The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (5 page)

The guards welcomed Leopold to the Dungeon and escorted him down a dizzying series of hallways to a central chamber, where a young boy sat behind an imposing desk cluttered with boxes. The Count was shocked to find a boy here, but he seemed quite accustomed t S ac, who these surroundings; indeed, the guards soon made it clear that he was actually the one in charge. A child? The boy folded his arms and looked up at Leopold pompously, as if aware of his power and eager to watch him squirm.

“I’m the Count of Cinquefoil,” Leopold said, meekly, “here to see the prisoner Ivan…well, I’m afraid I don’t know his family name.”

“We don’t deal in names here,” the boy said, with a dismissive grin. “But I know of whom you speak: prisoner #33918, scheduled for execution in the early hours of August fifteenth. The sooner the better, I say; he’s the worst of the lot. Sign here.”

Leopold signed a dirty form as the boy fished through a box for the proper key. There were seemingly hundreds of keys, each key representing some poor soul consigned to death or darkness. The boy looked at them as so many toys, each one his personal possession which he shared with obvious reluctance. Indeed, the boy almost hesitated to hand it over, but seeing the Count’s signature (and his obvious rank) convinced him otherwise. He handed the key to a guard who escorted Leopold down another meandering and dismal hallway. Toward the end of the hall was a wooden door with five tremendous locks. The guard unlocked each of them in turn and pried open the door. It groaned hideously, obviously unaccustomed to the practice.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” the guard gestured.

The cell was nearly pitch-black. Leopold took a step forward, squinting and blinking—but seeing nothing. Cautiously, he ventured closer, fighting his immediate instinct to run blindly away and not stop until he was safely in the coach and in Mary’s arms.

“Where—?” he said.

The door closed behind him. His heart stopped. As waves of terror and nausea swept over him, the blackness subsided, revealing shades of gray and purple…and in the corner, a ghostly silhouette. The silhouette stirred and sat upright, accompanied by the sound of dragging chains. Leopold steadied himself. There was no going back; he would have to confront him.

“Don’t look so frightened,” the figure said. “Surely you have nothing to fear from your own brother.”

Leopold clenched the coin in his palm and approached the man in the corner, whose voice was nothing like the one in his dreams, rasping, “
brother, you owe me your life
!”

“Yes, we are brothers,” the Count responded. “So why are we meeting for the first time? You knew where to find me,” he said.

“Certain parties would have found that inconvenient, I fear,” Ivan chuckled. “Still, your—or rather,
our
—father was a good man. I was sorry to hear of his death. He taught me a lot.”

Leopold scowled unseen in the darkness. What was he insinuating, that his father taught him how to murder and steal? Or—and this upset him even more—did they share some secret relationship that he was unaware of? After all, his father told him nothing of the box, and even Ivan would have remained a mystery had not fate intervened. What did Ivan know? A horrible thought: had his father told him about the box, too? Perhaps he was simply baiting him, waiting for the moment to refuse him and complete his revenge? No, that was nonsense. A V ac, htend yet they way he said it…he clearly knew something more.

“You look just like him…much more than I do,” Ivan said, leaning forward. “Makes sense; you were the favorite son. I hope you haven’t come to gloat.”

“I’m not here to gloat—far from it. In fact, to be quite honest, I need your help. Not that I deserve anything from you…but if you could hear me out…”

Ivan seemed to perk up at this statement, and slowly pushed himself up, the chains rattling and scraping in protest.

“How can I help
you
?” he asked, somewhat mockingly. “Me, a poor prisoner in the city’s most infamous prison, and you, the Count of Cinquefoil, no less. I’m listening…”

“To put it bluntly, I’m dying,” he began, weighing his words. “That is, I’ll be dead by morning or soon after without your help. I come on the suggestion of our father’s most trusted advisor, the great sorcerer, Hildigrim Blackbeard—”

“Ha! That old scoundrel,” Ivan exclaimed. “Of course he’s behind this.”

