The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) Read online

  “Twenty fobs for each of you: now open the doors!” she cried, flinging the coins out the window.

  As they clattered against the road, the guards temporarily forgot all about curses and Blackbeards. Twenty fobs a piece? Enough to die happy in food and drink, with a bit left over for the funeral. Trading wary glances, they stooped down to pick up the coins and waved her through.

  “Say you overpowered us with swords and pistols!” they called after her.

  “And that we resisted heroically!” the other added.

  But Mary was no longer listening. As the coach rumbled under the gates, her thoughts focused on Leopold and if he would take her. If not, she was ruined. She had abandoned her marriage and family in one fell swoop, fleeing the estate with only a few, precious belongings and her servant’s petticoats. Not even the coachman knew her identity; she had given him a letter with special instructions to “take this servant directly to the palace of the Count of Cinquefoil and ask no questions!” Beyond that, she had no plan. She felt that he wanted her to come—he had hinted as much—but she didn’t know how to ask. “Do you want me?” was a simple question. But did anyone actually say it? If he refused now, she would have to return in shame and scandal. Her fiancé would most likely turn his back on her (not the worst part of this equation), and she would be sent to eke out her existence in a nunnery on the distant coasts of Scanda. But it was worth the risk. It was the only way she knew to ask him, and she would risk oblivion itself to learn the answer.

  Once in the courtyard, she slipped out of the coach—giving a brief wave of thanks to the coachman, who refused to acknowledge her (she was a mere servant, after all)—and scanned the palace walls. She knew he lived on one of the highest floors, but how to reach him? From her own experience, servants lived in strict seclusion to a given task and floor; looking suspicious would be as productive as flashing her jewels. How thoughtless she had been! It was one thing to defy her parents and the expectations of society, but quite another to masquerade as the one thing that no amount of money could prepare her for: the life of a servant. What did they do? How did they act? After nineteen years of living among them she had never really seen one. She knew they cleaned things, arranged things, made things…and oh, they also brought things. What could she bring? A chamber pot?

  “You there! Standing about like a halfwit! Come here!” someone shouted.

  Terrified, Mary realized an older, very neatly dressed servant was gesticulating at her. She approached and did her best attempt at servility, which only made the elder servant enraged. The servant shook her a bit and asked her what in the world she was up to.

  “I…just arrived…appointed here by my mistress, Lady Mary Bianca—”

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  “Oh, that’s nice, more deadweight!” the servant snapped. “So now I have to train you, eh? No time for that, there’s terrible business about. The young master, they say he’s taken ill—called for a sorcerer by the name of Hairygrim Redbeard. Sounds like a pirate! Come, come, hasten down to the armory, where the master was recently seen; ask if he needs anything. And then come right back, you hear?”

  Mary took the opportunity for what it was: she traced a jagged path to the armory, dodging the odd servant who glared at her suspiciously. Once there, she crept stealthily past each door, listening for his voice, straining to catch a single clue—a cough, a cry, even a footstep. Where could he be? She advanced down the darkened hallway, feeling the cold stone against her fingers, stone he might have brushed against only moments ago; she was that close.

  “Mary!” a voice cried.

  She started and spun around. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to come from the door at the far side of the hall. Mary took a few tentative steps forward before replying, “Leopold?”

  “Mary!” the voice repeated, more insistently.

  How did he know she was here? Or perhaps he didn’t see her at all, but in his delirium he called out her name? Her heart raced to think how sick he might be. Surely it couldn’t be serious! Why just the other day, he was full of health and wit, nothing out of place. How quickly things changed…how soon she could lose everything. I waited too long, she cursed herself. I should have told him long before this wretched match! Perhaps he’s lovesick over losing me? Perhaps…perhaps I killed him!

  She raced to the door, and after a quick look down the hallway, slipped inside. The door closed gently behind her and the darkness swallowed her whole. A cryptic, almost deathlike silence filled the room.

  “Leopold?”

