Congress of Secrets Read online

  FURTHER PRAISE FOR CONGRESS OF SECRETS:

  “A sumptuous and romantic tale of two ordinary people caught at the confluence of history, politics, and dark alchemy, Congress of Secrets will have you turning pages late at night.”

  —Aliette de Bodard, Nebula Award–winning author of The House of Shattered Wings

  “A heady mix of politics and alchemy, friendship and betrayal, set against the grand sweep of nineteenth-century Vienna and the aftermath of Napoleon’s downfall. This is historical fantasy at its best.”

  —Beth Bernobich, author of The Time Roads

  “Reading Stephanie Burgis’s Congress of Secrets is like eating a piece of rich, decadent chocolate. Filled with intriguing characters in a vivid and alluring setting, Congress of Secrets weaves its own brand of alchemy, drawing you in to 1800s Vienna. I couldn’t put it down!”

  —Sarah Beth Durst, author of The Queen of Blood

  “Intense, vivid, and romantic. A compelling story of intrigue and dark magic in a richly drawn historical setting. Recommended!”

  —Laura Florand, bestselling author of The Chocolate Kiss

  “Intrigue and romance, history and magic, all blended with a deft touch. Stephanie Burgis writes with the heart of a poet and the eye for detail of a scholar. Recommended!”

  —D. B. Jackson, author of the Thieftaker Chronicles

  “A keen sense of adventure and a sparkling wit combine to make Burgis among the best in the business. She’s my go-to writer for pure delight.”

  —Justina Robson, author of Glorious Angels and the Quantum Gravity series

  “This is a gripping and enjoyable historical fantasy thriller, with engaging characters scheming for survival and revenge, fighting addictive alchemical magic against the lush background of the 1814 Congress of Vienna.”

  —Martha Wells, author of The Books of the Raksura series

  “Napoleon has been defeated, and the Great Powers have gathered for the Congress of Vienna in order to decide the fate of a war-ravished Europe. In Congress of Secrets, Stephanie Burgis paints a vivid picture of Emperor Francis’s court, its glittering balls and scheming royals, and the dark secrets behind the emperor’s rule that no one is meant to know. After more than twenty years away, Michael and Caroline return to the city where they were born, transformed and hiding secrets of their own.

  Burgis has created an alternate Vienna shrouded in fear and dark alchemy, political unrest, courage and love. A stunning historical fantasy—highly recommended.”

  —Jaime Lee Moyer, author of Against a Brightening Sky

  “Congress of Secrets is an alchemical concoction of Vienna, secrets, beautiful prose, and the dark side of the royal court. Highly recommended.”

  —Laura Lam, author of the Micah Grey series

  ALSO BY STEPHANIE BURGIS

  Masks and Shadows

  Published 2016 by Pyr Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  Congress of Secrets. Copyright © 2016 by Stephanie Burgis Samphire. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover images © Shutterstock

  Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

  Cover © Prometheus Books

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Pyr

  59 John Glenn Drive

  Amherst, New York 14228

  VOICE: 716–691–0133 • FAX: 716–691–0137

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Burgis, Stephanie, author.

  Title: Congress of Secrets / by Stephanie Burgis.

  Description: Amherst, NY : Pyr, an imprint of Prometheus Books, 2016.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016019178 (print) | LCCN 2016025475 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633881990 (paperback) | ISBN 9781633882003 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy Historical. | FICTION Alternative History. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. | Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PR6102. U72 C66 2016 (print) | LCC PR6102. U72 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016019178

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my brothers—my lifelong co-conspirators!—with love and thanks.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  1814

  “Of course, I could never go back to Vienna,” Michael Steinhüller said.

  It took a fine art to pitch his voice to wistful melancholy over the sound of three dozen carousing actors in Prague’s tiniest and most crowded tavern. But Michael had chosen this tavern, and this moment, carefully—and the notorious Count Cagliostro himself, the greatest trickster of all time, had taught Michael the art of successful vocal control.

  “You’ve been to Vienna before, then?” Michael’s drinking companion, Peter Riesenbeck, smiled at him from a face flushed with elation and alcohol, looking far too young to be the director of a theatrical troupe. “Did you think it the most beautiful city in the world? The tales I’ve heard—”

  “I was born there,” Michael said. Honesty, for once. The thought was bittersweet; he let it linger, to lend sincerity to his wistful smile. “And I can tell you, every tale you heard was true. The lilacs in spring—the Stefansdom cathedral by evening light …” He sighed.

  “You miss it, then,” Riesenbeck said. “Why did you leave?”

