Part 61 (1/2)
He seemed to have worked up quite a thirst, she noted sourly. When he set his gla.s.s aside and turned an eager face to her, she drew back and pressed gently, ”An answer, Sire?”
”What can I tell you, my dear?”
Was he utterly dull, or uncommonly sharp? For the life of her, she could not judge. ”Will Your Majesty consent to accept my country's offer for the sale of the Sentient Fire?”
”What was that offer again? Forty million New-rekkoes, was it?”
”That is perhaps not impossible, Sire.” Her heart beat fast.
”Hmf. Well. I don't know.” King Miltzin heaved a sigh. ”Frankly, my dear, I find it impossible to cogitate. Our mutual emotions are too overwhelming, the shared excitement too intense. Let us postpone discussion, let us abandon ourselves to the moment that we both desire.”
”No, Sire.” She pushed an invasive hand away. ”The matter's urgent, we must talk-”
”Later.” He was sweaty and panting. ”Half an hour or so and then, I give you my word as a king, we'll talk as long as you like about anything you please.” He slid a damp hand up under her skirt.
Luzelle stiffened. Half an hour. Nothing, really. She had vowed from the start to succeed at any cost. You've reminded me how much is at stake...I'll do everything I can You've reminded me how much is at stake...I'll do everything I can, she had promised vo Rouvignac mere hours earlier....You are in a position to make a difference, he had told her, and it was true; she might serve and save Vonahr, she might alter the course of history. Half an hour with the king of Lower Hetzia was scarcely a high price.
Time to clinch the sale. Technically all she needed to do was to lie still for him, but Miltzin's satisfaction would be greatly enhanced if she could counterfeit some sort of response; though just exactly and precisely what that response should be she did not quite know, for she possessed no direct experience of her own. No, nor much of indirect experience either. She came from a conservative bourgeois household wherein young ladies were required to cultivate their innocence. Her mother had furnished no information beyond the glum warning that married women owed a certain distasteful but unavoidable duty to their husbands. Her friends, once married, had waxed similarly reticent, and a pall of silence had descended over the intimate aspects of their lives. Curious. Such stringently limited contact as she had experienced with Girays had fostered the distinct impression that the wife's duty might not be so very distasteful after all. In fact-as she would never have dared admit to anyone-during the term of her betrothal years ago, she had actually longed to learn more; with Girays.
Not with this paunchy, pomade-scented stranger presently s...o...b..ring over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
Girays. How would he look at her, after tonight? Would she be able to face him at all? No matter how forgiving he might be, or try to be, matters would change forever between the two of them.
But somehow, for reasons she could not fathom, she found herself thinking less of Girays than of Karsler Stornzof. Her life was not with Karsler and never would be. Yet she thought of him now, thought of his clear eyes that saw what was true and what was right; thought of him in the Three Beggars Inn, sacrificing his chance of a Grand Ellipse victory for the sake of something more important.
Just then she had the strongest, most inexplicable sense of Karsler's presence. She could feel him standing beside her, feel the current of calm, steady encouragement and rea.s.surance flowing from him, feel it so strongly that she actually turned her head to look, half expecting to see him there.
An absurd fancy. As far as she knew, Karsler was downstairs among the guests in the Long Gallery. Yet she could have sworn that he was near, she could all but see him and all but hear his voice.
No. What she really heard was the king's heavy breathing. His hand navigated an obstacle course of silken underwear to busy itself between her legs.
An angry revulsion so strong that it was almost physical rose to choke her. For a moment intellect lost its ascendancy. She was reacting without thought, hesitation, or conscious intention when she slapped King Miltzin's face with all her strength.
LET ME THROUGH. Loveliness, stand aside, Nitz Neeper suggested, and the curtain of flame shrouding the doorway parted at once. He stumbled through into the Long Gallery, and the Vonahrishman followed.
A single sweeping glance took in the great chamber sealed with fire, the broken windows and overturned chairs, the seething crowd of terrified guests, but nowhere among them did he spy the one he sought, whose recognition validated this entire demonstration. Nowhere did he see Miltzin IX. His insides knotted, and he clutched himself with a gasp.
The gap in the fire guarding the west doorway of the Long Gallery did not escape the attention of the guests, who converged on the exit from all corners of the room. In an instant Neeper was engulfed, crushed among desperate bodies, elbowed, squeezed, and battered. He could not breathe, he could hardly see and barely think. A hurricane of howls and screams beat at his head. He pressed his hands tight to his ears, but the din smashed through into his brain. A pang of exquisite agony stabbed his vitals, and he doubled, grunting.
Masterfire had not forgotten his commission. No escape. No escape. The words echoed faintly through Neeper's mind. The gap in the doorway closed itself and the sudden furious flare of light and heat sent the frantic prisoners scrambling backward. Neeper was borne along helplessly as a bit of flotsam, until a violent collision hurled him to the floor. Twice he sought to rise, and twice the crush of frenzied humanity thwarted his efforts. Thereafter he curled himself into a ball, arms laced protectively around his middle, where internal storms raged. The words echoed faintly through Neeper's mind. The gap in the doorway closed itself and the sudden furious flare of light and heat sent the frantic prisoners scrambling backward. Neeper was borne along helplessly as a bit of flotsam, until a violent collision hurled him to the floor. Twice he sought to rise, and twice the crush of frenzied humanity thwarted his efforts. Thereafter he curled himself into a ball, arms laced protectively around his middle, where internal storms raged.
