Prisoner of the Iron Tower (9 page)

“More like every day of the year,” murmured Ninusha, her dark-lashed eyes wide with longing. “How could she
bear
to leave them behind?”

“Serves her right,” said Ilsi with a sniff, “for stealing another girl’s fiancé.”

“You were never engaged to Michailo!” cried Ninusha.

“We had a secret understanding.”

“An understanding? Is that what it’s called nowadays?”

Kiukiu knelt beside her aunt in the billowing folds of Lilias Arbelian’s wardrobe, reaching out to touch the shining folds of silk. So soft, so luxurious compared with the rough linen of her own patched skirt . . .

“What should we do with them?” she asked wonderingly.

“Burn them,” said Sosia. “Burn anything to do with that treacherous woman. If it weren’t for her, our Kostya would still be alive. They’re bad luck.”

Ninusha let out a shriek of dismay. “Burn these? But they’re—they’re far too beautiful to burn.”

“We lost our belongings in the bombardment, didn’t we, Ninusha?” added Ilsi cunningly. “We’ve only got what we’re wearing now. Right, Sosia?”

“If you think these are suitable for doing the housework in, then think again,” said Sosia tartly. “These are lady’s clothes. Besides, they’d have to be let out to fit you, Ninusha.”

Ilsi gave a malicious little laugh as Ninusha colored crimson at Sosia’s gibe. Kiukiu was glad that, for once, she was not the butt of Ilsi’s spiteful humor.

“What’s all the excitement about?” Lady Elysia appeared in the doorway. At once Ilsi and Ninusha dropped respectful curtsies, heads lowered. “Are you thinking of opening a dressmaker’s, Sosia?”

“The men dug this trunk out of the ruins of the West Wing, my lady. They belonged to—” Sosia’s words dried up, as if unwilling to pronounce Lilias Arbelian’s name aloud in Lady Elysia’s presence.

“To my late husband’s mistress?” Lady Elysia said. The serving girls gawped at one another to hear her speak of Lilias in such blunt terms. But Lady Elysia seemed unconcerned, picking up a gown of milky jade taffeta from the pile and examining it. “She had good taste—and a skillful dressmaker.” If she was distressed by the mention of Lilias’s name, she did not show it.

“We were—unsure of what to do with them, my lady,” said Sosia.

Kiukiu saw Ninusha give Ilsi a nudge in the ribs.

“We’re all short of clothes, my lady,” Ilsi said.

“Well, then, help yourselves!” Lady Elysia said gaily. “I’m going to choose something. This one in jade green, I think. All my clothes are still in Swanholm.” And then she noticed Kiukiu. The brave merriment in her face and voice faltered a moment as she held out her hands to her. “Kiukiu, they didn’t tell me you had returned. We must talk.”

Kiukiu heard the whispering begin as she went over to Lady Elysia’s side.

“When did
she
appear?” hissed Ilsi. “And where’s she been?”

“Choose yourself a dress too, my dear,” Lady Elysia said, pressing Kiukiu’s hand warmly.

“Let the others choose first,” Kiukiu said, eyes lowered.

“Blue is your color,” Lady Elysia said, ignoring her. She knelt and pulled out a silk dress the rich blue of summer cornflowers. “This will suit you very well.” She held it up against Kiukiu, who felt herself blushing at all the attention.

“It’s lovely,” she said softly, stroking the silk against her cheek. The other servants plunged greedily into the pile of dresses. Ilsi and Ninusha were already bickering over a dress of mulberry silk, tugging it between them. Even old Marfa, who looked after the kastel poultry, had grabbed a dress of heliotrope bombazine.

“Come,” Lady Elysia said to Kiukiu. “Let’s leave them to it.”

Lady Elysia opened the door to the Drakhaon’s chamber and beckoned Kiukiu inside.

Kiukiu felt her heart falter a little as she entered the familiar room. Lady Elysia laid the dresses on the four-poster bed. The rich tapestries still hung on the walls—as did the portrait of Lord Gavril as a boy that she used to dust so tenderly, hoping that one day . . .

“Sit down, Kiukiu. Would you like some tea?” Lady Elysia lifted a little kettle from the fire and poured steaming water into a ceramic pot, releasing the gentle fragrance of green Khitari tea.

“I-I should serve you, my lady—” Kiukiu stammered, embarrassed.

“You’re my guest,” Lady Elysia said, smiling. “Besides, you’ve traveled a long way today, if I’m not mistaken. You must be tired.”

