The Mask And The Master (Mechanized Wizardry Book 2) (43 page)

Lundin flung himself upright as the locks rattled in the hallway outside.  Elia had been inspecting the corner with the chair, adjacent to the portal.  She recoiled, pressing herself against the wall as the door swung open.  Lundin was on his feet, ready to rush forward with the half-baked urgency of someone who wakes up in a crisis.

“Martext?” he said, catching himself.  The dark-skinned tech came into the room on his own two feet. His complexion was still a little ashy, but there wasn’t the same pain visible in his face, and the new bandages at his side were white as fresh plaster.  Lundin’s heartbeat slowed incrementally.

“Stars and Spheres.  Are you okay?”

“Better,” he nodded.  “They cleaned out the cut; new dressing; a tonic for the pain.”

“What was in the tonic?” Elia asked, her palms flat against the stones behind her.  “Any sensations of sickness? Weakness?  Do you feel a compulsion to answer all questions truthfully?”

Martext raised an eyebrow at her.  Before he could speak, a soft voice filled the room.  “Mister Lundin.  Come with me, please.”

Lundin started.  He hadn’t even noticed the woman standing in the doorway.  She was tall and powerfully built, with a red tabard hanging down from her broad shoulders.  From her face, she was perhaps a few years older than his mother, with close-cropped silver hair and a low, square jaw.  Apart from the tabard, she had the same utilitarian brown pants and boots and red-brown breastplate as every other soldier he’d seen so far.  There might have been a faint smile on her lips, but it could just as easily have been a trick of the candlelight from across the room.

Lundin took a deep breath and drew himself up.  “I’m not going anywhere until you people tell us what’s going on,” he said, as sternly as he could manage.

“It’s time for your audience.”

“An audience?  I didn’t ask for an audience with anyone.”

“You’ve been granted one.  Quite an honor,” she said equably.

“I didn’t ask to be granted one!”

“Which makes you all the more fortunate.  Follow me, please.”

“No.”  His fear was at a boil in his stomach, and the rising steam scoured his head clear of everything but wild defiance.  “I’m not just going to follow you!  You kidnapped us; killed other Delians; did who knows what to Dame Miri; carted us through the forest with barely any food or water; and tossed us into this hole!  You’ve dragged me this far!  If you want me to come with you, why not drag me one more place?”

The woman nodded, as if really considering his diatribe.  “Because I thought you might want to spare your assistants the indignity of seeing you leashed up,” she said.  “For their morale, you know.  But if you’d rather make a scene, it makes no difference to me.”

She leaned back into the hallway, raised one finger to chest height, and pointed into the room.  Two red-brown soldiers, a massive man and a sharp-faced woman, stepped past as she stepped back.  The woman held a wicked wooden collar, a good ten centimeters thick with jutting steel screws.  The man carried a braided leather coil in one meaty hand, circled up like a whip.

Lundin raised his hands and took an involuntary step backwards as they swarmed towards him.  His heel knocked into the uncorked jug of tea, which tumbled over with a low-pitched thunk.  Lundin dropped to his knees, scrambling to right the jug before too much of their drink ration spilled out onto the grimy stones. 
Who knows when they’ll give us more—especially if I make them mad?

“Wait, wait,” he said, raising his hands as the soldiers loomed overhead.  The man pressed down on his shoulder while the woman pulled the two halves of the wooden collar apart and clapped them back together again on either side of his neck.  As she began tightening the first screw, Lundin caught a glimpse of his two techs, past the soldiers’ legs.  Elia was frozen and staring; Martext had his eyes squeezed shut and had turned his head up to the ceiling.

“I’ll come with you,” Lundin called out as loudly as he could.

The soldiers stopped.  Lundin squirmed in the collar as the woman held it closed with one hand, her fingers still poised on the screw.  The silver-haired lady in the doorway crossed her arms over her chest.  “So now you
don’t
want to be dragged?”

“I want to be treated like a civilized person,” he said.

“Then when I offer you civilized treatment, take it the first time.  I promise you that the more cooperative you are, the better your stay here will be. For all of you,” she added, looking over to the Civics.  Elia swallowed.

“With me, Mister Lundin,” the woman said.

