CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Caroline spun around. The black lacquered panels on the wall shifted before her eyes and slid apart.

Count Pergen stepped through the gap. A chill swept with him into the room—the same deathly chill, Caroline realized, that she had felt before, leaking through a gap in the hidden doorway.

Pergen’s thin lips curved into a smile as he bowed with mocking grace.

Caroline raised her chin and wrenched her gaze from the horror of Pergen’s shadowed eyes to the emperor beside her. “What, precisely, is the meaning of this?” she demanded, in freezing tones. “I had understood this meeting was to be private.”

“You seem to have understood a great many things, Lady Wyndham,” the emperor said. “You will have to forgive me for being slightly less gullible than you had assumed.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Come now,” Pergen murmured. “This meeting is still private enough by any man’s standards. The outer doors are guarded, no one can see us or hear a word we say . . . and after all, we two are old friends. Are we not, Karolina?”

Peter cursed as he saw Michael suddenly lunge forward. He’d already been luckier than he’d expected, for the other man to stay this long after their first confrontation; but apparently his luck had run out.

He dropped back briefly to speak to Grünemann. “Call out the guards!”

“Not tonight,” Grünemann said briefly. “Too much noise. It would distract the guests.”

“But—”

Grünemann raised his eyebrows quellingly. “Just hurry!”

Peter gritted his teeth and set off. The line of incoming guests seemed never-ending, swelling the crowd even though the emperor and empress had long since abandoned the receiving line. Sweat poured down Peter’s neck as he pushed his way through the packed bodies around him, ignoring gasps, insults, and even snarled threats.

A group of diademed archduchesses passed in front of him, and Peter lost sight of his prey. He started forward to push them aside. Grünemann’s hand clamped down on his arm and pulled him back.

“No noise,” Grünemann snapped.

“What do you mean, no noise?” Peter rounded on him, ready to erupt. “Do you want to catch him or not?”

“To be perfectly frank . . .” Grünemann shrugged, looking maddeningly at ease. “I’ll find him sooner or later, now that you’ve pointed him out to me.”

“But if we don’t catch him tonight—!” Peter stopped as the truth hit him.

If they didn’t catch Michael now, Grünemann would simply catch Michael tomorrow . . . and imprison Peter tonight. By God, Grünemann would probably prefer it that way.

It was up to Peter.

He waited, seething, until the last of the archduchesses had passed, then ran. This time he didn’t wait for Grünemann to follow.

Ahead of him, he saw Michael disappear through the open doorway. Outside. With all the winding streets of inner city Vienna to choose from . . .

Peter hadn’t thought he could run any faster, with his body still tired and weak from the torture of two nights before.

He’d been wrong.

Bitingly cold air hit Michael’s face with the force of a slap as he emerged into the Hofburg’s inner courtyard. It nearly brought him to a halt after the suffocating heat of the Great Hall. He sucked in a freezing lungful and kept running, past the line of incoming guests, through the archway that led into the next courtyard, and toward the street outside.

Frantic calculations streamed through his mind as he ran, weighing risk versus reward. If he could first lose his pursuers in the tangled maze of narrow streets in Vienna’s inner city, he could leap into Caroline’s waiting carriage with no fear of his conveyance being noted and reported to every border guard in Austria. But if he failed and they caught him before he could reach the carriage . . .

Michael hurtled through the last archway, onto the crowded, well-lit square facing the Burgtheater, and lurched to a halt. Hovering indecision held him in a vise. If he ran directly for the carriage, only a few blocks away, he had a decent chance of climbing into it and taking off before his pursuers could catch up with him. He would escape the city of Vienna within the hour. If he was to escape all of Austria unhindered, though, he should do anything and everything to keep his pursuers from seeing the carriage that he took.

And yet, and yet . . .

God help me. Michael closed his eyes for an anguished moment. For the first time in his career, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t even choose a gamble. Caroline . . .

