Congress of Secrets Page 13

  Through the sack, Peter could hear voices and heavy footsteps moving around him. The voices were of no help at all. They only muttered directions without explanations—“Here” and “Leave that.”

  The door was somewhere behind him, of that at least Peter was certain—

  Oh. Another door opening, in front of him. And, more telling than that, the sudden and absolute silence of his attackers.

  The new door closed. Soft footsteps moved toward Peter and stopped only a foot or so away.

  A sensation of cold, seeping toward him …

  No. That was just weakness, an actor’s taste for melodrama. He couldn’t let himself give into it, not now.

  Peter’s breath hurt his chest.

  Several sets of heavy footsteps shuffled backward, toward the first door. It opened with a creak and closed again.

  Soft footsteps moved closer. Cold air brushed against Peter’s skin.

  Peter’s fingers fumbled against the wooden chair. He strained to turn his wrists within their tight bindings. Finally, he managed to grip the back of the chair.

  Don’t cry out. Don’t lose control. Stay sharp, no matter what happens.

  The footsteps circled him slowly, consideringly. Peter’s muscles tightened as he squeezed the wooden chair, keeping his breathing even.

  Cold seeped through his back, up his arms, into his chest. He gritted his teeth, suppressing a shiver.

  The footsteps came to a halt in front of him once more.

  “Well,” said a cold, dry male voice. “Peter Riesenbeck. Actor. Director.” It paused, then drew the word out like a delicacy. “Revolutionary.”

  “No!” Peter said. The hood muffled his words; he spoke on anyway, projecting his voice as much as he could. “Someone’s told you a lie. I care nothing for politics! That is …” He stumbled, caught himself. “I’m a loyal citizen to His Majesty and always have been. I would never betray the empire.”

  “Never?” Cold blew into Peter’s face as the voice came closer, lowering to a hiss. “You were observed.”

  Peter kept his voice steady. “Who accuses me?” Cold prickled across his skin. No use telling himself it was imaginary anymore. No use torturing himself by imagining added horrors, though, either. Not yet. He’d wait until later, until he was warm and safe and free …

  “You aided an enemy of the state,” the voice whispered. “You and your entire company hid him and helped him into the country. You tricked the loyal guards at the border. You lied to protect a spy.”

  Oh, God. Michael. Peter recalled his arrival in Vienna with sudden, horrible clarity. Michael tipping his hat, smiling, and disappearing from view—and then Grünemann entering into conversation so casually. Handing him a glass of wine. “I could have sworn I saw you help another man from your carriage.” It had all begun so quickly, and he hadn’t even known it …

  Peter moistened his lips. No use making excuses now. “I’ll tell you everything I know. He said he was the son of a count, and he’d been disinherited for marrying an opera singer, years ago, but now—”

  “Don’t waste my time with lies, Herr Riesenbeck!” The voice snapped out now, loud and angry, hurting his ears even through the muffling bag. “You knew exactly who you were aiding, and why.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You’ll admit it soon enough, under torture. Even if you don’t, other members of your company surely will.”

  Torture. The shock of it took Peter’s breath away.

  “There’s no point in trying to fool us, you see.” Footsteps sounded as the voice moved away. “You were witnessed again that night. Aiding another traitor to escape the police.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t attempt to act any more, Herr Riesenbeck. Your Bohemian reviews … led me to expect a more impressive set of skills.”

  Pain blossomed in Peter’s skull, beneath the cold, as panic threatened to overwhelm him. “I’m telling the truth, as God is my witness. I swear. I helped no—” Sudden realization stopped his voice.

  He had. He had helped that brown-haired girl escape from the policeman who’d been chasing her. And—oh, sweet Christ—Grünemann had seen him do it. Peter had recognized his face in that crowd, after all.

  And he’d thought he was being such a hero …

  “I didn’t know,” Peter said, but he heard the helplessness in his own voice as it failed him for the first time in his life. “I swear, I didn’t know. I thought she was only a pickpocket.”

  “A charming excuse for breaking the law. And yet”—the voice sighed—“another lie, I’m afraid.”

  Caroline clenched her hands in her skirts as she watched Charles rearrange the drawing room, pushing all the delicate small tables out of the way, against the wall. Out of harm’s way.

  She fought aside her mounting dread. She could do this. She had to do this.

  She had failed her father once already.

  Caroline closed her eyes, torn by memory.

  Father …

  They’d been eating together, in the small kitchen above their shop, when the knock came on the door below. Caroline hadn’t known to be afraid until she saw the look on her father’s face.

  Her calm, competent father, who took care of everything and everybody and worked so tirelessly against injustice.

  She’d never seen him afraid before.

  “Who—?” she began, but he silenced her by putting his hand on hers. His solid body stilled, listening … listening …

  “Polizei!” a voice barked, in the darkness outside their house. It sounded like the voice of God, commanding and impossible to resist. “Open the door!”

  “Go, Karolina,” her father said. He strode across the small room to the narrow stairway, his face pale and set. “Get under your bed and stay there, no matter what you hear. Go now!”

