Brokedown Palace (29 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Brokedown Palace
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“Countess,” he said, “I see that you have been—”
“Have you seen Vilmos?” she cut him off.
“No. He isn’t in the King’s Tower, however. No one goes there except—”
“Very well. I’ll look for him elsewhere.”
“That is fine. I wish to know, however—”
“You know what happened to one of his norska, don’t you?”
He brushed it off. “Yes, yes. You cannot blame the Palace for that. I still wish—”
“Blame the Palace?” She caught her breath. “What an interesting thought. It hadn’t occurred to me to do so. Excuse me.”
She turned on her heel and left him. As soon as she was past the doorway, she began walking faster, almost running. She nearly tripped on the stairway. In the hall, she saw Brigitta walking in a direction that could only lead toward Miklós’s room. Mariska nodded and would have passed her by, but László’s whore stopped and said, “Wait a moment.”
Mariska halted, trembling, and said, “Yes?”
“Vilmos is in his room. Perhaps you should speak to him.”
The Countess blinked. “Yes,” she said at last. “Thank you.”
Brigitta nodded and walked by her. Mariska found Vilmos’s room and stopped outside of it.
“Vilmos?”
“Yes?” came the voice from the other side of the curtain.
“May I come in?”
“Yes.”
She found him lying on his side, staring at the far wall. Vilmos’s room was completely bare, save for one dresser and the bed. It seemed more a common laborer’s room than that of a Prince of the Blood. He didn’t look at her. At first, she thought that his face showed sorrow, but then she realized that he was glaring, as if he were afraid to move lest he flare up into a rage that would destroy everyone around him.
“What is it, Vilmos?”
He sat up suddenly. Usually, when Vilmos would change position, it seemed to be an effort to make his tremendous girth behave
the orders of his will. This time, however, his motion was quick and fluid. The difference took Mariska’s breath away, as if she were seeing a different person. She found that she was frightened; yet it was a different kind of fear than what she had felt in the King’s tower.
Vilmos looked at her, not saying anything. “What is it?” she repeated. He shook his head. He was still glaring, and he was looking at her, but the anger seemed directed elsewhere.
“Has … anyone spoken to you?”
He nodded. “Sándor.”
“What did he say?”
“He blamed it on the tree that is growing in Miklós’s room.”
“What? But that is impossible. It didn’t happen anywhere near Miklós’s room.”
He nodded.
She sat down next to him. “You are angry, but you don’t know who or what to be angry at. Is that it?”
He nodded.
She said, “I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”
He didn’t respond. After a moment, she stood and went to the doorway. She paused. “Must you blame someone?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
W
HEN I WAS A LAD I TOOK SERVICE WITH A PEASANT who lived in the north part of Bajföld County, near the village of Készpe
z. The first thing he told me to do was to find water for his fields. Well, I went walking north. I walked and walked until I came to the biggest lake I’d ever seen. I tasted the water and it tasted like salt, so I knew that would never do.
So I walked back until I came into the mountains. There was a dragon there, and a nasty-looking one at that. I sang the dragon to sleep so I wouldn’t have to worry about it. Then I saw a big hole in the ground, with a willow standing over it. I kicked the willow until it woke up, and it kicked me back. It hurt so much I started crying. The tree was ashamed of itself, so it started crying, too.
Well, that tree cried so much, it filled up the hole with water. I tasted the water and there was no salt in it. Then I picked up the dragon (I was strong in those days) and used its head to plow a big gap in the side of the hole so the water could get out. I plowed and I plowed until I came to the fields of the peasant I worked for. But by then I couldn’t stop. I just kept going until I came to the far mountains, and I plowed right through them.
Of course, the dragon was pretty angry by then, and I was starting to have some trouble with him. So I went over to the Demon Goddess’s house and said, “Here, you can have this.”
She thanked me, and I went back home. Well, the peasant was happy with me all right, because now he had water for his fields, so he gave me all the grain I could carry, and he also gave me a pair of cows, so I could have milk with my grain.
And that is how the River first got started. It is the truth, too. Ask anyone.
The Goddess
M
IKLÓS STARED AT THE WALLS OF HIS CHAMBER—ONE of three guest rooms in the Palace. It was larger than his old room, and the paint, a neutral pale blue, was newer. Furthermore, it didn’t have a tree growing out of the middle of the floor.
The spot Miklós stared at (absently, not intently) was marked by a vein of slightly thicker paint running diagonally, then straight up. The vein, no doubt, covered a crack.
