trouble in Svardovia 2

 

Chapter 2

 

Sophie awoke, confused, at the rattle of curtains and the drawing back of some of the filmy white curtains around the bed. Magda stood there with a teapot and a cup. Her cheek was red.

“Baron Slabynyski said you would have milky coffee like her highness, but I said, you are English, and used to tea. He was not pleased, but have I, please, the right thing done, because there is nobody to see.”

“Oh, Magda! Did that nasty little man hit you? I am so sorry. Yes, I like tea in the morning, but I must go in search of the lavatory first.”

“Oh! You have an ensuite,” said Magda. “Through that door. It is not too primitive. Shall I draw you a bath?”

“I will enjoy the luxury of tea in bed for once, before bathing,” said Sophie. “What is the princess’s custom for breakfast? Does she send out?”

“Oh, we have our own food in these carriages,” said Magda. “In the servants’ carriage right at the end, and it will be prepared and brought to you. What would you like?”

“Bratkartoffeln, with eggs and bacon, please,” said Sophie. “And then pain au chocolat, or a roll with honey or jam, I’m not particular.”

Magda sniggered.

“Her highness will not touch so hearty a breakfast, so the servants who do not know will be surprised,” she said. “She usually has a peach and a piece of thinly-cut lightly toasted bread with a little butter.”

“I wouldn’t mind that as well,” said Sophie, tentatively.

Magda laughed.

“I will see to it,” she said. “I will tell them the rest of the breakfast is for a mysterious lover.”

“Goodness! Won’t they look at me askance if they think me such a scarlet woman?” asked Sophie.

“The princess has many lovers,” said Magda. “Oh! She left you a gift; it is a musical box, it is to identify you, and she said you should carry it with you always. But it is also a recording device, and if you have any trouble from Krasnytyan separatists, you should start the recording, to use in court.”

“I see,” said Sophie.

She enjoyed her tea, and then bathed, and was faced with a huge wardrobe of clothing, which was larger than the sleeping carriage designed for six sleepers.

“I will wear bloomers, I think,” she said to Magda. “They always look such comfortable garb, and I may never get another chance.”

Magda giggled.

“Our bloomers are based on Cossack trousers, and are worn with an embroidered knee-length tunic with small slits at the side and wide sash. Our princess wears such things when she is being very much the patriot.”

“Then, I will be a patriot of Svardovia,” said Sophie. “And while I am eating breakfast, I would like to speak to Baron Slabynyski.”

“Yes, highness,” said Magda, curtseying. “As I must call you, now.”

“Oh, well, in private, you can call me ‘Sophie,’” said Sophie. “There is a lot of room in these garments.”

“Miss is slimmer than the princess,” said Magda, with what Sophie thought an almost vicious sense of satisfaction.

“You do not like the princess?” asked Sophie.

“She is as sweet as honey when things go her way,” said Magda.

“Oh.” Sophie knew that meant that she took things out on Magda when things did not go the princess’s way.

She went into the opulent sitting room, where a dining-table had been unfolded ingeniously from somewhere, with a white linen-work cloth over it, and real silverware. A pot of coffee and a teapot sat on the table, and covered dishes on chafing dishes. The baron was already there, and rose to bow.

“I customarily take breakfast with her highness for her to give me the day’s orders,” said he.

“Good.  I wish to take issue with you hitting Magda, for her kindness to me in guessing that I would prefer tea first thing, not coffee.”

He frowned.

“She is a servant; she is used to rebukes.”

“Nevertheless, whilst she is my servant, I do not expect her to receive any blows for doing her best,” said Sophie. “Do I make myself clear?”

“My dear young woman, I merely wanted to make sure there was no discrepancy to be seen, like this remarkable breakfast  you have called for….”

“And who are the servants in the cooking car supposed to be able to tell?” asked Sophie. “Magda told them I was entertaining a lover, and seemed to think this credible.”

“It is,” said Slabynyski, grudgingly.

“Good. Then I will eat the sort of hearty breakfast I am used to,” said Sophie, trying not to look scornfully on his piece of thin toast and half a grapefruit.

“You will do well to remember that I am here as your tutor in the princess’s manner, and to do as you are told,” said Slabynyski.

“Oh? Well, it is a shame to waste breakfast, I can change back into my normal clothes and go back to my cabin once I have eaten,” said Sophie.

