01 - Honour of the Grave (20 page)

“Well, I know a thing or two about the Kopfs the prince ought to hear. Can
you take me to him?”

Carefully he set the bottle down on the ground, propped against the wall. He
made sure it was steady before turning to leave. “I’m not supposed to leave my
post, but right now, what does it matter?”

Halfhead threaded them through the winding lanes of the town. Finally they
approached a large structure, jutting out from the rock face that formed the
Castello’s only impenetrable wall. The manor of Prince Davio Maurizzi teetered
three storeys high; it was built of black and weathered timber. Wooden steps led
up to a large porch, decorated with railings of thick and crudely worked iron.
Plaster gargoyles, their once-hissing faces chipped and flattened, sat together
in peevish disarray, piled in a far corner of the porch. A roughly stitched
ensign hung from an awning; it depicted the walls of a fortress silhouetted by a
setting sun. Wrought-iron gates separated the prince’s manor from the rest of
his town; they encircled a dismal expanse of dead grass inhabited by a broken
fountain, and by a quartet of old statues, which depicted naked ancients, seated
on plinths, bereft of heads, arms and privates.

Two men in mismatched armour of hardened leather paced the length of the
porch. Halfhead gestured for Angelika and Franziskus to remain at the gate, and
went up to confer with them. The taller of the two guards shrugged
fatalistically, and Halfhead beckoned for Angelika and Franziskus to approach.
The tall guard disappeared through the oversized front door, hammered out of iron, with stylised lion faces marked out with nails and
studs. Soon the door popped open again, and they were ushered into a tiny foyer
that smelled of old leather and damp socks. From there they entered a large
chamber dominated by a long oaken table and a dozen chairs, all splendid, but
each of a different design.

“Sit down,” said the guard, leaving the room to trudge up a creaking
staircase of unfinished planking. Halfhead, it seemed, had already departed.

Angelika took a seat, next to the table’s head. Franziskus surveyed the
contents of the room. Its walls were decorated in brocaded fabric, most crimson
or burgundy in colour. It hung from the ceiling mouldings on short lengths of
wire. Burning wood glowed white and orange in a fireplace, framed by a mantle of
iron. Franziskus approached a towering cabinet of pale polished elfwood, and
toyed with the handles of its cupboards, wondering whether to open them.

“So—you have news for me,” came a smoke-soft voice from the foot of the raw
and splintering staircase. “Of the von Kopfs, was it?” His Tilean accent was
subtle, and could be heard mostly as a drifting lilt behind his words.

Angelika had never seen the prince before, but from his bearing, she could
tell that this was he. His elbows stuck out, adding majesty to his narrow frame.
Downy hair, the colour and length of a mouse’s, covered his wide-crowned head.
Round ears angled out and forward from his skull; they should have seemed
humorous, but instead suggested a pinprick alertness. Well-earned lines had
etched themselves around the comers of his mouth and nose. Despite the weary
semi-circles beneath them, his grey eyes shone piercingly at Angelika. For
Franziskus, he spared only the briefest of glances.

He wore a fox-trimmed coat that draped down to his ankles, over a long shirt
covering him to mid-thigh. It was wrinkled, and Angelika surmised that he’d just
been sleeping in it. Velvet slippers, in royal purple, swaddled his feet, which
were big and shaped like the paddles of oars. He stepped further toward the room
but stopped at its threshold, leaning against its doorless archway. He bobbed
his narrow chin at Angelika, bidding her to speak.

“I’ve spent the past few days,” she said, “on and off, in the company of two
Kopfs, who were undertaking a mission for their father. But maybe you know of
this, already.”

He blinked and shook his head. Angelika admired his skill as a liar; most men
made too great a show of their denials, but Davio’s was both bland and
plausible. “Perhaps you can begin by telling me who you are.”

“I am Angelika Fleischer. This is my assistant, Franziskus.”

“Please feel free to continue.”

“When I agreed to help the Kopfs, I was unaware of their hostility toward
you. Over these past few weeks, this place has been a good and congenial home to
me. I’ve no wish for Jurgen’s sons to turn it into a pile of tindersticks.”