Brigitta had been with him until just after noon—a few hours ago—when she had found herself, as she put it, unable to cope with his moodiness at the same time as she tried to cope with her own. She had left to visit Bölk. Miklós had not objected to her leaving because he hadn’t thought she was doing anything to help his melancholy. Yet, now that she was gone, it was worse.
Was it his last encounter with László that was upsetting him, he wondered? No. It had been unpleasant, certainly, but he could understand why Bölk’s words had offended the King, and László had understood why he, Miklós, had been so irate. There was no real sign that their hard-earned and long-awaited friendship was about to end. No, it had to be the norska.
But why had its death had such an effect on him? Was it only sympathy with Vilmos?
A thought came to assail him: If you are so concerned about Vilmos, why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself? He stood and made his way into the corridor toward his brother’s room.
“Vili?”
“What is it, Miki?”
“May I enter?”
There was a pause, then, “Yes.”
He came in and stood uncomfortably. “You need a chair in here.” His brother didn’t answer. Miklós finally sat on the floor with his back to the wall. It came to him that, many years before, he had sat that way in this room, watching his brother build models of the Palace or boats of paper to sail in the River.
“How are you, Vili?” His brother nodded. Miklós bit down an impulse to ask about the other norska. There was no doubt that Vili was taking care of them as best he could, and the question would be presumptuous.
Miklós tried one more time. “Is there anything I can do?”
At this the giant looked up. He blinked. He looked down at the palms of his hands, then back at Miklós. “Yes,” he said at last. “Tell me, who am I to blame for this? Is it my fault?”
“Huh? Of course not. Who could know the floor was weak there? It is no one’s fault.”
Vilmos nodded, and his head sank again. Miklós suddenly realized that his brother needed someone to blame. He should have pointed to someone. But what could he have done? It
wasn’t
anyone’s fault. Yet his sense of failure was real enough.
“It is nearly time for dinner, Vili. Shall we eat?”
Vilmos nodded, and was willing to be led to the dining room. Mariska looked at the giant with sympathy in her eyes, but they exchanged no words.
As the meal began, Miklós noticed that Vilmos was staring intently at László, who was taking small bites of his food, alternating with sips of wine. Vilmos suddenly put down his spoon, stood up, and left the room. By the time he reached the doorway he was running.
Miklós looked at the others, but they seemed as puzzled as he.
 
BRIGITTA CAME TO HIM AGAIN THAT NIGHT.
It seemed that to make love with Brigitta was to allow her to absorb some of his pain and indecision. He spoke to her of it, asking if she felt that way as well and, if so, why did she wish to?
She laughed lightly. “I don’t know,” she said. “You find the oddest things to talk about.”
“Do I?”
“Mmmm. Or perhaps the oddest times to talk about them.”
He cast around for another subject. “What did you and Bölk find to talk about?”
She laughed again, louder this time. “Oh, Miki, Miki, Miki,” she said. She kissed him on the lips and rested her head on his shoulder. “Let’s go to sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Something’s bothering me. Maybe it’s that stupid norska. No, I don’t mean that. I don’t know what it is.”
Brigitta propped herself on her elbow and studied him in the dim candlelight of the room. “Perhaps,” she said, “you’re just tired of being acted on. Perhaps it’s time you became a mover, instead.”
She settled onto her shoulder again.
Miklós stared at the ceiling, wondering if she was right. He was still wondering when he fell asleep.
 
 
WHEN HE AWOKE, HE KNEW.
Brigitta was still sleeping. She stirred a little when he climbed out of bed, but didn’t open her eyes. He dressed and went into the small dining room to take some bread. As he picked up a piece, he noticed a fine white powder on top of it. His first thought was that Ambrus was trying something new. Then he noticed that the same white powder covered part of the table as well.
He looked up. Some of the plaster from the ceiling was crumbling, as if someone had rubbed an abrasive over it. He put the bread down on the table, walked out, up, and down, and went out to the stables to visit Bölk.
There were no guards outside of the door this time. Good. He slipped inside.
“Good morning, master.”
“Good morning, Bölk. I am ready.”
“Ready?” The horse turned his head to the side. “For what?”
“I’m not certain yet. But something must be done, and I’m now ready to do it. I imagine you know what it is.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t, master.”
Miklós stared. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“But—” he laughed. “How ironic. I thought you had everything worked out and were just waiting for me to agree to act. Now I agree, and I can’t do anything because we don’t know what to do.”