The collar was removed from his neck and the hand came off of his shoulder.  Lundin stood up, rubbing his neck and glaring at the two soldiers, who looked back with barely disguised good humor.  The old soldier was standing by the door.

“Be careful, senior tech,” Elia whispered.

“I’ll be back soon with some answers,” he said, trying to smile at her.  She nodded.  Martext just looked at him impassively, one hand resting on his bandaged side.  Their eyes followed him right until the door shut.

His slippers flapped noisily on the stones of the hallway.  Lundin kept his gaze down at the silver-haired woman’s boots in front of him as they marched him to his audience.  He knew he should be scrutinizing the walls, the stonework, every piece of furniture and art they passed in an effort to figure out where they were and just who was holding them.  But it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the next quickly enough so the pair of soldiers, oppressively close on his heels, didn’t trample him.

A situation like this calls for Sir T. Kelley Malcolm, not for Horace Lundin
, he thought.  Kelley would already have sized up the birthplaces and backstories of all the soldiers they’d met, and would have two different escape plans in mind, each one leaving trails of bodies behind.  And Kelley certainly wouldn’t be worried about his upcoming ‘audience,’ and what he secrets he might be asked to say (or made to say) in the presence of his insistent host. 
I was barely any good at lying to my parents. How am I supposed to resist an interrogation?

He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to hold his head up. 
So if this place calls for Kelley,
you
start acting like Kelley. 
Not belligerent Kelley—his neck was still stinging from his act of resistance—but Kelley at his sneakiest.  Lundin narrowed his eyes, and made his brain focus. 
Starting with you, O gray-haired warden.
  Whoever the broad-shouldered woman in front of him was, she’d clearly been educated in Delia.  Her accent pegged her as a citizen, once upon a time.  What about the soldiers?  Were they expatriates too?

“Can’t say I liked that collar,” he said over his shoulder to the female guard.  Her high cheekbones and long, pointy chin gave her a reptilian look; her unblinking eyes only added to the ambiance.  He pressed forward with the only question that came to mind.  “Ever tried putting it on yourself?”

“Be civil, Mister Lundin,” the older woman warned congenially, not turning around.

“Just wondering.”  The soldier still hadn’t blinked.  The man walking next to her started smirking.  “What’s your name, soldier?” Lundin asked.

“Keep walking,” he said in a grinning, nasal voice.

Can he be Delian too? 
Lundin frowned as he faced forward again.  It was hard to tell from just a few words, of course, but the man certainly spoke Delian, and without any foreign accent he could identify.  Maybe the guards who had been sent to deal with him were the ones who spoke his language.  That was plausible enough. 
Certainly more plausible than a castle full of Delians deciding to bombard Fort Campos.

They rounded a corner to a spiraling staircase.  The gray-haired woman began climbing the steps without changing her stride, but as Lundin followed her, the soldiers behind him stopped and took stations at the base of the stairs.  Lundin slowed, looking down at them.  “Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

They stood at attention, saying nothing.  The man kept smirking at him.  The older woman’s footsteps lingered in the echoing staircase.  Lundin sucked in air through his nose and followed up the stairs.

A large arched window with wrought-iron spars between the panes of glass came into view as he climbed.  Lundin looked through the window into the starry night, and saw the Tarmic Woods stretching out for kilometers and kilometers.  The window had to be four meters above the treetops, which made this castle a significant piece of work.  Furry green trees met gray-blue clouds at the horizon. 
No mountains
, he realized.  So they had to be facing west now, not east towards Svargath.  He had to find an east-facing window some time, to see how close they were to the Flinthocks, and how likely it was that Delia’s perplexing neighbor was involved in this mess. 

He left the window behind and climbed the last few steps.  The older woman was already walking towards a plain wooden door at the end of a short hallway.  The wood was stained cherry-red, with deep brown grain showing through.  Lundin’s mouth actually fell open when he saw the heraldry hanging between the top of the doorframe and the high ceiling.  The hangings were fraying at the edges, but the twisting circle of black and silver they displayed was unmistakable.

“The Haberstorm crest,” he breathed.  The woman turned, an odd light in her eyes.  “Is that some kind of joke?” he said.