  “I? Oh, never mind my history. Star-crossed love, disinheritance, disasters, tragedies … . We should drink to your good fortune instead. To the Riesenbeck theatrical troupe! And to your Grand Tour. May you take Vienna by storm and dazzle every member of the Congress.”

  “From your lips to the Almighty’s ear!” Riesenbeck laughed and chinked clay cups with him by the guttering candlelight. “But there’s no need to trust to fortune, my friend. I’ve been preparing for this moment for years.”

  So have I, Michael thought.

  Skating from one gamble to the next, from one disguise to another, from deposed French nobleman to earnest Russian mine-owner … for the past four-and-twenty years, whatever role the moment called for, Michael had willingly
played, and Fortune had smiled on him as warmly as if to make up for the shattering of his former life and shining ideals. He’d never waited too long to flee when a game went sour, never picked a dupe who couldn’t afford their losses, and always won enough to keep himself until the next game paid off.

  But even his run of luck could not continue forever, and at eight-and-thirty years of age, Michael was ready to aim at higher stakes than mere survival. It was time to play the gamble of his life. Every instinct in his body told him that the Congress of Vienna was the chance he’d been waiting for: the moment he could finally play the cards he’d held hidden in his sleeve for the past four years.

  Within a week at most, the city would be full of the wealthiest and most influential men and women in all of Europe, gathered together to waltz, gossip, and be witnessed in glorious celebration of Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeat. Even now, diplomats were preparing themselves to barter the fate of the Continent, aristocrats to display their finery, and the city of Vienna to become the beating heart of Europe.

  Michael couldn’t possibly miss it.

  But first, he had to find a way back through the Vienna city walls.

  As they downed their beers, Michael glanced out of the corner of his eye at the rest of the actors from the Riesenbeck troupe, busy lording it over their less-fortunate colleagues on this, their last night in the eastern backwaters of the Austrian Empire.

  Please God let them be fêted with as many drinks as possible, and let their moods rise as high as their fortunes had with their invitation to the empire’s capital.

  Michael signaled to the tavern keeper, and more beer arrived at their own crowded corner. Riesenbeck reached for his purse, but Michael forestalled him.

  “Allow me, please.” He paid the waitress and shrugged, smiling crookedly. “Fate may have left me little, but I can still afford some pleasures.”

  “Forgive my curiosity.” Riesenbeck leaned forward, gesturing expansively with his beer. “I’m an actor and a playwright; I love stories. I have to know. Why did you leave Vienna? Why can you not go back?” He grinned infectiously. “Feel free to bash in my nose if I’m too impertinent—but I’d rather you aimed for some part that wouldn’t show up so well on stage.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Michael said dryly. “But you’re too young to waste your time with tragedy stories like mine, surely.”

  “Why, what old stories is our director drawing out of you?” Marta Dujic, the Riesenbeck troupe’s gloriously curvaceous leading lady, purred the words directly into Michael’s ear. “HerrRiesenbeck is a veritable fiend for stories, you know. He’ll pull every last one from you as fodder for his plays, if you aren’t careful.” She smiled at his blink of surprise and slid into the seat beside him, smelling of sweet perfume as well as sweat.

  Michael didn’t begrudge her either scent. She’d fallen all across the stage that night in the company’s final Prague performance, showing an impressive athleticism that mingled oddly with her current demeanor of limpid femininity. He was neither deceived nor offended by the intimate smile she aimed at him now from her position of enticing closeness; he could see her husband, Karl, watching them carefully from a safe distance away. Actresses, like fraudsters, had to learn to play many games to succeed.

  “Marta, this is Herr …” Riesenbeck frowned. “Damn it, I’ve forgotten—what did you say your surname is?”

  “It was Von Helmannsdorf when I was born,” Michael said. He gazed into his beer, swirling the dark liquid in its cup. “My father was the first count of that name, raised up by the old empress of blessed memory; I was his eldest son. Still, I’ve gone by the name of Neumann for so long now, I sometimes forget I ever had any other name.”

  “But how mysterious,” Marta breathed, leaning closer. “Why—?”

  “You mentioned earlier: disinheritance, disasters, and tragedies?” Peter Riesenbeck was smiling outright, his blue eyes gleaming with sheer enjoyment. Did he believe what he was hearing? Michael couldn’t tell. But at least he was listening.

  “And star-crossed love,” Michael finished for him, nodding. “That was the cause of all the rest. You see, my father, being the first count, had high hopes for all of us. So, when I married an actress from the emperor’s Burgtheater …”

  “The Burgtheater.” Riesenbeck’s face smoothed into near-religious bliss. “She must have been accomplished indeed. Which troupe did she play in?”

