City of Lies - Lian Tanner [59]
He wasn’t at all afraid. He smiled at the duchess in his usual cheerful manner, then took the knife from Frisia’s hand and held it in place while she picked the lock.
The fetters fell to the floor with a clang. The ambassador-in-exile stretched her bony arms wide and flapped them up and down to get the blood flowing. “Aaaah, that’s better,” she said. “Now, Princess. Taaaake me to your faaather.”
“We had better go to my apartment first,” said Frisia, “so you can wash. Then we’ll go to the king.”
The duchess set off up the passage with her black sleeves billowing. Frisia, Uschi, Ser Wilm and his servants hurried after her.
“Do you think everyone in Halt-Bern talks like that?” whispered Uschi, as they emerged into the Memorial Hall. “ ‘Taaaake me to your faaather.’ ”
“Shhh,” whispered Frisia.
The little party was halfWay up the Grand Staircase when something fell from the duchess’s hand. The princess bent to pick it up. When she saw what it was, she almost dropped it again. (A black feather…)
No. No, it wasn’t. It was merely one of the old lady’s lacy gloves. And yet, Frisia could have sworn …
For a moment she had the peculiar feeling that there were two people inside her body, instead of one. “Duchess,” she said, swallowing. “Here. You dropped your glove.”
They hurried past the stone wolves and drew up at last in front of Frisia’s door. Her bodyguards had still not arrived at their station, and there was a flash of white under the door that hadn’t been there earlier.
One of Ser Wilm’s servants fell to her knees. “Look, Highness. Someone has put a sheet under your door.”
It was not a sheet, Frisia could see that straightaway. It was a glass-cloth, of the sort that was used to clean crystal. There were several of them, stuffed along the bottom of her door, filling the gap, so that light could not get in or out.
Deep inside her, a half-remembered conversation swam to the surface. (“Light—or air. Poisoned air …”)
The duchess jabbed at the keyhole with her bony hand. “This has been filled tooooo.”
(Poisoned air … Shivers! Assassins!)
Assassins? A chill ran through Frisia. “The king!” she cried.
Without waiting to see if the others would follow, she began to run. She heard the scrape of Ser Wilm’s sword behind her. She turned the corner toward her father’s apartments—and almost fell over two of the royal guards, lying full-length on the floor, sound asleep and snoring loudly.
She dropped her fur robe and leaped over the guards. The door of the Presence Chamber was wide open, and she raced through it, past the enormous throne to the double doors at the far end that led to the King’s Gallery. There, another two guards lay on the floor, their helmets crooked, their eyes closed.
“Assassins!” cried Frisia. “Beware assassins! Guards!”
There was an answering shout, and Frisia’s bodyguards, Kord and Smutz, raced around the corner. But to the princess’s horror there was no sign of the other guards who should have come.
“Duchess!” she cried. “Rouse the castle! The rest of you, with me!”
They ran together down the long gallery, with the portraits of Frisia’s warlike ancestors glaring at them from both sides. In his eagerness to protect her, Kord crowded against the princess, slowing her down and almost tripping her.
“Out of my way, fool!” she screamed.
Into the Large Withdrawing Room they raced, and out the other end. Through the Library and the Small Withdrawing Room. At each door the men who should have been guarding the king lay sleeping or unconscious.
They reached the Royal Bedchamber and Frisia threw herself against the door. It was locked. “Ser Wilm!”
The young knight ran backward, then launched himself at the door. The lock rattled, but did not give way. He tried again.
(He can’t do it. He’s only a little boy.…)
Frisia shook her head. Where had that thought come from? Of course Ser Wilm wasn’t a little boy! Of course he could do it—
There was a splintering sound and the door flew open. As the princess ripped her sword from its scabbard, the chill inside