The Zenda Vendetta

3

Drakov was impatient. He kept pacing back and forth in the small turret atop the keep of Zenda Castle, rolling his massive shoulders and stretching to get the kinks out of his muscles.

“Sit down, Nikolai,” said Falcon. “Your constant pacing back and forth is distracting me.”

Drakov gave her a look of mild irritation. She was reclining on one of two small cots in the tiny room that was otherwise bare except for some equipment and supplies piled in a corner. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and she was dressed in low black boots and black fatigues. Drakov was similarly attired, though he added a sheepskin vest to his army-surplus clothing.

“You may find it distracting,” he said, “but I find it necessary to move about. The chill and dampness of this place is making my bones ache. While you’ve been out there socializing as the Countess Sophia, I’ve been cooped up here for days with nothing but rats and silverfish for company. I don’t know how people ever managed to live in such places.”

“It may be uncomfortable, but it’s an ideal base of operations,” she said, still intent upon the screen of the small computer she held in her right hand. “No one’s set foot in this part of the castle for years and even if the adjustment team suspected that we were holed up in here, they’d have a hell of a time trying to get at us.”

“Unless they decided to try clocking in here,” said Drakov.

“The risk factor would be far too great,” she said. “They would never attempt it without transition coordinates. They could wind up inside a wall that’s eight feet thick. However, it’s possible that they could try an assault with floater-paks, which is why I’ve moved us up here to this turret. It might be colder and windier up here, but we can see out over the entire castle. Once I’ve got the tracking system set up in those embrasures, there’s no way they’ll be able to drop in here without setting off a laser.”

“What is to prevent them from obtaining their coordinates the same way we did?” Drakov said.

Falcon raised her eyebrows. “By seducing Rupert Hentzau in the dungeon?”

“Don’t be crude,” said Drakov. “You know very well what I mean. One of them might arrange a visit with Black Michael and ask to see the castle. You might have done the same when you attended the ball in his chateau, only you chose to appeal to Hentzau’s prurient sensibilities, instead.”

Falcon smiled slyly. “That’s true, but I’d never done it on a rack before. There are all sorts of interesting devices down there. You should go down with me and take a look. You never know, it might help take the chill out of your bones.”

“Thank you, but no,” said Drakov.

“You know, you really are a very pretty boy, Nikolai, but you’ve got the mind of a neanderthal. That’s the trouble with implant programming. It can teach you things, but it can’t make you unlearn a lifetime of social conditioning. Perhaps I should have had you totally reeducated, but I liked your personality the way it was when I first found you. It has its own charm and appeal, despite your Victorian attitudes. But for God’s sake, you’ve lived in the 27th century! Haven’t you learned anything?”

“I have learned a great deal,” Drakov said. “I have learned that your ‘modern era’ is degenerate and decadent, and not in ways that pertain just to sexual morality. You have replaced quality with quantity, substance with artifice and principles with expediency. Forgive me, but I find little in your time to admire except your technological achievements, and even those you use irresponsibly.”

“You’re a fine one to take such a lofty moral tone,” she said. “When I found you, you were a jaded playboy who could buy everything except the things you really wanted. Your money couldn’t buy you peace and it couldn’t buy you a sense of purpose. I gave you both.”

“I will admit that for a brief time, I found a sense of peace with you,” said Drakov, “but that was nothing more than self-delusion. You used me, but I’m not complaining. We used each other and we continue to do so, like a pair of parasites. And where has it brought us? Here we are, the last remaining members of the Timekeepers’ vaunted inner circle, sitting in a cold, gray room like a pair of deluded anarchists, plotting our revenge.”

“It’s what you wanted, Nikolai.”

“What I wanted? No, it isn’t what I wanted. If I could have had what I wanted, mine would have been a different life entirely. It is, however regrettably, what I need. When this is over, if things should go our way, I can think of nothing that would please me more than to part from you and never see you or your 27th century again.”

“Poor Nicky,” she said. “What would you rather do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I do know that I can never go back to being what I was. Making war on war has changed me. Whether for the better or for the worse, I cannot tell. I do know that it is a thing that needs doing.”

“I see,” she said. “You just don’t want to continue doing it with me, is that it?”

