We reached the place where we planned to wait for the enemy well before the appointed time. The corridor was near the kitchens, connecting them with the ballroom. It was actually quite a large distance, something that the servants and waiters would probably complain about when out of earshot of their superiors, but the flow of personnel was constant. If the conspirators were to move their nefarious device from the kitchen to the ballroom, they would have to pass by us there.
Our hiding place was a hallway off the service corridor occupied by the servants, behind a single thick door. I had worried about how we would know to attack, but Daniel had sent a clever little tool called it a Phryctoria. The thing came in two pieces, a bulb made of glass and a device much like a matchstick. Striking the matchstick made the bulb light up; the artisan had thought we could use it to see in dark places.
We had come up with other ideas. Chatelain had taken the matchstick and agreed to serve as our lookout. With the identifying pictures of the enemy in his pocket, he would wait until the conspirators had drawn even with us before lighting the bulb, which remained in my hands. At his signal, we would take the conspirators by surprise and capture the device in a single ambush.
Thus, I was stuck in a confined area with two very impatient, unhappy Americans. Neither was much inclined to speak, and given the slowly rising tension of our situation, I had to agree with their silence. The last thing any of us could afford was to become overly distracted at the moment.
Our vigil had entered the second hour when I heard boots clicking in the corridor behind us. I turned just in time to see a small group of white uniformed soldiers march around the corner and stop. One of them turned to shout toward the back of the group, and I stiffened as I identified both the uniform and the language as Russian. I didn’t have to understand the words to recognize the suddenly hostile manner the other soldiers were regarding us.
There was a shuffling noise as the soldiers stood aside, and a man I recognized as the Russian envoy stepped from their ranks. He was dressed in a uniform that had been tailored to his more corpulent frame, and he had the look of uncompromising victory in his eyes. “Herr Baron, how good to see you again.”
I doubted both his sincerity, given the way the soldiers with him seemed ready to level their weapons at a moment’s notice. Nevertheless, we could ill afford to draw attention to ourselves now. “I’m afraid that I am rather busy at the moment, good sir. If you would be so kind as to wait, I am sure that I would be able to see you tomorrow.”
He shook his head with a sadness that was far from genuine. “Oh, my dear Baron, that will not do at all. You see, our mutual acquaintance has told me much about you. About how you helped that traitor Boris escape the embassy, and about how you are trying to help his plans to overthrow our Tzar.” His gaze roved over our dress and weaponry, and then returned to me. “I can see that we are interrupting your plans, but I believe that to be for the best. You will all come with me now.”
I straightened up, and both Moses and Patricia came to their feet as well. My hand fell to Damocles’ hilt naturally, without any hint of hesitation. “I cannot do so, sir. Devonshire has lied to you, and it is his plan that would turn against your homeland. If you value your peace, then you will stand aside and let us be about our business.”
The Russian’s face grew more serious. “Ah, but the current peace is not entirely for our good, now is it, Mr. Kingsley?” His use of my real name set a certain, higher level of tension in the air, and he continued in a voice nearly as cold as the frigid air of his home. “My tzar, though impressive and impassioned as he is, has certain ideas about the serfs and those who rule them, ideas that should be…postponed. Such things are easier to justify when a nation is at war; what fool would want to shake their own foundations at such a time?”
“So I am afraid, Mr. Kingsley, that you will be coming with me, one way or another.” He gestured to the soldiers, and they all lowered their guns to point at us. “Devonshire has expressed an interest in keeping you alive, but I believe he would be just as satisfied with a corpse.”
My heart raced as I realized I faced someone who was just as much a conspirator as Devonshire’s men, and I grasped for the first thought that reached me. “Hold your fire, sir.” He paused, an amused expression on his face, and I smiled. “I doubt Devonshire would want you to create much of a commotion at the moment, and gunfire has such a way of echoing, don’t you think? If his plans for me are what I think they would be, he would want me to be killed after his plans are set in motion, not before. You wouldn’t want to anger him, would you?”
The Russian paused, and I was satisfied to see uncertainty and fear bloom on his face. Devonshire might have inspired some sense of loyalty in this pawn, but it was the kind that could be turned against him far too quickly. Then he shook himself and gave me a grim smile. “Our rifles may be too…disruptive to use, but the pistols and bayonets will see to you well enough on their own. Are you certain you will not come quietly?”
