trouble in Svardovia 14

 I'm delighted that nobody noticed that this was originally a novella ending on chapter 12, which I picked up and added a second part to, eliminating the wrap part of 12 and adding the intro for more. It worked!

Chapter 14

 

Karol used the falling gloom of night to work his way to the perimeter wall. It looked to have  a couple of strands of barbed wire on top, which would make it hard to cross. The gate, however, had just a couple of armed guards. Karol came up behind the nearest, and whipped his scarf round the man’s throat.

Throttled into sufficient submission for Karol to tie and gag the man, the first guard was dealt with. Karol took the guard’s hat and moved into partial view, holding his rifle, and beckoned the other guard, holding his finger to his lips.

The other guard came over, and Karol pointed out through the bars into the road. The other man peered, leaving his neck exposed for the swift rabbit-punch which made him lose all interest in any further proceedings.

Karol hogtied him with his own braces, and gagged him with his own handkerchief, and went back to make a more thorough job of the first man.

Slid into the brick shelter to keep men alert in rain and snow, rather than merely miserable, they should remain undiscovered until after dawn.

A check on the gates showed a subtle wire, which would sound an alarm if they were opened. Karol opened up his second camera, which held the sort of tools which can get a man arrested anywhere in the sort of country where lockpicking tools, and electric alarm bypassing equipment would be recognised.  A clip to the wire each side of the gate allowed Karol to open it wide enough for three shadowy figures to slide in.

He restored the gate to its shut position, but left the extra wire in case of the need of a sharp but quiet exit.  He had more, after all.

“What kept you?” he quipped.

“We knocked, but nobody answered,” said Dmitry. “I suppose you haven’t seen Yaroshka?

“Oh, haven’t I,” said Karol. “Strolled out with Ferdie, talking about obnoxious hussars, Victorina’s sexual preferences, and Ferdie likes plump little pigeons with no brains or conversation but plenty of vigour.”

“Did I need to know that?” asked Dmitry.

“You might, if you want to drop a girl on him who is cleverer than he realises,” said Karol.

“I hate spywork.”

“Bite your tongue; you’re good at it,” said Karol. “The real charm is the Gargantua in the stable yard, which he was showing Yaroshka.”

The two men exchanged looks.

“The charges are in place already in the cutting,” said Dmitry. “It seeming sensible to have them set to cover any hasty retreat we might need. If we stole it a little bit, it would take a little while to mobilise the others.”

“Two things against it,” said Karol. “One, we’d be novices in driving it; and two, the rest are likely either congregated near the capital, which is ten miles nearer the border than we are, and the border is eighteen miles as the crow flies.”

“And we still have dynamite in our alpenstocks,” said Sophie.

“You weren’t really thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?” said Karol.

“I thought we might blow up the house,” said Sophie.

“I am in love with your bride; if I marry you as well, can I marry her?” asked Karol.

“Not on your life,” said Dmitry. “I don’t go for the epic Slavic love triangle tragedies.”

“It isn’t guaranteed to kill Yaroshka, though,” said Karol. “That damned man has more lives than a cat.”

“It would help if we knew which room was his, wouldn’t it?” said Sophie.

“Obviously,” said Dmitry.

“Well, then, I’ll take off my shoes and stockings, and put my bodice on inside out so it’s plainer, take off my wig, and go and find a servant, tell him that the gentleman staying here really liked my hair and asked me to come to him, but I’ve been wandering about for hours and I can’t find him.”

“I imagine that could work,” said Dmitry, frowning.  “What will you do if the servant takes you to Yaroshka?”

“Shoot him,” said Sophie.

“Direct,” said Dmitry. “I don’t want to have to leave it to you….”

“He’s a danger to me and my parents as much as to you and all your people,” said Sophie.

“Fine. Let’s get to the stable yard first, and see this Gargantua,” said Dmitry. “The servants’ door will be near enough to that.”

They crossed the broad gardens, using such cover as there was, Karol leading, having already scouted. There were lights in the stable yard.

“Guarded, no doubt,” murmured Dmitri.

“There are lights in the house as well; it’s not that late,” said Svetelina.

Sophie stripped off her shoes and stockings, and Dmitri helped her remove the disguising wig, which was held securely with hair pins. There were a number of back doors.

Sophie slipped inside. She was able to pick up an apron to put on for a more realistic peasant look, and she looked deliberately for a room with light spilling out under the door, and voices within.

She found herself in a servants’ sitting room. They stared at her.

Sophie put her apron over her face, and sobbed convincingly.

“Oh! I have been wandering this dirty great place for hours!” she cried. “That foreign visitor liked my hair, and he wanted me to visit him, but I dunno where to go!”

“Oh, yes, they said he was doing Princess Victorina,” said footman with a smirk. “Don’t you worry, dearie, Liesel will take you to him.”

“Right willingly,” said the girl called Liesel. “He’s creepy, but I wager he’ll pay well for a red head. You might have to wait a while, though, they’re still eating.”

To Sophie’s delight, Liesel took her to the corridor and pointed out Zbignevosky’s door, and then clattered back downstairs.

Sophie had every intention of shooting Zbignevosky, wherever he might be, but not having a witness in the girl, Liesel, was good.

Sophie opened the door into Zbignevosky’s room. The candles were lit, but he was not apparent. This was an antechamber, however; there was another room beyond, probably a bedroom, and probably an ensuite. And Liesel had said he was still at dinner.

Sophie explored the bedroom and ensuite and found them empty. No valet hovering; good.

She opened the bedroom window, and whistled softly.

Dmitry came round the house.

“Not there?” he asked.