“If I remained with you, I would become like you,” said Drakov, “and that is what I do not want. The end result of fanaticism such as yours is that everything becomes subordinated to the cause. After a time, you perpetuate the cause for its own sake, not for the sake of whatever it was you started out to achieve. Look at what’s happened to us. Taylor killed in 17th-century Paris, Singh captured to die a suicide, Tremain trapped forever in the dead zone when he tried to follow us, Benedetto escaped to God knows where in abject panic, and all of those who were arrested, all of those who died trying to escape, yet you feel nothing, do you? To you, it’s merely a setback.”

“Sacrifices must be made, Nikolai,” said Falcon, putting the computer down and looking at him thoughtfully. “I thought you understood that.”

“Oh, I understand,” he said. “What troubles me is that I’m beginning to accept it so easily. I said much the same thing to Rassendyll when I killed him. I sat there, trying to explain things to him like a fool, watching his uncomprehending eyes staring at me as he slipped away, and I felt no remorse. None whatsoever.”

“What do you want, Nikolai, to cry over everyone who has to die so that the Time Wars can be stopped?”

“Someone should, don’t you think?”

“Well, you go ahead and grieve for all the poor souls who fall by wayside,” she said, flatly. “I’ve got more important things to do. You want to go your own way when this is over, fine with me. I don’t need you. But meanwhile, there’s work to be done. Just in case the adjustment team manages to get someone inside here, I’ve prepared some surprises for them. If staying inside this castle hasn’t turned you into an impotent Prince Hamlet, you can help me set them up. Otherwise, you can stay here and muse on the pathos of it all.” She got up from the cot. “Priest, Cross, and Delaney are undoubtedly here by now and things will start to happen very soon.”

“How can you be so certain that they’re the ones Forrester will send?” said Drakov.

“Because those three are the First Division’s best,” she said. “And because Moses Forrester will realize that he has no choice but to send them, just as he will have no choice but to come to us when we’re ready for him. Then you can have your own personal revenge. After that, I really don’t care what you do.”

Drakov glanced out of the small embrasure in the turret. “Have you ever cared for anything or anyone at all?” he said.

She was silent for a moment. “Yes, once.”

“Only once?”

“There was a very special man once. It was another life, but I remember it quite vividly.” She smiled. “Ironically, it was the same man you want to kill.”

Drakov looked at her with surprise. “Moses Forrester?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” she said. She held up her hand. “I still wear his ring. Here,” she said, pulling it off and tossing it to him, “maybe you should have it. After all, it was your father’s.”

From where they stood, the three commandos had a spectacular view of the Duke of Strelsau’s residence. They had clocked in at a point several miles away from the village of Zenda. The province was mostly heavily forested hill country, wild and teeming with game. The village was tiny and bucolic, made up of small, picturesque cottages, an inn, a blacksmith shop, a church and several farms that dotted the hillsides around it. The flavor of the place was decidedly medieval, but the duke’s estate was a palatial mixture of the old and new.

They had been met at their transition point by Captain Robert Derringer, the Observer assigned to their mission. He seemed very young for an Observer, despite the fact that the antiaging drugs made appearances deceptive. Derringer didn’t look much older than a recruit fresh out of boot camp. He was dressed in period, in a lightweight dark brown jacket, riding britches, high brown boots, and a blue silk shirt. He was sharp-featured with large brown eyes and a thick, unruly mop of dark brown hair. There was a coltish look about him, an energetic restlessness in his speech and demeanor. He had led them a short distance to the top of the hill, from where they were able to take their first look at Michael Elphberg’s home.

The long, wide, tree-lined avenue that ran straight for a distance of about two miles to “Black Michael’s” chateau was immaculately maintained. It led up to a large courtyard in front of the chateau, then curled around the east side of the estate, making a wide loop around Zenda Castle, following the moat which was as wide as a medium-sized river. Having rounded half the castle, the road then ran south, away from the estate and into the forest, through a small pass and to the village of Zenda. The avenue that led to the chateau’s front entrance ran in the opposite direction to the road that led from Zenda to the capital city of Strelsau.

Though it was dwarfed by the castle situated directly behind it, the chateau was nevertheless quite large. Built in the French style, it was five stories high with an elaborate, columned portico and a steeply gabled roof. Its gleaming whiteness was a stark contrast to the murky gray stone of the castle that loomed over it.