“You know him?” the Count asked, horrified (maybe he
did
know!).

“I know all about him. He’s the one that introduced my mother to…but of course you wouldn’t know her.”

His mother—the Russian dancer? Blackbeard introduced them? What other secrets was the sorcerer keeping from him? The room began spinning around him, and the terrifying prospect that they shared the same mother, too, tormented his thoughts. Sensing his confusion, Ivan gave a dry laugh and explained that though he didn’t know Blackbeard personally, his mother had told him many stories—and none to the sorcerer’s credit.

“He robbed her the same as our father,” Ivan muttered, kicking his chain. “I wouldn’t trust a word he says—unless you’re paying him, of course. That’s the only language he understands. But this is all beside the point: why are you here? Don’t tell me you had a twinge of conscience and came to switch places. Though it seems my life expectancy is greater than yours at present.”

Leopold relaxed his grip on the coin. So Ivan knew nothing about the box or why he was here, though he had come frightfully close to the mark. What would his father think of all this; whom would he side with? As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Leopold could see more of his father in Ivan. That is, his father as he might have looked through a lens of cruelty and deprivation. Ivan’s eyes were sharp and merciless; they didn’t like the Count, that much was clear. And yet, they also expressed curiosity…he wanted to know as much as he could about this mysterious brother of his. Because, truth be told, Ivan had spent many sleepless nights over Leopold, wondering how and when he should kill him…

Leopold told him the story without embellishment, but minus anything to do with Mary (somehow, he couldn’t bear sharing her with him). Ivan listened like a stone, especially as he came to the part about needing a blood relative to appease his death. When he finished, the Count stood equally silent, realizing that his plea wo [t hd kill huld fall on deaf ears—as perhaps it should. What right did he have to ask a man to die for him, even if that death was far swifter than what awaited him on August fifteenth?

“So this is my once chance, eh?” Ivan finally said. “To die with honor…to become one of the family?”

“I’m not implying any such thing,” Leopold said. “It’s as simple as this: if you die I can live, and here…you’re dead already.

“Funny, I feel quite alive at the moment."

A long silence passed between them. Leopold, making his apologies, felt his way toward the door.

“Wait: I haven’t given you my answer yet.”

“Haven’t you?” the Count said.

“No…because my answer is
yes
. I’ll do it.”

Leopold stared through the darkness in an attempt to read his eyes, which were veiled and obscure. Yet there was no mistaking his words. Leopold only managed one pitiful word in response: “why?”

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he shrugged. “If I can escape the chopping block and do you a service, so much the better. It’s what father would have wanted.”

“Thank you…” the Count said, uncertainly.

Following instructions, he opened his palm and let the coin drop on the ground; it bounced twice and then began rolling in a tight circle.

“You dropped your coin,” Ivan said.

The revolutions began slowing enough to see the face of the coin, a detached, classical face staring into eternity. Then, with a final, drunken revolution, it crashed to the floor.

The stone beneath the coin began quivering. Ivan jumped up, fearing a trap. Had his spoiled whelp of a brother betrayed him? The stone burst loose and fell to one side, exposing an elaborate wig and bushy eyebrows.

“Blackbeard!” Leopold shouted.

“Yes, yes, no need to announce me to all and sundry,” he grumbled. “If you could give me a hand…”

Leopold hoisted Blackbeard into the cell while Ivan, retreating into a corner, saw murder and revenge. Ivan had nursed an unhealthy hatred of magicians since childhood. He knew every story about Blackbeard by heart, as they ended rather predictably: the magician betrayed an innocent, defenseless woman for money or power. Of course, Ivan’s mother was neither innocent nor defenseless, but the less he knew about that the better. Instead, she shifted blame to the magician, who gradually became the devil, bad luck, and poverty rolled in one. Ivan trusted his mother implicitly, as most boys do; even when she abandoned him and fled to Turkey, he blamed magicians. It was all their fault.