She just shook her head.  She reached out to the brass door handle and pulled the portal towards her.  The well-oiled hinges swung open without a squeak.  A fireplace was crackling in the room beyond.

Despite the warmth of the room, Lundin felt the hairs on his arms standing on end as he stepped into the chamber.  He only had the barest perceptions of the expansive bookshelves, the velvet-cushioned furniture, and the great stone hearth in the corner before a man stepped forward.

Something about his face sent Lundin flashing back to his childhood, wheedling with his mother for a few more coins for the market.  Grousing, she’d counted another few pennies into his hands, and followed them up with a full one-sestarii piece.  Lundin’s eyes widened.  The youthful face stamped in profile on that coin was now looking at him, his gold hair orange in the firelight and his bright blue eyes lit with a smile.

“I present Torvald Alexander Galidate Haberstorm,” the woman’s voice came from behind him, slow and proud.  “The King of Delia.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Audience

“Um,” Lundin said.

“Please have a seat,” Torvald Alexander Galidate Haberstorm said, beckoning Lundin over to a chair by the fireplace.  The red velvet armchair with cherry-wood arms looked extremely inviting, as did the fire.  But Lundin couldn’t make his feet move, or keep his mouth shut.

“But you’re—”

“In exile?”

Torvald swept his eyes in a long, high arc from one corner of the room to the other.  Lundin followed his gaze automatically, taking in the two-tiered wooden chandelier suspended from the wooden ceiling, and the heraldic banners in each of the room’s high corners.  The room was more luxuriously furnished then their cell downstairs, but it was certainly no palace.  “Right,” Lundin whispered.

 The Haberstorm put his hands on his hips, grinning.  His hair was a splendid nest of tight golden curls, and his high-boned features had a feline poise to them.  Though he was several centimeters shorter than Lundin, the younger man was in far superior condition, judging by the fit of his royal black-and-silver leathers. 
How old must he be now?
 Lundin felt unsteady on his feet, his mind was whirling so fast. 
We still lived above the shop when Queen Tess finally got pregnant, so I was about ten... which makes him twenty-three?

“Dame Hanah, isn’t it amazing how you can always tell a technician?” Torvald said, watching Lundin with open amusement.  “The perpetual slouch; the animated hands; and that deer-like wariness around the eyes, like you might laugh at them or shoot at them any second.  But—Stars and Spheres—put them with their machines, and what a change!”

“A tribe of their own,” she agreed.  Lundin glanced over his shoulder at the silver-haired woman by the door. 
Dame
Hanah?  How many Delian nobles lived in this little forest commune?

“Mister Lundin,” Torvald said, drifting towards the fireplace.  “I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get back to your compatriots as soon as possible.  I know how loyal you must be to each other, and I’m committed to making whatever arrangement you and I come to just as advantageous for them.”

“I.”  Lundin raised both index fingers and pointed them at Torvald.  The blond man stopped politely as Lundin swung his hands around to Dame Hanah.  “Did you call him ‘the King of Delia?’”

“That I did.”

“Do you have any questions, Mister Lundin?”  Torvald said, putting his hands behind his back.  “I thought we’d cut to the chase, as Petronauts in my experience prefer to do.  But if you’d like to converse first, by all means.”

The two of them shared a quick look.  Lundin felt like they were going to laugh at him or shoot him at any second. 
 Burn me whole
, he swore when he realized what he’d just thought.  He stood up straight as a pike and forced his hands to stop fidgeting.

“What makes you the King of Delia?” Lundin demanded.

Torvald tilted his head a little, as if deciding to take the question at face value or not.  “Succession,” he said, enunciating slowly and clearly.

“But Princess Naomi is next in line for the Throne.”

“Next in line, yes, which makes her the
Heir
.  As the living elder child of the previous monarch, my mother, the much-loved Queen Tess, I am the King.”

“But… but you’re not the King.  You were removed.”

“If I may, Master?” Torvald gave Dame Hanah a single, strong nod.  Lundin pressed his fingers against his leg to still them as she began speaking, her smooth voice filling the room.

“You remember that feastday four years ago, Mister Lundin, when we prepared to celebrate of Prince Torvald’s completion of the Second Ordeals?”