Book 9: Chapter 21
Vestonia
Herouxville. New Capital
The Royal Theater
THE COUNT DE GRAMONT sat in the depths of his theater box, pretending to be engrossed in the set on stage. In reality, however, he kept glancing over to one side, where the Duke de Bauffremont’s box was located.
After several minutes of hesitation, the Count called a footman over and quickly nodded as he whispered something into the servant’s ear:
“Deliver this to His Grace and wait for his response.”
The footman accepted the rolled sheet of paper from the Count’s hands with a bow, then disappeared through the heavy curtain behind the box. Heinrich de Gramont’s fingers were digging into his knees. He could barely contain his impatience. He was hoping that the Duke de Bauffremont, who had been nigh-impossible to contact in recent weeks, would grant him a short audience. Actually, this hope was the real reason that Heinrich had finally acceded to his wife’s demands and brought his whole family out to the theater that night.
Five minutes later, the footman returned, bowed before the Count, and said:
“His Grace is willing to meet you in his box as soon as the curtain descends.” Heinrich de Gramont sighed with relief and straightened back up. All that remained was to wait for the show to end. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept an eye on the stage, where the actors in their costumes were performing amid a sea of papier-mâché decorations.
As the plot progressed, the drama on the scene was enlivened by loud laughter from the audience, interspersed with occasional gasps of excitement. Unlike the Count, they were obviously thoroughly enjoying the show.
When the lights went out, and the orchestra launched into a short closing melody that heralded the imminent descent of the curtain, Count de Gramont abruptly stood up, slipped past the curtain, and walked out into the dimly-lit hallway outside.
After several long minutes of walking down the hallways, passing by the nobles crowded into them, Heinrich was standing outside the Duke’s private box. A man standing in de Bauffremont livery was stationed outside the curtain; upon catching sight of Heinrich, he nodded silently and let the Duke step inside.
The cold look in the Duke’s eyes made Heinrich quail, although he didn’t show it. Bauffremont clearly wasn’t happy to be seeing him. He nodded distractedly and shot his guest a look of impatience, as if he were already trying to determine what would be the quickest way to rid himself of the bothersome Count.
“Your Grace,” said Heinrich, his voice dry, as he bowed his head in a courteous greeting. “Thank you for making time to talk to me.”
The Duke’s lips flitted into something resembling a smile, but his eyes were still cold:
“I hope you understand, Count, that you haven’t chosen the best moment. I’m here to relax. I don’t want to waste a marvelous evening discussing your affairs.”
That last sentence stung the Count more painfully than a knife, but he suppressed his irritation and kept his silence. This sort of thing, after all, was what the Duke — that puffed-up, strutting turkey of a man — did best. He was always ready to draw benefit out of a situation for himself. As soon as the conversation turned to returning the favor, however, de Bauffremont’s memory always seemed to malfunction. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Count de Gramont regretted not having put his chips on de Gondy.
Heinrich had basically served the bastard up on a plate to this lapdog of the Astlanders, but nothing had turned out as promised. Carl had announced that the fugitive Princess Sophia was under his protection, and Max’s status was still pending (although Heinrich still hoped that his brother’s bastard would be declared a conspirator).
The Duke was standing there, spine perfectly erect, showing with every piece of body language at his disposal that he was very much in a hurry. The Count de Gramont stepped a little closer and lowered his voice:
“Your Grace... You know very well what it is that’s worrying me. With the way events are unfolding, it doesn’t look like there will ever be a better opportunity for me to reclaim what’s rightfully mine.”
The Duke shook his head; he was still looking at something off to the side:
“You’re rushing things, Count. This is only just beginning. Carl’s made his move. Wait for the King of Astland to make his move in response.”
“I’ve been waiting too long already...” The Count hesitated; he was trying hard to restrain a burst of irritation.
“Monsieur.” The Duke turned his shoulder indifferently away from the Count. “Do you think I don’t understand why you’re in such a hurry to get your hands on that tiny, absurd-looking little castle?”
