A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist (17 page)

“Well, we’ll have to talk about this.”

“We
have
just talked about it.”

“You’re not being reasonable about this, Bronwyn. You’re just a girl . . .”

“
That’s enough!
You says you’d help me. Did you mean it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so . . .”

“Then there’s nothing more to say, is there? And please try to refrain from public familiarities. My name is
Princess
Bronwyn.”

With a strangled cry of almost superhuman exasperation, the duke flings himself from the room, unknowingly benefitting from a fortunate automatic reflex that causes him to open the door before passing through it.

“A little hard on the lad, aren’t we?” comments the baron as he blows a negligent smoke ring at a bust of Mathias’s grandfather.

“Oh! he just infuriates me!”

“He only thinks that he’s protecting you.”

“Who asked for his protection? I’m not a fragile
objet d’art
for him to lock into some curio cabinet. Besides, he’s
not
really thinking of me. He’s just worried about how it’s going to look if his duchess-to-be is seen wearing trousers or carrying a revolver.”

“Isn’t that something to consider?”

“Who cares? This duchy is only what? four or five hundred square miles? And mostly farms at that. What about the Empress Shoongler of Peigambar? She led her own armies into battle, wearing armor and everything . . . she even had armor made to fit her when she is pregnant . . . and she’s a national heroine.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. But that’s Peigambar and that is a long time ago. You’ve got to try and look at this from the duke’s point of view.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Milnikov answers with a sigh.

“Is it time to eat yet?” asks Thud.

“What do you think I should do, Thud?”

“Huh?” Being asked for advice is something new and Thud needs to buy more than a few seconds’ worth of thought, which for him an inarticulate sound and a blank expression readily purchases in wholesale lots. The princess had never before solicited his opinion about anything. Thud isn’t certain if he even
has
any opinions. His query about the proximity of luncheon is about as deep a judgment as he has ever devised. However, this is not to say that Thud is not capable of abstract theorizing; who really knows of what Thud is capable? Certainly not Thud himself.

“Should I do what Mathias wants,” Bronwyn elaborates, “or should I do what I want?”

“Why would you do what Mathias wants?”

“I guess because I love him.”

“Does he love you?”

“I don’t know; I thought he does.”

Thud ponders that for a long moment.

“Does he do what you tell him to?”

“I don’t know if he’d do something like this, though he’s told me many times that he’d do anything for me.”

Thud has to think even longer.

“If he’ll do anything for you, then why doesn’t let you do what you want?”

“That would be too logical, Thud.”

A peculiar shudder quivers the big man’s body, as though someone had just thumped an enormous gelatin mold. It is a shiver of delight at being told that he has just come up with an idea that is
too
logical. What next?

“Why don’t you just do what makes you feel happy?”

“I don’t know what that’d be, Thud.”

“I mean happy forever, not happy now.”

Bronwyn looked at the giant for a very long moment.

“Thud, I’ve never told you that I love you, have I?”

“No.”

“Didn’t someone mention that they are hungry?” asks the baron.

“I did,” replies Thud.

“Then shall we adjourn?”

* * * * *

Several days pass before Bronwyn sees the duke again. Things are palpably different, which she regrets less than she might have expected. Mathias is much too much of a gentlemen to go to any extremes over the matter, he is cordially polite without ever becoming overly formal, a gesture Bronwyn might have resented but for the cheap expression of hurt feelings it could easily have been.

Three weeks separated Bronwyn’s wholehearted surrender to the reptile and the detonation of her sleeping chamber. In that time she has grown to be almost passionately fond of the young duke, or so she has thought. There are neither many waking nor sleeping moments when the two are not entwined. They go everywhere together and every moment spent away from the duke has made Bronwyn nervous and irritable. As soon as he leaves her sight she begins looking forward to seeing him again and begrudging each interfering minute that separates them. She has never been in love before and enters into the unfamiliar enterprise with all the enthusiasm and abandon of any newly converted amateur. She possesses reservoirs of maudlin sentimentality she has never dreamed existed; some critical function of her brain foregoes its duty and its dereliction allows her to regress into cooing baby-talk and saccharine fondling. The cuteness of it all would sicken her had not her objectivity been anesthetized.