“You might start,” said Bölk, “by telling me what problem it is that you propose to solve.”
“Huh? Why,” he waved his arms, “the Palace! It’s falling apart around our ears! You heard about Vilmos’s norska?”
“Yes. I am truly sorry for him.”
“Well, how much longer is it going to be before it is one of us? It could just as easily have been, you know.”
“Men are not so easily killed as norska.”
Miklós felt suddenly disgusted. “You mean, none of this worries you?”
Bölk shook his head. “I am not unworried, master. I am merely confident.”
“Confident? Why, when I don’t know what to do, and you don’t know what the problem is?”
“I am confident because you have agreed to take action. You are correct. That is all that was missing.”
“But if we don’t know—”
“We shall find out. Together.”
Miklós sighed. “I don’t understand.”
“You will, master.”
Miklós stared at him, half a dozen possible responses coming and going. Finally he said, “Very well,” and seated himself against a post opposite the stall. “Let us begin.”
Rather than laughing or making a condescending remark, as Miklós had more than half expected, Bölk nodded. “Our problem,” he said, “is the condition of the Palace, is that correct, master?”
Miklós nodded.
“Very well, then. Can the Palace be made safe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let us assume it can. How?”
“Perhaps Sándor’s spells, or strengthening the walls with wood or even iron.”
“Was it a wall that collapsed?”
“All right, the floor then. Put in more supports.”
“But master, I thought that it was the blocks themselves that were worn away, as well as the supports.”
Miklós studied him. “How did you learn all of this?”
“Brigitta spent much time here yesterday. She has sharp eyes. They miss little.”
“Oh. All right. Then we must support the floor and replace it.”
“Yes. And replace the supports.”
“Yes.”
“And the walls, too.”
“Hmmm. This is starting to sound like replacing the entire Palace.”
“That is right, master.”
Miklós blinked. Then the full import of what Bölk was saying struck him. “What? We can’t replace the Palace!”
“It has been done before, has it not?”
“Well, yes, but—László will never agree.”
“That is true. It isn’t László who must replace it.”
“Me? Bölk, where am I to get the resources for a new Palace?”
“What has been done before?”
“The King has ordered materials taken from the Riverbed, and sent in from east and west. And salvaged material from the building he was replacing.”
“The King will not do so this time, master.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Another way must be found, then.”
“
What
way?”
“What must a Palace be?”
“A shelter for the family. A place from which the King rules. A symbol of our land. A place that will withstand the attacks of our enemies.”
“I think, master, that the symbol may be left to itself.”
“Well, all right.”
“How long has it been since the Palace was needed to defend against enemies?”
“Three hundred years,” said Miklós. “That is when the cellars—”
“Yes, master. And the cellars and tunnels are still there, are they not?”
“Of course. Why?”
“And was not the wall strengthened around the Palace after that?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then much of our defense against enemies of Fenario will exist no matter what, isn’t that so?”
Miklós hesitated, then, “All right.”
“Now, if the King is of the family, then any place where the family gathers is the place from which the King rules.”
Miklós chewed on this but finally nodded.
“Then, master, what we are left with is a shelter.”
“If you think that we can replace this Palace with some hovel, I don’t—”
“Do you wish for it to collapse on you, master?”
Miklós glowered, but at last he said, “No.”
“Very well then, a shelter is required to replace the Palace.”
Miklós opened his mouth and closed it a few times, unable to fully grasp what Bölk was proposing.
Bölk ignored him. “Here,” he said, “we reach the limits of my knowledge. What makes something a shelter? You must decide this.”
Miklós shook his head.
All right, then. It’s a game he is playing. I’ll play it, too, and see where it leads
.
He chewed on his thumb for a while. “What makes a shelter? Well, I guess it depends what we are being sheltered from. Mostly the weather, I guess. The wind, the rain—”
He stopped. A memory returned. A rainstorm, high winds. Walking through the Wandering Forest, then running, desperately in need of—shelter. Pieces fell into place.
He said in a whisper, “The tree? In my room?”
“Brigitta says it is beautiful, master.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Do you not?”
“You’ve known all along.”
“No. I cannot know more than you. I can only know it more clearly and more certainly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
“What should we do?” He laughed without humor. “Is my task, then, to sneak around at night and water the tree, loosening support beams in the meantime?”
“I suspect not, master. But certainly, the growth of the tree must be encouraged.”
“It’s been doing well enough on its own.”

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