Part 37 (1/2)

Sir Frederick took a step toward Lord Havelock, who was being similarly restrained. ”I am here to collect what is due to me, Magnus,” Sir Frederick said, sticking the needle into Lord Havelock's arm but hesitating before pressing the syringe, drawing out the horror. ”You betrayed me and washed your hands of our alliance, but I have not forgotten how you wronged me back at Knightley, and finally I shall have my revenge.”

Sir Frederick depressed the syringe.

”High treason and conspiracy,” Lord Havelock said woozily.

Sir Frederick merely smiled. ” *Yea though we roar with the fire of a mighty dragon, we are but its scales, all cut from the same mold, and of equal worth.'” He calmly wiped the syringe against his palm as Lord slumped forward, unconscious. Professor Stratford swallowed nervously, feeling his knees buckle as Sir Frederick advanced, removing a second vial of clear liquid from his case.

”Ah, Stratford,” Sir Frederick said. ”A shame for you to have come here. I actually quite liked you. And how is little Henry these days, if I may ask?”

Professor Stratford gulped, realizing that he had to lie. ”I wouldn't know,” he said. ”After the boy was expelled at the end of last term, he blamed me.”

”Liar,” Sir Frederick breathed. And then he grinned. ”But I can make use of you yet, Stratford. I could send word of my triumph back to South Britain.... Yes, dread is better than surprise in this case. And you should do nicely.”

Professor Stratford felt a sting, and then a rush of coldness in his arm.

”I'll deliver no messages for you,” he managed weakly. His heartbeat sped, and his breathing slowed, and spots danced before his eyes.

”As though ye have a choice,” Sir Frederick sneered.

And then everything went black.

On Monday night Henry was seated next to Mauritz in the hidden meeting room, helping the boy with his Italian homework before the meeting. They bent over the slim volume of Machiavelli, frowning.

Henry had warned Lord Mortensen that his Italian was out of practice, but the schoolmaster had thought he was being modest.

”Truly,” Henry had insisted, ”I've barely even looked at anything that wasn't French or Latin for a year now.”

”It will do ye good,” Lord Mortensen had said. ”Both of ye. He needs the help.”

Mauritz did need the help. At first he'd tried to demand that Henry do the a.s.signment, but Henry had quickly put a stop to that.

”I won't do it for you. You have to learn this stuff,” Henry had said with a sigh.

They weren't making much progress, as Mauritz puzzled over the simplest rules of Italian grammar.

”No,” Henry said, biting back his frustration, ”look at the words you do know. Does anything look familiar?”

”* Arte,'” Mauritz grumbled.

”Good,” Henry said. ”Now underline the words that modify it.”

Mauritz hazarded a guess.

”No,” Henry said through his teeth. ”Look at the p.r.o.noun agreement. It's feminine, so you've got *quella e sola,' see?”

”Just translate it for me, if ye can,” Mauritz challenged.

”Fine,” Henry said with a sigh. ”From the beginning: *Chapter Fourteen. That Which Is of-no, sorry-That Which Concerns a Prince on the Subject of War.' As I've said, my Italian is rusty. Shall I continue?”

”If ye want to be punched in the face,” Mauritz grumbled.

”Sorry,” Henry whispered furiously. ”This wasn't my idea. But I gave my word to help, and if that means forcing Italian grammar down your throat, so be it.”

And then Garen burst into the chamber, out of breath and brandis.h.i.+ng a copy of the Common Comrade.

”My lord,” Garen said, with a quick bow in the direction of Lord Mortensen, and a deeper bow toward the table where Henry and Mauritz sat. ”My lord prince, there is news. A Brittonian man was caught crossing the border this weekend with forged ident.i.ty papers. There is to be a hanging tomorrow in the square.”

Lord Mortensen frowned. ”Let me see that, lad.”

Henry craned his neck as the paper pa.s.sed to Lord Mortensen. He noticed with surprise that the paper was wet, and in the s.p.a.ces between the articles, violet letters were cramped onto the page.

”Sir, is that ...?” Henry began.

”Only shows up if ye dab it with the right chemicals,” Garen said.

Lord Mortensen put down the paper, looking far older and far more tired than he had just moments before. ”This could start a war,” he muttered.

”What's happening?” Mauritz demanded.

Garen bowed and explained. A man had been caught crossing the border with forged diplomatic papers. He was being held at the prisoner's asylum, and there was to be a public execution at dawn.

”No!” Henry said, surging to his feet. ”He was coming to rescue us!”

”Ye don't know that, lad,” Lord Mortensen said.

”I do!” Henry cried. ”It must be Professor Stratford.”

Henry's heart felt as though it might break his rib cage. He couldn't sit. He couldn't stay still. His hands shook as the horror of the situation washed over him.

It was Professor Stratford-he was sure of it. And if the professor had been caught, it was all his fault.

Public execution.

The phrase sounded like something out of a medieval nightmare. With a gulp Henry remembered the gallows in the public square, across from the statue of the chancellor. And then he remembered something else-Lord Mortensen's explanation of what the chancellor did to prisoners.

”The doctor has him,” Henry muttered.

”Aye,” Garen said darkly. ”Cure his health before he cure the man of his life.”

”Don't say that!” Henry cried, running a hand over his face and trying to think. But all he could conjure up was a hideous image of Professor Stratford, his lips blue and his toes turning black, strapped to a table as a faceless man in a butcher's ap.r.o.n asked him to describe the pain.

”I have to go,” Henry said. ”We have to get him back.”

”That is not possible,” Lord Mortensen said sadly, shaking his head.