With a single, fluid motion, I drew Damocles and set myself. The soldiers shifted in place, as some of them undoubtedly recognized the danger they faced. Even with their guns, they couldn’t have wanted to face a man with a Distillation forged blade. Facing such an opponent with only bayonets was close to suicide, and they knew it.
Their nobleman leader, however, did not appear to be fazed by the threat, and he only drew his own sword in response. “If you are prepared to be so stubborn, then so be it.” His men, though reluctant, took up their own stances, preparing themselves to charge.
I robbed them of that chance. Before any of them could pull a trigger or take a forward step, I lunged across the distance between us and brought Damocles down and across. The nearest soldier brought his rifle up to block the swing, only to gape in horror as the blade cut straight through his weapon. He went down with a faint cry, wounded in one arm, and before he fell, I chopped my sword over and across, felling another Russian with a deep cut across one leg.
There was a wordless cry, and I spun to find the nobleman nearly upon me, his sword raised. Then Patricia was there, using the butt of her rifle like a battering ram. It smashed the nobleman in the face, knocking him into two others of his soldiers with brutal force. Another Russian stepped up to challenge her, only to be clubbed aside by a pistol butt as Moses joined his sister in battle.
From there forward, the battle became a hot, desperate struggle, with the soldiers struggling to bring their weapons to bear even as we fought our way through their ranks. Soldiers went down with bruises and cuts, their weapons broken or cut to pieces, and few of them got the chance to rise before we made sure they would stay down. I felt like a man possessed, with the sword seeming to guide each swing to exactly the right place to fell each man.
Then it was over, with the last few soldiers scattering and the rest down. Neither Patricia nor I had suffered any harm, save for some tears and stains on our clothes, and Moses had only been cut once by a stray bayonet across the face. We watched the enemy flee, breathing hard and scarcely believing our good luck. I had no idea how we had managed to face such odds and live to tell the tale, but it was something to be quite proud of. Looking back at my companions, I smiled in sudden triumph.
It was at that moment that I heard the sliding, mechanical sound of an infantryman’s rifle locking into place. I turned to find, to my horror, that one of the soldiers had not run with the others. Instead, he had retreated only far enough to put some distance between us, and then taken one knee. I saw hatred in his eyes as he pointed the gun at me, obviously intending to remove me as a threat.
I brought my sword back around, but this time I knew that my sword would not be enough. Cutting apart a pistol shot was one thing; this was an entirely different matter. I recognized the gun as a Gurechev Pyat’desyat. It was not a gun meant for subtlety or finesse. The Gurechev fired a shot that would have put small cannons to shame, and was known for knocking holes in walls the size of a man’s head. Even if I cut the bullet in half, the tumbling pieces would surely tear through me like a scythe through wheat.
Even as the soldier prepared to pull the trigger, there was a flash of steel, and the weapon seemed to explode. The soldier staggered back to his feet just in time for a taloned hand to snatch him from the deck and pin him to the wall, smashing him against the side of the corridor with such force that he immediately went limp.
I stared in shock, still not quite believing my good luck, and only now recognized the tall, fierce-looking form of Coronel Soares, dressed in her finest uniform. The Coronel had her own Distillation forged blade in her hand, though the steel was somewhat darkened from the destruction of the Gurechev. She examined the unconscious soldier in her grasp for a few heartbeats, and then tossed him aside, whistling tunelessly in a way that suggested disappointment. Then she turned to face me.
“So, little spy, you have some fire in you, after all! I wondered if that magnificent sword was really just for show.”
Glancing down, I realized Damocles was still quite covered in blood. I hastily wiped it off using the uniform of the unconscious and now somewhat toothless Russian nobleman. “I thank you for your assistance, Coronel. Without your help, I might be in somewhat dire straits.”
She gave a twittering laugh. “Yes, I imagine being blown in half would be rather inconvenient. Unless you think he would have missed you with a Gurechev?”
I smiled, and Moses chuckled to himself. “A fair point, Coronel. Again, my thanks.” Then I turned back towards the service corridor, only to see Capitaine Chatelain burst through the door.
“Herr Kingsley, they are getting away! Why did you not answer?”
