Brokedown Palace (27 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Brokedown Palace
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László put his spoon down. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t trust him,” she said. Now that she had begun, there was no going back. “I have seen how he looks at you when you aren’t watching, and Henrik controls the army.”
László glared at her. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“It means that he may very well be plotting something against you.”
“‘May very well’ doesn’t mean much. Have you any proof of these charges?”
Mariska shook her head, frustration beginning to build in her. “I am not making charges, László. I am warning you—”
That was as far as she got. There came a deep, booming rumble that seemed to come from below their feet. It lasted for the space of half a dozen heartbeats, and seemed to be only sound, yet Mariska noticed ripples in the wine in her glass. She found herself gripping the edge of the table for no reason that she could discern.
 
FAR BELOW THEM TINY STRESSES AND GRADUAL WEAKENINGS that had been building up for years finally had an effect. A support wedge, compressed and pulled by the weight of sandstone blocks, moved slightly away from the wall against which it stood. A sandstone block, worn away by nothing more than the passing of gentle air currents, shifted. The shift changed a balance that had held precariously for more than ten years, and the entire wedge, one of six supporting that block, ripped and fell. The block of sandstone tried to redistribute its weight onto the remaining five. Two of these were nearly as weak as the first had been; they lasted for no more than the drawing of a breath.
It is unlikely that the three remaining wedges could have held the block, but it doesn’t matter. The distribution of weight was
now hopelessly wrong, and the block, almost sighing, gave up, cracked, and fell. Floor tiles, supported by wedge and block, caved in and collapsed. Hundreds of pounds of material landed in the cellar, breaking a stairway and scattering more sandstone. Wood and tiling and sandstone lay at the bottom, choking in dust created by their own destruction.
On the other side of the cellar, more sandstone was supported by more wedges. These tried to absorb the additional weight—and succeeded. They didn’t like it, and anyone listening would have heard them complain loudly, but, for the moment, they held.
 