“Your Grace, I — “
“Enough,” the Duke cut him off. “Everyone knows that the Margrave de Valier brought a number of rich gifts back with him after winning the Trial. Princess Astrid herself opened the doors of her treasury to him. And if I’m not mistaken — and I’m not — your nephew was traveling quite light when he went to Bergonia. You’re simply in a hurry to get your hands on the Margrave’s capital-city treasury. You ought to call things as they are.”
The Count felt like he had just been splashed with cold water. For a moment, he clenched his fists:
“Your Grace, I don’t see anything shameful in the fact that I want to get this treasure out of the hands of a traitor. Haven’t we done enough to deserve at least your indirect support?”
Bauffremont’s lips curled into a mocking smile:
““We?” Ah, yes! You mean you and your companion, Legrand? Although now that you mention it, you’re actually relatives to some extent, aren’t you? Thanks to your nephew. Curious, no? Sometimes the gods truly have a sense of humor.”
Despite his much-vaunted cool demeanor and self-control, Heinrich could feel his face starting to burn, as if he had just opened the door of a smith’s oven and looked inside.
Meanwhile, the Duke continued in a sarcastic, mocking tone:
“How is your dear old merchant, by the way? They say his warehouses burned down, his ships sank, and his creditors have practically staked out the ground around his mansion. I guess your distant relative’s meager flow of gold has dried up? A real shame. I seem to remember you assuring me that I could count on him. After all — we still have quite a bit of business ahead of us.”
At that moment, Heinrich wanted nothing more than to tell the Duke exactly what he thought of his so-called “business.” Buying expensive horses and hunting dogs, enormous expenses on receptions and balls, gifts for his female favorites... That was just a small part of the “business” that sucked up so much gold from the nobles and merchants who supported the Duke de Bauffremont.
“He’s experiencing some temporary difficulties,” snapped de Gramont. “If he had the opportunity to secure a few loans from the Astlandic bankers, I’m sure Legrand and his companions could rectify the situation.”
“Really?” The Duke smiled, as though he were watching a drowning man trying in vain to save himself. “Because I was told that the poor old man suffered an episode that’s got him confined to his bed. I don’t know much about banking, but even I can see that a half-crippled, ruined merchant is hardly a worthy investment.”
“You’re right, Your Lordship,” Heinrich was forced to agree.
“Of course I am,” the Duke shrugged. “I always am. So don’t take any unnecessary risks. The best strategy at the moment is to wait. I seem to remember you’ve always been good at that in the past. What’s stopping you from doing the same thing now? Unless you heed my advice, you risk starting problems with Carl. The King is on high alert after what happened with the Princess.”
The Count twitched as he clenched his jaw:
“While we wait, our enemy acts. The deaths of your people in Bergonia, and on the border, are proof enough of that.”
Bauffremont’s face changed. He stepped closer to Heinrich.
“Count,” he said, his tone now icy. “You haven’t chosen the most appropriate place for a conversation like this.”
“It’s been impossible to reach you lately,” replied Heinrich, drawing up every last ounce of his manliness as he spoke.
He had no intention of backing down. He had bet too much on this hand, and he wasn’t going to fold.
“Although I feel I’ve proven my loyalty to Your Grace many times by this point.”
Duke de Bauffremont stared firmly into the Count’s eyes for a little while, then sighed:
“And I suppose that even if I forbid it, you’ll still do whatever you want anyway?”
“Yes,” replied Heinrich as he rolled his shoulders forward. “My honor demands no less.”
“Well then,” said the Duke de Bauffremont in a calm, even tone of voice. “I wouldn’t dream of ordering you to act against your honor. May the gods be with you.”
Upon hearing this, Count de Gramont clenched his fists so hard that they actually hurt. All his services had been forgotten. The Duke’s memory turned out to be even shorter than the Count had imagined. Although Heinrich was certain that if he could somehow manage to pull off a victory on his own, the puffed-up braggart would be the first to congratulate him. Not for nothing, after all, had he mentioned Max’s treasury. But this time was different. Just a moment before, the Count had made his final decision: he would transfer his allegiance to the Duke de Gondy’s banner.
Trying not to betray his true feelings, Heinrich bowed with as much dignity as he could muster:
“I thank you for your time, Your Grace.”