I stared at him in dismay and then looked down at my pocket. The bulb of the Phryctoria was in ruins, apparently the victim of a bayonet strike. It was tempting to curse, but such a thing would be undignified in the present company. “Are they already to the ballroom, Chatelain?”
“Yes.” The word fell like a hammer, and I felt cold strike through me like a blade. “I looked away when I heard the commotion, and then when I looked back, they had already passed me. They are entering the ballroom now.”
The chance to resolve things in an ideal manner had passed then, and with it, our opportunity to avoid a more dramatic solution. I forced myself to recognize the failure for what it was. Then I nodded to myself. “Then we must confront them there. Capitaine, I will need to rely on your help still further. Given my circumstances, you will have to protect the Emperor. Marshall Anderson, you will need to help Patricia secure the Queen. The device will be my responsibility.”
“Protect the Emperor from what? What’s going on?” I turned to find the Coronel looking much alarmed, with her sword still in her hand. I noticed for the first time that there was a lily pinned to the breast of her uniform, intertwined with a daisy. While it would have passed beneath notice before, it now provoked a sudden burst of realization. I exchanged a meaningful look with Patricia, who seemed caught between pride and laughter, and then turned back to the alarmed angel.
“Coronel, there is a threat to both the Queen and the Emperor. I will need you to help the Capitaine stop it.”
Chatelain began to splutter a protest, but the Coronel simply nodded in a rather matter of fact manner. “Only if he can keep up.”
The comment seemed to set the Capitaine back on his heels. “As if an officer of France would be left behind—”
“We can debate that later. The device is in the room now.” I looked around at the four with me. Satisfied at their serious expressions, I turned back to the door. “Then let us be about it.”
The ballroom was much as I remembered it from my previous visit. There was pomp and grandeur, spectacular visions of nobility and wealth. The food on display was absolutely wonderful and set the mouth watering just by looking at it. All around the room, highborn conversation and beautiful music filled the air, and the grace of the couples dancing through the center of the hall was something to admire.
The grandest sight of all, of course, was where the monarchs had been seated. Nearly the entire royal family of Britain was there, sitting across the table from the Emperor of France and his courtiers. In rather suspiciously good humor, the Emperor was laughing and talking with his retainers, while the Prince and his children sat and ate in stately silence. The Queen, of course, had retired to a small enclosure with darkened screens set to Albert’s left—the condition of her Change would have rendered the crowded hall unendurable otherwise.
The contrast between the monarchs was rather severe, but both radiated the feeling of history in the making, of great decisions and important places. It was the sort of gathering to be written about and celebrated throughout the ages, of a time when two former foes came to embrace peace and mutual admiration.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Our entrance, by contrast, was somewhat more mundane. We approached the doors to the ballroom, with Capitaine Chatelain gesturing for the two guards to stand aside, and then, after some whispering from Patricia, to abandon a part of their uniforms. Shortly after, Moses and Patricia slipped through the grand double doors, their rough, partially bloodstained clothing covered by French infantry uniforms. Afterward, both the Capitaine and Coronel Soares entered the room, drawing the occasional stares from people familiar with either of them.
I had actually been concerned about including the Coronel in our plans, but she had proved remarkably stable. During our journey from the site of the skirmish to the ballroom, the good Capitaine had informed Coronel Soares of the threat and who we faced. She had taken it all in stride, as if the events of the past few hours had rendered her utterly incapable of being surprised. Given who I suspected had given her the new floral decoration, I could hardly blame her.
Once I was sure that they all had enough time to get into position, I made my own entrance in a far more dramatic fashion. I took a deep breath, drew my sword, and cocked my pistol.
Then I drew back one boot and kicked the doors open. To punctuate the moment for anyone who had missed it, I took two strides and then pointed my pistol at the roof and fired.
The terrific blast of the firearm brought both music and conversation to a skidding, shuddering halt. Every eye turned towards me, with many gasping or murmuring in surprise. I imagined I must have looked quite alarming; between the weapons, the bloodstains, and the light of battle in my eyes, many of the more refined attendants must have thought I had come from some other world—which, in all fairness, I suppose I had.