  No sign of him. The room had no candles burning, and only a small window so grimy that light scarcely registered. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out a large chest in one corner of the room. Something about it seemed…familiar. She was compelled to approach it, and after a moment’s hesitation, rested her hand on the box. As she did it spoke again: whatever it was knew all about her and what she had done. Far from being terrified, she pressed closer, curious and oddly comforted. How could it know her? And what was it? Surely it couldn’t be…Leopold?

  It told her many things: about Leopold’s wish to marry her and run off to the far corners of the earth where no one could find them; about her fiancé’s relief that she had found a proper match, since he, too, loved another; even about the three children she would have with Leopold, each of them destined for distinguished lives in the years to come. She drank all this in and desired more. Please, tell me more, I’ll do anything you ask! Whether she actually said it was unclear, but the voice seemed to understand. It seemed quite willing to tell her more, to even act as matchmaker between the happy couple. All she had to do is turn the key—yes, the key resting in the third lock—a full revolution and open the lid. Her fingers touched the key.

  But something made her stop. A feeling that strange eyes were watching her, eyes quite at odds with the v Cds widoice’s promise. Mary studied the box but could find nothing amiss. The voice spoke again, assuring her this is what Leopold wanted. Sentences fell apart as it boomed out a repetitive, yet persuasive message: open the box—don’t delay—turn the key—let me out. For whatever reason she trusted it, even though her eyes narrowed and her fingers trembled as they hovered over the key.

  Chapter Nine

  Before leaving, Blackbeard went over three simple rules with the Count, lest he think the sorcerer was a lowly member of his entourage who followed his every command (he wasn’t—and wouldn’t!).

  Rule 1: Follow my instructions exactly. Magic is precise, and can ill afford the mistakes concocted by a bungling and imprecise aristocrat. (Leopold agreed).

  Rule 2: I am not responsible for any mistakes or miscalculations owing to the uncertainties of magic or your refusal to obey Rule #1. If things go astray, I am not to be insulted, arrested, or burned at the stake. (Leopold, after a slight pause, agreed to this, too).

  Rule 3: If everything goes according to plan (in other words, you do not immediately expire upon opening the box), I request an open pardon, in writing, that covers any and all activities for the next fifty years affixed with your signature and official stamp.

  “An open pardon? I’ve never heard of such a thing!” he protested. “Seriously, how can I pardon you for anything you might do in the next fifty years?”

  “This is a dangerous country, especially for conjurer-magicians such as myself,” Blackbeard said, coldly. “Many of my order have perished for relatively innocent misunderstandings. If I had the assurance that your word rescued me from any malicious prosecution, I could sleep easier at night.”

  “I…yes, I suppose I could…but the pardon of a count only goes so far,” he shrugged. “I’m hardly the king.”

  “It will suffice,” Blackbeard insisted.

  “Very well, we can draw it up now if you like.”

  “No, we can wait until…” at this the sorcerer paused, as if reacting to a sudden pain in his chest.

  “What’s wrong? Are you—” Leopold asked, jumping up.

  “The key! Some
one’s turning the key!” he gasped.

  “The key? You mean the box? But how—”

  “Just take my hand—now!”

  The Count had scarcely thrust out his arm before Blackbeard grabbed it and they disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  The next thing Leopold saw was a young Fds wil suservant kneeling before the box, hand on the key, the eyes glowing with hunger—

  “STOP!” the sorcerer shouted, bathing the room in a fiery light.

  The servant’s hand dropped as she leaped up, eyes and mouth frozen in terror. Blackbeard wrenched her aside and began cursing her insolent thievishness; he would have her fired and beaten out of the house—the sooner the better! Leopold stared at her several times, looking at her this way and that, before it dawned on him: Mary! He shouted her name and her eyes flickered to life, focusing on the one voice she had sought through such terror and isolation.

  “Leopold! I—I don’t know what happened…I heard your voice!” she stammered, frantically.

  “You know her?” the sorcerer snapped.