Bauffremont merely nodded in reply and turned away, making it clear that the audience was over.
Heinrich bid him a dry farewell and walked out of the box. Once outside in the hallway, he closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long, quiet breath. The feeling of relief gave him calm, and also filled him with a desire to act. It was time to take back what was his.
* * *
Herouxville. The Old Capital
The Fox Den
Two days after his conversation with the Duke de Bauffremont, Count de Gramont arrived at the Fox Den. It was the middle of a bright, sunny day, and he came at the head of an imposing unit of fifty armed retainers. With him came his son, the Viscount de Gramont, and Francois’ old friend, the Baron Louis de Rochand.
The young Baron had been a guest at the de Gramont household ever since Francois’ return from the front. Heinrich didn’t much care for him, but Francois insisted that if it weren’t for Louis, his period of captivity would have been absolutely insufferable.
Heinrich knew that Francois’ lyrical description of the Baron as being the acme of everything heroic had been concocted especially for the ears of the Countess de Gramont. Francois had always been the apple of his mother’s eye, and coming as it did from her baby boy, that description was more than sufficient to ensure the Baron a place as a seemingly-permanent houseguest. As such, Baron de Rochand remained an honored guest in the Count’s palace, and it didn’t seem like he had given even the slightest thought to moving on any time soon.
That didn’t mean that Heinrich was going to accept such a state of affairs. Especially given that, according to reports from his servants, young Yveline had grown quite fond of the handsome young nobleman. Had Louis de Rochand come from a wealthy, influential house, Heinrich would undoubtedly have given his blessing to such a match, but alas — the Baron was as poor as a church mouse. Long story short, Francois had already been given notice that Rochand would need to find another place to live before too long.
Four heavy wagons came rumbling along behind the horsemen, all carrying servants of the Count who had been ordered to load the wagons with all the expensive furniture, paintings, and other property that the hated bastard had managed to accumulate.
Somehow, a crowd of onlookers had already managed to assemble. Having caught sight of the imposing procession, some of the townspeople had begun trailing along behind the Count and his retinue, albeit at a distance almost as great as the diameter of a city square. Once the procession arrived at the Fox Den, these onlookers fanned out into a semicircular crowd, whispering and pointing fingers. Some of them just wanted entertainment; some were hoping for a bloody spectacle; still others simply enjoyed watching these antics of the rich and famous.
“Look, dad,” said Francois with a smile as he cast a slow glance around the mansion’s facade. “Your reports were right: the servants and retainers were just as cowardly as the bastard himself.”
Count de Gramont nodded, with a restrained smile on his face. Mirthful sparks were already dancing in his eyes: he was imagining the look on the Duke de Bauffremont’s face when he heard about the seizure, which was already beginning to seem more like a late-morning stroll than an actual confrontation. It seemed vanishingly unlikely that the servants and retainers in the castle would have stolen anything from their master. Cowardice was one thing; thievery was quite another. Put simply, therefore, it seemed likely that many of the Count’s financial problems would probably be a thing of the past from that day forward. After all, he hadn’t forgotten all the times his sister had crowed about just how much gold her lucky bastard of a nephew had managed to amass.
“This is what happens when you entrust the care of your home to all sorts of rabble,” the Count hissed. “So much the better for us. With no resistance, this castle will be ours once again.”
“Louis!” A smiling Francois shouted. “I hope you’ll stay with me in my new castle?”
Baron de Rochand didn’t seem to notice the sour expression on the Count’s face. He simply bowed from his saddle and said:
“It’d be my pleasure, my friend.” Then, with a smile, he added: “But remember, Francois — you promised! We’re going to drink the best wine in your whole infamous collection today!”
The Viscount replied with a big smile and a nod.
The Count gestured to his men, and they moved quickly and smartly toward the gates of the mansion. Gravel crunched loudly beneath their horses’ feet. The crowd of gawkers parted to make way for the soldiers.
Some of the citizens exchanged confused glances; in a mocking tone, one of them called out: “So where’s the owner of the Fox Den? Did he run off? Tuck his tail between his legs?” The comment warmed Count de Gramont’s heart.
