Coronets and Steel

  “Alec? Here?” I repeated.

  “Well, not here. But outside, somewhere. A classic stalemate. They hold the grounds and the sky suite, and we this part of the house. Middle level’s no-man’s-land. Alec seems to dislike the idea of a fight to the death deciding the contest, so we’ve sent someone to confer. Comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m cold.” I went back to his earlier statement. “Alec seems to have objected to my mother’s attempt to alter the disposition of affairs.” What did he mean by that? I winced as my temples pounded. “So I’m part of the terms, is that it? Like, let you guys go or else?”

  “That’s it,” Tony agreed.

  Bertie Wooster whispered, Neck-deep in the mulligatawny, and the flames are crackling around the pot.

  My voice was hoarse, but I successfully kept it indifferent. “Well then, how about another toast to my good luck?”

  Tony smiled with instant appreciation. “More zhoumnyar?”

  “You bet.”

  But this time I felt less of the restorative warmth, and my stomach protested faintly. I leaned my head back and shut my eyes, concentrating on breathing slowly and deeply. I noticed a trace of cigarette-stink in the air, and I remembered the cigarette hanging from Reithermann’s mouth when he had watched me at Anna’s wedding. I suspected if I said anything, he’d come over and blow it in my face.

  Sounds were abnormally sharp; the shift of Tony’s clothing as he got up from the piano stool and strolled away. His footsteps were quiet, measured; then there was the impatient scraping and rap of heavy boot heels as Reithermann did something. They exchanged a few low-voiced remarks. Tony’s voice was mellow, humorous, the other’s hard and tight and angry.

  Tony said something about Niklos being slow but trustworthy, then Reithermann uttered a lot of nastiness about Alec, then Tony said, “He’ll listen.”

  Reithermann’s language was peppered every two or three words with the usual X-rated cursing. If I cut the worst of it out, he more or less snapped, “You’d better be right, but I don’t believe for a minute he’s pissant enough to give a shit about this half-breed American bitch, unless we can swap her for your sister. Dammit! He’s got to be up to something. I wish cell phones worked in this hellhole.”

  Tony sighed, walked back in my direction, and a pleasant weight settled gently over my limbs. I opened my eyes. An embroidered and fringed cloth covered me. Golden threads glinted and shimmered. Tony said apologetically, “It’s the piano cover, but it should suffice.”

  “Thanks,” I said, surprised it took such an effort to speak.

  A cool lassitude was stealing over me; except for the increasing throb in my left shoulder, I felt as if I were floating in a swimming pool. My eyes closed again. There was silence for a while (or maybe only for a few seconds; my sense of time during this episode was completely distorted) and my thoughts went to Alec. Was he out there, or was that a lie?

  I remembered Alec walking through the milling, talking, glittering crowd of dancers in the ballroom. I remembered promising to dance at midnight—

  I remembered promising not to leave the city.

  I opened my eyes. “You can’t do that,” I said.

  Tony’s back was to me; he was standing near a window, but he turned quickly.

  I said as firmly as I could, “I won’t be a party to it, making him choose between me and your sister.”

  “But it’s out of your hands, cousin.” Tony’s smile was warm and kind, with emphasis on the word cousin. “You’re here. And as you put it so aptly a moment ago, you’re not going to be vaulting any walls—”

  “I won’t be a part of it,” I said desperately, trying to sit up. A nasty feeling congealed in my guts. I couldn’t fight it back. “I won’t, I can’t put him in that position.”

  “You should have thought of that when you crossed the border,” he replied gently.

  Not when you tried to escape, or even when you left the city to come up here with my mother.

  The disorienting sensation that two conversations were bound up in the same words silenced me. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep track of one of them, but what I saw was myself and Alec standing in my room, and Alec putting the necklace on me: the wordless offer again.

  I said fiercely, “I hope he turns you down.”

  Tony had dropped back on the piano stool, and sat with his hands propped loosely on his knees. A boot scraped on wood behind me. Tony’s fingers gripped his knees, then relaxed, and he murmured, “So do I.”

  Then he ran his fingertips across my forehead in a light caress.