I wasted no time on their surprise, however. The moment I entered the room, my eyes had been searching for the device. The two conspirators, both dressed in simple kitchen smocks, were pushing it along in a trolley, concealed under a grand cover that usually would have hidden a large cooked fowl or some kind of pig. Their complete lack of reaction to me gave them away; no matter the disruption, they seemed to intend for their ‘meal’ to reach the royal table—which meant that I needed to be just as determined to stop that from ever occurring.
At that thought, I rushed towards the conspirator’s device, sword in hand. Guests and ambassadors scattered before me, rushing to clear my path. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Louis standing at the Emperor’s side. The man was already shouting orders to his guards, pointing in my direction. Prince Albert had stood from his table, and in a voice that carried across the ballroom, he shouted a single word. “Halt!”
I came to a sudden stop, as if frozen in lead. My muscles strained, but I could no more continue my charge than I could fly to the stars, and I felt panic overtake me. A second shout in the same voice echoed through the ballroom. “Erklaren Sie sich!”
Before I could think, the words came to my lips. “Der Drache versucht dich zu toten, ich muss ihn aufhalten!”
There was a stir as those emissaries familiar with the language—one that I knew I had to have mastered at some point, but could not say where—reacted. The Emperor rose to his feet, his face clearly enraged, but stopped suddenly as if he had seen a ghost. Confusion and regret suddenly struck through him, and his shoulders seemed to slump.
Yet through it all, I could not move. What was wrong with me? Why was I failing now, of all times? Desperate for answers, my eyes tried to search for Patricia in the crowd, but I could barely even turn my head, let alone try to seek her out.
Then I heard another voice—Moses, shouting above the rising murmurs of consternation. “Get moving, deputy!”
“Yes, sir!” I answered in that same, oddly drawled accent, and then I was free again. Each step seemed to make my chest ache, but I was moving again. One step, then the next, and the conspirators at the device began to move as well. They were pushing at it, trying to outrun me, and for a moment I thought that my unexplainable delay had cost me my chance.
Yet each step came faster than the last, and in only a handful of heartbeats, I was charging across the floor. They saw me coming, of course. One of them stepped away from the other. He drew a stiletto, the sharpened, glittering shard of hate an immediate threat. The nearest guests fell back with shouts and gasps, but I ignored them and charged.
His knife came up with sudden, abrupt skill. Had I been armed with anything but Damocles, he likely would have marked me with the blade, and given what Chatelain had said, it would have ended me.
Unfortunately for him, I was more than ready. When the blade came, I twisted effortlessly to the side and took the man’s arm off at the elbow. He had time to stare at the stump for only a heartbeat before I cut him across the chest.
His fellow conspirator barely had time to reach for his own dagger before I struck him, booting him in the face and knocking him halfway across the room. He struck the ground and bounced, struggling to get up. Then he noticed the small cut across his hand with sudden horror; his expression became a rictus of agony as he began to shudder and twitch, foaming at the mouth as death throes consumed him.
The sight of his grim fate was all I needed now, and I shouted to the entire room, abandoning my German guise once and for all. “Your graces, there is a plot against all your lives!” I snatched the lid from the platter and tossed it aside.
What I revealed caused yet more shouts of alarm. A clicking, beetle-like device had been mounted to the top of the table. Its hunched form was dominated by a single, bright container filled with a bubbling liquid I did not quite care to identify, and the positioning of the various gears and whirring machinery made its nefarious intent ominously clear. This device was not just an explosive. It had been meant to disperse not just fire and shrapnel, but poisonous gas as well.
Suddenly devoutly happy that I had refrained from bringing my sword down on the lid of the platter, I gestured to it with my blade. “This device was meant to kill the monarchs in attendance, along with whoever else was close enough to fall to it. It was brought here by a man who meant to take advantage of the chaos, who wanted to kill those who stood in his way, and who did so out of a misguided desire for power.”
I looked around the room, which was now nearly silent save for the whirr and click of the device beside me. Louis and the guards around the Emperor were now suddenly still; whether the presence of the bomb had stopped them from shooting, or the Emperor’s own orders had halted them, it didn’t matter. Prince Albert had frozen in place as well, his eyes clearly wide even at such a long distance, and both of the children at his side appeared to be transfixed by the sight.
Yet the person I was actually looking for was not at the table. He was located rather some distance away, well clear of what could have been the blast radius, and still surrounded by a healthy coterie of thugs and false friends. His eyes were locked on me, wide with both shock and anger. I imagined I could see a curl of smoke rising from one nostril as I pivoted to point my sword straight at him.