Would she be surprised to find him gone when she finished her meeting with the emperor? Or was it only what she had expected of him all along?

And she herself . . .

The sound of pounding footsteps brought him to his senses. With a curse, Michael lunged to the left, straight down the far-too-well-lit Herrengasse, aiming directly for the Bankgasse and Caroline’s carriage.

For all he knew, there could be a dozen armed guards chasing him by now. He couldn’t afford the risk of trying to lose them all in the inner city.

Even as he ran for the carriage, though, Michael had a sinking feeling that, for the first time in his career, his instincts might have failed him.

Peter lunged through the Hofburg’s final archway just in time to see Michael’s lean figure disappearing into the crowd to his left. He would have sent up a prayer of thankfulness if he’d had any breath or energy for it.

He had no idea why his nemesis would choose to stay on a main street instead of disappearing into the warren of smaller streets that twisted through the city center, but he thanked all the saints for the other man’s bad judgment.

While the nobility’s carriages clattered through the street itself, the pavements of the Herrengasse were filled with middle-class couples promenading between cafés and theaters, groups of elegantly dressed young women engaged in discreet solicitation, and flash young men of the upper classes, already half-tipsy and out for a night on the town. Peter plunged into the mix, gasping for each burning breath and marking his way by the occasional glimpses of Michael’s elegant dark green coat flashing in the crowd ahead.

It felt all too familiar. Only this morning Peter had been the one being chased. If he let himself stop running now, he would collapse onto the filthy cobblestones to be trampled by a carriage horse. And good riddance.

But what would become of his company if he let himself give up? Who was to say that Grünemann’s employer wouldn’t decide to punish them for his failure? Peter’s head throbbed with the effort of it, but he pushed himself forward relentlessly.

Intersecting streets created a sharp corner, two blocks ahead. Peter rocked back, realizing he had lost sight of Michael. No matter how hard he peered, he couldn’t see the other man anywhere in the crowd ahead . . .

Aha. A motion to his left caught Peter’s eye. He turned and spotted Michael’s tall form loping down a line of standing carriages on a quiet side street.

Carriages. Revelation curdled Peter’s stomach.

No wonder the man had chosen the main street for his escape.

Peter lurched into a sudden, desperate burst of speed.

Michael raced past the darkened palaces that lined the Bankgasse. The buildings themselves were mostly empty tonight, but the street itself, as one of the closest side streets to the Hofburg, was lined with carriages waiting to return for their owners at the end of the evening. He didn’t dare slow down to seek out any details; he had to hope he would recognize Caroline’s embossed crest in the darkness.

If he even made it that far.

He couldn’t help it. He slid a quick look backward as he ran, cursing himself for his own weakness.

Peter Riesenbeck was barely half a block behind him, gaining quickly. And behind Riesenbeck . . .

Michael jerked his gaze back to the pavement ahead of him, biting down on self-loathing.

There were no armed guards. No inescapable force swept toward him in pursuit. He couldn’t even see the other man who’d been with Riesenbeck earlier—together, Michael and Riesenbeck must have outpaced him.

In other words, Michael could have lost both pursuers in five minutes if he had chosen the inner city.

So be it. It was too late now to change the past. If he could do that, he would have refused to come with Caroline tonight at all. He would have kept her from attending the gala by any means at his disposal, no matter how dishonorable. He’d known better than to agree to her mad plan even when she first came out with it. Only his cursed guilt had kept him from acting on his instincts. If he could change the past . . .

There. A familiar crest. Michael aimed himself like a perfect shot in a game of billiards. He had always saved himself from dire consequences and catastrophes before, no matter how inescapable they had appeared. In twenty-four years, he had scored a perfect record. He wouldn’t break it now. Only fifteen more feet until . . .

Peter Riesenbeck barreled into Michael from behind and sent him flying forward. Michael didn’t even have time to throw out his hands for self-protection before he crashed onto the ground.