  Reithermann made a noise of disgust.

  It bothered me I could not see that creep. It was like knowing a hungry carnivore is prowling and drooling behind you, but I ached too much to try turning my head to keep an eye on him. What could I do anyway? I’d tried my escape and lost, and that was while armed, without a bullet in my shoulder.

  But I was not going to give up.

  I closed my eyes again. The pounding in my head had steadied to a constant ache, and nausea flickered through me at my slightest move, which made me disinclined even to open my eyes again.

  Sudden noise. Thuds, voices talking. I tried to gather energy to look, listen . . .

  Reithermann’s voice stabbed the air: “Anton.”

  Tony got up. Walked to the door. The voices melded. I was too tired to concentrate—

  I must have fallen asleep, because I woke when a sharp pain under my chin pricked into my foggy mind, like lightning in a midnight thunderstorm.

  My eyes flew open to see from the unwelcome perspective of pointee the steel tip of a hunting knife lifting my chin. Beyond that were the nastiest, coldest, angriest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen in any human being. Reithermann’s thin lips creased into an anticipatory and utterly humorless smile.

  In my head, Bertie said sadly, And now the mulligatawny comes to a boil.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE KNIFE SLOWLY slid from under my chin.

  Reithermann flicked it away, then casually tested its blade with one leather-gloved finger. He did this right at the level of my eyes, about two feet from me. He was sitting on Tony’s piano stool, his khaki tunic rumpled and half-unbuttoned. A day’s growth of beard did nothing for his hard-lined face. A cigarette hung from the corner of his tobacco-stained lips; I looked away, trying to suppress a shudder of revulsion.

  His travesty of a smile widened. “So you’ve appeared to put in a claim for the family treasure.” He then added gloatingly, “And you staked it in Alexander Ysvorod’s bed. I find that resourceful. Enough to grant you a small share, should we decide to let you live—”

  From behind came the scrape of a shoe and a word bitten off. I made a huge effort and turned my head. Three unfamiliar men stood on the other side of the room.

  The guy in the center stood stiffly, his hands straight at his sides. He wore a Vigilzhi tunic, and his face was pale and set. Then I saw the heavy-gauge pistol pressed into his side by one of the other men. The third man flanked the Vigilzhi on the other side. A rifle dangled with seeming negligence from his fingers, the butt tucked under his armpit. Both the outside men wore the same khaki that Reithermann sported—khaki that could have done with an emergency appointment at the nearest laundry—and the rifle-clown grinned with enjoyment.

  I looked back at Reithermann. So they were forcing one of Alec’s Vigilzhi to witness the poor, weak female being questioned, eh?

  Rage zinged through me. Glorious rage, with more firepower than the most supercharged zhoumnyar could provide.

  Reithermann gave me that grin, like he was waiting for an answer. Fine. I’d answer. But one thing about sickos, my dad had said once: they love being called sickos, especially if you sound scared. So I said with puppy-dog sadness, “You are one sorry sad sack.”

  Reithermann’s smile vanished. He transferred his knife to his other hand with a gesture so slow it was almost a caress. He lifted his right hand, held it posed as he flexed it onc
e, then, crack! Hit me across the face.

  Stars exploded. My head rang like the roar from fifty warring dragons.

  “Now it is time to tell us where it is,” he finished instructively, expelling a big stinking cloud of cigarette smoke right in my face.

  “I don’t know where it is,” I replied, my voice sounding thick. My head reverberated like a gong. “And, what’s more, I don’t want to know where it is.”

  “That’s what Anton said,” Reithermann commented with such fake disappointment it was obvious he was putting on a show. “He insisted he knows how to get intel from smart-ass girls. I don’t think so. I think it’ll be much faster my way.” He flicked another look at the audience, then raised the knife and grinned at me. “As well as fun.”

  It’s a show, it’s a show, I thought. He wants me scared and broken. Because . . .

  “A Freudian would have a field day with you.” I tried for bravado, though my voice shook.

  He backhanded me harder, then closed his fingers into my hair and yanked so hard my eyes teared. As he jerked my head back and pressed the knife against my neck, he sent another assessing look at the three men.