  “Ah …” Michael blinked and took a stab in the dark. “She was Italian—an opera singer, in fact, hired by Emperor Joseph himself. The first time ever I heard her sing—”

  “She stole your heart, of course,” Riesenbeck finished for him. “But—naturally—your father did not approve?” He took a swig from his beer. “Let me guess the rest. The disinheritance came next, followed by her death from—oh, a wasting disease, I suppose? Very romantic, very tragic. And then, of course—”

  “Peter!” Marta said. “Do remember you are speaking to her widower.”

  “I beg your pardon, Michael. Herr von Helmannsdorf, I should say.” Riesenbeck looked genuinely abashed. “I was carried away, I’m afraid. It’s only that it sounded so much like a play, I—”

  “Never mind.” Michael smiled tightly. “It has been a long time since I lost my Gabriela. I could hardly expect you to understand.” There was a short, uncomfortable silence before Michael took pity on the director. “But you were quite correct. I did lose Gabriela. By then, my father had cut me out of his will. I left Vienna—I could no longer bear the memories—and I heard the news of my father’s death only a year later.”

  “But why can you not go back?” Riesenbeck asked. “Surely after so long, even the most tragic of memories—”

  “Ah, but the memories themselves are not the difficulty,” Michael said. “Not anymore. Now we come to the true mystery. You see, my brother inherited the title as well as the entirety of my father’s fortune. And yet …”

  “And yet?” Marta raised perfectly arched eyebrows.

  “And yet,” Michael said, drawing the word out, “my mother always claimed in her letters that a second will had been written by my father, after I’d left Vienna.”

  “Brilliant.” Riesenbeck grinned. “Hidden, of course—they’re always hidden. But you must return to Vienna, man! Rip up the floorboards! Search the secret passageways! Hunt—”

  “I would care for nothing more,” Michael said. “Unfortunately …” He paused, moistening his lips, as he prepared for the climax of the piece.

  Like a play, Riesenbeck had called his story—and so it was. Michael had chosen it precisely for his current audience, and he could only pray that they applauded it. The truth … The truth was something rather different.

  Although Michael had abandoned his own ideals years ago, as the price of survival, he’d never lost his cursed status as an enemy of the state. If he was discovered by the customs guards at Vienna’s city walls, he would be taken to Vienna’s notorious secret police for interrogation—and whether they arrested him as the idealistic boy radical he once had been or as the wickedly accomplished fraudster he had become after his escape … well, Michael knew better than most just how bitterly his own story would end.

  As it had ended for the two people he had loved most, on the night he’d fled Vienna, twenty-four years earlier.

  Curse it. He hadn’t thought of them in years. He had sworn never to let himself—and he had succeeded, until now. It was the thought of Vienna that brought back his former life to him, the one he had discarded and forsworn decades ago. Michael gritted his teeth against the memories. Still they rose to fill his vision with a vivid intensity that the years had done nothing to diminish: her face, tear-streaked but gazing at him through the flames. As if he were her only chance for salvation …

  He would not remember what had happened next. He couldn’t let himself. If he did, he could never return to Vienna. And if he didn’t return to Vienna, he would miss the greatest opportunity of his life: the chance for true sec
urity at last.

  “Let me tell you about my younger brother and his ploys,” Michael said, and shook aside the disquieting sheen of memory. “You see, he could hardly take the risk that I might return and claim my true inheritance. So …”

  Michael told his invented story with all the color and excitement of an epic drama, and in the telling of it and the creation of a dozen confirming details, he almost managed to forget his moment of unaccustomed weakness. He ordered a third round of drinks for the entire theatrical troupe, and then a fourth. And when, in the middle of the celebrations, Peter Riesenbeck suddenly looked up with an expression of delighted inspiration, Michael felt the delicious frisson in his chest that marked the moment of success.

  “Do you know,” Riesenbeck said, “I may have a solution to your dilemma!”

  “Impossible,” Michael said. “Ever since my brother arranged the theft of my identification papers, I cannot pass the walls, and—as I cannot enter the city—”

  “Ah, but we can pass through the walls, can we not?” Riesenbeck said. He winked knowingly at the little group of his actors that had gathered around them as the evening progressed. He drew them closer, as his voice dropped to a stealthy undertone. “You wouldn’t know this, of course, not being an actor yourself … but there’s a bit of a trade secret to our traveling carriages. You see, we haven’t always got all the spare money one could hope for … and customs inspections are so damned heartless and thorough …”

  “Yes?” Michael said. He had to grip his cup of beer in both hands, to keep his tone innocently curious. Almost there … only say the words …