Peter landed on top of Michael’s back. The older man had fallen facedown, with an impact that must have scraped skin raw. But he was surprisingly agile; before Peter could even catch his breath, Michael twisted around, pushing himself up from the muck-covered cobblestones and fighting to pull away from Peter’s hold.

Peter had just enough energy left to slam his knee into the small of Michael’s back. With a grunt of pain, Michael went limp beneath him. Peter found himself grinning fiercely, almost laughing with elation. He’d only fought in stage-fights since he’d been plucked from the streets of Prague by Paul Périgord. Apparently, though, not all of his childhood skills had faded. Peter leaned forward to push Michael down hard against the filthy cobblestones, even as he slid a quick glance backward. All he had to do was hold the older man down until Grünemann caught up with them, and then . . .

Michael’s elbow jerked up in a fast, angled arc. Peter doubled over in agony.

The older man twisted free in one quick motion. He shoved Peter aside and scrambled to his feet.

Tears of pain stung Peter’s eyes, but he threw himself forward. With all his strength, he grabbed hold of Michael’s closest leg and jerked. Michael’s arms windmilled as he flailed for balance and lost. He crashed back down to the cobblestones. Grunting with effort, Peter lurched forward and grabbed the other man’s hands, pulling them behind Michael’s back at an excruciating angle. He heard a gasp of pain hiss out of the older man’s lips.

“There,” Peter panted. “There! Are you repentant yet for what you did to us?”

“Repentant?” Michael’s voice sounded thin and cracked with pain. He took a strained breath, and Peter braced himself to withstand pleas, curses, and even bribes . . .

But what emerged from Michael’s throat instead was something Peter hadn’t expected, incongruous but impossible to mistake: laughter.

Michael gave himself up to hopeless laughter as he took in the earnest drama in the younger man’s tone. “Repentant?” he gasped. “Good God, man, of course I am. What else did you expect?”

“Well . . .” Riesenbeck sounded chagrined. “I should hope so.”

“You have me pinned down, I’m about to be taken away to suffer God only knows what tortures—”

“That’s your own fault!” Riesenbeck said, so quickly that Michael knew he must have touched a nerve. “You chose to put us in danger to follow your own ends, and now you’re only facing the natural results.”

“And you wonder whether I’m feeling repentant?” Michael shook his head in disbelief as his laughter finally trailed off in the darkness of his final evening as a free man. “What do youthink?”

“You’re bluffing,” said Riesenbeck. “But I know better than to be taken in again by any of your stories.”

“So what exactly do you expect from me now? A villain’s speech of rage, cursing everyone in sight before he jumps off the cliff or the castle tower?” Michael sighed and lowered his head to the ground. The cobblestones should have been rough against the raw, reddened skin on his cheek. Luckily—or unluckily—they were so covered by slippery mud and horse muck that they were almost soft. If it weren’t for the stink he would hardly even mind being there.

Now that it was all over—now that he’d lost the gamble, lost everything—Michael found himself oddly calm. Twenty-four years had been a good, long period of escape from the secret police in his home city, hadn’t it? He’d had a good run between the night he found his master’s shop in flames and this night, when he’d rubbed shoulders with the rulers of all Europe.

And he’d told Caroline he loved her, a braver act than he’d performed in a long time—ever since that first night of escape and abandonment. Lying here in the muck on the cobblestones, he was glad to remember that he had at least done that.

Better yet, he hadn’t even revealed to Riesenbeck which carriage had been his aim. Caroline could still escape unharmed tonight as soon as she realized he had gone. All in all, this was a far better night than that first one had been.

Still, it seemed a pity to close a glorious adventure with a scene of cheap melodrama at the end.

Michael lifted his head from the filthy cobblestones and strained to turn until he could see Riesenbeck out the corner of his eye. “I’m not really a villain from one of your plays, you know. I was only trying to survive, as you are now.”

“By using my company.”