WHEN THERE WAS SILENCE ONCE MORE, MARISKA FOUND SHE had been holding her breath and exhaled. They all looked at each other and around the room.
László broke the silence first. “What was that?” he asked in a whisper. No one answered him.
“I’ll go look,” said Vilmos, starting to rise.
“I’ll go with you,” said Miklós.
László said, “No, wait. We will be told soon enough, and I want all of you near me. If we are under attack I don’t want to have to send someone looking for you.”
“But we need to find out what it is,” said Miklós.
“Everyone knows where I am,” said László. “Someone will—ah!”
This ejaculation was caused by Viktor’s appearance at the doorway. The captain made a brief bow to the King.
“Out with it,” snapped László.
“Your Majesty, there has been an accident.”
“Accident?”
“A section of the floor, near the main doors, has collapsed.”
László squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then opened them. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, Your Majesty. That is, no one was hurt seriously. Károly—the door guard—twisted his ankle getting away.”
“Very well.” He was silent for a moment. To Mariska, it seemed that he was aging before her eyes. “Have it cleaned up. And rig a plank or something so we can get in and out.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
When Viktor had left, László turned to Vilmos. “See about helping them.”
Vilmos nodded. He started to rise, then froze, half in and half out of his chair. His eyes grew wide, and it seemed to Mariska that he grew pale. Then, with a speed that astounded her, he was through the doorway.
László said, “What was that about?”
Even as he spoke, it came to her. She glanced at Miklós, and saw that he, too, realized what had happened. She said, “The floor in front of the main door.”
Miklós nodded. “The norska.”
Mariska and Miklós rose as one and headed for the door.
“Miklós!”
They both turned. “Yes, László?” said the Prince.
“Stay with me. I’ll want your advice.”
He glanced at Mariska. She read his indecision, then saw him suddenly yield. He turned and nodded to László. Mariska continued up through the Great Hall. Andor was on his feet, looking around almost desperately.
“Mariska, wait a moment,” he said.
She shook her head and kept walking. A moment later she heard his footsteps behind her. She ignored him, hurrying to the stairway and down to the main floor. She came near the entrance and saw a ring of guards and servants around it.
She repressed a desire to push them aside. Even now, she thought, I must maintain my role. Especially now. She gently
cleared her throat and allowed a servant to see her, look startled, and cry, “Make way!”
By this time Andor had caught up and was at her elbow. A path was cleared for her, and she walked up to the edge of a hole in the floor, perhaps twenty feet by fifteen. She looked to the side, and saw that part of the hallway containing the stairway down to the cellar was gone, too, leaving two wooden beams hanging limply from the ceiling and swaying gently. The air was alive with dust motes, shimmering where the light came through the partially opened door to the courtyard. The stairway to the cellar had apparently collapsed too. The effect of it all made it seem to her like an open wound in the Palace, already festering around the edges with bits of broken floor tile. Yet perhaps the most dreadful part of it was how even and rectangular the hole appeared, despite the jagged edges.
Someone said, “Careful, my lady.” She ignored him and looked down, but saw only a pile of broken sandstone. At that point, she heard a cry, and knew that it was Vilmos’s voice.
She turned to the guard nearest her. “Help me down,” she said.
“Mariska,” said Andor, “I’m sure it is nothing but the norska. There is no need—”
She turned to him. “Keep still.” He jumped as if stung, and opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. She looked at the servant she had spoken to. He hadn’t moved. She read the consternation on his face and interpreted it.
“It is not necessary,” she said, “that you find a dignified manner to help me down. It is not a dignified request. Just do as I say. At once.”
Someone muttered something about a rope ladder, and the servant rushed off. He returned a moment later with the ropes bundled under his arm. He and several others held on to one end as the other was lowered into the hole. She gingerly stepped onto this, wincing as her skin struck the edge of the pit. She used one hand to
hold onto the rope, the other to keep her gown close around her legs. They slowly lowered her onto the pile of rubble.
The cellar was brighter than usual, due to the light from the torches on the main floor that appeared as a wide sunbeam. She stepped carefully off the rubble and raised her eyes. Vilmos was directly before her, a norska cradled in his arms. He was stroking its fur. The twin lines of tears running down his cheeks told a story for which no words were necessary.
She hesitantly approached him. “Who is it?”
“Bátya,” he said softly. His voice choked, and he began crying with great, gasping sobs that tore her heart like a jagged knife. She looked around quickly for the others, and saw that Atya and Anya were still in their cages, staring intently at Vilmos, their noses quivering as if they smelt death and didn’t understand what it was. The other cage had clearly been directly under something. One end was smashed, and there were jagged pieces of it sticking both inward and outward. There were no norska in the cage.
She turned back to Vilmos to ask him where the others were, but saw that Húga was at his feet, sometimes standing on her hind legs, her ears working quickly back and forth. A moment more of looking showed Csecsem
. She was lying on her side a few steps from Vilmos, looking around wildly and breathing very quickly. Her flank was covered with blood. She went over to her.
“Leave her alone,” said Vilmos, without looking up.
She ignored him and knelt down next to the norska. Setting her fan next to her, she very carefully stroked the fur on the side of Csecsem
’s neck, then ran her hand down her side. When she reached her flank, the norska jumped and reached around with her fangs. Mariska barely got her hand out of the way in time.
Mariska firmly placed one hand around the norska’s ears to hold her head in place, then carefully lifted her hindquarters. This didn’t seem to bother her. She set her down again. Still holding her ears,
she parted the fur above the flank and saw a gash there, with a piece of bone showing through. She started to gag, but closed her eyes before actually doing so. She took three deep breaths, then opened her eyes again. She forced herself to examine Csecsem
completely, despite the norska’s jumping in her hands and piteous cries.
She carefully set the norska down and searched the floor until she found a splinter of wood.
“What are you doing?” said Vilmos.
“Lend me your knife.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
He handed it over, but stepped between her and Csecsem
watching her suspiciously. She cut off a small piece of the rope ladder that still hung from the ceiling, then broke it into several strands. She brought two of the strands and the splinter of wood over to Csecsem
, and knelt down next to her.

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