  He wants me broken to force Alec to surrender.

  He began describing in a low, venomous voice the things he enjoyed doing to people, to “smart-ass girls.” My head hurt too much to comprehend every word—not that I wanted to. I was creeped out enough by the gratification in his voice.

  I had to send a message to Alec—if I didn’t surrender, then he shouldn’t, either. The only way I could see to do it was to make the audience laugh.

  When Reithermann paused expectantly, I said, “Let’s play horse. I’ll be the front end and you be yourself.”

  There was a snort from the bully with the pistol. Reithermann raised a fist—then Tony spoke from somewhere behind, in a voice of lazy indifference. “I’m sure the fellow has gotten the idea by now, don’t you think? At any rate Alec will, and we’ll lose the cover of darkness in less than an hour.”

  Reithermann tweaked my earlobe painfully. “You and I will have plenty of time together soon.” Another tweak. “You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”

  “Like a tax audit,” I snapped hoarsely.

  Reithermann got up, making a short gesture with his knife. His minions jerked their Vigilzhi out of the room.

  As their footsteps clattered away I leaned my aching head back on my pillow, and took refuge in memory. . . sitting on the balcony of Ysvorod House after the concert in the cathedral, with distant music playing on the soft summer air. Alec and I in sitting the library, firelight illuminating his face as we talked. Alec and I standing side-by-side looking out over the city of Riev, as the children practiced in the—

  “Kids?” he’d asked. When we were inside, he hadn’t reacted to the sound. Nor had I noticed his lack of reaction. I’d been too distracted by everything he was telling me.

  The flute music on the mountainside, leading me to the sign posts. Vrajhus, Miriam had said.

  After what I’d seen this interminable night, it seemed more unbelievable to blame hallucination, or somebody tricked out in costume, or any other mundane excuse our brain produces in order to put a safe box around the inexplicable in order to control it. Tame it. Make it safely ordinary.

  Those children were ghosts. They had to be telling me something—and Alec couldn’t see or hear them, because he was so intent on . . .

  He had been telling me something. Yes, the story about the festival, about the figures in the church. Something above that story, or below it, or behind it—something important, I had sensed, when I saw his expression as he gazed on those peeling plaster figures. The ghost girl gazing on them as well.

  Telling me—

  He’d been showing me the heart of his country. If the people were the hands and eyes, the economy the spine, this festival was the heart . . . and the heart sheltered—

  Mary’s face.

  “I will, soon,” he’d promised. The statues, he would change the statues . . .

  He was showing me the treasure.

  That’s it, I knew it. It had to be. The symbolism was so right. And if so, what an irony! I tried not to smile as I thought: I know after all, Captain Sicko Reithermann, I’d stake my life on it—

  And I’m probably going to have to.

  I sighed. If only I wasn’t so tired, didn’t ache so much—

  Voices. Indistinguishable.

  “Time to go, love,” Tony spoke softly, from close by. And then, even more softly, his breath warm on my ear, “Keep your head close to me. Whatever happens.”

  I watched with rather detached interest as he picked up the edges of the piano cover, its fringes dancing in the lamplight, and wrapped them securely about me. Then he slid an arm beneath my back, and the other beneath my legs, and lifted me up.

  I couldn’t keep back a hiss as a fresh battery of protests were registered by my whole left side. My hands dangled loosely in the warm cover, and I realized how insecurely they were tied. If I could move my left hand, I could probably slip the knots.

  Sure. If I could even lift my left hand—

  A cold pressure at my temple startled me. I saw from the worst possible angle (again from the position of pointee) that Reithermann was holding a heavy-caliber handgun to my head.

  I felt like saying to Tony, “What do you expect me to do?” but his attention was not on me. He started walking, Reithermann close by with the pistol pressed hard against my skull, my loose hair swinging against Tony’s side. They progressed slowly from the room, my head pinned between Tony’s shoulder and the pistol so I could only see out of my left eye. Time measured out in the steady lump-lump of Tony’s heart as we passed down an opulent hall, then through a heavy stone archway, and down a low-ceilinged hall with a cross-draft of stone-damp air. I caught a glimpse of silent faces in a doorway, men’s faces, and once I heard the sound of a woman speaking in a low, angry voice.

