Simon Hawke - The Zenda Vendetta

If that was true, thought Drakov, then his mother had been redeemed many times over. But he was not certain it was true. He was not certain that one could be redeemed. Another writer, an American-who else? — had written that Byronic melancholy was the opium of the intellectuals and the last refuge of little minds. No doubt Falcon would agree. She never had the time to grieve, as she had so simply and mercilessly put it, for all the souls who fell by the wayside. Reluctantly, he took out his laser and aimed it at his victim’s head. He hesitated.

The beam flash would undoubtedly alert the others, who were neither as young nor as inexperienced as this one. He transferred the laser to his left hand and moved forward slowly, silently, closing the distance between them. He raised his right arm and brought the edge of his right hand down hard on the back of the young man’s neck, just below the point at which the spine met the base of the skull.

He heard a voice cry out as he struck and he spun instinctively, firing blindly with his left hand and hitting the chronoplate remote with his right. Even as he fired, he felt a searing pain lance along his side and the next thing he knew, he was back in the turret atop the keep of Zenda Castle, collapsing to the floor and grimacing with pain. He had not been the only hunter on the stalk. Just before he had clocked out, he had caught a brief glimpse of a dark shape silhouetted against the moonlight. And, irrationally, in that brief instant he had known exactly who it was.

A bucketful of stinging cold water brought Finn sputtering to his feet, ready to commit murder. “God damn it!” he shouted, but Sapt pushed him back down onto the bed, ducking under his wild punch easily.

“Stay yourself, man,” the old officer said, sharply. “I tried every other means of waking you and you would not budge. It’s five o’clock.”

“Five o’clock!” said Finn, still not fully cognizant.

“Rassendyll,” said Fritz von Tarlenheim, taking him by the arm. “Look here.”

Rudolf Elphberg was stretched out full length upon the floor, completely drenched. It appeared that they had thrown at least four times as much water on him as they had on Finn and still he slept. Sapt moved over to him and gave him a sharp slap in the face, hard enough to make Finn wince.

“Wake up, Your damned useless Majesty!” he said. “Hang him, he drank three times what either of you did,” Sapt said, eyeing both Finn and von Tarlenheim with fury. “And damn me all to hell for sitting there and letting him! This is a fine muddle!”

“We’ve spent half an hour on him,” von Tarlenheim said with exasperation.

Finn knelt down and felt the king’s pulse. It was quite slow.

“What, Rassendyll, are you a doctor?” von Tarlenheim said, hopefully.

“I’ve studied medicine,” Finn said, improvising. “However, a thousand doctors wouldn’t do him any good right now.”

“What!” cried Sapt, with a look of horror on his face. “What are you saying? He’s not dead!”

“No, he’s not dead,” said Finn, “but he has every appearance of having been drugged.”

“Drugged!” said Fritz. Understanding dawned on him. “Michael! Damn the bastard! It was that last bottle, for a fact! Sapt, we have been taken for a pair of mighty fools! How on earth will we get him to the coronation now?”

“He won’t be crowned today,” said Finn. “My guess is that he won’t come around for at least eight or ten hours.”

Von Tarlenheim licked his lips. “This is a disaster,” he said. “We shall have to send word that he’s ill.”

“We are ruined,” said Sapt. “If he’s not crowned today, I’ll lay a crown he’s never crowned.” “But why?” said Finn. “Surely, it can’t be so serious?” “Serious?” said Sapt. “The whole nation will be there to meet him and half the army with Black Michael at its head. Shall we send word that the king is drunk?” “That he’s ill,” said Finn.

“Ill!” said Sapt. “His ‘illnesses’ are only too well known. Rudolf’s been ‘Ill’ before.”

“There’s nothing to be done,” said von Tarlenheim. “We shall simply have to put on a sober face and make the best of it. I say,” he paused, “that was a poor choice of words, under the circumstances.”

“I should have known,” said Sapt. “I should have known that he would try something of this sort, but I did not give him enough credit. He’s let Rudolf be hoist with his own petard!” He slapped the king again. “The drunken dog! Still, I’ll rot in hell before I see Black Michael sit on the throne in his place!” Sapt chewed furiously on one end of his moustache, his brow deeply furrowed.

“Surely, something can be done!” said von Tarlenheim, though his tone of voice did not hold forth much hope. Suddenly, Sapt looked up, staring at Delaney. Finn played dumb and simply stood there, looking bewildered, as did von Tarlenheim for a moment or two, until he realized what Sapt was thinking.

“No!” he whispered softly, looking from Sapt to Finn and back again.

“Yes, by God!” said Sapt. “It just might work!”

Finn gauged the moment right to “realize” what they intended, but he had to play it well. “Oh, no,” he said, stepping back from them and snaking his head.

“Rassendyll, do you believe in Fate?” said Sapt.

You don’t want to know, thought Finn.

“It was Fate that sent you here, man, and now it’s Fate that beckons you to Strelsau.”

“It would never work,” said Finn. “They’d know that I was not the king!”

“If you shave?” said Sapt. “Who would ever expect it? You’d be his spitting image.”

“I’d be bound to make some blunder,” Finn said.

“We shall be beside you every moment,” Sapt said. “Granted, it’s a risk. Are you afraid, lad?”

“Sir!” said Finn, in mock outrage at the suggestion.

“Don’t take offense,” said Sapt, “it’s your life that will be on the line, and ours as well if we are caught. But if we do not make the attempt, it is a certain thing that Black Michael will be the one sitting on the throne tonight and the king in prison or even in his grave. You do not know Black Michael. Fritz will bear me out that I do not overstate the danger.”

“But what will the king say when he finds out?” said Finn.

“Who cares what he says?” said Sapt. “It’s his own worthless hide that we’ll be saving. I daresay that he might even learn from this, though I hold out no great hope. What do you say, man? In truth, you owe us nothing and not a man on earth could blame you if you were to refuse, but you’re the one chance that we have; you see that, don’t you?”

Finn decided that he made enough protestations for the sake of appearances. He looked down at the unconscious form of Rudolf Elphberg, wondering if perhaps Ruritania would not be better served by having his brother on the throne.

“Yes, of course, I see,” he said.

“You’ll do it, then?” said Sapt, eagerly. Finn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s insane,” he said, “but yes, I’ll do it.”

“Good man!” said Sapt, relieved. “Listen, then, this is how we must bring it off. Fritz and I will prepare you to the best of our abilities. The ceremony itself is simple enough; an idiot could get through it. We’ll hide the king here. We shall be staying in the palace at Strelsau tonight. The very moment we are left alone after the coronation, you and I will mount and ride here at the gallop. Fritz will stay behind at the palace to make certain that no one enters the royal bedchambers. When the king awakens here, Josef will tell him what has transpired. We may depend on him, he has served the king since boyhood. The king will then ride back with me to Strelsau and you must make all speed to the frontier.”