Michael nodded painfully. “I used what was available. But I do genuinely regret that you’ve been drawn into all of this. I thought I’d been careful not to be spotted. You should never have heard of me again.”

Riesenbeck shook his head, his voice grim. “Nothing you say could convince me to let you go.”

“I didn’t expect it would,” Michael admitted. “But I’ve been realizing, lately . . .” He tried to shrug, but failed. “I wanted to apologize, regardless. For my own sake.”

Riesenbeck looked back searchingly. His words, half-whispered, reached Michael’s ears. “If you knew what awaited me if I’d failed tonight . . .”

“I have a fair idea, I think.” Michael remembered Caroline’s choked-out story of the hell her childhood had become. Because of him.

How many people had suffered because of him? Exhaustion swept through him at the thought . . . and at Riesenbeck’s jerk of astonishment.

“In case you wondered,” Michael added wearily, “I didn’t know any of that when I first came here. Even I am not so ruthless that I would have knowingly put you and your company at risk of supernatural tortures.”

“But . . .” For the first time, Riesenbeck’s voice softened, as confusion crept into it. “How do you—?”

“They certainly aren’t common knowledge, it’s true.” Michael snorted. “Even the most radical pamphleteers never dreamed of that. If we had . . .”

“So you are a pamphleteer!” Riesenbeck said. “That’s what . . . it . . . told me, but I wasn’t—”

“I used to be a pamphleteer.” A bitter twist pinched Michael’s mouth. “Back when I still had ideals to publish.”

“I met a pamphleteer, my first night here,” Riesenbeck said. “She wasn’t what I’d expected. The most amazing curling dark hair and big, dark eyes—what?”

“Nothing,” Michael said. But he smiled wryly, against the filth on the ground.

It was good to know that Aloysia had made a conquest.

Oh Lord, Aloysia and Kaspar. Two more loose ends he’d left on this trip. With luck, when he didn’t come to check the pamphlet in two days as promised, they would be sensible enough to assume the worst. Aloysia probably would, anyway. She—

“I saved her from the police,” Riesenbeck said. “I didn’t realize who she was, but they took that as proof that I must have been your accomplice.”

“Ah.” Michael sighed. “I see.” Not such an amusing twist, after all.

“That was when I learned better.” Riesenbeck’s voice turned from wistful to grim. “You may not be a villain, but I’m no hero. I can’t afford to be.”

“Who can?” Michael gritted his teeth as burning cramps added to the pain in his pinned-back arms. “Do you think you might let me stretch my arms for just a moment?”

“I’m no fool.” Riesenbeck’s head turned away again. “I’m only waiting for the policeman who was with me. I don’t know why he’s taking so long . . .”

“Perhaps he doesn’t care.” Michael tossed out the words flippantly but was startled by the sudden jerk Riesenbeck gave to his arms—as if all of Riesenbeck’s muscles had tightened at the thought. Blinking, Michael automatically played the new hand he had suddenly been dealt. “He certainly didn’t bother to put much effort into the chase, did he?”

“He will come.” Riesenbeck spoke the words with the intensity of a prayer. “He will!”

“And then?” Michael said. “What have they promised you for capturing me? Privileges for the rest of your company? A contract for—”

“I’ll be free,” Riesenbeck gritted. “They’ll let me leave Vienna.”

“Knowing what you do?” Michael let out an involuntary choked laugh. “Good God, man, don’t you know anything about life offstage?”

The hold on his arms tightened to sheer agony. “You know nothing about this!”

“I take it you’ve met Count Pergen—”

“Who?”

Michael rolled his eyes. Between the pamphleteers this morning and Riesenbeck tonight, he was feeling his age far too acutely. “The former minister of the secret police,” he said patiently. “And, despite official statements to the contrary, still their leader. He also happens to be an alchemist.”

“Oh.” Breath hissed out of Riesenbeck’s clenched teeth. “It—he—kept me masked. I never heard his name.”

