A Company of Heroes Book One: The Stonecutter (12 page)

It is, of course, Prince Ferenc, Bronwyn’s brother.

Ferenc’s features are a kind of boneless version of his sister’s: where her hair is copper, his is rust; where her eyes are like jade, his are like lime gelatin; where her full lips are sensuous, his are sensual. Since his discovery that the letters were missing, and can it only be a day?, he has spent most of the subsequent time worrying about the consequences. He hasn’t yet thought much beyond the immediate wrath of Lord Roelt, but it is gradually coming to him what exposure of the letters to the barons would mean. As soon as he had realized that his secretary has been rifled and the incriminating packets stolen, he knew with a certainty who must have taken them. He had immediately stormed Bronwyn’s apartment, but she had not been there. Reluctant to raise an alarm if there was yet a chance to regain his property quietly, he searched the palace. There had been no sign of his sister in any of her usual haunts. There had been no point in trying to look any further: the palace is labyrinthine, having grown like a variety of coral reef with, he has no doubt, literally thousands of rooms and passages. He would not be surprised to learn that in his lifetime he had not visited more than a very small fraction of them, which is true. In the time he would waste searching for Bronwyn, she could be at the doors of the Privy Council. And before that happened, he would certainly rather see his sister dead. So, acting with atypical astuteness, he had called for the Commandant of the Guards, Major-General Jaeger Praxx. It is something he loathed doing and it is only because he fears the general slightly less than the wrath of the Privy Council, who can, after all, deprive him of the throne, that he was able to bring himself to summon the man. And now that he has done so, he awaits the general’s coming by curling into one of the luxuriously upholstered chairs that decorate the chamber, tucking the heels of his patent-leather boots under his soft hams, and if he is not actually sucking his thumb, he gives every impression of doing so.

In his fear of the major-general, Ferenc has some reasonable justification. The man wields power exceeded only by that of Lord Roelt and, ideally and supposedly, the prince himself. Although Praxx is mightily ambitious, an emotion that drives him as a hundred atmospheres of live steam drives a locomotive, that ambition concerns Lord Roelt very little. Praxx is no rival. Unlike most mortals, Praxx is one of those exceedingly rare individuals who has been fortunate enough to have early in life realized their fondest ambition; in Praxx’s case, this required serving the one and only man in the world he admired: Payne Roelt. He intelligently recognized that his only opportunity to acquire the power he craved was through his association with the young man. Indeed, Praxx and Roelt are as well matched as the couple in the children’s rhyme of the husband who can eat no fat and the wife who can eat no lean. Praxx craves power with the same singlemindedness with which Roelt craves gold. Wealth and property do not interest Praxx in the slightest; domination of human beings do. He desires only power and the opportunity to exercise it on his fellow creatures. The fact that out of the billion or so inhabitants of the planet there would always remain one undominated human bothers him not one whit; he is a realist and there is no need to be selfish. He is honest enough to admit to himself that while he has the genius to devise schemes of diabolical complexity, his Guards have infiltrated the body of Society like the invisible tendrils of a cancer and the survival of even the smallest organ depends upon his lightest word, he simply hasn’t the sort of personality that inspires loyalty, confidence or trust. It is no good having the ability to create great events without the means to carry them out and have them
remain
carried. Lord Roelt provides that instrumentality. There is at least one consolation for falling one short of the potential of dominating the entire human race: if that last human is not exactly under Praxx’s thumb, he is at least being
used
, and that is the next best thing.

Praxx enters the prince’s chamber as he normally does, without announcement. Ferenc glances up, momentarily startled, then sneers. He hates it when the General does that; it denotes a lack of respect, which, of course, is Praxx’s intent. To the prince, the genius of the Guards had seemed to materialize out of the air itself, as though he has just risen mysteriously through the floorboards like a magician’s apprentice. Praxx has the peculiar and disconcerting ability to seem to move from place to place without traversing the intervening space. When caught in actual motion, he always appears to be gliding, feet motionless, like an ice skater.