“The man behind this plot is none other than the Earl of Devonshire. He is the man who plotted to kill two royal lines, who stole the money from Barings, and who burned the Everston Academy to the ground. I am here to stop him.” I watched him over the flat of my blade, sure that every eye was fixed on me. Then I smiled. “And I am not alone.”
At that moment, all chaos broke loose.
The abominable crash of Patricia’s gun rolled across the ballroom like thunder. The man just behind Prince Albert collapsed as if he were a puppet with his strings cut, the lethal knife already half drawn in his hand. Another conspirator reached for the screens hiding the Queen, only for the crack of two pistol shots to bring him up short. He tumbled face down onto the richly decorated carpet, bright spots of blood blooming on his back.
Abruptly, the hall was filled with screaming, running people as panic freed the attendees from their stunned silence. One of them nearly was shoved into the device, and I was forced to drop my pistol to steady it. The clumsy fool didn’t even take notice as he stumbled to his feet and continued his flight towards the nearest exit.
There was a sudden, piercing cry as Soares threw herself into the air. She became a blur of steel and feathers as she descended on two of the conspirators. The Emperor, suddenly recognizing his danger, roared in rage as another conspirator struck at him with a stiletto. The French leader struck the blade from the assassin’s hands and caught him up just long enough to belch dark flame into the man’s face. Another launched himself at the Emperor, only to stumble and fall as Chatelain’s long pistol cracked.
Yet even as the assassins fell, I kept my eyes on Devonshire. His attention never wavered from me, either, and the rage never left his face. The thugs around him seemed uncertain, though Lady Hermiter herself only appeared exasperated at the ruination of their plans. He stared at me a moment longer, and then he shoved two of his men towards me, before turning and stalking towards the royal table with the rest.
The two thugs were clearly not enthusiastic about facing me, but they were just as clearly unhappy about the prospect of displeasing their master. They came at me through the crowd with weapons they drew from under their rough clothing; each had a single small pistol and a long knife. At the very least, the knives did not appear to be of the same kind as the lethal stilettos, but I decided I did not want to find out what they did by personal experience regardless.
As they approached, I set myself for the combat, and found to my dismay that these men were either far cleverer or far stupider than my previous opponents had been. When the first of them approached, the other levelled a pistol at the bubbling container of poison and fired.
Panicked at the thought of whatever deadly mixture inside flooding out over the still dispersing crowd, I swung my sword out and around, plucking the bullet from the air as if it had been a grape. Unfortunately, the other thug chose that moment to step in close and try to disembowel me with his knife. Only a quick retreat kept me from more than a narrow cut, and I was forced to reconsider my situation.
My conundrum was resolved a heartbeat later, when Patricia shot one of them neatly through the back. As his companion fell, the remaining thug took one look at me and dropped both weapons. I sighed and gestured impatiently with the sword, and he quickly joined the rest of the crowd in their panicked flight from the room.
I glanced towards Patricia, giving her a grateful salute with my sword. Then I charged after Devonshire, hoping to put an end to his plotting at last.
He had, unfortunately, already made his way quite close to the royal tables, where the situation had grown quite dire. While the Emperor and Soares had easily fended off the remaining assassins, the last of the false bodyguards had seized hold of the royal children. The two children were wide eyed and clearly terrified, with the terrible knife held quite close to the young princess’ throat. Moses was still circling, trying to get a clear shot, and Patricia had apparently refrained from firing. Given what only a scratch could do to a full grown man, I realized that her choice was the wise one.
Then the assassin suddenly stiffened and cried out, his hand suddenly being jerked away from the child’s throat. He seemed to struggle with the air for a moment, and then a pistol cracked, and the man’s face grew pale. A bloodstain bloomed on the front of his uniform, and he collapsed, revealing only fading gunsmoke behind him. As I watched, there was a momentary flicker of color, the image of a stern looking young woman with dark hair and a pistol I had only a moment to realize that the Queen herself had just dispatched the last attacker, before the pistol was cast aside, and she vanished yet again.