“At dinner,” said Sophie. “I don’t like to just set up dynamite and hope he’s here when it goes off. I’ll shoot him.”

“Hang on; I’m coming up,” said Dmitri.

Swiftly, he climbed up, using the decorative baroque stonework, and Sophie helped him through the window.

They shut it. Sophie took off everything but her shift and lay on the bed.

 

Unknown to Sophie, the footman had murmured to Zbignevosky that the red haired girl from the village was waiting in his room. The spymaster slipped him a coin, as he might be expected to do, but frowned to himself.

He knew that he had not sent for any red-haired girl from the village; and it was unlikely that any other red-head than the English girl was going to be looking for him.

Well, she was a prize.

She was a prize to barter with Dmitry; and worth while keeping to break her spirit and make her tell all she knew, and enjoy her at the same time.

Zbignevosky did not have to simulate arousal.

“I’ll pass on the brandy,” he said.  “I’m turning in.”

Ferdinand’s eyebrow lifted.

“I trust you won’t despoil too many of my maids,” he said; and thought nothing more of it.

 

Zbignevosky was certain that it must be the English girl, but she had missed a trick, and he was warned. He opened the door of his room by pushing it, and standing back, pistol in hand.

Nothing happened, and he shut the door, and locked it, dropping the key into his pocket. He pushed his bedroom door open as well, standing back, and gasped to see Sophie, in her shift, waiting for him. He moved cautiously into the room making sure that Sophie could see the gun.

“If you have anyone waiting for me, my dear, you will die when my finger constricts, if I am startled, you know,” said Zbignevosky. “And I plan to make sure that I keep you, this time.”

“You’d better come out, Dmitry,” said Sophie. “Pan Zbiggy is holding the cards this time.”

Dmitry emerged from the bathroom, his own pistol held by the trigger guard.

He looked questioningly at Sophie, whose right hand was under the coverlet.

“Sophie?” said Dmitry.

“He’ll hold me at pistol point anyway while you dismantle the nitro, so you’d better do it anyway,” said Sophie. “I’m not ready to die for a cause.”

“Nitro?” yelped Zbignevosky, half turning towards Dmitry.

Sophie shot him through the coverlet.

Zbignevosky went down, his own pistol discharging harmlessly into the ceiling; but he was not dead, and was making a painful attempt to level up his gun at Sophie.

Dmitry had no time for being a gentleman when his beloved was in danger and kicked Zbignevosky in the groin.

Any man will fold when kicked there, and Dmitry lost no time in taking the man’s pistol, and breaking his neck.

“Svardovia will also be a safer place without him,” said Dmitry. “The blood of men, women, and children is on his hands. But we may have company.”

“I saw champagne in his room, open one if you can without it popping, and pour two glasses. Only one was loud enough to hear, I think,” said Sophie. “And dump that on top of me.”

Dmitry grimaced, but placed the body as if on top of Sophie, and ran to open champagne, pouring two glasses, and hid back in the ensuite.

A master key had apparently been found, and the door was flung open. Two faces peered in.

“Oh, sir! Oh sir!” Sophie moaned.

The faces hurriedly retreated.

“You jackass, Schultz!” one of the visitors had noticed the champagne. “Nothing but a champagne cork!”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” said the footman, chastened. “I would have sworn it was a pistol.”

“Well, in the morning, you can swear to someone else; you’re fired,” said Ferdinand.

They retired.

Sophie squirmed out from under the dead body.

“Now, that was one of the most unpleasant things I’ve ever had to do, and he bled on me,” she said.

“Clever, brave love!” said Dmitry. “We might as well set the dynamite in here; it will make a lovely diversion while we steal the Gargantua, and it should be far enough away not to cause any fire that would discommode the horses. We’ll run a fuse out of the window.”

A couple more climbs had a sufficiency of dynamite to make an effective diversion, and the young couple climbed back out of the window. Sophie put her stockings and shoes back on; it might not be as cold as it had been at altitude, but it was late in the year, and chilly at night, particularly.

 

Karol, meanwhile, had been skulking around the stable block.  The grooms had their own rooms out here, and had mostly gone to bed; their days were long, and started before dawn. All had to be mucked out, the horses fed and groomed, and tack polished before anyone in the household wanted to ride out, and this could be before the house breakfasted.  The crew of the Gargantua were in a loose box, dicing, whilst two guards stood, blocking entrance to the machine.

Karol slid into the house, and found where unfinished bottles of wine from each dinner course were stood, awaiting disposal, which was usually the butler’s perquisite, and picked up one and four glasses which he put on a tray. A sachet from his second camera would discourage the Gargantua crew. He nodded to Svetelina, who took the tray and went where he pointed.

“Butler’s compliments,” she said. “It’s good stuff; left over from the gentry’s dinner.”

“And do you come with anyone’s compliments, pretty?” said one.

“Oh, yes,” said Svetelina. “My father is a sergeant in the guard, and his compliments are carved out on anyone who looks at me the wrong way with his boot knife.”

The one whose arm had snaked around her waist whipped his arm away, hastily.

“Wise move,” said Svetelina smiling, brightly.

They drank deeply, happy to have ‘the good stuff’ without having palates developed enough to truly appreciate it, which, reflected Karol, was a shame, but sometimes in life, things were less than ideal.  And as they started to doze, Sophie and Dmitry came down from their window, bringing a wire each to prevent any accidental contact, and ran it around the corner.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Dmitry, to Karol.

“Oh, I’m ready when you are, as the Hussar said to the Gypsy,” said Karol.

The detonator was upstairs with the dynamite; and Dmitry had only to touch the connections together.

The ensuing roar of the blast split open the night with coruscating sheets of flame and billowing smoke.