  More stairs, then a heavy door creaked open. Cold outside air fingered my hot face, fresh and pure and sweet.

  I breathed deeply. Heard feet crunching on gravel and a distant twitter of morning birds; overhead the stars were shining through the hazy wisps of clouds. Tony’s and Reithermann’s steps were distinct as they progressed across a wide yard.

  Then they slowed. Rolling my left eye as far as I could, I recognized the front of a jeep.

  Reithermann stopped, hesitated, said shortly to Tony, “Get in.” He backed away slowly, keeping the gun trained on me: I gazed straight up the barrel.

  I closed my eyes—and two things happened.

  A meaty thud close to my ear—Tony jerked. “Govno,”Tony grunted, and dropped me. That is, almost dropped me; his left arm slackened but he sank down to his knees, which broke my fall to the ground. My face hit the gravel as pistol shots fired from a distance, and then close by.

  Tony’s breathing was harsh. Ignoring the crawling sensation between my shoulder blades, I lifted my head. Reithermann knelt at the other end of the jeep, aiming his weapon over the hood back in the direction we had just come. As I watched he fired once, twice.

  Tony grunted in pain, his breath hissing in. I wrenched my head round. Tony’s right hand hefted a thin-bladed stiletto, smeared with black; his shoulder was oozing blood.

  “Tony?” I whispered.

  His body blocked me from seeing anything to the other side. His hand dropped down, holding the knife, and he brushed his knuckles against my cheek, his pirate ruffles whispering over my hot forehead. “Retreat but not a rout,” he whispered, then he shifted his weight and raised his voice slightly. “Dieter? Over there.”

  A crunch of gravel indicating movement. Tony’s good arm flashed up, wrist snapping. The knife spun away, then Tony dropped on top of me. My face ground against the gravel and the air squashed out of my lungs.

  Reithermann yelled in inarticulate fury, and his gun went off twice, the last shot whining horribly near. The smell singed my nostrils and made me sneeze into Tony’s a
rm, which was curved around my head.

  Tony lifted himself slowly and breathed a laugh.

  “What—?” I coughed.

  A weak bluish light from the east highlighted lines of pain lengthening his face under the tousled hair, and glinted with red-gold highlights in the bristles on his unshaven chin. His right hand clutched at his left arm, which he held stiffly to his side. Darkness seeped between his fingers.

  “What happened, what’s happening?” I whispered, urgency fighting the instinct to hope.

  “I wish I’d had you up here all these weeks.” Tony smiled down at me. “The whole damn fiasco would have afforded us some fun, at least.” He threw his head back then, and said in a sharp, clear voice, “Niklos! Back off.”

  “It’s over?” Relief made my voice high, but I did not care.

  He gave me a nod, his profile illuminated, brief and pale, as he squinted off over his shoulder.

  I sighed deeply, several emotions struggling for supremacy. Annoyance, always so steadying, won. “Fun! If you mean what I think, we would have fought like dog and cat the whole time.”

  His laugh was breathless. “Maybe.” He shifted his weight, took a fast scan, then bent over me. “You’re safe from Dieter, love. The forces of righteousness are figuring it out and should be arriving shortly in full and holy wrath. I cannot see myself enacting the role of penitent—”

  Shouts in the distance were followed by a couple of shots in rapid succession.

  Tony got to his knee, and began, “I wish I could take you with me—”

  I could not let him get away with the last word. “I know where the treasure is, and I won’t tell you.” I sounded like a sulking six-year-old.

  The weak morning sun lit half his face, glowed lightly on the characteristically charming smile. I gazed back, keeping my own face stony.

  “Au revoir.” He got up, smiling down at me. “That’s a promise.”

  I heard his footsteps crunch away, then pause. There was a clash of light metal. Keys! Then his footsteps dwindled rapidly, followed by another set of footsteps arriving from a different direction.