“So this is your father’s greatest secret,” the sorcerer said, turning to Ivan. “He never told me.”

“But it seems you knew my mother well enough,” Ivan muttered.

“Indeed I did…Ekaterina was a remarkable woman. If only she had heeded my advice. They never do…” he said, with a black look at Leopold.

“So now what?” the Count asked. “He’s in chains, and all the guards outside…we can’t just dance out of here.”

“No, dancing would be out of the question,” Blackbeard said, with a raise of his eyebrows. “Perhaps something more discreet?”

The sorcerer approached Ivan and with a few words and a wave of his arms (the last for theatrical effect) the chains clattered lifelessly against the floor. Ivan felt his arms instinctively, hardly able to believe his freedom—and the possibility of an even greater escape.

“Quickly, through the floor,” Blackbeard gestured to Ivan. “No guard can follow us there. Count, we’ll wait for you beyond the gates. Don’t act suspicious and leave with all possible haste.”

The door knocked.

“All done in there, Count?”

“Ah…one moment more, if you please,” he croaked.

“Visiting time’s up. Say your farewells.”

Ivan scrambled down the hole with Blackbeard behind him. Leopold watched in agony as the sorcerer slowly disappeared, first his legs, then his chest and arms, and finally, the top of his hat.

The door opened. Leopold pushed his way outside as quickly as possible. The guard nodded and squinted into the darkness, trying to discern the prisoner.

Sensing this, Leopold said a final, “God save you, Ivan,” as he left. The guard, not being terribly inquisitive, chuckled and locked the door. The key was returned to the boy who logged it into a register and repeated Ivan’s death sentence: the morning of August fifteenth.

“You’re welcome to observe his passing,” the boy said, as if doing him a tremendous favor.

“No need, I’ve said my peace,” Leopold said, wishing him a good day.

Leopold followed the guards back to the gate, but with every step he nursed a terrible suspicion that someone already knew—that his arrest was imminent. Yet the gates opened and he hastily climbed into his coach, finding Blackbeard and Mary looking just as he left them. However, there was no one else, and no sign of Ivan. Leopold panicked and almost ran out to look for him—but Mary caught him with an assuring wink. After the coach cleared the immediate neighborhood, Blackbeard took off his hat and said, “there now, I think it’s safe.”

The sorcerer stood up and lifted the seat, revealing a small compartment: Ivan, cramped and twisted beyond measure, lay inside. With a brusque gesture the sorcerer hauled him out. Ivan seemed dazed, but also elated; his pale, hard features bent into a smile as he looked around him. The Count couldn’t take his eyes off him, since in the light he bore no phy ce bis palsical resemblance to him or his father. Still, this stranger, this criminal, was more like him than any other man on earth. Ivan’s eyes met his own and gleamed in recognition. He seemed to have a similar thought—yet with a somewhat different reaction.

“There will be questions, a grand inquiry,” the sorcerer warned. “You will have to answer for the criminal’s disappearance. But first we have to save your life. So…does he agree?”

“It would give me the greatest pleasure,” Ivan said.

He smiled at each of them, including a far-too-pleasant grin at Mary, who shuddered. She would believe him when he lay cold and lifeless on the floor, but not a second before. Until then, she would watch him closely.

The coach gradually left the seedy remains of Old Town behind, crossing into the thin band of woods that separated the two. Already, Leopold could see the familiar clock tower which rose above the trees, its shadow no doubt spreading over the hills he could see from home. Everything had felt so fantastic and terrifying that it amazed him to realize how nothing had changed. The world still turned as usual, completely oblivious to the box and the creature inside it. He held Mary’s hand in his own, feeling its soft warmth, reassured that everything would continue the same forever.

“If it’s no trouble, could we stop here for a moment?” Ivan asked. “As a last request?”

Blackbeard, who had been snoozing, glared grumpily at the speaker.