TW04 The Zenda Vendetta NEW (15 page)

“Suppose we had a potential international incident upon our hands,” said Finn. “Suppose some very influential foreign gentleman, a friend of the king’s, had run afoul of Michael somehow—we needn’t say how—and Michael had imprisoned him in Zenda Castle in order to teach him a lesson? He is, after all, the Duke of Strelsau and holder of the estates and lands of Zenda. He could easily charge someone with a crime and execute the punishment.”

“True,” said Sapt. “He has that authority.”

“Well then, let us assume that the king has been made aware of this, say that the ambassador of the nation that this imaginary gentleman is from has secretly approached the king and asked him to intervene on this gentleman’s behalf. All very behind the scenes, to avoid an unpleasant incident involving governments, and so forth. Our imaginary gentleman is a very important man. The king, also secretly, remonstrates with Michael to release the man in order to avoid political repercussions. Michael is intransigent. You can see how this would pose a serious problem. Moving against Michael openly as his first official act would be a bad decision for the king. It would reopen wounds that are still all too fresh in Ruritania. Michael, of course, would realize this. That would be his advantage in the situation. So, in order to avoid political unpleasantness, the king intends to continue bargaining with Michael. However, should all his appeals fall upon deaf ears, he is prepared to move, in secret, against Zenda Castle in order to rescue this imprisoned gentleman. Afterwards, of course, he can claim total ignorance of the affair and insist that it all must have been done by foreign nationals, lodge a strenuous protest with the ambassador concerned, which imaginary ambassador will of course take it no further and the entire affair will be brought to a close. That is how you will present it to your men, Sapt. They are to stand by, prepared to move at a moment’s notice in this most secret mission, to rescue this imaginary gentleman from Zenda Castle in case all negotiations fail.”

“By God, Rassendyll,” said Sapt, “you astonish me! The plan is positively brilliant! Still, it has serious flaws. I cannot muster enough men to take the castle. And even if they could, how would we protect the king?”

“That is where I come in,” said Finn. “I will have to swim the moat and find a way to get inside by stealth. I will have to find out where the king is being held, then lower the drawbridge for you so that your attack can be made by surprise. If you can gain access to the castle, you will not need a lot of men. You will storm through the chateau on horseback and in the ensuing confusion, I will make my way next to the king and guard him with my life.”

“But how can you hope to accomplish that alone?” said Fritz.

“One man, alone, might penetrate the castle and escape detection,” Finn said. “If we attack at night, we may have a chance. But you will need to move with all possible speed once the drawbridge has been lowered. Our only advantage is in surprise.”

“It just might work,” said Fritz, “though the plan is insanity itself. You would be taking a tremendous risk. The odds are almost certain that you would be killed.”

“The odds are certain that I will be killed if we do not make the attempt,” said Finn. “In fact, if we do not, we are all dead men. You cannot watch over me indefinitely. If a man is a target for assassins, then he will surely die eventually. Sooner or later, Michael’s mercenaries will have me and once I am out of the way, Michael can contrive to stage Rudolf’s death in some manner that would not implicate him and that would serve him at the same time, just as you told me earlier, Sapt. With Michael in power, you can be sure that your lives would not mean a thing. In the event that I should disappear before the king is freed, my friends, I can only urge you to do likewise. Michael would waste no time in having you two murdered once I was disposed of.”

“In the event that Michael has you killed,” Sapt said grimly, “then he signs his own death warrant, come what may. Rest assured that you shall be avenged. On that, you have
my
word of honor and I care not what the cost.”

Finn felt a strange tightness in his chest. He and Sapt had known each other for scarcely three days, yet he knew—as did Sapt—that there had formed a strong bond between them. Physically, Sapt was older by a good many years, having never had the benefit of antiaging drugs that could extend his lifespan. Biologically, Finn had lived longer than Sapt had. The worlds that each existed in were separated by over seven hundred years. Yet, they were the same. Both cut from the same cloth. Both subscribers to a code of ethics that neither of them could have stated, yet each understood on some subliminal level that came not from the intellect, but from somewhere in the gut. Buddhists believed that that was the center of one’s being and perhaps, Finn thought, they knew something that no else did. Or, that all men knew, but few remembered.