Still, there is some rebellious part of her brain that has not cared for the emotional dependency she is developing. Are you really that weak? it asks. Would you really fall to pieces if you were separated from your precious duke for any length of time? And, the really nagging question: are you really prepared to sacrifice the individuality you have always vaunted in exchange for the security the duke offers? A security, the rebellious node points out, that takes the form of exactly the kind of life you have spurned back in Blavek?

She doesn’t know. The personnel of the castle, to say nothing of the people of the town and country, look upon the two lovers with compassionate and bemused glances, for they, too, are very fond of their duke. They are glad to foresee the possibility of the young man’s domestication and highly approve of the sorrel-haired princess whose intelligent and serious mien have so impressed them that they easily forgive the excesses of her
amour
. Wherever the couple go, had they been aware of their surroundings, they would have seen and been charmed by the genially amused, adoring and familial smiles and friendly compliments strewn upon their path like rose petals.

The duke had, of course, instigated a full-scale investigation of the bombing, but with little immediate result. It is clearly evident that the infernal machine had been smuggled onto the castle grounds by a bogus workman (or a
bona fide
workman who had been bribed or coerced into doing the deed). This would have been easy enough since the men repairing the wall had been constantly coming and going for days, carrying all manner of materials in and out, none of which are ever inspected or questioned. What is more than a little disturbing is the realization that a common laborer, however easy it would have been for him to have smuggled a bomb onto the palace grounds, would never have had the opportunity to place that same bomb within the palace proper . . . and certainly not in the princess’s room. There had to have been connivance. But with whom?

It is a difficult matter for the duke; there are no castle personnel whom he thinks he cannot trust, yet it is apparent that some one of them had abetted the attempted murder of the princess. He interviews them all, a painful process, since most have been employed by the duke’s family for many years. Some in fact have spent their entire lives in the service of the Strelsaus, as had one or more generations before them. To even suggest that their loyalty might be in question is an undeserved and unearned insult. Nevertheless,
someone
is guilty; notwithstanding, everyone appeared innocent.

“What are the chances of finding the workman who brought the bomb in?” Bronwyn asks.

“Slim, probably,” replies the duke.

“Well, then, I had an idea concerning that. If it are one of the regular workmen, then you’d be right; there’d be about as much chance of finding the guilty party as there is of finding out who put the bomb in my room. But what if it
aren’t
one of the regular workers?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, all the men are laborers from the town, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re probably to be trusted no less than anyone working permanently here in the castle. It’s clear to me there’s no regular employee of the castle nor citizen of Lesser Piotr who would betray their duke. Their affection for you is just too obvious.”

“Oh, you exaggerate!”

“No, it’s true.”

“Well, I know they
like
me, but . . .”

“They’d worship the ground you walk on if the bishop would allow them.”

“Oh . . . “

“The point is, I don’t think anyone from Diamandis or Lesser Piotr is the culprit.”

“Who, then?”

“Obviously someone from outside.”

“Well,
obviously
. I meant, do you have any specific ideas? It’s been pretty clear all along that your brother or Lord Roelt is ultimately behind this outrage. . . it’s their agent I’d like to find.”

“Diamandis Antica is only a few miles from here, why couldn’t the villain have come from there? Payne or Praxx could have sent or hired someone . . . in fact, I think all of us have forgotten about Praxx being here when I arrived.”

“But he didn’t know for certain you are coming, or that you did finally arrive. Besides, he left Lesser Piotr the day you got here.”

“How certain are you of that?”

“Fairly certain, at least. There didn’t seem to be any point at the time in making an issue of it.”

“And I’ve been wondering; why would Praxx have come here anyway, of all places? And why did he come personally? He would have done either only if he’d been absolutely certain that I is going to be here.”

“How could he’ve possibly known that? You told me yourself you came here completely by chance.”

