The Henchmen of Zenda Read online

  The protection of the true king was this. I and Bersonin were set to watch by night, Hentzau and de Gautet by day. We were all billetted in the Tower now: the two not on duty were supposed to rest in a room by the drawbridge entrance, within sound of a cry. Because of the Tower’s inconvenient medieval layout, this room was a few stairs above ground level and across the hall, and one had to go down and through the door by the drawbridge to where the king was lodged. The four of us all had keys to the king’s dungeon.

  Michael still lodged in the chateau. He had commanded the drawbridge to be raised at night, only to be lowered on his command, thus cutting the Tower off. It had doubtless seemed a clever stroke a few years ago to change the drawbridge so that it was lowered from the chateau side, turning the Tower from a secure fortress into a prison, but that alteration now meant that, if the chateau were conquered, those inside would be trapped by the moat and unable to flee, while the invaders could simply let the bridge down and walk in. I suppose Michael was happy to ensure that the Tower’s defenders would fight to the death. Having no such intention, I had secured my strong black cord in an unobtrusive spot of the moat, on the far side from the chateau, in case Hentzau or I needed to climb out. I hoped it would not be found, and that it would be strong enough to take our weight.

  Antoinette also remained in the chateau, but was now locked in at night as soon as she returned to her own apartments opposite Michael’s—for her safety, Michael told us, and cast a malevolent look at Hentzau’s cheerfully lecherous demeanour.

  That was the set-up, and we had now only to wait for Rassendyll to mount his attack.

  “He will come at night and in secret,” Michael said. “And when he does, we must treat it as an attack of bandits. Extinguish the lights, fight in the dark, kill all you can and shout all you can over any voices. We will smear the faces of the dead with lamp-black. How can I be blamed for defending my home against assault? How could I know that the king himself was part of a larcenous criminal attack in the middle of the night, while my people slept? Nobody can blame me if he is killed on an unprovoked midnight raid on my castle.”

  “The question of the prisoner may arise,” I suggested. “It is murmured that you hold a man in the dungeons, and people may conclude that the player-king attacked to free him.”

  Michael smiled. “There will be a man in the dungeons. Hentzau, I think, will do me that service. It will only be a few days in chains without rations to give you a suitably worn appearance. Then the false king’s party may explain why they raided my property to release a man with whom Rudolf is known to have fallen out. We will suggest they had more sinister intentions towards him. And nobody will deny my right to chastise my own gentlemen.”

  Hentzau looked as though he would have very much liked to deny that right, but he said only, “A charming scheme,” with an ironic bow. There was no great point in objecting, when we had no intention of letting Michael get so far.

  It was not, in truth, a bad plan. There could be no reasonable explanation for a king raiding his brother’s house in the night, and so long as Michael’s forces won, he would be able to claim that he did not recognise his attacker until too late. This did, however, mean that the castle at Zenda could not be put on a military footing: it was crucial that Michael did not seem to be expecting the king’s attack. Instead he had the word put about that gangs of bandits had been seen close to the border and roaming into Ruritania, and he ordered that the servants who always slept in the front hall should be armed with pikes. That was a risk, since Rassendyll’s men would doubtless carry guns, but it would look better than replacing them with trained and properly armed soldiers, and Michael tended to consider his servants as disposable.

  His main concern was not, in fact, the chateau’s security but the king in the Tower, since he calculated Rassendyll would have no choice but to make that attempt himself to hide his secret, and one of the four of us waiting there would be able to put a permanent end to his adventurous career.

  “So Michael will be innocently defending himself in his chateau, while the king is accidentally killed in a separate building,” I observed to Hentzau. “Which is to say, if public opinion demands that a head should roll for the ‘accident,’ it won’t be Michael’s.”

  “I wonder how many of us he intends to leave alive, if he becomes king,” Hentzau mused.

  “Bersonin, to kill the rest. And once he’s done that, he won’t be long for this world.”

  “A fine reward for service.”

  “Well, we won’t get any better from the other side,” I pointed out. Rassendyll would want the remnants of the Six, along with Michael and probably Antoinette, dead in order to keep the secret of his identity. It would be child’s play to give him a victory and the crown without him realising that was our aim, but how we would do it and get away with our lives was less obvious. “Have you any news from the lady?”

  We were in the Tower as we talked, since Hentzau was on duty, in one of the higher rooms, looking out over the moat at the chateau. We spoke in hushed tones with the door shut, but I still had no intention of naming Flavia aloud.

  “None. I suppose your friend has heard nothing either?” I shook my head. “What will you do if the attack comes before you know about the child?”

  That was the question. We still had no idea where Lisl was and no word from Flavia on the subject. That worried me for two reasons. If Flavia had not kept her promise, then we could not trust her word for Antoinette’s safety. And Michael was the only man who could tell us where Lisl was held: if he died in the hostilities, I was concerned that we might never find her. Anyone who had carried out his casual cruelties under orders would melt away once Michael was no longer there to protect them, and Flavia would have greater and larger tasks ahead of her than finding a whore’s bastard.