About thirty seconds later, a loud groan rang through the air as the gates swung open. The horses whinnied; the wagons rolled closer.
“Forward!” The Count commanded.
The procession clattered into the courtyard, which was abnormally silent. There wasn’t a single living soul in sight. Nothing but statues and flowerboxes lining the walls. Everything looked quite peaceful in the warm, placid sunlight.
“How I’ve waited for this day!” Francois smirked.
The Count gave a sign, and several of his retainers hurried forward. They approached the main door and pushed its massive gates inward. It wasn’t even locked. The doors swung hospitably open to welcome the uninvited guests.
“Inside!” The Count commanded as he turned to face his unit. “Charles’ company stays in the courtyard. Everyone else, follow me. Bring the wagons up. Have the servants get ready to load. Seems like this is going to end up being quite simple.”
Nearly fifty of the Count’s retainers stepped into the spacious main hall of the Fox Den. The air inside was surprisingly musty, as though the house had sat unoccupied for many months.
The sunlight on the marble-tiled floor was dim, owing to the thick curtains covering the windows. Here and there were pictures in expensive frames, luxurious furniture made from expensive types of wood, candlesticks, candelabras, suits of armor and weapons... Everything about the place suggested that its owner hadn’t been one to skimp when it came to furnishing his residence.
Baron Louis let out a long whistle of admiration as he checked out the main hall. Even the Count himself was quite impressed. His sister had said that Max was rich, but he had never imagined the boy could be THIS rich. Sale of the furniture alone would settle debts with two of Heinrich’s creditors. And they’d still only seen the main hall...
The Count de Gramont took off his gloves and ran his hand across the backs of the chairs and the engraved patterns on the walls, feeling a deep sense of pleasure and satisfaction.
“Over here!” He shouted abruptly, summoning his servants from their wagons. They hurried to bring in a vast array of chests and bags in which to pack the goods. “Split up! Search the rooms and cellars. I’ll check the treasury myself.”
Several soldiers moved down into the depths of the corridors. The knock of boots on marble floors and the rustling of armor echoed out of the hallways as they went. Everything seemed completely peaceful and calm. And then suddenly, the door let out a creak and slammed shut behind them. The heavy panels that led out to the parade entrance seemed to have closed all on their own, cutting off the main group of soldiers inside the house from the unit that was still stationed outside.
“What the...” Baron Louis tried to wrench the door back open, but it didn’t budge.
At that exact moment, the shutters on the windows slammed shut as well, and the house quickly grew dark. All that remained were the meager beams of light coming in at the sides of the thick, heavy curtains on the windows. Suddenly, one of the soldiers let out a loud burst of profanity. He was pointing down a hallway, from which a strange-looking gray smoke had begun to billow.
The Count de Gramont could feel his throat start to itch. His head felt like it was slowly filling with lead. The air smelled like wet grass and herbs.
“Battle positions...” The Count tried to shout, but his tongue refused to form the words.
Footsteps began to echo down the stairs and hallways... Or was that just his imagination? The Count heard a short, sharp laugh right in his ear. Several retainers had already drawn their swords, and now they rushed to attack the gray shadows in the hallways next to them.
“What’s going on?!” Francois shouted. His voice sounded hoarse.
A moment later, he threw up his sword, but immediately staggered backward, bracing himself against the wall behind him.
Baron Louis broke into a horrible coughing fit. Suddenly, a blurry silhouette emerged beside him from within the thick film of smoke.
“Who’s there?!” The Baron shouted, as he swung his sword blindly through the air in front of him. But the blade passed harmlessly through the emptiness.
“What the hell is going on?!” A retainer behind him shouted as he dropped his sword, tripped, and fell to his knees. His eyes began to turn white; suddenly, he vomited right onto the marble floor.
The air began to reek with the stench of feces and vomit.
Heinrich shook his head vigorously. Noise and screams were echoing into his ears from all across the mansion: some were groaning, some were laughing hysterically, some were muttering incomprehensible streams of curses. He heard a horse neighing somewhere up above him. Where would a horse have come from, inside the house?
