Ventus - Karl Schroeder (good short books TXT) 📗

these wagons looked awfully familiar. Then he looked past them, and understood why.

Turcaret’s steam car sat wreathed by smoke and mist a little down the road. The controller himself stood next to it talking to a pot-belled man in greasy velvet robes. Axel passed the lead wagon and walked up the center of the road to meet Turcaret.

When he spotted Axel, Turcaret turned and casually waved. He was a tall man who appeared forever to be posing for his own portrait. He wore a red velvet riding jacket, and spotless black boots. He stood ramrod straight and held his chin high so that he could look down his long, pointed nose at Axel.

“Ah, the wandering agent of Ravenon,” he said. “I see you made use of my suggestion to visit the Boros. How is the lady May?”

“Never better, sir.” Axel peered into the pall of smoke around the steam car. He hated Turcaret. “Having a little mechanical problem?”

“Nothing we can’t fix. I’ve sent a man ahead to tell Yuri we’re arriving. I trust you’ve found the Boros’ accommodating?”

“That we have.” What was Turcaret doing here? He had outlined his travel itinerary at length in several tiresome dinner conversations prior to their arrival at Castor’s. Cal had decided to take up the hospitality of the Boros family precisely because Turcaret was not expected to come here. The fewer people to compare notes about them the better.

Might as well admit surprise, he thought. “And what brings you here? I thought you were heading straight for the capital after Castor’s?”

“Oh, I was.” Turcaret smiled one of his strangely infuriating, smug smiles. “But then I was given some information that I thought Yuri simply must know about. So I thought it best to come here directly.”

Axel felt his smile grow a bit wooden. “Information? What information?”

“Oh, that would be telling,” said Turcaret.

“Yes, well… I hope to see you at dinner, then?” Axel remounted his horse.

“Oh, you’ll be seeing me, Mr. Chan, count on it.” Turcaret smiled again, and turned back to inspecting his steam car.

This can’t be good, Axel thought as he spurred his horse to a trot. He’d had a very good time here at the Boros estate, but the worm was in the apple now. What would happen if Turcaret and Yuri compared notes? Maybe nothing…

But he would start packing anyway, he decided, just as soon as he’d told Calandria the news.

10

On the night of Turcaret’s arrival, Jordan awoke somewhere around three A.M. For a moment he thought he must be back in Armiger’s mind, because the sound that had awakened him was the sound of metal striking metal: clashing swords. He sat up, and looked around. This was definitely the tower room, with its odd triangular stonework. The sound had come from the window. Outside it was the courtyard of statues.

The sound was faint and intermittent. For a few seconds he thought he might be imagining things. Then it came again.

And again, silence. Jordan pictured two figures circling one another, in unspoken agreement that no alarm should be given. Unless one was already dead?

He rose and padded quietly to the window. The smell of the rain which had cascaded down all evening came to him. Calandria slept in her usual comatose way, limbs flung akimbo, body entangled in the sheets. Jordan stood on his tiptoes and peered down at the darkened well of the courtyard.

His scalp prickled. He had never seen the courtyard after lights-out. Not even the glow of a lantern filtered down from the tall windows of the manor. Lady Hannah Boros’ statues posed like dancers at some subterranean ball, who needed no light, whose music was the grumble of bedrock settling and whose dance steps took centuries to complete. Jordan had no doubt, after seeing the manse, that such places existed.

One of the statues leapt out of place and dodged behind another. Jordan heard labored breathing and the slide of metal on stone. Shadowed darkness near one wall roiled, showing another figure in motion. Jordan’s breath caught, and he pulled himself up farther to look straight down.

These two seemed to be alone. If there were seconds to this duel, they must be invisible in some darkened doorway. Jordan doubted there was an attending physician present; there was the grimness of vendetta about the silence and darting motion of these men.

Holding onto the edge of the window was hard. The opening was little more than an arrow slit, meant to provide light and a good firing point if one pulled up a chair to stand on. The chairs in the Boros manor were huge, heavy and old, and he was bound to wake Calandria if he tried to drag one over. He clung as long as he could, catching frustrating glimpses of movement below. Then he fell back, flexing his arms in frustration.

If he awoke Calandria, she would order him to stay here while she investigated. No way he was going to let that happen.

The whole thing was probably none of his business… but Turcaret’s steam car had puffed into the estate this afternoon. Where Turcaret went, bad news followed, Jordan had decided. And Jordan knew that Axel and Calandria had decieved Turcaret; they were both worried about his arrival. It was always possible, he told himself as he headed for the door, that one of the embattled shadows downstairs was Axel Chan.

He raced down the steps, slowing to a loud skip as he reached the first floor, and poked his head around the corner of the archway. Directly ahead was the door to the courtyard; to either side long halls led off in dark punctuated by coffin-shaped opals of light from the windows. These halls connected the tower to the main manor house at ground level.

A black figure reared into sight in one of these lighted spaces. It crossed the beam of crooked light, then disappeared again in shadow. He watched for almost a minute, until it appeared again in a lozenge of lunar grey farther down the hall.

