It was newly night. An oil lamp burned in a wrought-iron sconce above the port, but its yellow light failed to find the princess's hooded face. She raised and released the heavy knocker, once, twice, a third time. Armand would have done it for her, if she'd asked, but he'd learned, during their days together, not to get in her way if she wanted to do something herself. There were things he was expected to do, of course, like pay for soft new boots, hooded cape, a horse. But to her credit, she had not insisted on royal, or even noble quality. He couldn't have managed if she had.
She'd been an education.
Again she knocked. A panel slid aside, showing lamplight through a grate. "Who knocks at this hour?" a voice asked.
"I have a message for Lord Brookins." She spoke in a husky tenor that could have been a young man's.
"I'll need to know who you are before I . . ."
"Shut up and open the slot. The matter is urgent."
"One moment."
Below the grate, a narrower panel opened. Through it she pushed the sealed counterfeit non-message she'd prepared for her escape from the Zandria stockade.
"This says to Duke Edward Maltby. He ain't here."
"Idiot! Of course he's not. Lord Brookins needs to see it, to hand to whoever he thinks best. I went to a lot of risk and expense to get this. Tell his lordship I'll wait here for him. Go now! Hurry!"
Armand stared, awed. She could seem helpless, even give the impression she was incompetent, but at others times . . .
"Yessir," the guard answered. "It'll take a few minutes."
Both panels closed, and Elvi turned to Armand. "You can go now," she murmured. "And do not forget, I owe you a favor. Meanwhile my horse is yours, to do with as you please."
He bowed slightly. "I'll remember," he answered, and backed away toward the two horses. He hadn't expected her to give back the horse, but here she'd no doubt have her choice of better. As for the favor . . . maybe someday, but he didn't think so. Best to keep clear of her, especially given what he'd learned of the new palace politics.
He unhitched the two horses, then mounted his, and with the smaller in tow, rode off wondering if the princess could free her father as simply as she'd gotten into the palace.
It wasn't Brookins the guard went to, but the duty sergeant, who thought a moment. "Fine, corporal," he said, "return to your post; I'll handle this." Then started off with the message, not to Brookins but to Colonel Bonde. For Brookins lacked authority of his own, and ambition for that matter, while it seemed to the duty sergeant the colonel would end up on the throne. Then, for having had too much power, Paddy Glynn would follow the king to the block.
Unless perhaps General Jarvi returned to intervene.
Ignoring the door guard, he knocked on the colonel's door himself, hard enough to be heard, but not enough to sound preemptory.
"Who is it?"
"The sergeant of the guard, sir, with a message." Then more softly: "It's addressed to Duke Edward, from Duke Marcel."
A moment later the door opened, and the tall soldierly form of Arvid Bonde stood looking out at him, puzzled. "From who to whom?" he asked.
The sergeant saluted, then held out the message. ">From the Duke of Zandria to the Duke of Kato, sir. The messenger is waiting at the message port. He asked Corporal Maggert to take it to Lord Brookins. Maggert brought it to me, and I thought you should see it first."
Frowning, Bonde took it. "Thank you, sergeant, and thank Maggert for me. You did well, both of you." He raised a restraining hand. "But stay a moment."
"Yessir. Thank you, sir."
Bonde broke the seal and unfolded the "message." The paper was blank. Stepping back into the room, he held it to a lamp and peered carefully at both sides, in case some special ink had been used. The only writing on it, though, was the two names.
He frowned. A joke? Or was the "messenger" an assassin, trying to coax him to his death? Or . . . could the sergeant be a conspirator? He'd swear the man wasn't nervous. "Just a moment," Bonde said.
If this was a conspiracy and the guard was in on it, his situation was deadly, but he'd known from the start the game was dangerous. Going into the bedroom, he took from his closet a leather vest with a light breastplate, put it on, and over it a tunic, belted and bloused. He considered a sword as well, but settled for a dagger, threading the sheath onto the belt. The entryway was narrow for swordplay, probably the reason the guards there wore short swords.
He returned to the living room, tugging on the tunic. "One never knows," he said to the sergeant. Genially.
"No, sir." As the sergeant said it, he wondered if "yessir" fitted better. But the colonel seemed comfortable with "no sir."
They walked to the message port, Bonde feeling very alert, very alive. He'd trust the guards, and treat the messenger as the main threat. "Nagy, when we get there, have Maggert open the port. I'll welcome this messenger as an honest man, unless he shows me otherwise, but have your shortsword ready, just in case."
The moment Elvi stepped into the gate house, Bonde's eyes saw through her disguise, despite the cowl, and spoke before she could. "Ah, Charles," he said, "I thought it might be you. You've grown since I saw you last, and I suppose your voice is changing. Brookins is indisposed, so your message was brought to me. It raises questions I need answered." He gestured. "Meanwhile I'll have your dagger please. No reflection on you, but things have been . . . uncertain in the palace, and it's best to observe policy. I'm sure you understand. I'll return it to you before you leave."