He seemed to make a decision, and entered the room, moving to the cabinet.
“Brandy? I have a bottle from Angoumelle, just north of Chalons Forest. It is
very fine.”

“Yes, please,” Angelika said.

“And you?”

Franziskus refused, pulling out a chair from the foot of the table and
sitting in it. The prince curled his lip mournfully. He pried off the cork and
poured generous portions into two clay cups. He handed the first to Angelika and
watched solicitously as she tasted. Her eyes widened in appreciation. Then Davio
sat, downed his entire cup, rose, refilled it, and sat down again.

She leaned in toward him. It was as if he exerted gravity on her.

“I am glad for your concern,” he said, “but I assure you the Castello is in
no danger whatever.”

“The hundreds of people fleeing your town seem to disagree.”

“It is mere politics. The Averlanders, they wish to squeeze us, and they will—a little. They must be seen to act. It is all a show, for the other princes.
Prow-faced Jurgen will pursue his siege for a season, at the most. When he finds
our shells harder to crack than he expected, he’ll declare his objectives met
and he’ll withdraw. Sooner or later, the bright light of reason will crack
through even his sturdy Imperial skull.

“We have stores in abundance. Those who now flee, to be fleeced by the black
and yellows, they will learn that they were fools. Even the Kopfs aren’t mad
enough to waste men and munitions, with the orcs about to come steaming up from the south. It is
surely a bluff.”

“Though endearing, your faith in your opponent’s good sense is perhaps
misguided.”

“Mere alarmism,” he mumbled, laying his arms out on the table and slumping
his head sleepily onto them. A strong urge overcame Angelika to pet the fur of
Davio’s collar, and to run her hands along his muscular back.

“We’ve interrupted your slumber?” she asked him.

“Pay me no heed,” he said, straightening himself back up. “Ever since this
foolishness began, I have drifted unpredictably between sleep and waking. But
you have taken the trouble to come and see me. Please unburden yourself of your
tidings.”

Angelika started as he suddenly jolted to his feet. He refilled his cup and
topped off hers. “It is about Lukas von Kopf,” she said.

“Lukas?” He sipped his Angoumelle. “There are so many of them, it is hard to
keep track.”

“You know—the one you ordered to be kidnapped.”

She had never seen anyone raise an eyebrow as slowly as Davio did then. “I
had some person abducted? No one informed me of this.”

“Your hirelings say otherwise.”

“Which hirelings would these be?”

“The elf and the two halflings.”

“I have neither elves nor halflings in my employ. You’ve been led astray.” He
inhaled imperiously.

“You don’t need to deny it to me. The last thing I intend is to give him over
to the Kopfs. All I want is to get him out of here and far away from them. As
you know, they’ll kill him, if they get him.”

He peered into her face. “You are a lovely creature but you baffle me,
utterly.”

“And you are handsome, but there’s no time for your denials. Take me to him,
and you have my word I’ll never tell anyone of your part in this.”

Prince Davio twisted in his chair, to appraise Franziskus. “We have much to
puzzle out. Is there a reason why your assistant should be here for the rest of
this conversation?”

“He’s more trustworthy than I am, if that’s what worries you.”

“No offence, my friend,” he said to Franziskus, “but I find your presence
inhibiting.” He turned to Angelika. “An even rarer vintage of Angoumelle waits
for us in my chambers, upstairs. Perhaps you would like to sample it?”

Franziskus scraped his chair angrily across the clay tile flooring. The sound
made Angelika wince.

She rose. “I believe I will,” she said.

She moved to the doorway. Franziskus pulled her back into the room. She
removed his hand from her arm. Assuming a sheepish expression, he stepped back.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What it looks like I’m doing.”

“Is anything wrong?” Davio asked, with extreme mildness.

“My dogsbody has forgotten his place,” Angelika said, brushing past
Franziskus. “But it’s nothing to concern ourselves with.” Head high, she
ascended the stairs. Davio sneaked a glance at Franziskus before following her.

Candles of various heights appointed the princely bedchamber. They stood on
tall sticks of brass or terracotta, on nearly every surface: on a bedside table,
a desk, a squat liquor cabinet inlaid in the old Nulnish style. Brocade curtains
hung around Davio’s bed, from a frame of copper piping. The room smelled of
burnt wax and perspiration.