“I know, I know. But he found out somehow. And if he is certain I is coming to Diamandis, then there would be no way he would abandon his interest so easily.”

“You think Praxx is still here, then?”

“I don’t know. I would suspect that he’s not far, while on the other hand I don’t think he trusts Payne enough to leave him alone in Blavek for very long. But he could’ve left agents here.”

“There are no strangers here in Diamandis, other than you, Thud and the baron. They would have been noticed immediately.”

“That’s why I thought of Diamandis Antica. There’re always foreigners there, from the ships; no one pays them any attention.”

“And, you know, I believe that’s where my foreman hired most of his heavy laborers.”

“There it is, then. At least one of the men working on the wall is an agent of General Praxx. I think we need to talk to your foreman.”

“You don’t think he . . .”

“No, no, of course not. But he might have some clues for us.”

The foreman is summoned and soon appears. He is a badger-like man in his mid-fifties who, while obviously a martinet with his laborers, is all fawning obsequiousness in the presence of the duke and princess. He twists his cloth cap in his grubby, hairy hands until it resembles a greasy rope while drops of oil and small insects are wrung from it.

“How might my humbleness be of service to his Lordship and her Highness?” His gravelly voice tries to whine, but unsuccessfully. It is a terrible sound.

“How many men did you hire to restore the wall?” asks the duke.

“Just twenty men, your Lordship, sir, not countin’ the big fellow, Mr. Mollockle, her gracious Highness the princess’s friend, your Lordship, sir.”

“Do the same men show up every day?” asks Bronwyn.

“Oh, yes, your Highness, if they know what’s good for ‘em, if her Highness will forgive me for talkin’ so rough-like.”

“And how many showed up today?”

“Well, your Highness, nineteen, not countin’ your friend Mr. Mollockle.”

“Only nineteen? Are there twenty yesterday?”

“No, your Highness, there hasn’t been but nineteen since the day of the explosion, if your Highness will forgive me for referrin’ to that unfortunate incident, in case it are somethin’ your Highness finds personally offensive and would rather forget.”

“Is it the same man who’s been missing since then?”

“Now that your Lordship mentions it, it has.”

“What’s his name?” asks Bronwyn.

“If your Excellencies will forgive me for a moment, 1 have a list right here,” he whines as he fumbles in his pockets. His clothes look as though a rake and hoe would be more appropriate instruments with which to search them. And, in fact, they do indeed look as though they had already been raked and hoed.

The foreman discovers a limp piece of paper so greasy as to be transparent. It is scrawled all over with thick, black crayon lines.

“Here it is, your Worshipfulnesses. Let me see . . . Poomar Transplagnareen, Bulno Wun DaDa, Porkalla Tommassaari . . . Ah! here he is: Ugler Pataskala. He ain’t shown up for work since that unfortunate day.”

“Since the day of the explosion?”

“Yes, ma’m, your Highness, beggin’ your pardon for my obliquity.”

“Where is this Pataskala from?”

“Well, your Highness, I found ‘im in Antica, like the others . . . you get your cheapest labor there, you know . . . but I think that he come off one o’ the ships that is in then.”

“You don’t know which one?”

“No, sir, I’m right sorry I don’t, if your Ladyshipness will forgive my dreadful awful ignorance.”

“Are any of the ships from Tamlaght, do you remember?” asks the princess.

“Well, your Highness, ma’m, I’m not sure I recollect, but I seem t’ think that at least one was.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“Not exactly, your Highness sir, just that he is very short and strong, with real long arms, like a monkey.”

“That’s all you can remember?”

“I’m awful dreadfully sorry, your Excellencies!”

“It’s all right. You’ve been very helpful. You may return to your work now.”

“Thank you, your Lordship! Thank you your Highness! Thank you! Thank you!” And the man exits, backwards, bowing all the way, bumping into the furniture until he finally finds the door.

“All right,” says Bronwyn, with finality. “I’ll be off for Diamandis Antica in the morning.”

“No, you’re not,” countered the duke with equal finality.