He watched her unbuckle her belt and remove the dagger, sheath and all. A bit clumsily; she wore a man's gloves to hide her small hands. He wondered if the idea was hers.
He dismissed Nagy, and the two of them walked alone to his apartment, not talking till they got there and he'd closed the door.
"So, Elvi," he said genially, "let me look at you."
She threw back her cowl; she was actually smiling. Good sign. He picked up the blank paper from the table where he'd left it. "What, pray tell, is this?"
She explained it honestly, then described her ride to Hasty somewhat less honestly. Armand Schubert wasn't mentioned, but the route was basically accurate. "I first heard of father's imprisonment from the West Crossing ferryman," she finished. "Who was responsible for that?"
"Ah. I hadn't planned to bring it up so soon. When he heard about the invasion, he refused to believe it, and became violently deranged. Raging about executions."
Elvi nodded. "I thought it might be something like that. I was afraid the savages would arrive here before I could. What's being done to defend the kingdom?"
Her words, her attitude, were a greater relief than he could have imagined. "As soon as I took over," he said, "I sent a battery of light cannon, the battery your Uncle Jaako left us with, to the Knees of the Misasip, along with the 1st Rifle Company. In case the invaders get past Cloud. Since then, the other battery and the 2nd Rifle Company arrived from your Uncle Jaako. I sent that battery, too. Jaako is covering the Sota River approach, and I kept the 2nd Rifles here to defend the town and palace. Actually I'm optimistic." He paused, looking more sober now. "Your father is still deranged, suspecting everyone, yourself included. He believes you left to betray him, and—talks the most terrible filth."
She seemed untouched by that, something else he wouldn't have expected. "Well," she said after a moment, "I suppose his heart was too pure to stand Mazeppa's betrayal."
He wondered if she was serious. "Clonarty was the major source of your father's problems. We all know that." Actually, Bonde knew better; Eldred had been a molli before Clonarty had come to Sota. Still, Clonarty had no doubt made him worse. "The archbishop is also in the dungeon," Bonde added, "but in a different room."
"Room" sounded better than "cell."
"Good. And you, apparently, are in charge here now. What is your status?"
"By virtue of my military rank and Jaako's absence, I'm acting as regent—acting for the army, with the support of the palace guard, until the invaders are driven out."
Nobody had actually described it that way before, but it amounted to the truth.
"And who do you suppose that new ruler will be?"
"Yourself, now that you're here. Your father intended that Mary rule in her time, being the eldest, but she's in a nunnery now, some—five hundred? six hundred?—miles away. The council will try to impose its will, of course, and Jaako may conform to avoid violence. As for me—I'll support your candidacy with whatever force is mine."
His last words took him by surprise; but they seemed politic. He coveted the throne himself, but had no constituency, or much standing with the family. But . . . if he were to marry Elvi . . . Clearly she'd changed. She might, though, have in mind rehabilitating her father as king. And Eldred would execute for treason anyone who'd had anything to do with his jailing or the regency.
Well. If she wanted her father rehabilitated, Elvi might have to disappear. Apparently no one else knew she was here. But if she didn't— Perhaps he could marry her, and share the throne. Would the Church label such a marriage incestuous? Maybe Clonarty could declare an exemption for a second cousin. They could make a deal: for Arvid Bonde, marriage to Elvi; for the archbishop, house arrest instead of the dungeon. Clonarty could perform the wedding in his own chapel.
There was another rapping at the door, and a voice, the door guard's. "Sir, some men are here with your bath water."
Bonde gestured at the door to the bedroom, and Elvi went, closing it behind her. "Good. Let them in," he said.
There were two of them, with two large water cans on a cart. He'd been expecting, then forgotten them. "You know what to do with it?" he asked.
"Yes, milord," the elder answered.
He watched them lug one of the twelve-gallon cans into the bathroom, and heard them pour it into the copper tub. Then they repeated the performance with the other, and left with the empty cans. Before closing the door after them, he spoke to the guard. "No one else tonight, Jao," he said, then shut it, thinking about the bath. Really, he coveted the royal suite, the Garden Suite, with bath house and sauna built in, fed from a cistern with water from the roof.
Elvi removed her cape and cowl, and he hung them up for her. "I suppose," he said, "you'd like a bath after your long ride." He hoped she'd decline. He liked his hot bedtime bath, but the offer was necessary. "Let me show you where the bath is." It occurred to him it lacked equipage a princess might think necessary. He opened the door and gestured at the steaming tub, with a small bench, bowl of soft soap, and towel hanging at hand. "There you are, my dear. Is there anything else you need?"
She smiled. "Yes. I'd like you to wash my back. If you're to be my husband, I'll expect it of you. This can be your trial performance."