  She heard the crash of the door breaking in the shop below, even as her father ran down the staircase. She hovered, frozen in indecision, between the stairs and the narrow doorway that led to the bedroom.

  Then her father cried out in pain, and her feet made the decision for her.

  She arrived just as the first blows of the clubs fell upon her father’s cherished printing press, smashing it to fragments. Just as her father slumped unconscious in the arms of two policemen. Arrived at the bottom of the staircase just in time to catch the eye of the man who stood behind the policemen, watching as they destroyed her father’s shop.

  In time, also, to see the impossible, spiraling column of darkness that lurked behind him in the shadows, and to watch both figures—the man and the nightmare—turn as one to meet her gaze.

  It would be four more years before she was released. Four years before she was traded as useless—too weak, too broken—to one of the rare, honored observers who had been allowed into Pergen’s experimental chambers. Then sent, at fifteen years of age, to a foreign country, not even sharing a language with the fifty-year-old man who had bought her.

  That was twenty years ago. Caroline forced her fingers to unclench and gritted her teeth to hold back the shivers.

  No one could ever send her back. She would never be a prisoner again to an alchemist, a government, or a man.

  I survived. And I won, against all odds.

  So why was she still afraid?

  Charles straightened, breathless, after shoving the last heavy sofa against the wall. His brown hair had fallen into disarray. His eyes gleamed behind his spectacles.

  “I’ve brought all my books—”

  “No need,” Caroline said. She smiled, and the gesture stretched her skin until she thought it might crack. “I have it all by heart.”

  “I don’t know!” Peter repeated. He’d said that phrase so many times now that the hateful words sounded false even to himself.

  “You don’t know?” The voice hissed so close to Peter’s ears that he felt the cold chill of breath through the hood. So cold … Wasn’t breath supposed to be warm? Unless—

&
nbsp; Don’t imagine. Don’t let yourself.

  “How could you not know who told you to come to Vienna? Who hired you to pass him secrets?”

  “His name …” Peter fought down the hysterical laughter that wanted to bubble up. You’re an actor. Just act! But his mind wouldn’t cooperate. It kept stubbornly flinging up images of horrors, of monstrous impossibilities, when it should be working to come up with a good story. Pretend that it’s a play …

  “I have a feeling that the rest of your company will be more helpful—and have better memories. Perhaps the leading lady—”

  “No!” Peter said. He clenched his hands behind his back. My mistake. My responsibility.

  He’d been the youngest theatrical director in Prague, even younger than Périgord had been when he’d started his own company. He’d been so proud of his abilities, his charm, his success in persuading so many mature and talented actors to leave more established sinecures, believing in his promises of security …

  He’d been so determined to prove himself to his own old master, he’d never even thought to question whether he had a right to the other actors’ trust, until now.

  The most the others could hope for now was to make their own way back to Prague somehow, without money, patronage, or reputation, and even—he confronted the truth, even as his teeth began to chatter from sheer panic—without Peter himself. But if he could at least convince this creature that he, alone, had been the traitor—that no others in the company were at fault …

  Peter drew a shivering breath, forcing his jaw to still. “He hired me in Prague,” he said. “After one of our performances. He took me out to—to the Himmelsreich tavern. He offered me money, promised great rewards …”

  “… If?” the voice prompted.

  “If I would smuggle him into Vienna.” Peter’s swallow hurt his throat. “We arranged to meet the day my company left, as if by accident. He would come up with a story of mistaken identity, lost inheritance—”

  “Romantic nonsense.”

  “Absolute nonsense,” Peter agreed, numbly. Only a fool … But no. No time for self-torment now. Not in the middle of the second act. “My actors all believed it. I didn’t take them into my confidence because I wanted to keep the money for myself.”

  The snort that sounded in his ears was almost a hiss. Peter shuddered, despite himself. “And then?”

  “And then … when we arrived in Vienna, he disappeared. Without even giving me the money.” Peter forced a tone of injured surprise. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “And you did not think to report it to the proper authorities?”

  And end up here even faster? He would have had to be a fool indeed to take such a course. Peter almost laughed. Instead, he plowed onward. “I heard from him that night—only a note. He said, if I would meet him and bring any news …”

  “News? News of what?”

  Good question. Peter shut his eyes, hidden by the hood. He prayed, with true fervor, for the first time in years. Inspiration, cliché, anything …

  “News of rebellion,” the voice finished for him.

  Peter’s eyes shot open within the hood. “Pardon?”

  “That’s why you met with that girl. Aloysia Hoffman.” The voice pronounced her name with sharp precision. “You wanted to use her contacts—collect leaflets. We know they’re being printed somewhere. Fomenting dissent, rabble-rousing …” Each syllable shot out like a bullet made of ice.

  “Perhaps,” Peter said weakly. He licked his dry lips. “That is to say …”

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Confess and be done with it! Do you think your lies will be believed?”

  I hope so.

  For a moment, Peter remembered Michael’s face—the good humor he’d seen in it, the genuine friendliness of the man. He’d seemed so damned likeable …

  Easy enough to be friendly when he was using us for fools. And it didn’t matter, anyway. Even if Michael had told nothing but the honest truth, Peter would still have no choice. Not anymore.

