The Secret Prince Part 37

Sir Frederick took a step toward Lord Havelock, who was being similarly restrained. "I am here to collect what is due to me, Magnus," Sir Frederick said, sticking the needle into Lord Havelock's arm but hesitating before pressing the syringe, drawing out the horror. "You betrayed me and washed your hands of our alliance, but I have not forgotten how you wronged me back at Knightley, and finally I shall have my revenge."

Sir Frederick depressed the syringe.

"High treason and conspiracy," Lord Havelock said woozily.

Sir Frederick merely smiled. " *Yea though we roar with the fire of a mighty dragon, we are but its scales, all cut from the same mold, and of equal worth.'" He calmly wiped the syringe against his palm as Lord slumped forward, unconscious. Professor Stratford swallowed nervously, feeling his knees buckle as Sir Frederick advanced, removing a second vial of clear liquid from his case.

"Ah, Stratford," Sir Frederick said. "A shame for you to have come here. I actually quite liked you. And how is little Henry these days, if I may ask?"

Professor Stratford gulped, realizing that he had to lie. "I wouldn't know," he said. "After the boy was expelled at the end of last term, he blamed me."

"Liar," Sir Frederick breathed. And then he grinned. "But I can make use of you yet, Stratford. I could send word of my triumph back to South Britain.... Yes, dread is better than surprise in this case. And you should do nicely."

Professor Stratford felt a sting, and then a rush of coldness in his arm.

"I'll deliver no messages for you," he managed weakly. His heartbeat sped, and his breathing slowed, and spots danced before his eyes.

"As though ye have a choice," Sir Frederick sneered.

And then everything went black.

On Monday night Henry was seated next to Mauritz in the hidden meeting room, helping the boy with his Italian homework before the meeting. They bent over the slim volume of Machiavelli, frowning.

Henry had warned Lord Mortensen that his Italian was out of practice, but the schoolmaster had thought he was being modest.

"Truly," Henry had insisted, "I've barely even looked at anything that wasn't French or Latin for a year now."

"It will do ye good," Lord Mortensen had said. "Both of ye. He needs the help."

Mauritz did need the help. At first he'd tried to demand that Henry do the a.s.signment, but Henry had quickly put a stop to that.

"I won't do it for you. You have to learn this stuff," Henry had said with a sigh.

They weren't making much progress, as Mauritz puzzled over the simplest rules of Italian grammar.

"No," Henry said, biting back his frustration, "look at the words you do know. Does anything look familiar?"

"* Arte,'" Mauritz grumbled.

"Good," Henry said. "Now underline the words that modify it."

Mauritz hazarded a guess.

"No," Henry said through his teeth. "Look at the p.r.o.noun agreement. It's feminine, so you've got *quella e sola,' see?"

"Just translate it for me, if ye can," Mauritz challenged.

"Fine," Henry said with a sigh. "From the beginning: *Chapter Fourteen. That Which Is of-no, sorry-That Which Concerns a Prince on the Subject of War.' As I've said, my Italian is rusty. Shall I continue?"

"If ye want to be punched in the face," Mauritz grumbled.

"Sorry," Henry whispered furiously. "This wasn't my idea. But I gave my word to help, and if that means forcing Italian grammar down your throat, so be it."

And then Garen burst into the chamber, out of breath and brandishing a copy of the Common Comrade.

"My lord," Garen said, with a quick bow in the direction of Lord Mortensen, and a deeper bow toward the table where Henry and Mauritz sat. "My lord prince, there is news. A Brittonian man was caught crossing the border this weekend with forged ident.i.ty papers. There is to be a hanging tomorrow in the square."

Lord Mortensen frowned. "Let me see that, lad."

Henry craned his neck as the paper pa.s.sed to Lord Mortensen. He noticed with surprise that the paper was wet, and in the s.p.a.ces between the articles, violet letters were cramped onto the page.

"Sir, is that ...?" Henry began.

"Only shows up if ye dab it with the right chemicals," Garen said.

Lord Mortensen put down the paper, looking far older and far more tired than he had just moments before. "This could start a war," he muttered.

"What's happening?" Mauritz demanded.

Garen bowed and explained. A man had been caught crossing the border with forged diplomatic papers. He was being held at the prisoner's asylum, and there was to be a public execution at dawn.

"No!" Henry said, surging to his feet. "He was coming to rescue us!"

"Ye don't know that, lad," Lord Mortensen said.

"I do!" Henry cried. "It must be Professor Stratford."

Henry's heart felt as though it might break his rib cage. He couldn't sit. He couldn't stay still. His hands shook as the horror of the situation washed over him.

It was Professor Stratford-he was sure of it. And if the professor had been caught, it was all his fault.

Public execution.

The phrase sounded like something out of a medieval nightmare. With a gulp Henry remembered the gallows in the public square, across from the statue of the chancellor. And then he remembered something else-Lord Mortensen's explanation of what the chancellor did to prisoners.

"The doctor has him," Henry muttered.

"Aye," Garen said darkly. "Cure his health before he cure the man of his life."

"Don't say that!" Henry cried, running a hand over his face and trying to think. But all he could conjure up was a hideous image of Professor Stratford, his lips blue and his toes turning black, strapped to a table as a faceless man in a butcher's ap.r.o.n asked him to describe the pain.

"I have to go," Henry said. "We have to get him back."

"That is not possible," Lord Mortensen said sadly, shaking his head.

"Make it possible, then!" Henry retorted.

"I cannae do it, lad. An' where would we hide a fugitive who cannae cross back to his own country? There are greater things at play here, an' the risk is too high. Our rebellion must tread carefully if we are to succeed."