  “I’ll have to ask our master, I suppose,” I said. I didn’t know if I could force the information out of Michael at all—he was just the sort of obstinate swine who would lie under torture out of spite, and I doubted I’d have leisure to work on him in any case, but I could think of nothing else to do. That meant keeping him alive in the teeth of Rassendyll’s attack and Flavia’s wishes, which made me a quadruple agent by now, and I could not hold back a laugh at the thought.

  “I’m glad you find this amusing,” Hentzau said. “I’ll be fighting for my cause, you know.”

  “And I for mine. I hope they will prove to be the same.”

  “So do I,” he said. “It strikes me that we may not get many more opportunities to talk, my Detchard. I feel I should say—”

  “Uh-uh. No goodbyes,” I said. “It puts one in the wrong frame of mind for a fight. And if we are separated, I shall expect to find you via the Hundsstüberl inn.”

  “On Kazmairstrasse in Munich,” he agreed. “I remember my lesson, schoolmaster. I didn’t realise you were an optimist.”

  “I haven’t died yet, and I don’t intend to start now. Do you?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Then there’s no need for sentiment.”

  He gave me a sideways grin. “Clearly not. I will simply observe that if—when—we do meet again in that inn, I hope it will have a large bed and a sturdy door.”

  “A bottle of good red wine too. And then you can put your lesson of the other night into practice.”

  “The lesson in how to reduce a man to a whimpering heap and then fuck him senseless?”

  “That very one.”

  Hentzau looked me up and down with appreciative assessment. “I’d like to try my hand at that. Do you think I could make you beg, Jasper?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course we will.”

  I think that evening was the first time in his life my reckless Rupert had really understood that he would die one day and that it might be soon. I’m glad I was with him then; it is not a pleasant awareness to reach on one’s own. I had no great faith in our chances either, needless to
say, but at least I was used to it. So he stood by me in silence, and after a moment held himself straighter, and I knew he had conquered that natural sense of creeping anticipation that can nibble away so unpleasantly at the will.

  We looked out of the window together, in lieu of saying any of the things that would not help either of us in our resolve, and that was why I saw the flag.

  “What’s that?” I said aloud.

  “What?” Hentzau asked, then, “That red cloth in the chateau window, you mean?”

  It was Antoinette’s window. I knew the signal from the brothel where Toni and I had met: the whores would hang up a red scarf or shirt as a way to attract attention without screaming. “Excuse me,” I said, and set off down the stairs at a run, pausing only to snatch up something I had been reading as an excuse.

  I had to stride, rather than run, when I got to the drawbridge, to avoid attention. I headed into the chateau and up the stairs to Antoinette’s rooms, hand casually on my hip where I carried a knife. Her door was unlocked, and I let myself in without knocking.

  Toni was there, alone, apparently unharmed. I looked to her for a sign, and she gave me a sharp nod.

  “Mademoiselle,” I said. “I have brought you that book I mentioned.” I held it out, in case we were observed.

  “Care and Construction of the Chamelot-Delvigne Service Revolver,” she murmured. “Thank you, Detchard, how thoughtful. Is there a happy ending?”

  “Unfortunately not. It turns out the hero was a double-action revolver all along.”

  “The cad.” She drew me over to the window as she spoke, voice very low, and switched to demotic French in case of listening servants. “I had a letter from Rassendyll, via Johann. You know that I have sent him messages begging him to save me from this den of murderers. Well, he has replied at last. He wants me to scream rape against Rupert Hentzau tomorrow night, at two in the morning.”

  I took that in. “The idea is to draw Michael out of his apartment, to protect you?”

  “Yes, so I suppose.”

  “That will be the time of the attack, then. Michael will be bent on revenge against Hentzau, Rassendyll’s men will presumably attack then, all attention will be drawn to the chateau, and I dare say the player-king will take his opportunity to slip into the Tower and do what he needs. A pretty distraction. Have you given the letter to Michael?”

  “Not yet,” she said softly. “And it is the first letter from Rassendyll, and Flavia tells me he has used a wound on his hand as an excuse not to write. Michael won’t know his handwriting. Does he know yours?”

  “I doubt it. I haven’t picked up a pen in months.”

  Her eyes met mine. “Rewrite the letter,” she said. “I must have a paper to hand over to Michael, just in case he decides to interrogate Johann, but set the date for two days hence instead of tomorrow. The attack will come the day before Michael expects. Rassendyll can take him by surprise.”

  “What about Lisl?” I asked.

  She set her jaw. “I trust Flavia. I have to trust Flavia. I have no choice.”

  “I could put a knife to Michael’s throat and ask him.”

  She shook her head. “And what then? Kill him and wait for Rassendyll? Or flee, breaking my promise to Flavia, with the knowledge we both carry, and no guarantee Michael told you the truth? What then? I can’t take the risk. Write it, Jasper, please.”

  “Wait,” I said. “It occurs to me that Michael will guess your treachery very quickly, if your distraction and Rassendyll’s attack take place exactly to plan but a day early. Let us at least change the scheme a little. If I write that you are to, say, set a fire, then Michael will not expect to hear you cry rape. It may keep him from realising you have double-crossed him a little longer.” Probably not long enough, I thought, and wondered how fast and how good Rassendyll’s men might be.

