The Blue Star by Fletcher Pratt (good novels to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: Fletcher Pratt
Book online «The Blue Star by Fletcher Pratt (good novels to read .TXT) 📗». Author Fletcher Pratt
“You found it diverting, Ser Bergelin? His Grace is very astute.”
Rodvard, sipping, perceived that a reply was asked. “Did he convince them, then?”
“Where were your eyes? Ah, over your papers. But surely you saw enough to know that conviction was beyond His Grace’s purpose? The lords episcopal will never be convinced; the lords militant are convinced already. Did you watch Brunivar when Cleudi accused him of being a follower of Pavinius, whether as Prince or Prophet?”
“No, I was writing.”
“It would have been worth your trouble. There was that something like a golden flash which always comes when a man discovers that what he has said in innocency may be taken as the product of a guilty mind.”
“Guilty?” Rodvard’s surprise broke through the guard he had set on his thought. “I am new to this Blue Star, but saw no guilt, only an honest man who would help others.”
The butler’s permanent smile came up out of his crystal. “Honest? Honest? I imagine Brunivar may answer to that. A tradesman’s quality at best; I look for it in dealers who furnish the court with pork. But in high policy, that type will hardly gain one more than a length of cold ground—which it will now do for Brunivar.”
Rodvard looked down. “Then—then His Grace was playing a game with Brunivar, to—”
“To make this public confession that he is either an Amorosian or a follower of the Prince. As you clearly discovered. The episcopals can never let that fall. They can no more have a man of such opinions as regent-apparent than they could have Pavinius for king. So now there will be an accusation and a trial and Brunivar walking the walk to meet the throat-cutter on the scaffold, for I doubt they can afford banishment. Not while Her Majesty insists on carrying through the old King’s will that makes Brunivar regent-apparent for his honesty if the throne falls vacant. But mark the astuteness of His Grace, who at the same time destroys the popular party by taking off its best leader. But I do not think more will be until after the spring festival, since to condemn Brunivar now would give him the cancellation of punishments which the festival entails.”
He gave a grunting laugh, drained his ceriso, refilled his own goblet and brought Rodvard’s up to the brim, while the latter’s thoughts whirled wildly, to cover which he asked; “The short man, always smiling, though he spoke so sourly, was the Duke of Aggermans?”
“Yes. One to watch. I have caught him thinking of schemes by which he may one day reach the Chancellor’s seat. That is why he opposes Cleudi. . . . Ser, why are you so deep in turmoil of mind?”
“I—I suppose it must have something to do with Baron Brunivar,” said Rodvard (not daring to try to conceal). “I have always heard him well spoke of as a man who thinks of the benefit of others than himself.”
The steady smile became a chuckle. “So he does. These are the most dangerous kind in politic. The next step beyond thinking on the good of others is deciding what that good will be. A privilege reserved to God. But is not His Grace astute?”
“Yet it seems to me shocking that a man who has done no wrong—”
“Ah, I see where you lead. Ser Bergelin, wrong is not in acts alone, or else every soldier would be a criminal, but in the thoughts with which they are done.” He tapped the jacket just over his heart, where the Blue Star would hang, and for the first time the smile left his face. “When you have borne one of these baubles as long as I, you will learn something—namely, that few of us are different from the rest. I saw a man in a dungeon once, a murderer, whose thoughts were better than those of the deacon who gave him consolation. To my mind, that is. You or another might take those same thoughts for hideous. Take now your Baron Brunivar, who seems so lofty to you because on one range of topic his desires chime with your own. Yet you are not his identical; watch him, I say, and you will find his gold more than half brass in another light. Wrong? Right? I do not know what value they have to one who wears the Blue Star.”
IIILet conscience die. The hours wheeled timeless past as they so often do when there is a change in outer circumstance so sharp that landmarks vanish. Let conscience die; was it true? Rodvard thought of the high ideals of service with which he had joined the Sons of the New Day—was any purpose as good as another? Lalette; his mind shot off on a sudden tangent of tenderness toward her, who fairly desired to be a good partner, it might be for her own interest, but still making two instead of one against a world; and Mathurin came in.
When he was told that Baron Brunivar was likely to be condemned only for being the best man in the state and its appointed future regent, his eyes burned like coal-fires; he said; “It is the thing we need; the people will not bear to hear it; they will rise. First gain for your Blue Star, friend.” He ran out with his nose sharpened by excitement, his eyes glowing like those of a rat.
9SPRING FESTIVAL: INTRIGUE OF COUNT CLEUDI
“Now the mask, Mathurin,” said Count Cleudi. One corner of his lip twitched (the black eyes glinting with malice). He seemed as light and strong as one of those bronze statues of the winged man, knuckles resting on the table. His own costume was a rich purple, as he glanced from the mirror to Rodvard’s face, masked down to the lower cheeks, but with the lips bare.
“The chin is much alike. Turn around, Bergelin, slowly, pivoting on the ball of the right foot. So.” He lifted his own right arm, slightly bent, dropped his left hand to dagger-hilt, and illustrated. Rodvard tried to follow him.