“It’s a rather curious architectural mixture,” said Derringer. “The chateau was built by the last king as a country residence, because he evidently liked the castle a great deal but felt it too uncomfortable to live in. Only that one small drawbridge you see connects the castle to the chateau. It spans the moat about twenty feet above it and it’s wide enough for three or four men to cross it abreast. It won’t accommodate a carriage. With the construction of the chateau, the only way to get into the castle now is to go through the chateau. The back door is flush with the wall and it opens directly out onto the drawbridge or the moat if the drawbridge has been raised. The castle itself seems to have been constructed in stages. The oldest part is the central portion. You’ll notice that there are no baillies. Apparently, there were at one time, but at some point, perhaps during the construction of the chateau, the outer walls were torn down and the moat was widened.”

“It does look larger than any I’ve ever seen before,” said Andre.

“That’s right,” said Derringer, with a grin. “You’re our resident knight errant, aren’t you?”

“I’ve seen many castles in my day,” she said. “This one appears to be old, but quite impregnable. I can see where the weak point in the fortifications was reinforced by building that embrasured keep on the southwest corner, but I am puzzled by that addition with the two small towers there, jutting out over the moat. It seems to serve no useful defensive purpose.”

“I think I can explain that,” Derringer said. “That was done most recently. I haven’t been inside, but judging by appearances, I’d guess that much of the old castle is in a state of disrepair. The squared-off section sticking out into the moat was probably added as a sort of guesthouse, so that people can move back and forth between the castle and the chateau. It’s the only part of the castle where I’ve seen lights burning.”

“That would explain it, then,” she said. “It’s a strange arrangement, but an effective one. Though the placement of the cheateau directly in front of the castle limits visibility somewhat, it also renders a frontal attack in force almost impossible. The chateau might be taken without much difficulty, but then there would only be the one narrow access point to the portcullis to be defended.”

“How would you take it if you had to?” said Derringer.

Andre shrugged. “I would lay seige.”

Finn grimaced sourly. “That would be a bit hard to do with just four people,” he said. “Especially since we can’t use much in the way of modern ordnance. We’re supposed to believe that a pampered Englishman like Rassendyll managed to break in there and get the king out?”

“Perhaps he wasn’t all that pampered,” Derringer said. “Supposedly, he had been a military officer.”

“Just the same,” said Finn, “I’m not anxious to try rescuing anyone from that place.”

“Maybe our best bet would be to prevent the duke from kidnapping the king in the first place,” said Andre.

Derringer smiled. “You’re assuming that you can. I’m afraid that option isn’t open to you. You’re in the curious position of having to effect an adjustment in which there’s such a strong manifestation of the Fate Factor in evidence that it makes me wonder at the possibility for any independent action on your part. Any deviation from the original scenario beyond what has already happened is simply unthinkable. You can’t adjust a disruption with another disruption, Corporal Cross. Unfortunately, your options are limited, whereas the Timekeepers are free to attempt whatever they please. I don’t envy you your task in preserving the original scenario.”

“There’s just one little problem,” Lucas said. “If we don’t know for sure what the original scenario was, how can we help but deviate from it?”

Derringer shrugged. “You can’t, I’m afraid. The best you can do is to follow the original scenario as closely as you can within the limits of what we know about it and hope like hell that temporal inertia compensates. Sergeant Delaney’s going to have to take his lead from Colonel Sapt and Fritz von Tarlenheim. I’ll admit that it would be very tempting to foil Michael Elphberg’s plot before it ever gets off the ground, but although that might restore the status quo in the long run, it would still alter the original sequence of events as we know them. I could almost guarantee you that you wouldn’t get away with it. Apparently, the Fate Factor is attempting to compensate for something that happened back in the 17th century or maybe earlier. None of us knows what that is, but it makes no difference. With all of these coincidences cropping up like temporal ‘tilt’ signals in some sort of cosmic pinball game, do you really want to take the chance that two wrongs will make a right? From a purely academic standpoint, I must admit to a certain morbid fascination. I’d be curious to see what would happen if you failed. Do we get a massive timestream split that branches off into all sorts of alternate timelines or does time bend back in upon itself and start going round in ever decreasing circles ‘til it stops? I’ve always been fascinated by zen physics, but I never thought I’d actually be confronting it in a field exer-sorry, a mission, it makes me feel as though the Sword of Damocles were hanging over all our heads, suspended by a spider web.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Captain,” Finn said, “but how old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” said Derringer. “You’re wondering how a baby like me managed to get through RCS?”