To add to Praxx’s uncanny presence, he is totally bald. Not by choice, as are many of his subordinates, possibly for the demoralizing effect it has on their subordinates, and possibly in fawning imitation of their leader, but because he is in fact genuinely hairless. He has a head shaped precisely like a light bulb ‘though he certainly would not have known this himself since that useful invention has not yet made its way from the Continent, nor would it for some decades yet). He neither resents nor feel pride in his hairlessness, which is the aftermath of a childhood illness; being utterly without vanity, he never considers the possible use of a wig. Which is just as well, as he would have looked ridiculous. However, he is not a person one laughs at; being humorless, he does not tolerate humor in others. His eyes are unblessed by lashes or brows and resemble a pair of chrome-plated ball bearings. His nose is like a cold chisel and his lipless mouth contain two stainless steel teeth, one to each side, perfectly symmetrical, and no others. The cumulative effect is like the spare, hard-edged attempt of a draftsman, more used to steam engines, industrial machinery and organizational charts, to draw a human face using only compass, straightedge and ruling pen. However, if Praxx is machinelike, it is a cheaply made machine; like a gold-plated watch with tin gears, pot-metal parts and a rusty mainspring, he is a frail man with an inordinate number of ill-made things gone wrong inside.

“Yes, your Highness?” he says, in the kind of voice a dentist’s drill would have if one could speak.

“Praxx, do I have to demote you to some provincial station to teach you a little courtesy?”

“I came the moment I received your Highness’ summons,” Praxx replied irrelevantly.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about! I want to know when you arrive...”

“It’s 3:17 in the afternoon, your Highness.”

“...and not have you suddenly appear in my room, unbidden!”

“Then the prince does not require my presence?”

“Yes! I mean no! Damn it! Stop doing that!”

“Of course, your Highness.”

“Yes, well. Ah. Praxx, a, um, serious, ah, problem has arisen.”

“Your sister, your Highness?”

“How do you know that? I mean...Oh, ah, Bronwyn? What about her?”

“She’s been missing from the palace for half a day.”

“She can be anywhere; how can you say she’s missing?”

“I know exactly where everyone is at all times. Pardon me, your Highness: with the present temporary exception of the Princess Bronwyn, of course.”

“What do you mean, ‘everyone’? You had better not have any of your damned spies following
me
about! I won’t have it!”

“Of course not, your Highness,” Praxx lied.

“Well, good then. That’s all right. About Bronwyn...”

“She managed to elude the man assigned to her. It’s a great surprise to me to learn that she even knew of him. I am embarrassed,” he says, though he doesn’t look it.

“The hell with your damned embarrassment! Where’s Bronwyn? That’s what I want to know!”

“I’m endeavoring to discover that very thing, your Highness. And when I find her?”

“Just bring her to me.”

“Yes?”

“Yes! And, and...ah...anythingshemighthavewithher,” he finishes in a rush, glancing through the window in what he hopes is a gesture of non-chalance, but is not.

“Your Highness will pardon me, but I don’t understand.”

“All right, all
right
. She’s got something of mine and I want it back.”

“Something of value, your Highness?”

“Never mind what it is!”

“But how will I know what to return?”

“It doesn’t make any difference! Whatever she has with her! That’s all! Bring her back to the palace. She’ll have a box or a package; that is, she might; make sure that you bring that, too. Whatever it is, that is. If she has anything. Unopened! Tell your men that! I mean, if it’s a package. Or whatever. And I’ll have the head of anyone who looks at what she is carrying! I mean, if she’s carrying anything, it’s probably not important and it’s no one’s business anyway.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

Nothing more would be needed to guarantee the microscopic examination of anything found with the princess than what her brother has just babbled. Praxx disregarded the prince’s threats. Not that it matters either way: the general knows exactly what the prince is after, and had known before he entered the prince’s chamber. He had seen Lord Roelt’s letters long before Ferenc or Bronwyn, he knew that Lord Roelt had requested that they be destroyed and he knew where the prince has disobediently cached them. Out of simple loyalty to the prince, he could himself have easily abstracted and destroyed the incriminating papers. But he feels no particular loyalty toward the Crown ‘why be petty and limit him: he feels no loyalty toward anything). He had quietly observed, through his argus-eyed organization, the theft committed by the princess. He is pleased at having gained knowledge of such increasingly convoluted events: knowledge is power, and he is watching his increase like a flywheel gaining speed. Or like a dynamo, throwing off sparks, already overflowing with potential energy. Or perhaps, even more exactly, like a miser watching his bank deposits accumulating interest.