  “Yes, yes, of course I know…Hildigrim Blackbeard, this is Lady Mary Bianca Domenica de Grassini Algarotti,” he said, his voice almost quivering as he pronounced it.

  “An impressive name! And what the devil is she doing here?” he thundered.

  “I hardly know,” he whispered.

  Blackbeard threw up his hands and inspected the box, noting the position of the key. Good, nothing amiss. They still had time; how much time he dared not even admit to himself. Days? Hours? Time enough to convince a convicted criminal that he should die for his estranged half-brother who stood for everything he had defied in life and wished to denounce from the grave?

  “I’m sorry, I should have written—or found some way to tell you,” she said, approaching him.

  “Yes, but why are you here…dressed like this?” he asked.

  “It’s what you said to me: that you were prepared to leave all this behind. So that’s what I did. My family, my life, my marriage… everything. For you.”

  Leopold’s eyes grew wide, and his arms impulsively reached out for hers. Their fingers touched, hands clasped, and he drew her toward him.

  “Then you…you want to come with me? You would do that?” he asked.

  “I already have. And yes, I would. Always.”

  “I didn’t think you cared…at least, not enough to defy convention, to risk your standing. Whenever we spoke, you always seemed—”

  “What could I say?” she laughed. “Of course I wanted to, but these things aren’t spoken—I don’t know how. Even now I’m stumbling over my tongue, trying to express feelings which have bubbled up inside me since our thirteenth year.”

  “Even then?”

  “There was never a time I didnared Ke ImznRemovedt.”

  He pressed her to him and their lips met, hesitantly, and then greedily embraced. It was first love for both, a passion which would soon engulf them in the depths of passion and folly. Blackbeard suddenly realized what was happening and hauled them apart, saying they could make love on their own time, but this was his time—and he had precious little of that to begin with!

  “Go on, tell her everything you’ve done!” Blackbeard shouted, his eyes ablaze. “About the box and your foolishness and how she nearly did you in by her sneaking around! Egad, you make quite a pair!”

  Leopold told her everything he knew, which surprisingly fit into a single sentence. Of course, he had to repeat it several times, and only by the fifth time did she begin to understand (and almost faint). Mary looked at the box with horror; she had nearly opened it, nearly killed the love of her life—an act which would have ended her own! She clung to him, expecting him to be cold somehow and trying to warm his bones. But was it really…could someone’s death truly fit inside such a modest chest? Why, she would need a dozen such boxes to accommodate her wardrobe at home. For a moment she wondered who would inherit them, as she had no sisters or female cousins. The thought of her rivals getting their hands on them disgusted her (and they might—they could bribe the servants and clean her out by morning). She should have burned them before—but zooks!, what a time to be thinking about clothes!

  “And you’re sure if he agrees, this half-brother of yours…it will work?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Blackbeard thinks it’s reasonable. It’s all we’ve got.”

  “In that case, I’m coming with you.”

  “With us? To the Dungeons?” he said, through a mirthless laugh. “Mary, I could never take you there—the things that go on—”

  “I can’t stay here!” she said, petulantly. “Besides, you might need my help. I made it here all on my own, didn’t I?”

  “Actually, she might be of use,” Blackbeard agreed, interrupting them. “But we need to leave at once. The box grows restless.”

  They both looked at the box, which seemed just as calm and lifeless as before. Yet deep inside, something stirred and wriggled with life…the very thing that ticked away the hours until his death. They joined hands and followed the sorcerer out of the room, feeling only slightly at ease as the bolt clicked behind them.