“Well… frankly, yes,” said Finn.

Derringer grinned. “I cut my teeth on temporal physics,” he said. “Albrecht Mensinger was my grandfather.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Finn. “Small wonder they assigned you to this mission.”

“That may have had something to do with it,” said Derringer. “On the other hand, perhaps it’s another one of these coincidences we’re swimming in. Maybe it’s karma. Do you believe in karma, Sergeant?”

“Only when it’s bad,” said Finn.

Derringer chuckled. “An answer worthy of Lenny Bruce.”

“I’m afraid I miss the reference,” said Finn.

“Ah. Well, he was a sort of 20th-century philosopher who refined bad karma to an art. Sorry, I tend to be a bit obscure at times. I understand my work well enough to realize that I really don’t understand it at all. To paraphrase, there is more to heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy.”

“Well, that one, at least, I know,” said Finn. “William Shakespeare, right?”

Derringer raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought it was Albert Einstein. It’s the sort of thing he would have said, at any rate. Oh, and speaking of bad karma, there’s yet another piece of unpleasant news I have for you. The coronation has been moved up to the day after tomorrow.”

Lucas stared at Derringer. “How can that be? According to history, we’re supposed to have five days!”

“Yes, I know. It’s our first evident historical anomaly. I estimate that we have at most until tomorrow before Michael executes his plan. That’s always assuming that things haven’t become completely skewed.”

“Then what the hell are we doing jawing like this?” Finn said.

“Relax, Sergeant,” said Derringer. “I may have only been here a few days, but I’ve been very, very busy. I know what I’m doing. At this very moment, the king is not two miles away from here, in Michael’s hunting lodge. Sapt and von Tarlenheim are both with him. Michael is conspicuously absent. I don’t think he’d risk having Rudolf drugged before tomorrow night. That gives you all day tomorrow. I’ve been keeping them under close surveillance. Rudolf has picked himself a hunting stand from which he has a good view of the stream down in that little valley there, where the deer come to drink. I’ve picked out a spot where you are certain to encounter them. The king has been staying up quite late, getting plastered every night. He goes out to his stand just before sundown. So far, he hasn’t killed anything and I don’t think he’s likely to. Even when he’s sober, he’s a miserable shot. If it wasn’t for Sapt, they’d have nothing to eat. And speaking of food, since it’s been several hundred years since you folks have eaten, I suggest that we make our way down to the village and grab ourselves a bite of supper. The inn has very nice accommodations and the food is really quite good. I can recommend either the venison or the trout. The wine stinks, but their beer is first rate. Besides, one should never save the future of the world on an empty stomach.”

The timing worked out just right. Not five minutes after Finn had taken up position beneath a large oak tree on the wooded trail, he heard men approaching, coming up the rise toward him. He leaned his head back against the tree and pretended to be dozing. A couple of minutes more passed by and then he heard them stop in front of him.

“Why, the devil’s in it!” he heard a young man’s voice exclaim. “Shave him and he’d be the king!”

He opened his eyes and saw two men standing on the trail several feet in front of him, staring in astonishment. Both men carried guns and both were dressed in shooting costumes. One of them was short and heavily built. He had a large head crowned with thick gray-white hair; a huge cavalry moustache; muttonchops and bloodshot eyes. He was smoking a very large-bowled pipe with a deep curve to it, a Turkish meerschaum that had colored unevenly due to his apparent lack of concern in handling it. He appeared to be in his sixties or early seventies, but he was fit and straight-backed with a manner that clearly labeled him a military man. The other man was tall and slender, dark-haired with a small, neatly trimmed moustache and rounded, delicate features that gave his face an insouciant air. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was the one who had spoken. As they came closer and Delaney stood up, the older man backed off a pace and raised his bushy eyebrows.

“He’s the same height, too!” he said. “My word! May I ask your name, sir?”