Though the night watchman must be a thirty meters away by now and facing the other way, Jordan still held his breath and tiptoed very quietly across to the door. He eased it open, letting in a breath of cold, misty night air.

Jordan felt exposed just peering around the door jamb. The statues seemed to be staring at him. Aside from them, there was no sound at all now.

The two men might still be circling in the dark, only meters away for all he knew. Now that he was here Jordan had no idea what he was going to do. Sound the alarm? That would be the sensible thing to do—but this was doubtless some political feud, and Calandria’s dress-up games aside, he was still only a mason’s son, and it was not his place to interfere. He had already drawn the attention and wrath of the household for fainting at dinner. He was not about to compound that by waking the place, especially since the courtyard seemed empty now. Maybe the duellists had lost their nerve, and fled, or one had capitulated.

The silence drew out, and the outside chill began to penetrate Jordan’s bones so that he shivered as he clung to the door. Then he heard a cough, followed by a faint groan.

The duel was over then, but the outcome had not been peaceful. Now what? Wake the household? Run back for Calandria, tell her a man was bleeding to death in the courtyard?

‘So what’, she would say. She was too ruthless, and seemed to think it best if Jordan unlearned empathy as she sometime had. But he couldn’t do that.

He eased out into the night air, and paused half-expecting a dark figure to rush him from the forest of statues. Nothing moved.

He heard the groan again, and this time was able to locate its source. Huddled near one wall of the manor was a man. He held his stomach with both hands, and his mouth was open wide as he struggled to breathe. His epee lay neglected on the grass nearby.

Jordan ran to him and knelt down. The man flinched away from him. “It’s all right,” Jordan said. “I’m going to help you.”

“Too… too late for that,” the man gasped. He was tall and rangy, with a hatchet-shaped face. Lank black hair lay plastered across his forehead. He was dressed in the livery of Linden Boros’ household. “I… I lost. Let it be.”

“What are you talking about? You need help, or you’ll die.”

“I know.” Black liquid welled up between his tightened fingers. “Got me… a good one.” He gritted his teeth and raised his head to look at his belly.

“Yes, you lost fair and square. But he didn’t kill you, did he? You’ve got another chance.”

The man shook his head. “Can’t… face them. Now. Too humil—, humili—” he didn’t have the breath for the word.

“What?” Jordan was desperate that the man would die in front of him. He sat back on his haunches, suddenly angry. “You can’t face them? Is that supposed to be brave or something?”

The man glared at him.

“I’ve always admired soldiers for their bravery,” Jordan went on in a rush. “Being willing to die for your pride seemed honorable. But I guess some men are willing to die because they’re brave enough to face defeat, and some because they’re afraid of facing their friends after being defeated.” He crossed his arms and tried to stare the man down. “Sounds like you’re the second kind.”

The man fell back with a groan, closing his eyes tightly. “I’d… I’d kill you,” he gasped. “If I could stand.”

“Yeah, that way you wouldn’t have to listen to me. Cowardice again. Are you going to let me help you?”

“Go to hell.”

“What’s the problem?” Jordan nearly shouted in exasperation. “Where is everybody? Where are your friends? What’s so awful about getting yourself sewed up? Who’s that going to kill?”

“House—house rules.” The man opened his eyes again, to stare at the stars and wind-torn clouds. “Boros rules. No duelling… allowed. I call f-for help… Linden loses. Loses face. Maybe more.”

“We’ll take you to Linden’s doctor. He can cover up for you, surely?”

“Ordered… not to treat… duelists.” The man began to shiver violently.

“Oh.” Jordan looked back at the tower, which stood in black silhouette against the troubled sky. “So your surgeon won’t treat you because he’s ordered not to, and Yuri’s won’t for the same reason. I suppose it was one of Brendan Sheia’s men who stabbed you, so his surgeon certainly won’t help.” The man nodded fatalistically.

“Lucky for you I’m not a member of this household, nor one of yours, or Sheia’s,” Jordan went on. “I’ve been given no orders against helping you.”

“Are you… surgeon?”

“No, but,” he guessed, “my lady is.”

The man tried to sit up. Jordan slipped an arm under his shoulders and helped him. “How can… lady be…” A violent shiver took hold of the man. “C-c-cold.”

“Come. We’ll stand up. Then we’ll see.” Slowly and gingerly, he drew the man to his feet.

*

Calandria cursed in a language Jordan had never heard before. He needed no translation.

“Look at the trail of blood!” she snapped. “How are we going to hide him as you’re suggesting? And what if he dies? We’ll have a corpse in our room!”

“Not… my… idea,” whispered the bleeding man.

“Lie back,” she said to him. She knelt, whipping her nightdress around herself crossly, and poked at the embers of the fire. “You’re going into shock. I’m going to get the fire well up, then we’ll see to your wound.” Jordan sat with his hands pressed hard on the man’s stomach. Blood