"He's the only family I have," Henry said. "You said the doctor takes his patients to the old mental asylum. I'm going. If I can't rescue him, at least I can say good-bye."

"Stop him!" Lord Mortensen cried, but Henry was already forcing open the door to the hallway, and then he was running down the corridor and out of the castle.

The student guard took in Henry's staff kitchen waistcoat and the expression on his face and pulled back the gate without comment. Henry slipped through, the cold night air of Romborough making him shiver. He pa.s.sed the graveyard, that ominous place where men became slabs and memories, buried again over time, and he pa.s.sed the church with its funny circular roof quartered by blackened beams, and the first of the pylons that loomed up ahead, marking the widening of Cairway Road.

The streets were rough at night, with gangs lurking in the entrances to the closes, and ladies calling after him from the skeletons of the market stalls.

And then he was in the square, with the bronze statue of Yurick Mors waving the banner of the revolution. There. The gallows.

Henry saw the gentle sway of the rope in silhouette, and the gruesome stage, its stains buried deep beneath a layer of sawdust.

No.

This enormous statue of the chancellor couldn't be the last thing Professor Stratford saw. Henry swallowed back a desperate sob as he crossed the square toward the small white building with no windows.

THE PRISONERS' ASYLUM, a sign read, hanging from the rusted gate.

Henry ignored the voice in his head that shrilled for him to turn back toward the castle, toward the hidden chamber where the rebellion convened at midnight, where they sat as old-fashioned knights loyal to the overthrown king, at a round table like something out of legend.

For the place he was about to enter was like something out of his nightmares. He took a deep breath and pa.s.sed through the gates, but no one stopped him. He opened the door of the prison, where no one stood guard.

And he walked down a hallway with electric lights ablaze, harsh on his eyes after more than a week of old-fashioned gaslight and candles. He squinted, wondering why there were no guards, and then he realized belatedly that those who came here were meant to escape and carry with them the warning of this place.

No, he didn't want this main corridor. He wanted some place far worse. The building was small, and there was only one place he could think to look. The bas.e.m.e.nt.

Or the dungeon, he supposed, for when he found it, the subterranean stone tunnel certainly looked like one. The left wall was lined with cells, and there was no guard, no chance to overpower the warden and wrestle away the key, or steal it from his belt as he slept. The doors to the cells gaped open, as though awaiting the embrace of their future occupants.

But one door at the end of the corridor was closed.

"Professor?" Henry called, hurrying toward it.

"Ah, Mr. Grim," a chilling voice said. Henry looked wildly around the corridor, but could not place the speaker. And then he reached the closed door and gaped in surprise at the occupant of the cell.

"As you can see, Mr. Grim, I have come to rescue you," Lord Havelock sneered. The military history master had deep circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were hard with stubble. His suit was horribly wrinkled, and his left arm drooped as though it had been pulled from its socket.

"Where's Professor Stratford?"

"I don't know," Lord Havelock said. "We were stopped at the border, but he dosed me first. I was here when I woke, and Stratford had vanished."

Henry frowned. "But-"

"A special torture has been reserved for me," Lord Havelock said, answering Henry's unspoken question. "He wishes me to enjoy every last ounce of his revenge."

"He?" Henry asked.

"Dr. Von Izembard." Lord Havelock's brows knitted together. "Of course, you know him by a different name: Sir Frederick."

"Sir Frederick?" Henry didn't think he'd heard correctly.

And then it all made sense. Sir Frederick, who had betrayed them all last term, who had wanted a war so that Chancellor Mors might rule the full of the Brittonian Isles, had talked of opening a hospital. He had asked Henry and Adam to join him.

Just a few months ago Henry had been so certain that Sir Frederick would return to enact his revenge, but he'd never thought that revenge would be meant for Lord Havelock.

It made a horrible kind of sense. And news of Nordlandic medical experiments had surfaced only months after Sir Frederick's disappearance. No wonder he hadn't been apprehended; he had fled to the Nord-lands. He had rejoined the chancellor and become something out of a h.e.l.lish fable: the doctor who cured your health.

"Listen to me, boy," Lord Havelock growled. "You have to get out of here. Tomorrow, after they-after it is over, Sir Frederick will send my body back as a warning. You must get on that train. They are superst.i.tious of corpses here and will not check the compartment carefully. Do you understand?"

"But, sir, I can't. There has to be a way that-"

"There is no hope for me, boy. I have been given my medicine, so to speak. But there is small comfort in knowing that some good may come of my demise."

Henry nodded, not knowing what to say. "Yes, sir," he whispered. "I understand."

"Poor Fergus," Lord Havelock said, half to himself. "The boy's father was one of the first to go in the uprisings. He rushed in to break up a riot and save the children."

"I know, sir," Henry said, his throat dry. "I'm so sorry."

"You shouldn't be here," Lord Havelock said harshly. "You must leave before the doctor returns."

"But, sir-"

"Go," Lord Havelock spat. "Do not make me tell you to get out of here a third time, Mr. Grim."

"No, sir," Henry said with a heavy heart.

As he left the bas.e.m.e.nt, his eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, a hand closed over his mouth, and his arm was twisted painfully behind his back.

28.

THE FUTURE KING.

Henry struggled against his captor until a voice hissed, "Stop that, lad. Ye'll disjoint your arm."

"Lord Mortensen?"

"It's Compatriot Erasmus here," the schoolmaster whispered, releasing him. "Hurry. We must get ye back to the castle."

"I don't understand," Henry whispered, hurrying after the schoolmaster, but Lord Mortensen shook his head and held a finger to his lips. It was only when they'd pa.s.sed through the gates to the prisoners' asylum that the schoolmaster breathed a sigh of relief.