“The name is Rassendyll,” Finn said. “Rudolf Rassendyll. Am I unintentionally trespassing? I’m a traveler from England, you see, and I have come here on a holiday. If I’ve ignorantly strayed onto your land, I offer my apologies, gentlemen.”

“No, no, you are welcome, sir,” said the younger man. “It was merely your appearance that took us by surprise. Allow me to introduce ourselves. This is Colonel Sapt, and my name is Fritz von Tarlenheim. We are in the service of the King of Ruritania.”

Finn took their hands in turn and while he was shaking the old man’s hand, Sapt exclaimed, “Rassendyll! By heaven, you’re of the Burlesdons?”

“Why, yes,” said Finn. “My brother Robert is now Lord Burlesdon.”

“By God,” said Sapt, “your hair and features betray you, sir.” He chuckled. “Remarkable! You know the story, Fritz?”

From the look on von Tarlenheim’s face, it was clear that he knew the story of Countess Amelia’s indiscretion, but was loath to admit to it for fear of bringing up an awkward subject. Finn took him off the hook.

“It seems the story of Countess Amelia and Prince Rudolf is as well known here as it is in London,” he said, smiling.

“Not only is the story well known,” said Sapt, “but if you stay here, sir, not a man or woman in all of Ruritania will doubt it!”

At that moment, another voice cried out from lower on the trail, “Fritz! Sapt! Where the devil have you two disappeared to?”

“It’s the king!” said von Tarlenheim.

“He’s in for a bit of a surprise,” said Sapt.

As Rudolf Elphberg came into view, Finn could not help staring at him. Though he had seen the hologram, it was still a shock. It was like looking in a mirror. Elphberg was his exact double down to the last dimple, save for the absence of a beard. He saw Finn and froze, staring at him open-mouthed. Finn had been prepared to feign a look of surprise, but found that in spite of being prepared, he didn’t have to fake it. After a moment, it occurred to him that protocol demanded a respectful bow.

“Good Lord!” said Elphberg. “Colonel, Fritz, who is this gentleman?”

Finn was about to answer when Colonel Sapt moved over to speak softly to the king. As Sapt whispered to him, Elphberg’s eyes grew even wider, then he burst out laughing.

“Strike me dead!” he said, still laughing as he came up to take Finn’s hand and slap him on the back. “Well met, cousin! For a moment, I thought that the effects of last night’s merriment had not quite worn off and I was seeing visions! Hah! Fritz, I’ll give a thousand crowns for a sight of Michael’s face when he sees the pair of us! You must come to Strelsau with me, Cousin Rudolf! Seeing one of me upsets my brother’s stomach, but seeing two would give him a stroke, for certain!”

“With all due respect to both Your Majesty and Mr. Rassendyll,” said Fritz von Tarlenheim, cautiously, “I question the wisdom in your cousin visiting Strelsau at the moment.”

“Oh, balderdash,” the king said. “Where’s the harm?”

“No, Fritz is right, Your Majesty,” said Sapt. “He mustn’t go.”

“I wish to cause no one embarrassment,” Finn said, feeling that he had to say it and hoping like hell they wouldn’t take him up on it. “I’ll leave Ruritania at once.”

“By thunder, you will do no such thing!” the king said. “Pay no mind to these two old women. At any rate, I insist that you dine with me tonight, happen what will afterward. Come, man, you don’t meet a new relation every day!”

“We dine sparingly tonight, Your Majesty,” Fritz said, a bit awkwardly.

“Not we!” the king said. “Not with our new cousin as our guest! Don’t look so alarmed, Fritz, you old stick in the mud. I’ll remember our early start tomorrow.”

“So shall I,” said Sapt, puffing out clouds of heavy Latakia smoke and frowning.

“Well then, I can count on you to roust my royal carcass out of bed, then,” said the king. “Come, Cousin Rudolf, the devil with the shooting for tonight. The deer avoid me like the plague. Besides, the two of us have much to talk about. I’ve no house of my own here, but my brother Michael lends us a place of his and we’ll make shift to entertain you there.”