“There is one thing more,” said Fritz, oblivious of the electric interplay that had just taken place in some fraction of a second between the two other men, a spark that had made them lock gazes quickly and then, just as quickly, look away, like guilty lovers. “The marriage between the king and Princess Flavia was to have taken place after the coronation. Each day it is postponed brings more disfavor on the king. It will be interpreted as an insult to the princess that the king would make her wait upon his bidding until such time as he is pleased to wed her. There, Michael has us. That we have dared allow an imposter to be crowned is bad enough. For that, Lord help us, our souls will have to answer on the Day of Judgement. But to allow the princess to enter into holy wedlock with that same imposter would be unthinkable. Whatever it is we are to do, we must do it soon, else all is lost.”

“All the more reason for me to court ‘my’ future wife,” said Finn. “It will buy us time. I would imagine that the court at Strelsau is not all that much different from the English court in one respect at least. Both surely have their gossip-mongers. With a word in the right ear or two, it can quickly go about that the king, having experienced some profound awakening—perhaps in the midst of all the holy solemnity of the coronation ceremony—has also realized or, let’s say, has had forcibly driven home to him the sudden knowledge that he is about to wed a woman whom he has never taken the trouble to know. At least, on the level of a husband-to-be. If he postpones the marriage in order that he might romance the princess, court her favor rather than simply take her as his due, wouldn’t that be regarded as romantic gallantry or some such thing? Would it not make Rudolf seem—well—somehow more human?” Sapt smiled and shook his head. “You English!” he said. “You and your romantic poets and drawingroom novelists! Flavia has known Rudolf all her life and he has never regarded her as anything more than part of the palace furniture. Why should she believe in such a sudden change in him?” Finn raised his eyebrows. “Why? Well, perhaps she won’t. But I’ll tell you a secret about women, Sapt. It has to do with what women know about men, but what men themselves do not know about each other. Women know that men are creatures of emotion. Whereas we ascribe that attribute to them, the fact is that a woman understands her emotions far better than a man does. We men are the ones who are entirely creatures of the heart. We accuse women of it like guilty little boys pointing fingers at their playmates in order to spare themselves responsibility. The truth is that women understand us better than we understand ourselves. If we are foolish or inconsistent, they are not surprised. They expect it of us.” Sapt made an incredulous face. “I never heard such addle-brained nonsense in my life!”

“Then you, Sapt, will never understand a woman.”

“I think it’s worth a try,” said Fritz. “What have we got to lose?” Sapt looked at him with astonishment. “
You
think it’s worth a try? A moment ago, you were outraged at the very idea!”

Finn chuckled. “You see?” he said.

Von Tarlenheim flushed deeply and began to stammer a reply when there came a knock at the doors and the chancellor entered with a letter for the king. Finn thanked him and dismissed him, then opened the letter.

“What is it?” Sapt said.

Finn read aloud:

“If the king desires to know what it deeply concerns the king to know, let him do as this letter bids him. At the end of the New Avenue there stands a house in large grounds. The house has a portico with a statue of a nymph in it. A wall encloses the garden; there is a gate in the wall at the back. At twelve o’clock tonight, if the king enters alone by that gate, turns to the right and walks twenty yards, he will find a summerhouse, approached by a flight of six steps. If he mounts and enters, he will find someone who will tell him what touches most dearly his life and his throne.” Finn tossed the letter down onto the table, so that Sapt could take it. “Somehow, I didn’t think it would be signed. Do you recognize the hand, Sapt?”

The old soldier frowned, gazing at the letter. “Not I.”

“Would you know Black Michael’s?”

“It is not his. Yet, that means nothing. He could have dictated it. It’s a trap, for certain.”

“Well, we shall have to see, won’t we?” Finn said.

“Surely, you’re not thinking of going?” said von Tarlenheim.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Don’t be a fool, man, you’ll be killed!”

Sapt rose. “I shall go and find out who delivered that letter to the chancellor.”

“Don’t bother,” Finn said. “Our letter-writer prefers to remain anonymous. I doubt he would have delivered this in person. Besides, I don’t think this is a trap. Would Michael be so obvious?”