“Your Highness,” Praxx asks, “has no idea where the Princess may be at this moment?”

“No, I don’t! Why should I? That’s supposed to be
your
job!”

“Or what she intends to do with your, ah, property?”

“That’s of no concern to you!”

“If I can’t find where she is, I might be able to discover where she will be.”

“Hm. I suppose I see what you mean, I think. Well. If I are you, I’d keep a sharp eye on the Privy Council.”

“The Privy Council, your Highness?”

“That’s all I’m going to say about the matter! Except this: if she even steps a foot into their chambers, you’re a dead man, Praxx!”

“I understand your Highness.”

Had Praxx possessed a sense of humor, he might have let slip a supercilious smirk at Ferenc’s toothless threat. As it is, his face maintains its usual machine-like expressionlessness; as destitute of emotion as a pencil sharpener. Once outside the prince’s apartments, Praxx allows his formidable brain to work freely on the assorted ramifications of the Problem. It isn’t too difficult, in the abstract, he decides. Until now, he has operated more or less according to the theory that what is good for Roelt is good for Praxx, that what is bad for the prince only made things better for the chamberlain, which in turn is once again good for Praxx. Is this problem of the stolen letters good or bad for Ferenc and/or Payne? And, ultimately, good or bad for Jaeger Praxx?

Lord Roelt had explicitly ordered his communications destroyed, and with good reason. They contained his plans for the immediate future in altogether too much detail. Lord Roelt does not have the craftsmanship, Praxx decides, that comes from a true distrust of human beings, such as he himself possesses. The general would never have written such letters in the first place; such revelations should only be carried in the memories of couriers, who can be much more easily silenced, if need be, than pieces of paper, whose apparent ephemerality belies an aggravating longevity. But what has been done can not be undone. There is no question but that if the Privy Council gets their hands on the letters, they will be quick to act. There is not an iota of love lost between the council and Payne. The barons would be informed immediately, of course, as they wield martial power and would be quick to move to protect their own interests. And if the barons openly denounce Lord Roelt, the lesser nobility would follow and then eventually the citizenry. Roelt’s little empire would collapse like a house made of wet paper. The general populace especially would be aroused by the Church. He mustn’t forget the Church. It is only waiting to pounce upon Lord Roelt like a cat hovering over a mouse hole. There would be no stopping the godly wave that would wash the palace clean of the chamberlain and his retinue, like a wet mop erasing a flyspeck. And that would include the Guards and their general. That is the important part to consider. Once he has gotten possession of the letters, all will be well. But is it really necessary to destroy them? Possibly not. In his hands, they are as good as nonexistent, so far as the intent of Lord Roelt’s order went.

It is not in Praxx’s nature to wantonly destroy anything potentially useful, a quality the letters possess to an unprecedented degree. The possibility of wielding power over Payne Roelt is something Praxx finds unexpected, heady and not a little frightening. He enjoys the exercise of power, but he is no acrobat. These events can bring him considerably closer to the point of the pyramid than he perhaps cares to find himself. It is too easy to topple off that apex. It is far safer and surer to control power than to possess it. Great care would need to be taken in the next few weeks.

By the time his thoughts have reached those last conclusions, Praxx finds himself in one of the great halls of the palace. He summons to his side one of the tall soldiers who waited there, so rigidly at attention that he is almost indistinguishable from one of the marble columns. The man is a captain of the Guards, in the distinctive fur shako, fur-trimmed short cape, and elaborately frogged black tunic. A thick black moustache droops on his upper lip, like a rodent pinned there by the knifelike nose.

“Captain,” says Praxx, drawing the man well away from the others, “a matter of utmost urgency has occurred. It is vital that not a word of what I am about to tell you is breathed outside the walls of the palace. Do you understand?”