Yet as the prince and princess ran toward their father, Devonshire leapt forward, his face locked in a rictus of hate. Prince Albert turned to face the dragon, swinging a sword he had concealed within his cane, but the hateful man simply caught the blade with one hand and snapped it. He swept the Queen’s consort aside with one suddenly clawed hand and reached for the children.
Then Moses was there, both pistols level. He did not hesitate either, firing both guns directly at Devonshire’s chest. Unfortunately, the dragon merely grinned at him, and with a terrible sucking breath, he breathed a gout of fire at the Marshall. Moses threw himself sideways, but the blast caught him mid-leap, and he was thrown clear across the room before he collapsed in a smoking heap.
I heard Patricia shout in despair and felt a burst of rage. The few remaining attendees scattered out of my way, occasionally helped by a forceful shove on my part, and then I was nearly there. The dragon’s mere handful of bodyguards were struggling with Chatelain and Soares already; they were certainly not prepared for me. Two of them didn’t even have time to turn around before I cut them down. Another managed to bring his knife around to block and crumpled up around a wound when Damocles sheared through his defense like butter.
The last two thugs fell before I could get to them. Soares finished one, and the other exchanged blows with Chatelain, wounding the Frenchman even as he fell. I charged past both of them, my eyes locked on Devonshire. I held my sword high, ready to strike even as he reached for the frightened children of my Queen.
Then, to my infinite surprise, Lady Hermiter stepped between me and my foe. Twin stilettos glittered in her hands, and I paused. She did not hold them like an amateur; in fact, had I any weapon but Damocles available, I might have been in quite grave danger.
As it was, however, I was confident that no assassin would be able to stand before me, no matter how well armed they were. I stepped forward confidently, preparing to swing my sword and cut my way through to Devonshire.
Which was precisely when my sword seemed to freeze in place, as if locked in ice.
Lady Hermiter did not appear to suffer the same fate. She moved forward in a lethal, fluid dance, the daggers flashing in her hands. I was forced to retreat, stumbling backwards as I frantically attempted to defend myself. My efforts were stymied by the fact I could never actually attack her; every time I tried, it was as if every muscle in my arms froze solid. It was all I could do to keep the daggers from reaching me, and I found myself growing more and more desperate.
My backpedaling defense could only hold so long, and when my heel caught on the body of one of the thugs, I knew my time had run out. I fell backward, and Hermiter lunged forward. Her laughing eyes and cruel smile held precisely no mercy, and I wondered if I had finally met the end of my fate.
Then Soares was there, and it appeared that whatever strange force had kept me bound had no hold on her. The sword in her hand nearly skewered Hermiter, forcing the criminal back. The two women exchanged glares that could only be interpreted as murderous, with Hermiter now retreating while Soares stalked forward. Their blades flashed and flickered, each seeking an opening to end things.
Then Devonshire’s victorious laugh rose above the fight, and Hermiter abruptly leaped backward. The dragon stood tall and proud, his claws latched on the clothes of each of the royal children. His face was twisted with bitter triumph, and his eyes locked onto me. “You’re too late this time, Kingsley. You might have prevented me from my goal, but I am sure that you understand the value of fighting another day?”
I regained my feet at last and glared at him, trembling with anger. “Let them go, Devonshire. It’s over. You’ll never rule here now.”
“True enough.” His smile faded for a moment, and bleak hatred dominated his expression for a moment. “Yet perhaps I merely set my sights on the wrong place. I’m sure the Queen can be persuaded to…lend me…another place to rule, provided the right leverage.” His fingers tightened around the children’s shoulders, and the little princess gave a quiet gasp of pain.
Pure rage now filtered through me. “You won’t get away. We won’t let you.”
He shrugged. “A deal then. If I am allowed to retreat to my personal airship and escape, then the prince will go free.” His smile returned, and I could almost sense the heat building behind his teeth. “I’m sure we can then negotiate a fair trade for the princess later.”
I began to advance, but Hermiter moved to intercept me. Even then I would have charged, but I heard Prince Albert call to me from where he was still struggling to his feet. “Halt! Let him go. For now.”
Despite myself, I stopped. Devonshire’s smile became a leer, and then he began to back away. Hermiter followed, her knives still drawn. When they reached the nearest exit, she bowed low and closed the door, a mocking grin on her face.
As that door closed, I sensed failure crash in around me. Despite everything we had sacrificed, everything we had done, he had won.