“Not quite right with the dagger; you are jerky. But you will hardly be dancing a corabando. Have the goodness to walk across the room. Stand. Mathurin, where does he lack the resemblance?”
The servant’s fingers came up to his lip. “The voice is almost perfect, my lord, but there is something in the movement of the hands not quite . . .”
“It is only birth that does it,” said Cleudi. “The wrist laces; he is not very used to handling them. But for the rest, Bergelin, you were born a most accomplished mimic and swindler. Remind me to dismiss you before your natural talent is turned in my direction. Now the instruction; repeat.”
“I am to be at the ball when the opera is over, at least a glass before midnight. The fourth box on the left-hand side is yours. I am to look at the doorbase of the second box, where a handkerchief will be caught. If it is white, edged with lace, perfumed with honeymusk, I am to go below and make myself seen at the gaming tables. But if the handkerchief is blue and rose-perfumed, I am to take it away and leave in its place another; then without being seen on the dancing floor or at the games, go at once to my lord’s box, but leave the panels up and the curtains closed. Someone will presently tap twice, a lady. I am to greet her with my lord’s sonnet, eat with her; declare my passion for her . . . My lord?”
“Yes?”
“What if—that is—I would—”
Cleudi shot him a gleam (containing amusement mingled with a little dark shade of cruelty and the thought of shaming him with the full statement of his quaver). “You want money, apprentice swindler? You should—”
“No, my lord, it is not that, but—.” The Count’s toe tapped, his expression became a rictus, and Rodvard rushed on with heat at the back of his neck. “What if the intrigue does not succeed, that is if you do not appear in time—”
The rictus became a bark. “Ha—why, then you must suffer the horrid fate of being alone in a secluded apartment with the shapeliest and most willing woman in Dossola. Are you impotent?”
Rodvard half opened his mouth to protest in stumbling words that he was a promised man, who thought it less than honest to violate his given word, but Mathurin tittered and (the stream of hate and fury that flowed from those black eyes!) he only made a small sound. Cleudi barked again:
“Ha! Will you be a theologian, then? It is she who should make confession, not you—by the wise decision of the Church, as I was discussing but lately with the Episcopal of Zenss. The minor priests will say otherwise; but it is a reflection from the old days, before the present congress of episcopals. Listen, peasant; is it not manifestly to the glory of God that men should seek women for their first and highest pleasure, as it is that daughters should have all monetary inheritance? Is it not also manifest that all would be under the rule of women, who have the Art as well as their arts, unless some disability lay upon them. . . . Ah, chutte! Why do I talk like a deacon to a be-damned clerk? Enough that I have given you an order. Greater things than you think hang on this intrigue, and you’ll execute it well, or by the Service, I’ll reduce you to a state where no woman will tempt you again. Now take off that finery; be prompt here at two glasses before midnight for Mathurin to dress you.”
II“But where does this intrigue lead?” asked Rodvard.
“Could not your Blue Star give you a clue?” said Mathurin. They sat on a green bank behind the hall of conference, many-colored tulips waving in the light breeze about them, and Rodvard carefully tore one of the long leaves to ribbons as he answered:
“No. There may have been something about Aggermans in it, but he was not thinking of his central purpose at all, only about how it would be a nasty joke and a revenge. What—” (it was behind his lips to ask what he should do lest he lose the power of the Blue Star, but in midflight he changed) “—what have you done toward saving Baron Brunivar? Will there be a rising?”
(There was a quick note of suspicion and surprise in the eyes that lifted to meet his.) “Nothing for now, but to let Remigorius, and through him the High Center, know what’s in prospect. There’s no accusation as matters stand; it will gain us nothing merely to put out the story that the court plots against him. . . . Yet I do not understand why he has failed to fly when it’s as clear as summer light that Florestan means the worse toward him.”
“What I do not understand,” said Rodvard, “is why the High Center has failed to make more preparation. It will be too late when Brunivar’s been placed in a dungeon, under guard and accusation with a shar of soldiers around him.”
“It would never pass . . .” Mathurin’s voice trailed off; he contemplated the lawns, brow deep, and Rodvard could not see his thought. “I can understand the High Center.”
“What would never pass? You are more mysterious than the Count, friend Mathurin, with your hints here and there.”
The servitor turned on him eyes of angry candor. “Rodvard Yes-and-No, my friend, Cleudi is right in calling you more of a moralist than a churchman is. By what right do you question me so? Do you think I am of the High Center? Yet I will show you some of the considerations. It will never pass that the Chancellor should execute Brunivar and then have it proved that this fate came on him for some private reason. And now that you whip me to it, I will say as well that it will never pass that Brunivar should not be executed while we cry shame. We need a general rising, not a rescue that will drive many of us abroad. People will not leave their lives to fight until there is something in those lives that may not be sustained.”
(Conscience again.) Rodvard set his mouth. “If you wish the reign of justice for others, it seems to me that you must give it yourself, Mathurin, and I see no justice in watching a good man condemned to death when he might be saved. I heard the Baron speak out in conference, and he may yet win something there. But even fled
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