He hardly noticed that Masterfire was expanding. Big. Big. He did not see the green flames dancing joyously along the walls and mounting toward the ceiling. He did not see the green flames dancing joyously along the walls and mounting toward the ceiling. BigBigBig. BigBigBig. Dizzy, disoriented, and in pain, he did not notice that the screams of the trapped guests were waxing in crazed desperation. Dizzy, disoriented, and in pain, he did not notice that the screams of the trapped guests were waxing in crazed desperation. No escape. No escape. Nor was he fully conscious that the air in the Long Gallery, heated to oven temperatures, was growing difficult to breathe. Nor was he fully conscious that the air in the Long Gallery, heated to oven temperatures, was growing difficult to breathe.
A hand grasped his arm. He opened his eyes and gazed without comprehension into an angular dark face, vaguely familiar.
”Here, Neeper, let me help you up. Lean on me.”
Who? EatEatEat. EatEatEat. Oh yes, the Vonahrishman who had found his way to the workroom. Oh yes, the Vonahrishman who had found his way to the workroom. EatEatEat. EatEatEat.
”Neeper, do you understand me?”
Nitz Neeper offered a glazed smile. ”Eat,” he mumbled. ”EatEatEat.”
TORVID STORNZOF HAD GROWN IMPATIENT. His two men should have joined him by this time. They had somehow blundered, and they would certainly suffer his extreme displeasure. Black brows lowering, he stepped to the door and listened. Some sort of commotion was rocking the Long Gallery; he could hear m.u.f.fled shouting in there, shrieks, a thunder of footfalls. Some sort of problem, obviously. Someone had taken ill and collapsed, a fight had broken out, or else some fool woman had spotted a mouse, screamed, and touched off a panic. Whatever was happening in there could not excuse the failure of his men to follow their orders. His two men should have joined him by this time. They had somehow blundered, and they would certainly suffer his extreme displeasure. Black brows lowering, he stepped to the door and listened. Some sort of commotion was rocking the Long Gallery; he could hear m.u.f.fled shouting in there, shrieks, a thunder of footfalls. Some sort of problem, obviously. Someone had taken ill and collapsed, a fight had broken out, or else some fool woman had spotted a mouse, screamed, and touched off a panic. Whatever was happening in there could not excuse the failure of his men to follow their orders.
Torvid savored his anger for a moment. It was deep and strong, promising a rich, vengeful return at some point in the not distant future. Now was not the moment to think of it, however. He could not loiter indefinitely in the stairwell, for it was only a matter of time before some servant noted his presence. He could not afford to wait any longer for his bungling subordinates, nor was he disposed to go hunting for them. He would have to complete the mission on his own. The prospect did not entirely displease him. He was at his best working alone, unenc.u.mbered with the incompetence of underlings.
His hand slid into his pocket to close upon the pistol. Silently he mounted the stairs leading to the king's private audience chamber.
”YOU STRUCK ME.” Palm pressed to his stinging cheek, eyes wide with disbelief, King Miltzin recoiled. ”You-actually-struck-me.”
Luzelle sat up, automatically adjusting her disordered gown. ”I'm sorry, Sire,” she said, almost dazedly. ”I didn't mean to.” Truer words were never spoken. Her thoughts boiled. She had ruined everything, she realized. In one insane, mindless instant she had lost control and ruined everything. Desperation blossomed. She had to fix things, somehow.
”What do you mean, you didn't mean to? Are you trying to claim that you attacked me by accident?”
It had, in a way, been by accident, but the king would never believe that one. ”I-I was upset,” she confided, adding piteously, ”I was very confused, I was frightened.”
”Frightened? I think not. You nearly took my head off. You were about as frightened as a tigress attacking her prey.”
”I'm sorry, truly sorry. Please believe me, Sire. I-”
”I do not wish to listen. I have never encountered such savagery in a woman. Women should be soft and tender. This is a painful disillusionment.”
”It was a mistake, Majesty. A terrible mistake. I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart. Please believe that, please accept my humblest apology-”
”I'm not interested. I am the king of Lower Hetzia, and you presumed to strike me. You don't belong in a royal palace. In fact, you don't belong in a civilized society. I will call a carriage for you. It's time for you to leave.”
”Majesty-” She could feel the tears of defeat stinging her eyes, and made no attempt to repress them. Perhaps they would help, women should be soft and tender. She stretched forth an appealing hand. ”What can I do to make amends? Only tell me what I can do?”
”You can leave. And the two of us can forget that we were ever so unfortunate as to encounter one another.”
”But I shall never forget, Sire. Guilt and remorse will haunt me for the rest of my days. For we stood upon the very brink of something splendid. Your Majesty was about to bestow the blessing of Sentient Fire upon a grateful Vonahr. You had all but agreed to arm the world against the Grewzian menace. Please, I beg you, don't let one woman's folly anger you. Forget my stupidity, and think only of-”
”You are mistaken.” King Miltzin regarded her with distaste. His face was still splotched red from her blow. ”There was no agreement, either stated or implied. If you chose to believe otherwise, you deceived yourself. And now, Madame, if you will excuse me, I shall ring for a servant to conduct you to-”
”Sire, I entreat you-” It was all she could do to keep from grabbing him and shaking him hard. ”If you'll only allow me to-”
The plea, almost certainly doomed to failure, was never completed. The door opened. The Grandlandsman Torvid Stornzof walked into the room, monocle aglint and pistol dead steady in his hand.
King Miltzin rose, wrapped in dignity, to demand, ”What is the meaning of this?”
”The adept Nevenskoi-I want him,” Torvid announced. ”You will lead me to the workroom.”
”How dare you? Who are you?”
”That does not concern you.”
”He's Torvid Stornzof, a Grewzian grandlandsman.” Luzelle locked eyes with the intruder. ”Sire, you see for yourself what these Grewzians are, and what they're willing to do. You can't allow these people to-”
”Silence,” Torvid advised her. ”Another word and I will fire.”