“Regardless. You’ve been exposed to horrors that would shock the rest of the empire and all the members of this Congress. Are you really such an innocent that you think they’ll let you go free after tonight, to spread the word of what you’ve gone through?”

He felt Riesenbeck shiver. “They will let me go. That was the agreement. That—”

“Oh, and you can certainly trust an agreement with a power-mad alchemist who’s tortured you once already.” Michael rolled his eyes. “How foolish of me to even suggest otherwise.”

“You bastard!” Riesenbeck’s voice trembled. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“Perhaps not,” Michael agreed. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t simply hand myself over to them. I would at least make an attempt to escape.”

“Some of us care about other people,” Riesenbeck said tightly. “Some of us have responsibilities we can’t walk away from as easily as you.”

“Fair enough,” Michael said. “And yet—”

“Here he comes.”

“Ah.” Michael sighed and laid his head back down on the cool, slippery muck. “Never mind. I might have known.”

He hadn’t really expected to win over Riesenbeck at this late stage in the proceedings. Persuasion had only been a reflex he couldn’t seem to stifle after so many years. Perhaps he’d still be trying to shift the situation to his own advantage even as he was thrown into a prison cell . . . or worse.

The thought made Michael’s chest tighten with a flutter of sudden, animal panic. He quashed it with an effort.

It was too late for any new schemes or hopes of escape. There was no point wasting his precious final moments in contemplating future horrors that he couldn’t prevent. The only thing he could do now was focus on the fact that Caroline would escape.

That was enough. It had to be.

Riesenbeck stood up and yanked on Michael’s pinned-back arms to pull him off the ground. Michael gritted his teeth at the pain as he clambered awkwardly to his feet. The muck still plastered against his raw face felt excruciatingly cold in the chill breeze. Still facing the line of carriages, he couldn’t see the man who approached them, but he heard Riesenbeck’s voice behind him, hoarse with anxiety.

“What took you so long? I thought you’d never arrive.”

“You don’t seem to have required me.” Footsteps approached, and then the voice spoke again, closer. “Let me see his face.”

Riesenbeck pulled Michael around, necessitating an awkward shuffling of position that left Michael facing the policeman in the faint illumination from the nearest carriage lamp and Riesenbeck standing behind him, his hands clamped around Michael’s wrists. Michael set his jaw and met the policeman’s gaze in the darkness without expression.

“Well.” The policeman smiled blandly. “Here he is, indeed. A pleasure to meet you, Herr . . .?” He trailed off invitingly. When Michael didn’t answer, he shrugged. “Never mind. I’m sure we’ll discover your identity soon enough. Come on.” He spoke over Michael, aiming the words at Riesenbeck. “Let’s take him around to the back quarters and stow him in a cell.”

“But . . .” Riesenbeck’s voice faltered. “Aren’t we taking him directly to your master? Finding him was the whole purpose of—”

“It may have been your whole purpose, Herr Riesenbeck, but it certainly wasn’t his.” The policeman’s smile tightened. “He may have been pleased to gift the emperor with a talented troupe so desperate they would work for free at tonight’s gala, to save His Majesty’s coffers and capture a revolutionary in the bargain . . . but for himself, at the moment, he has rather more important prey in mind than one more minor seditionist.”

“But—”

“He is on the emperor’s business tonight, and I can assure you: he wouldn’t relish any interruption.”

The emperor’s business.

Nausea rose in Michael’s chest, gagging him. His cloak of detachment dropped away in an instant of hideous revelation.

“It’s too late for riddles,” Riesenbeck said, behind him.

“It’s not a riddle,” Michael said. His voice came out cracked, like all his comforting delusions. Had he really been fool enough to believe they could be true? Or had he somehow known the truth all along? “I know exactly what he means.”

Caroline.

She had been trapped inside the palace with the emperor and Pergen, while Michael had run. And failed. And abandoned her again.