Fire burned in a small iron stove; Davio used it to light a taper. He lit the
candles. When he had finished, Angelika came up from behind him and pulled his
coat from his shoulders, letting it drop into a pile at his feet. She wrapped
her arms around him and ran the tips of her fingers along the tight muscles of
his chest. He caught her right hand by the wrist and pulled it to his mouth. He
kissed the wrist, her palm, the back of her hand. He gently bit her fingers.

She turned him around and pulled the shirt over his head.

Franziskus paced. He looked up at the ceiling. He heard the creaking of
floorboards. He tried to guess where the bed might be. He decided he did not
want to hear any more. He stormed out onto the porch.

The guards were laughing, rudely gesturing: clearly, they were speculating
about what precisely was happening upstairs. Franziskus summoned up all of his
aristocratic authority and disdain, and his throat. They stopped, looking
suitably abashed.

“Tell Angelika, when she asks for me, that I have gone to the Painful Coffin.”

They nodded. He proceeded down the porch and over the garden stones until he
reached the gate. He disengaged it from its latch and stepped through it. Behind
him, he heard blunted, throaty laughter.

His ears burned. He wanted to bite through his lip. He stuck his elbows out
and marched to the tavern. He did not know the exact way from here, but the
general direction was enough. There would be dead ends and wrong turns, but that
was good. It suited his mood, to be frustrated.

The streets were deserted. And quiet. The noise from outside the walls was
nothing more than a muted, distant roar from here. Every so often, a shutter
would edge open, and someone inside a hovel would peer at Franziskus, from the
darkness. He took no notice of any of this.

He practised what he might say to her.

Why did you do that?,
he would ask.

Then she would say,
Do I answer to you?

And he would say.
No, but—

And she would cut him off and say,
No “huts” about it. If anything, you
answer to me. If your oath to follow me is worth a jot.

And he would be at a loss for words.

So he would not say that. Instead he would take a different tack. He would
say,
Are you refreshed, after your romp with the prince?
No, he would not
say
“romp”.
He would say
“gambol”.
Gambol sounded even more
carefree than romp. Something said between comrades. A backslapping sort of
jape, as if he and she were not of different sexes.
I trust you had a good
roister,
he would say to her, as he used to say to his male friends, when he
was still part of the regiment.

Except that he had not had friends in the regiment, not per se. At least,
none with whom he could have off-handedly discussed romps or gambols or
roisters. He had never been able to laugh about things like that, to treat them
as if they did not matter. As if love were a flippant thing, to crumble up and use as the
kindling of idle conversation.

He would not say anything to her. He would act as if nothing had happened. As
if he had not humiliated herself by tugging so openly on her arm. By treating
her as if he had some claim on her. By once again showing her that he was a
thick-witted prig who knew nothing of her world and had no hope of ever
understanding or pleasing her.

He found himself in a cul-de-sac. He faced an empty barn, its door swinging
on its hinges. He turned to retrace his steps, but he did not remember where
he’d been. He hadn’t been paying attention. He might have come from straight
ahead, or from a curving laneway to the left, or he could even have squeezed in
from a muddy patch on the right.

A woman stepped toward him. “Good sir!” she called. She had flaxen hair and
wore a gown of green velvet. Her low bodice afforded him a generous view of
fine, firm flesh. It took him a moment to remember that he’d seen this woman
before. She’d framed herself in a doorway for him, the last time he was in town,
on the night they met the Kopfs.

“Good sir!” she repeated.

“My name is Franziskus.”

“And your family name would be? From your strong posture and the refined way
that you speak, I know you must be of a noble pedigree.” She spoke in the
charming accent of a Bretonnian, turning any hint of an indecorous “th” or “ch”
sound into a pliant V or yielding “z”.

Franziskus could not decide what to do with his hands. He was tempted to find
a wall to lean against, to seem less awkward. “I no longer make use of my family
name,” he said.

She parted her lips in mournful sympathy. She seemed to be ready to say
something, but did not.