They started back down the hill and walked for half an hour down the trail until they came to a wooden hunting lodge, a large, one-story building with a steep roof and a small, railed porch. Elphberg peppered Finn with countless questions about himself and his family, to which Finn responded cautiously, drawing on the subknowledge of his implant programming. Fortunately, Finn didn’t have to do much talking, as Rudolf practically never shut up. He was having a high old time while Sapt and von Tarlenheim walked behind them, clearly apprehensive about this sudden turn of events. For his part, Finn found the king to be a pleasant enough fellow, but completely wrapped up in himself. No sooner would he ask Finn a question than he would interrupt his answer to provide some anecdote about himself, his ancestors or somebody at court. He was not rude, exactly, just uncontrollably ebullient and lacking in any sort of concentration. His voice even sounded similar to Finn’s, although it had a pomposity to it and a slightly higher pitch.

There were only two servants at the lodge, an old man and an old woman, both as rustic as the cabin. They evinced considerable surprise at seeing two of their king, but they knew their place well enough not to question this amazing occurrence and to speak only when spoken to; Rudolf spoke to them only to give orders.

Dinner, apparently, was already being prepared, giving the impression that during his stay at the hunting lodge, the king had been as impatient a hunter as he was a conversationalist. They did not have to wait too long until it was ready, and then they sat down to a sumptuous feast of venison steak which had been smoked, potatoes roasted in an open fire, fresh baked bread and blackberry jam, baked beans, and Yorkshire pudding. Finn laid to with a hearty appetite, to the king’s obvious approval.

“We’re all good trenchermen, we Elphbergs, what? But wait, we’re eating dry! Wine, Josef! Wine, man! Are we beasts to eat without drinking? Break into that blackguard Michael’s cellar and bring us forth some bottles before I die of thirst!”

“Remember tomorrow, Your Majesty,” said Fritz. “The coronation.”

“Damn it, Fritz, you remember tomorrow,” the king said, irately. “You start before I do, you must be more sparing by two hours than I. And I’ll have Cousin Rudolf to attend me.”

“We really cannot afford to overindulge tonight,” said Fritz to Finn, as if seeking his aid in calming down the king’s boisterous spirit. “The colonel and I leave here sharply at six tomorrow. We must ride down to Zenda and return with the guard of honor to fetch the king at eight, and then we all ride together to the station, where we take the train to Strelsau.”

“Hang that guard,” said Sapt, sourly.

“Now, now, it’s very civil of my brother to ask the honor for his regiment, wherever their sympathies may lie. I’ll not discuss politics tonight, Sapt. At any rate, Cousin Rudolf, you have no need of starting early, so you can join me while these two temperate chaps abstain. What, only two bottles, Josef? Out with you, fetch us two bottles more. Michael can’t drink all of it, you know.”

It was late when the king pushed back from the table with a belch to announce that he had drunk enough. The wine had been excellent, indeed, a welcome change from the poor claret at the inn. Finn had matched Rudolf glass for glass, so that he now felt relaxed, full, and pleasantly diverted. While the old woman, whose name Finn never learned, cleared away the table, Josef brought in a wicker-covered bottle that looked as though it had been aging in Michael’s cellar for quite some time.

“His Highness, the Duke of Strelsau, bade me to set this wine before the king when the king was weary of all other wines,” he said, as though he had rehearsed the speech, which undoubtedly he had. “He asked that you drink for the love that he bears his brother.”

“Well done, Black Michael!” said the king. “Hang him, he thinks to save the best for last, when my thirst has been abated. Well, out with the cork, Josef, my man.”

As Finn watched with disbelief, the king took the bottle, put it to his mouth and drained it without pausing for breath. Then he flung it into a corner of the room, winked at them, put his head down on the table and was snoring within seconds.

As easy as that, thought Finn. All through the meal and well into the night, he had wondered nervously which bottle or which dish had contained the drug that Michael was supposed to dope his brother with, never dreaming that it would be done in so obvious a manner. Obvious to someone who expected it, at any rate. He sighed with relief, grateful for the fact that now he would not have to inject himself with the adrenergen that would have kept him up all night, clawing at the ceiling, regardless of which drug Michael had used or how potent a dose he had selected. He could now enjoy his buzz and get a good night’s sleep without having to worry about that frightful nitro hammering through his brain or terrorists sneaking up on him in the middle of the night. The others were keeping watch outside with night scopes. It really wasn’t fair. He’d had a great meal and fine wine to drink and he’d be sleeping soundly in a warm bed while they shivered in the cold night air outside, staying awake to protect him.