  Chapter Ten

  The Royal Dungeons were several miles away in the heart of Old Town, where ruined walls and towers began a slow march to oblivion. They were all that remained of a lawless time when tyrants ruled desperately, were murdered impulsively, and their children fought for the throne. The New Order had swept that all aside, and now things like murder, execution, and (gasp!) torture were never discussed nor even seen, occurring in the dark, forgotten corners of civilized life. Leopold had never personally visited the Dungeons, but knew the stories of what went on insid N___at e—stories that made the chopping block seem welcome by comparison. Whatever Ivan’s crimes, he surely didn’t deserve this fate. If only he could offer him clemency, or something more charitable than a public execution. Lost in these thoughts, the Count rode silently with Mary and Blackbeard in a cramped coach that seemed to get smaller by the minute. But that was a trick of the roads, which became narrower and darker as they progressed. Strange faces peered into window, faces of anger and desperation. No respectable citizen visited this part of town unless on the most unsavory business. The Count shuddered; he certainly fit the part.

  The coach came to a shuddering halt just before the Dungeon gates. Leopold looked out with trepidation. So here they were; but how to get in, or get him out? He traded glances with Blackbeard, who gave an impatient nod. His answer was simple:

  “Say you wish to speak with your half-brother—to express your family’s forgiveness. You won’t be refused. Once inside, do your business quickly; if he agrees, drop this coin on the floor. I’ll manage the rest.”

  Blackbeard handed him an old coin of indeterminate worth and nationality. Leopold rubbed it in his fingers, expecting it to be—or feel—magic. The coin, it seemed, was just a coin; he felt more despondent than ever.

  “And if he refuses?”

  “You can compel him by force, of course. That’s up to you. Otherwise, we may have to shake other branches of your family tree…”

  “Wait—what about that awful cousin of yours, the Marquis of Such and Such?” Mary suggested.

  “Oh, he’s not a cousin—more a close family acquaintance,” Leopold sighed. “But yes, he would be an ideal candidate. I’ve wished him dead more than once.”

  “But this has to work! You have to convince him. If you can’t, then I will!” she said, clutching him.

  “I’m sure he’ll do his best,” Blackbeard winced, pulling him away. “One word of advice: don’t speak to him as a count. Speak to him as a brother. It may surprise him. It might even work.”

  With that he pushed Leopold out of the coach. A final look at Mary—whose eyes said more than her words—and he started off. Yes, speak like a brother…but how, when the very name “Ivan” chilled his blood? For years he had conjured him up as a boogeyman, a dark figure waiting in alleyways to settle scores with his father.
Even his dreams conjured him up, the man who should have been him, whose life he had stolen. How could he push all this aside and befriend him, ask him to sacrifice himself once more so that he might live? Should he lie? No, that would be monstrous, even crueler than what his father had already done to him. But at the moment, he couldn’t think of a compelling reason why Ivan would agree to do this at all. Would he? No, he imagined not…

  The guards welcomed Leopold to the Dungeon and escorted him down a dizzying series of hallways to a central chamber, where a young boy sat behind an imposing desk cluttered with boxes. The Count was shocked to find a boy here, but he seemed quite accustomed t S ac, who these surroundings; indeed, the guards soon made it clear that he was actually the one in charge. A child? The boy folded his arms and looked up at Leopold pompously, as if aware of his power and eager to watch him squirm.

  “I’m the Count of Cinquefoil,” Leopold said, meekly, “here to see the prisoner Ivan…well, I’m afraid I don’t know his family name.”

  “We don’t deal in names here,” the boy said, with a dismissive grin. “But I know of whom you speak: prisoner #33918, scheduled for execution in the early hours of August fifteenth. The sooner the better, I say; he’s the worst of the lot. Sign here.”

  Leopold signed a dirty form as the boy fished through a box for the proper key. There were seemingly hundreds of keys, each key representing some poor soul consigned to death or darkness. The boy looked at them as so many toys, each one his personal possession which he shared with obvious reluctance. Indeed, the boy almost hesitated to hand it over, but seeing the Count’s signature (and his obvious rank) convinced him otherwise. He handed the key to a guard who escorted Leopold down another meandering and dismal hallway. Toward the end of the hall was a wooden door with five tremendous locks. The guard unlocked each of them in turn and pried open the door. It groaned hideously, obviously unaccustomed to the practice.