  If he wanted the rest of the company to survive …

  “Yes,” Peter whispered, and gave up. “I confess.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Michael’s chest ached. He hadn’t released a breath since the French foreign minister had spoken.

  It was too early. For God’s sake, he’d only been back in Vienna for a day and a half. How could he have lost the game already?

  Not too early. Too late, too late … The words drummed in his ears, as if spoken by a ghost. Or by the man who’d tried to rob him in the alley last night, as Michael had prepared for the masked ball with such purpose and confidence. Even then, it had already been too late, and he hadn’t even known it.

  When had he fallen from the grace of Fortune? Had it been overconfidence that toppled him? Or was he simply too old to run a gamble anymore? He was only thirty-eight …

  Old enough. Old enough and experienced enough to know what a thin and fragile surface he had always skated upon. He’d found one true home in his life, but never again … and that first home had lasted for only six years. Once his luck finally disappeared, there would be nothing left.

  Destitution, desperation …

  Michael forced down the panic, sweeping it out of his mind. It could hide in the locked back rooms of his soul, with the memories of fire and loss from his youth, and with everything else it did no good to remember anymore. He released his breath with a shudder, releasing his scattered thoughts with it. Control.

  Monsieur le Baron de Talleyrand was watching him with a faint smile. He hadn’t turned away, nor had he shouted out a cry for help. Clearly, he was not afraid of an attack … but still, why hadn’t he left, having delivered his damning judgment? Was it merely curiosity that held him? Or …

  Or perhaps the game hadn’t ended yet, after all.

  Michael forced a rueful smile. “Touché,” he said. “You have me at sword’s point, Your Excellency.”

  “I’m glad you have the wit to recognize it.” Talleyrand’s mocking gaze did not waver. “But have you the stubbornness to continue?”

  Michael raised his eyebrows. “That … would entirely depend on what was being offered.”

  “I rather thought so. Take my arm, Prince Kalishnikoff.”

  Talleyrand offered his arm, and Michael took it without allowing himself to hesitate.

  He might have lost the first hand, but he was still in the game.

  At least, for now.

  Caroline blew out all but five candles. Charles watched her, wide-eyed, from his position at the center of the carpet. There was no sign of fear in his face.

  Not yet.

  Caroline set one candle above Charles, one to his left, and one to his right. He shifted, but only with impatience, as she finished forming the star pattern around him.

  They’d had to tie her down for this every time. Even after years of imprisonment. Pergen had tsk’d over the necessity.

  “Aren’t you tired of your little rebellions yet?”

  She never had been, though. They were all that she had had left. If she had ever sat still and let it happen without protest or even the feeblest attempt at escape, then none of her memories of warmth and love would have been enough to save her anymore. Without that stubborn ember of independence glowing inside her chest, she would no longer have been worthy of escape.

  Caroline focused on it now as she set down the sixth candle. She imagined the ember of rage and pride glowing within her, a reminder of her true self. Imagined it glowing constant. No matter what she did …

  She tasted bile. For a moment, she faltered.

  Her father’s voice spoke in her ear. “Go now!”

  She would never know if it would have changed anything. If she hadn’t disobeyed—hadn’t run down the steps, against her father’s warning and direct orders—Pergen might never have seen her. And if he had not …

  Every other printer and pamphleteer of that era had been released years ago, freed after five or
eight years in prison, at most. Their imprisonment had been an open record.

  Only her father had not been released. Only her father remained hidden in one of the empire’s scattered prisons, unnamed and unpardoned. How could they ever release him when his first act would be to search for his daughter? And if, by any trick of fate, he ever actually discovered the truth of her treatment—with a known history of publishing to the Viennese populace what their rulers did not want them to know …

  Because of Caroline, they could never set him free.

  My fault.

  How could she fail him again, now, after all these years? Just when she was finally on the cusp of success?

  Caroline circled the star figure, blowing out the candles one by one. She heard Charles’s quick breath in the darkness. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her own flesh, as she took up her position at the peak of the five-pointed star.

  I will not abandon you, Father.

  She spoke a single word, and all six candles burst into flame.

  Charles’s breath sucked in between his teeth. His face shone with excitement in the candlelight.

  Caroline spoke and heard Pergen’s words coming out of her mouth.

  She’d heard them so many times that she’d memorized them despite herself. She’d dreamed them at night and woken up sobbing. Sometimes she still did, even now.

  She spoke the stream of words that had sucked her childhood out from her.

  Power surged through her body, cold and overwhelming as a flood.

  Caroline doubled over at the shock of it, but her voice didn’t stop. It couldn’t. Syllables streamed out of her mouth, as sharp and clear as icicles. Her vision blurred as she fought to control the rush of energy, to keep herself upright and whole.

  Then something else broke through.

  The emperor of Austria pressed a secret panel, and the door to the interrogation room swung open.

  He smelled rank sweat even before he stepped inside. Sweat and something less tangible … Fear.

  Pleasure uncoiled through Francis’s stomach as he walked into the room.