lukan said. “Or in Mirom?”

“Wherever the device has been tuned to be received. This one, a diplomatic Vox, is tuned directly to the imperial office. Others are used by the navy and army out in the field.”

“So I could address the Emperor’s diplomatic staff with this?” said Minister Vashteli. “Not some petty clerk in an obscure bureau?”

“They’ll be a little surprised that they’re being contacted from Smarna, not Francia . . . but yes.”

Nina Vashteli looked up. Her expression was grimly resolute. “Bring in the hostage,” she ordered the guards on the door.

Hostage? Pavel turned to see a portly, broad-shouldered man enter between two armed guards. His uniform coat, though tattered and stained with dirt and dried blood, showed the colors of the New Rossiyan Empire.

“This is an outrage!” he bellowed. “I demand my rights. I demand—”

“Governor Armfeld, you are about to speak to one of the Emperor’s staff. You will inform him that Smarna is no longer part of Eugene’s empire.”

“I will do no such thing,” blustered Armfeld, his face turning a choleric red. “I—”

“You will tell him that unless all empire forces are withdrawn from Smarna within thirty-six hours, we will shoot you and any other Tielen prisoners.”

“But that—that goes against the treaty!”

“Pavel?” Minister Vashteli turned to him. “Would you be so good as to make your device work for us?”

Pavel lifted off the thick glass dome and listened carefully; to his relief he could hear a faint crackling buzz emanating from the sparkling crystal. It had survived the rigors of the journey from Mirom intact.

“What’s that? A Vox Aethyria?” spluttered Armfeld. “How the devil did you get your hands on one of those? It can’t be mine; your vandals smashed it when they ransacked my quarters—”

“Good evening, Lutèce.”
A distant voice issued, distorted yet audible.
“What is your information?”

To his satisfaction, Pavel saw the consternation on the faces of the Smarnans. If this didn’t convince them, then—

“Lutèce?” Armfeld cried.

“This is the Smarnan council in Colchise,” Pavel said into the device, speaking slowly and carefully. “We have Governor Armfeld here.”

“Armfeld?”
There was no mistaking the surprise in the reaction.
“Proceed.”

The guards brought Armfeld over to the Vox Aethyria. Pavel saw the governor sigh, his shoulders sagging as he realized he had no choice but to do as he was bidden.

“Armfeld here. The rebels have taken the citadel and shot most of my men,” Armfeld mumbled into the device. “They’ll shoot me too if all imperial troops are not withdrawn in thirty-six hours.”

“Could you clarify that last point?”
came back the distant response.

“They’re going to execute me! Good God, man, isn’t that clear enough? Can’t you get me out of here?” As Armfeld’s voice rose hysterically, the guards pulled him away from the table.

“You’ve missed one vital point, Governor,” said Nina Vashteli. She approached the device and bent low to speak into it with ice-clear diction. “This is Nina Vashteli, Minister of Justice for Smarna. Smarna is no longer a part of the New Rossiyan Empire. Any attempt to invade our country will be regarded as an act of war. We have powerful allies across the sea, and will not hesitate to call them to our defense if necessary.”

She rose and looked at Pavel, her eyes shrewd and cold.

“And now we wait for the Emperor’s response.”

“If you like, Madame Minister,” said Pavel in his easiest, most reasonable voice, “I can monitor the Vox Aethyria. I know how to operate it—and it’s not as if I’ve anything else to do tonight.”

The minister glanced at her fellow counselors for approval.

“We’d better supply a pot of our strongest coffee to keep you awake,” Lukan said, laughing. “You could be in for a long wait.”

Eugene was at dinner with his ministers in the Amber Dining Room when the communiqué from the Smarnan rebels was received.

He had Chancellor Maltheus read it aloud to the assembled company.

“ ‘We have powerful allies across the sea and will not hesitate to call them to our defense if necessary.’ ”

Maltheus lowered the paper and looked expectantly at Eugene. There was silence in the dining room now, as his ministers glanced uneasily at one another.

“Powerful allies?” said one. “They’re bluffing, surely.”

Eugene was pushing a crumb of cheese around his plate with one finger. He had lost his appetite.

“Emperor?” Maltheus prompted.

“Smarna’s allies? Well, we have our suspicions,” he said. Did the Vashteli woman mean Gavril Nagarian? And if so, why did she couch her threat in such ambiguous terms? “We must check with our agents in Allegonde, Tourmalise, and Francia. Has any unusual massing of troops or ships been observed?”

“So you take this threat seriously, highness?” asked the Minister of Finance. “Our coffers have taken quite a hit with the sinking of the Southern Fleet. And, of course, all the expense of the coronation. And the new uniforms for the Imperial Household Cavalry, not to mention the considerable sum in pensions that will have to be paid out to the war widows . . .”

Money. It always came down to money.

“Yes, yes, I hear you.” Eugene had no need to be reminded. But he was damned if he was going to be dictated to by some motley collection of rebels and students. “But how will it look to the rest of the world if we concede? No. Smarna is still part of New Rossiya.”

“Could we not enter into negotiations?” ventured another minister timidly.

Eugene’s fist hit the polished tabletop, making the plates and glasses rattle. “I will not negotiate with revolutionaries.”

“So our reply to Smarna—”

“General Froding and his troops are even now making their way south from the borders. Let the Smarnans work out our reply for themselves.”