“I came along the River Karzh; it’s still frozen over.” Kiukiu took the bowl of tea and cradled it in her fingers. “It would have taken at least two days by the moorland road.”

Elysia took up her tea and sat down opposite her on the other side of the fire.

Kiukiu sipped her tea and felt the ache that had stiffened her neck and shoulders soothed slowly away. She had not realized until then how tense she was. “Lady Elysia,” she said, looking at her through the gauzy steam rising from the tea, “where are all our men?”

“The Tielens took away their weapons,” said Lady Elysia. A sigh escaped her lips. “Then they put them in chains. Captain Lindgren has set them to digging mineshafts. It seems he believes the estate lands contain valuable mineral deposits.”

“They’re making them work—in chains?” Kiukiu set her empty tea bowl down. The thought of the proud
druzhina
being forced to dig tunnels appalled her.

“If Emperor Eugene believes I’m going to sit here and do nothing to help Gavril and his men, he’s very much mistaken.” The sadness had faded from Elysia’s expression, which was now one of stern resolve. “I’m taking the sleigh and going to Azhgorod tomorrow, Kiukiu, to petition the governor. Captain Lindgren has agreed to write me a safe-conduct letter and introduction to Lord Stoyan.”

“Can I come too?” burst out Kiukiu. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized how foolish they sounded. “No. Of course not. Why would Lord Stoyan pay any attention to me?”

“I fear,” Elysia said distantly, staring into the flames, “that he won’t pay attention to any of us. The matter is out of his hands.”

Kiukiu slipped away when no one was looking with a bowl of scraps and leftovers gleaned from the Tielens’ dinner. Months ago she had crept out of the kitchens, night after night, to feed Snowcloud, the young snow owl she and Lord Gavril had rescued. But now the scraps were intended for a different purpose.

First she slid into the stables, where she found Harim contentedly munching from a nosebag. “Time for you to go home,” she whispered in his hairy ear. Checking to see no one was about, she led him out into the courtyard.

“Where’re you taking that pony?” demanded someone from the shadows behind her.

“Go on.” She patted Harim’s sturdy rump hard and sent him trotting off into the dusk. “Go home to Grandma!”

“Kiukiu?”

She turned to see Ivar, the stableboy, watching her, arms folded, chewing on a haystalk.

“I’m sending him home to Grandma. The Tielens have no need of him.”

“They’re using ponies down in the mine.”

“Well they’re not using my Harim.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I saw nothing.” He went back into the stables, calling teasingly back over his shoulder, “But don’t forget—you owe me a favor now, Kiukiu.”

Kiukiu blushed.
So he wants me to kiss him,
she thought.
And his voice hasn’t even broken properly yet!

Now that Ivar had gone, she gathered up the bowl of scraps and set out toward the escarpment where she had seen the diggings.

She managed to slip past two sentries without being noticed and made her way through the fast-gathering dark toward the mine-workings where the Tielens were lighting torches.

Surely they can’t still be working now that it’s night?
Then she remembered that it was always dark underground.

As she came nearer, she saw a group of Azhkendi men lying down around the dying embers of a fire. Were they sleeping? She thought she recognized the straw-fair hair of the nearest prisoner. Crouching down, she threw a pebble at his back, whispering his name. “Semyon! Semyon, it’s me.”

He rolled over and she heard the clinking of chains.

“What is it?” he asked. His eyes looked dull and glazed and he moved sluggishly, as though only half-awake.

“Food,” she hissed, pushing the bowl toward him. “You look half-starved.”

“Food?” he repeated dazedly. And then he grabbed the bowl and started to cram the scraps into his mouth, chewing ravenously. His blanket dropped away and she saw with horror how thin he was, all skin and bones.

“What’s that noise?” It was one of the Tielens, who had spotted the movement. Kiukiu shrank back into the shadows, crawling out of sight.

By the torchlight, she saw him take the bowl from Semyon and hit him, hard.

“Hungry, are you?” The Tielen turned the bowl over so that all the remaining scraps fell out onto the earth. “Let’s test how hungry you really are.” Laughing, he ground them into the earth with the heel of his boot.

Kiukiu began to edge away, terrified lest she be caught. And as she retreated, she saw, through tear-hazed eyes, Semyon desperately scrabbling for the few scraps the Tielen had trodden on.

Azhgorod was the ancient walled capital of Azhkendir. Round watchtowers stood at every gate to protect the wooden houses crowded together beneath the black spires of the Cathedral of Saint Sergius.