  Toni exhaled. “I didn’t think of that. Thank you.”

  I sat and wrote. My hand bore a reasonable resemblance to Rassendyll’s; I suppose we had both had the same public-school training. He had made no effort to disguise his meaning except to write in French. That, I feared, did not bode well: if the player-king was ready to leave incriminating documents around, it was probably because he intended to silence their holders.

  I blotted the letter and took the blotting paper to burn later. “You realise that this will put you in the firing line. As soon as Michael realises you have betrayed him—”

  “I know.”

  “He has the key to your door.”

  “I know.”

  “At least put a chair under the door handle.”

  She gave me a look. “Do you have a knife to spare?”

  I handed her the blade I carried. “Can you use it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

  “Then you can’t.”

  “I really do want to stab him. That will surely help?”

  “Not enough,” I said. “I’ll think of something. You won’t be alone.”

  “Will you not have sufficient on your plate?” she replied tartly.

  “I’ll think of something,” I repeated. “Will you keep the original letter or shall I?”

  “I will.”

  I didn’t tell her to hide it carefully. She didn’t tell me that it would be no use as a bargaining chip if it was carried on my cooling corpse. We both knew.

  “Very well,” I said. “Take care, chérie.”

  “You too. Bonne chance,” she said softly. “To both of you. Tell Hentzau I’m sorry I slapped him.”

  “It’s good for him.”

  “Oh, he needs taking in hand.” She grinned at me. “Which, may I say, you did magnificently. Michael was—”

  “I don’t want to know what Michael was. Did he have you watch that?”

  She fluttered her eyelashes. “It was the most fun I’ve had in this castle for a long time. You’ve matured well. When we get back to Vienna, you should consider taking up the whip professionally.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I prefer the knife.”

  “That’s why you’d be marvellous with the whip, of course. That edge of danger, which is so delicious when it’s—it’s not—”

  “Not real,” I finished, when she could not. “I know.”

  “I’m frightened, Jasper,” she said softly.

  “I know you are. And nevertheless, you will bring Michael the letter, and play your part, and we will all do what we can. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.”

  She grasped my hands. “You’ve done all you could. You’ve been a pal, mon cher. And we’ll meet again, won’t we?”

  “We will. Courage, my dear.”

  “Always.” She put her head up high. I squeezed her hands, and let go, and then I took my book and walked back to the Tower, and left my friend to carry off a lie on which her life, and mine, and those of many others would hang.

  I found Hentzau back in the Tower and murmured the news into his ear. He considered it in silence for a moment. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Michael will be angry, and de Mauban unprotected.”

  “I want to talk to you about that.”

  Hentzau nodded, then looked round as someone from the floor below called my name. “Later. Good fortune, Jasper. And—”

  I pulled him to me, kissed him once, hard, and released him. He gave me a rueful smile. “That too.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next day was slow to the point of agony. I made sure I slept, and ate well, and exercised lightly to keep my muscles warm. I checked my weapons over and made sure I had my sword to hand, my belt knife, my concealed knife at my back, my boot knife, and a loaded revolver. I don’t like to be unprepared.

  I barely saw Hentzau, who was in the Tower all day; I did not see Antoinette.

  Bersonin and I relieved Hentzau and de Gautet that evening. They went over to the chateau; we settled down in our usual silence. I had no desire to speak to Bersonin, and as he wandered over to make snide observations t
o the chained king, I knew a strong hope that he at least would not survive the night.

  I have not spoken of the king a great deal. I have no desire to think of him after those endless days guarding his cell, listening to his shouts and orders degenerate into pleas and muttering. It was an unclean business, and had it been up to me I should have given him a swift death weeks before, but then, I have never aspired to be a king. Greater men sit on a throne and order tortures; I simply red my hands on their behalf. So I will only observe that Rudolf Elphberg, the untouchable heir, had deserved a prison cell as much as any man in Ruritania, and if he was unjustly imprisoned for these months, perhaps that served a little to balance the years in which he was unjustly free.

  I played patience and waited. Night came. The windows of the chateau were open while its inhabitants were awake, and with all the doors open in the Tower for air, I could hear faint laughter. Rupert of Hentzau was making merry, it seemed, as cheerfully and carelessly as though he expected nothing more from the night than a good sleep.

  Time passed. The clock struck twelve, and Bersonin drifted into a light doze. It struck one, and I went to the main gate of the Tower to get some air and keep my legs stretched for action. I could see Antoinette’s open window, in the chateau over the moat; I saw her standing in the window, silhouetted against the lamplight, and I saw a man’s form that was not Michael’s come up to her and whisper close.

  Hentzau was in her room. I wondered what he was up to.

  Faint voices drifted over the moat: Hentzau cajoling, I thought, Antoinette rebuking, and then Michael’s harsh, angry voice, loud enough to make out. “What are you doing here, sir?”

  A brief argument followed, of which I could not make out the words. It seemed that Michael sent Hentzau packing though, because a few moments later he was standing at the far end of the drawbridge, calling de Gautet loudly. I stepped back into the hall so I should not appear to await him.