Ah, well, life’s a bitch, he thought. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t rain.

So much time spent in the bowels of Zenda Castle had made Drakov accustomed to darkness, so he was easily able to make out the shape of the Observer. He was so intent upon watching the hunting lodge that he was completely ignorant of Drakov’s presence a mere several yards away. Death stood right behind him, Drakov thought, almost within reach, and he didn’t even know it. He didn’t sense a thing. No subconscious realization made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, no sensation as though someone had walked across his grave made him apprehensive, no sudden intuition made him spin around to face the danger.

They were all wrong, thought Drakov, all the poets and the storytellers who ever dwelt upon the darker side of human nature in their art. Death is not a melodrama. If anything, it is a pathetic one-act comedy that had been poorly written. The audience never laughs and by the time they realize that the play simply isn’t funny, it is already over.

Drakov felt a touch of sadness as he saw that the Observer was little more than a boy. The miracle drug treatments of Falcon’s time made physical appearances deceptive, as in his own case, but there were other indicators of the fellow’s youthfulness-the tension in his bearing, the restlessness which made him shift position constantly, the subtle yet telling sounds he made despite his efforts at not making any noise. He was like a small boy out on his first hunting trip with an old veteran, spending his first night in a hunting stand. The old hunter, experienced and calm, knew to blend in with the silence of the forest; he knew how to relax into complete motionlessness. The small boy was too excited, too inexperienced to appreciate such subtleties. Despite all his best efforts, he moved too much, unable to synchronize his heartbeat with the gentle sighing of the wind. He would think that he was being quiet, but the tiny sounds he made, almost inaudible to him, would be like claps of thunder to the forest animals. The old hunter, of course, would know this, but he would say nothing. He would know that there would be no game on such a night, with such a green companion. The object of the lesson would be to give the boy an opportunity to learn to wait. In time, the boy would learn. But this boy would never have the time.

Drakov, the old hunter, wondered why it was that artists always attempted to poeticize death and violence. Death was merely final, finality in itself, and real violence was sudden, terrible, and often totally incomprehensible. It wasn’t death that was poetic, he thought as he watched his young victim with a mournful gaze, it was survival. That was something few artists ever understood. The Russians understood it. Pushkin, Lermontov, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, especially Tolstoy. The Russian loves to suffer, Drakov thought, because he has never known another state, and so he has embraced the only state he knows. Wistfully, he thought that the soul of a Russian peasant was a lovely thing, simple and innocent and pure.

“It is from the soil of Russia,” his mother had once told him in Siberia, “watered by the tears of all of those who’ve suffered, that the flower of the new world will one day spring.”

“And what if that flower turns out to be a weed?” he had asked her, already a cynic at the age of fourteen, never imagining just how prophetic his words would turn out to be.

“Then that weed will be watered by those self-same tears of suffering,” his mother said. “One must suffer before one can know redemption.”

If that was true, thought Drakov, then his mother had been redeemed many times over. But he was not certain it was true. He was not certain that one could be redeemed. Another writer, an American-who else? — had written that Byronic melancholy was the opium of the intellectuals and the last refuge of little minds. No doubt Falcon would agree. She never had the time to grieve, as she had so simply and mercilessly put it, for all the souls who fell by the wayside. Reluctantly, he took out his laser and aimed it at his victim’s head. He hesitated.

The beam flash would undoubtedly alert the others, who were neither as young nor as inexperienced as this one. He transferred the laser to his left hand and moved forward slowly, silently, closing the distance between them. He raised his right arm and brought the edge of his right hand down hard on the back of the young man’s neck, just below the point at which the spine met the base of the skull.

He heard a voice cry out as he struck and he spun instinctively, firing blindly with his left hand and hitting the chronoplate remote with his right. Even as he fired, he felt a searing pain lance along his side and the next thing he knew, he was back in the turret atop the keep of Zenda Castle, collapsing to the floor and grimacing with pain. He had not been the only hunter on the stalk. Just before he had clocked out, he had caught a brief glimpse of a dark shape silhouetted against the moonlight. And, irrationally, in that brief instant he had known exactly who it was.