In more southern climes, the last snows had melted and spring had come. In Smarna, the white lilacs would be in bloom in the gardens of the Villa Andara. But here in Azhkendir, the last throes of winter still gripped the country in a gauntlet of ice.

Elysia Andar shivered as her sleigh skimmed closer to the city—though whether from the chill of winter’s last snows or from the powerful memories that came surging back to her, she could not be sure.

She had first come to Azhgorod in a troika jingling with sweet-toned silver bells, a young bride nestled close to her husband beneath soft white furs, unaware of the waiting shadows that lay ahead.

And now here she was, a quarter of a century later, her estranged husband assassinated, returning to beg permission to visit her imprisoned son.

Then, the black dragon standard of the House of Nagarian had hung from every watchtower and spire. Clansmen of the Drakhaon’s
druzhina
rode as escort beside them. The people of Azhgorod clustered together, straining for a closer glimpse of their young Lord Drakhaon and his bride.

Now the blue and grey pennants of Tielen fluttered from the watchtowers, emblem of the empire of New Rossiya that had swallowed up Azhkendir and the other surrounding countries in its gaping maw.

The sleigh reached the main road and began to bump over rutted mud and churned snow. Elysia had to grab hold of the rail to hold herself steady.

Her sleigh-driver turned around.

“Looks like they’re checking everyone in and out, Drakhys.” Ivar had gone pale beneath his freckles. She had chosen Ivar, the oldest stableboy at the kastel, as her driver. All Nagarian men of fighting age had been put to work in Captain Lindgren’s mine, even the
detsky
—the keep boys—none of whom were much above fifteen summers in age.

“Don’t call me Drakhys, Ivar,” she said. “They’d arrest us for that alone.”

“Suppose they suspect—”

“Our papers are in order. They have no reason to refuse us entry. Just relax.” Even though she forced herself to speak calmly to Ivar, her stomach was churning, dreading the encounter to come, yet fearing just as much being turned away at the gates.

They were close enough now to see soldiers in the uniforms of the army of Tielen manning the gate. Others patrolled the walls, carbines on their shoulders.

“Madame Elysia Andar.” The officer glanced at her as he scanned the letter Captain Lindgren had written. His face was expressionless, giving nothing away. She was glad she had insisted the captain use her professional name. “I see you come from Smarna. A long way to travel in winter, madame.”

“You will also see that I am a portrait painter,” she answered pleasantly. “I go where my work takes me.”

“And you seek an audience with his excellency, the governor.” He frowned at the papers as though questioning their authenticity, then handed them back. “You may proceed.”

Ivar’s freckled face had turned bright red with relief when he clambered back into the driver’s seat. She nodded but said nothing, not trusting herself to speak yet.

The narrow streets of the city were dark and gloomy, overhung with carved wooden balconies and metal shop signs. The street was hard with rutted ice. Ahead the way was blocked by two larger sleighs. And, from the shouts and cursing, Elysia guessed the coachmen had come to blows.

“Ivar, you’ll have to find somewhere to leave the sleigh while I go on ahead on foot.”

He glanced at her doubtfully. “A lady alone? In this big city?”

She laughed. His concern for her safety was touching. Though she suspected he was equally anxious about how he was going to maneuver the sleigh without accident.

“I’m used to big cities, Ivar. I spent many weeks in Mirom, remember? You go and find a place to stable the horses, then meet me at the Governor’s Mansion. It’s in the main square, opposite the cathedral.”

She swung her feet out over the side of the sleigh, lifting the jade skirts of Lilias’s dress to avoid the wet slush of ice and mud pooling in the ruts, and set off beneath the low-hanging balconies.

She let her memory guide her, hurrying as best she could over the slippery mush of frozen snow, past a covered market ripe with the earthy stink of onions, winter kale, and turnips, where tradesmen hollered their wares aloud, their breath steaming in the cold air.

The iron-tongued bells of Saint Sergius’s Cathedral dinned out, filling the city with their clamor. Following the sound, she came out of the narrow street into the great square and found herself gazing up at the cathedral, a dark blur against the pallor of the sky.

The town residence of Lord Boris Stoyan, Chief Boyar of the Council of Azhgorod—and recently appointed Governor of Azhkendir by the Emperor Eugene—stood next to the Council House. It was a sturdy, unpretentious mansion, built in the traditional Azhkendi style, with carved wooden shutters and balconies, and a roof pitched at a steep angle to allow the snow to slide off. Only the Tielen sentries guarding the front door, and the blue and grey flag of Tielen hanging over the entrance, distinguished it from any other rich merchant’s house in Azhgorod.