“A toast,” said Maltheus hastily, raising his glass. “A toast to Froding and his brave men.”

“Victory to Froding’s Light Infantry!” The ministers clinked glasses and drank.

Eugene sent Maltheus a grateful glance over the rim of his glass. In spite of the careless bravado of his reply, he felt unsure for the first time in his military career.

Doubting my own judgment? I must be getting old.

Pavel Velemir poured himself a third cup of coffee. But after one sip, he grimaced and set the cup down; it had gone cold. It was past midnight and there had still been no response from Tielen to the Smarnans’ defiant message.

He was weary and beginning to regret his offer to stand by the Vox Aethyria. There was a comfortable bed awaiting him in the Villa Sapara. He had begun the day in chains, under threat of imminent execution. If it had not been for Mama Chadi . . .

He stood up and paced the council chamber a couple of times, stopping to stare up at the starry night sky through one of the jagged holes in the roof.

He could hear the sound of drunken singing drifting up from the taverns outside. The Smarnans were celebrating their victory. Celebrating far too soon. He knew all too well what the Emperor’s response would be. Eugene’s troops would be back. And when they least expected them.

He rubbed his tired eyes, blinking to try to keep them open.

“Well, Pavel Velemir?”

He turned around, startled, to see Nina Vashteli. The minister was dressed in a gown of dark green brocade and she wore emerald feathers in her neatly arranged hair; she must have been out to dinner.

“No answer from Tielen, Minister,” he said with a regretful smile.

“You didn’t expect one, did you?” she said, peeling off her long satin gloves, finger by finger.

“Frankly, no.”

“Neither did I. Tell me, Pavel, does your device send messages to places other than Tielen?”

“Not yet, Madame Minister.”

“A pity. It would be useful to communicate directly with our allies. We will just have to rely on more traditional methods.”

“Allies?” Pavel, tired as he was, remembered the direct threat she had made to Eugene. Had the council already summoned help from overseas? It might not be so easy to find out who had secretly allied themselves with Smarna without giving himself away.

“How long do you think we can hold out against Eugene’s troops? Tell me truthfully.” Her dark eyes fixed on his; he felt uncomfortable, as if he were being tested.

“If he attacks by land and sea? It would depend on how close his forces are to the border. He overran Azhkendir in a matter of days.”

The strains of singing came swelling up from outside again; to Pavel’s ears it sounded much like a rousing marching song.

She sighed. “How can I convince these hotheads to be patient, to wait for support? Their blood is up. I hope to God that our request for assistance will get through before Eugene’s armies come marching across the mountains.”

It is a dream and yet not a dream. Gavril slowly rises through layers of sleep to find himself enmeshed in a dark cloud shot through with jewel-bright lights that shiver through him like little lightning bolts. It is as if he has been drawn deep into the daemon’s consciousness.

“Can I trust you?”
whispers the Drakhaoul.
“Can I really trust you, Gavril Nagarian?”
Every emotion is a shimmer of vivid color. For now Gavril can feel the daemon’s doubt and desire, a deep desire for something long unobtainable; the colors flicker from a pale, uncertain violet to a deep, rich crimson.

“You talk of trust. Yet you told me you would die if we were separated. I believed you dead, Drakhaoul; so why are you still alive?”

Another shimmer of colors, changing from the dark thunder blue of anger to softer, more conciliatory hues.

“I found another who needed me.”

“You took another host? I thought you could only meld with those of Nagarian blood.” Had the daemon not been entirely truthful with him?

“This one also has the blood of Artamon’s sons in his veins. But then I heard you calling to me. Your need was greater. And so I returned to you.”

“Did this new fusion not work so well, then?” Gavril is curious, wondering who this other host, this far-distant blood relative might be.

“You had to want me to be part of you once more, Gavril.”

“And I would have died if you had not come when you did.” He cannot hide the truth from the Drakhaoul: He feels more grateful for his life and his freedom than mere words can express.

“There is a journey I must undertake. But I cannot do it without your help. And you are not strong enough yet . . .”

“A journey? Where do you want to go?”

When it speaks again, its voice is deep-hued with longing.
“I want to find a way home.”

Gavril wandered around his room, picking up his possessions and putting them down again. Here were his poetry books and the abstruse volumes of philosophy Lukan had given him when he was a student. And here were his paints and pastels, all neatly tidied away. Next to them lay his brushes, from the slender squirrel hair he used for picking out the finest details to the big, rough-bristled ones used for applying large quantities of oil paint for the background of a portrait. Each brush had been carefully cleaned and wrapped in cloth. Elysia had obviously been busy since she returned from Azhkendir.

Azhkendir. He sat down on the bed. All this time he had been so obsessed with his own struggle to survive that he had put Azhkendir out of his mind. He had even chosen to revert to using his Smarnan name: Andar.

Soon he would have to face his responsibilities. But it was one thing to help liberate Smarna, and quite another to try to put things to rights in Azhkendir. Would his
druzhina
even want him back? In their eyes, he had betrayed their trust. He had denied them the chance to die gloriously, defending their lord.

He needed time to come to terms with what had been done to him. Healing time. He knew that somewhere, deep inside, he was still damaged. The Drakhaoul had mended the wounds inflicted by Director Baltzar—had even miraculously repaired most of the botched surgery done to his brain. But he still felt
wrong
.