The vomit-inducing gray cloud seemed to be devouring his men. The walls looked like they were pulsing. Something was growling behind a nearby corner, and a disgusting liquid was dripping down onto the Count’s head from the ceiling. Or was he just imagining it all?
“Back!” The Count tried to shout out an order as he collapsed into a fit of coughing. “We need... Get...”
As before, however, the door wouldn’t budge. Some of the soldiers who could still stand tried to bash the door down with their shoulders, but they were completely unsuccessful. Three were lying on the floor; another was sputtering out a torrent of foamy vomit; two more were sobbing hysterically in the corner.
Suddenly, in the light of a dim torch, the Count saw that several of his men had big, fat snakes around their waists where their belts should have been. “Curse you!” He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. “Is this an illusion?” He asked out loud. But the voice that had spoken from within the smoke had sounded very real indeed.
“Get out of here, you red-tailed rats...” The blue-gray smoke whispered in a voice that was definitely not human. “The fox will be back for you all, very soon...”
Heinrich’s heart went cold. Several of his soldiers grabbed him; they might have been trying to save him from falling, but for all Heinrich knew, they might have simply been leaning on him as they searched frantically for an exit.
Another creak resounded through the air — the doors had opened this time, letting in a bright burst of sunlight from the courtyard outside. But the smoke didn’t dissipate at all; it continued billowing into the room, as though it were chasing people toward the exit.
Baron Louis was the first to stumble out of the building, staggering and holding himself by the stomach the entire time. Next went a few of the Count’s men. Still gasping for air, they emptied the contents of their stomachs right onto the threshold.
“Run,” said someone in a hoarse croak.
The Count de Gramont felt several pairs of arms pick him up, and within a few seconds he was back outside, trying frantically to take in a breath of fresh air.
The crowd of onlookers gasped as they saw the soldiers flee from the mansion in crazed terror. Many of the men were still holding their heads in their hands; some were praying out loud as they crawled along the ground; several of the “lucky” ones had obviously lost control of their bowels, if the telltale stains on their pants were any indication.
“Most Luminous Mother save us!” Frightened exclamations began to rise from the crowd. “What’s going on in there?!”
Several of the men who had remained in the courtyard tried to enter the castle, but they staggered back when they saw gray tentacles of smoke come reaching out toward them.
A moment later, Francois came stumbling out of the fog, white as a sheet, with his hands shaking violently. A simple rope was hanging from his belt — it had been dyed a deep ginger red, like the tail of a fox. The Viscount staggered over to the edge of the steps, where he shuddered and emptied his bowels into his pants.
Baron Louis, standing next to him, couldn’t even string a phrase together before he vomited onto the gravel at the base of the steps. A few seconds later, he slumped to the ground and lost consciousness.
Finally, the Count de Gramont himself was brought out to one of the wagons in a half-conscious state. He wouldn’t have any memory of the hundreds of onlookers who had gathered by that point. Everyone was staring — some with curiosity, others with fear.
The Count’s retainers carted their master away, hurrying to leave the mansion’s courtyard as quickly as possible. Several of them had bright, rusty-red ropes instead of belts. The crowd began to buzz with talk of “red tails” and “rats.” Laughter and joyful exclamations entered into the general hubbub. Somebody even started to sing the by-now-famous melody. Several dozen voices immediately picked up the tune.
The crowd parted to let the battered unit limp home. As hundreds of gawkers peppered them with comments and shouts of amazement, Count de Gramont’s people retreated whence they had come, leading their horses along by the bridles. None of them wanted anything to do with the Margrave’s treasury anymore. All they wanted was to get as far away from the accursed place as they possibly could.
The crowd parted; some were laughing, some whispering prayers, as they looked at the empty house. They deduced that it must be home to some sort of otherworldly beasts who had sworn allegiance to the Margrave.
Up on the mansion’s second-story porch, deep in the shadows of the awning, a quiet, cheerful voice began to speak:
“The race of man has been ground to dust. And we didn’t even get to have any real fun with them. Imagine what would have happened if you’d released the snake?”
“I think this was more than enough for them,” replied a calm male voice.
“So what now?”
“We prepare for the holidays in honor of His Majesty’s recovery.”