“No, but he might be so devious,” said Sapt. “He might think that we would not credit him with being so obvious and so fall into the trap.”

“There is that,” said Finn. “Nevertheless, there’s only one way we will know for sure.”

“No,” said Sapt, shaking his head. “I cannot allow it. The risk would be foolhardy.”

“Sapt, would you countermand your king?” said Finn.

“This is no time to jest,” said Fritz.

“Who’s jesting? Something in this game has got to give. We won’t get anywhere if we sit around here hoping for the best. If someone wants to kill me tonight, I’ll do my best to stay alive, but I think that someone wants to talk. I’d like to listen to what he has to say. It might guide us in our plans.”

“I shall go with you, then,” said Sapt.

“As far as the garden wall,” said Finn. “From there, I go alone.” Sapt glowered at him. “Don’t take your role too seriously,
Your Majesty,”
he said. “You’re
not
the king, you know.”

“Maybe I’m not the real king, but I’m the only one you have at the moment. If I decided to take a walk tonight, how would you stop me? Call out the guard?”

“I’d stop you by myself if need be,” Sapt said. “Don’t think I couldn’t.”

“Perhaps you could,” said Finn, “but then I could call out the guard, you see. Fit of royal temper, don’t you know? A night in jail would do you a world of good.”

“Damn you, Rassendyll—”

“Come on now, Sapt. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“Very well. You win.”

“You’re both insane!” said Fritz.

“You want to come?” said Finn.

Von Tarlenheim looked from him to Sapt and back again, then rolled his eyes and shrugged helplessly. “All right, we are all three insane, then. Why not? I am already a blasphemer, a perjured liar, and an accomplice to a fraud. I may as well be a fool, too.”

“By the way,” said Finn, “whose house is it we’re going to, does anybody know?”

“Everyone but you,” said Sapt. “The house is Michael’s residence in Strelsau. Just a coincidence, I suppose.”

“Do me a favor, Sapt,” said Finn, “please don’t ask me to explain, but don’t
ever
use that word to me again.”

Drakov wandered alone through the dank, deserted corridors of Zenda Castle. In his right hand, he carried a small flashlight, one capable of throwing out a wide beam or of being used as a highly concentrated light source, emitting a beam of light almost as thin as that of a laser. At the moment, he had it set in the middle of its range, so that it illuminated only the corridor before him.

It was damp, it was cold, and it was quiet. The silence was broken only by the sound of his boots upon the stone and by the chittering of rats. There were thousands of them inside the castle, some approaching the size of housecats. Most swarmed in the dungeons below. From the lower floors of the abandoned main sections of the castle, their noise was like the distant sound of monstrous birds. It was a fitting atmosphere for black and brooding thoughts. As he walked, he brushed aside spider webs the size of bedsheets and crushed the bodies of long-dead insects beneath his boots. Just like Count Dracula, he thought, striding through his dark domain. Drakov, Dracula, even the names were similar. But the year was 1891 and the book would not be published for another six years yet. Perhaps Stoker was working on the manuscript somewhere in England at this very moment.

It never ceased to amaze him how he knew such things through the subknowledge of his implant programming, that a veritable library of information could be stored upon a tiny sliver in his brain, available to him with the speed of thought. Subknowledge. Knowing things he didn’t know he knew until he thought about them. That was one of the true miracles of Falcon’s 27th century. He had become a part of it, but there was no place for him there. There was really no place for him anywhere. He should never have been born.

Moses Forrester would not even have been born for hundreds of years at the time he was conceived.

For years, he had not really understood how a man could father a son before his own birth. The whole thing had seemed supernatural to him, despite his mother’s attempts at explanation, and he had felt himself to be a demon issue, accursed from birth. Born of an impossible union, victim of a hate that could never be appeased. How to take revenge upon a man who had not even been born yet? How to reach across almost a thousand years to find him?

It had always been important to his mother for him to know his history, to know who and what his real father was. She had impressed upon him early on that he was different, that he was very, very special. She had been so proud, never suspecting how the story terrified him. He had always listened silently, never asking any questions, never saying anything, afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid of learning more.