“You can’t do that! You agreed!”

“I agreed to be the princess,” said Sophie.

“I will prevent you from leaving,” said Slabynyski.

“I am supposed to be photographed at stations,” said Sophie. “What a story if I cry to the journalists for aid after you laid lewd hands on me.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Do you really want to try me?” asked Sophie.

“I hope the separatists do try something, and you get kidnapped,” cried Slabynyski.

“Ah. Now we get to the real reason the princess wanted a double,” said Sophie, tucking in to her breakfast. The baron looked at her healthy appetite with a look of horror that anyone might eat bacon, sausage, and fried egg so early.

“The princess did not think you would accept the real reason with equanimity,” said the baron.

“She was wrong,” said Sophie.

He regarded her balefully. Sophie made sure to smother her toast with plenty of butter and a thick layer of honey.

He fled.

Sophie giggled.

 

After breakfast, Sophie asked Magda if she would mind helping her to wear some of the princess’s beautiful clothes, and a morning passed happily enough. Sophie chose an evening gown in green and flame, embroidered with tiger-lilies for the evening, and dined with the baron, who watched, aggrieved, as she took the size of portion a growing girl needs.

“Why, what is this dish?” she asked, tasting it. The baron was smirking, unpleasantly.

“It is called ‘Goulash,’ and it is one of our national dishes,” he said. “What, is it too spicy for you?”

“Not at all,” said Sophie. “It is really nice; has a decent bite to it. I like the spicy foods of India, too, and Morocco. I am a diplomat’s daughter, after all, so I have travelled widely.”

She had to smother a laugh at the fury on the baron’s face; plainly he had hoped to make her choke on the spicy dish.

“I look forward to Svardovian food, I think,” said Sophie. “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

“No,” said the baron, shortly. “Good grief, girl, isn’t your appetite affected at all by fear of what the Krasnytsyans might do?”

“No,” said Sophie. “Should I?”

He gave a mirthless laugh.

“Prince Dmitriy loathes our princess cordially, and is likely to be rough.  Of course, you can reveal who you really are, but it may take a while for him to accept your story.  I am looking forward to the thought of you in his hands.”

“You know, calling you the louse fed on dried blood is almost too insulting to a louse fed on dried blood,” said Sophie, amicably. “Pass the potatoes, please.”

“You are a pert chit!” snarled the baron. “I hope he flogs you!”

“You have some very exotic wishes,” said Sophie. “Perhaps it is you he wants, not me, to see if you have any blood at all. Aren’t the Krasnytsyans supposed to be barbarians?”

“They are!” he almost whispered.

“You’re afraid,” said Sophie. “You are almost quivering in terror.”

“So would you be, if you had any sense,” said Slabynyski.  “But you have served your purpose, and will continue to do so; there are no more places before the capital where you might be expected to wave to your adoring public, so I can keep you here, and make you go through with it. My princess is safe, and I don’t care what happens to you.”

Sophie laughed.

“And the princess does not care what happens to you,” she said. “Otherwise, you would have had some excuse to leave manufactured for you. But you are as sacrificial as I am.”

“She loves me! I am only here to make sure they think you are Victorina! They will take or kill you, and I will join my princess!”

“You’re deluding nobody but yourself, you know,” said Sophie. “She despises you; I saw it on her face.”

“You lie!” he went to slap her, and Sophie threw the rest of the goulash in his face.

He cried out, trying to clear the spicy food from his suddenly painful eyes.  Sophie finished eating, and retired to her bedroom.

She had let herself be taken in, just because the person who had fooled her was a princess. Well, she had agreed to be the princess, and she would be so, until she knew more about the situation of the politics.

And she would keep a handbag on her at all times, with her little gun, and that musical box recorder… if it was a recorder at all, and not something more sinister.

Well, she would just have to wait and see, and enjoy being a princess in the meantime, playing with the other woman’s clothes and jewellery, and learning about Svardovia as well, something Magda was willing to impart.

“Magda,” said Sophie, “I am going to write to my Papa. It is very important. Can you get it in the post for me?”

Magda blushed.

“We have been forbidden to let you write… but you are kind, and they have more or less kidnapped you.  I will see that it goes in the train’s bag tonight.”

“You are so good, Magda! When this is over, would you like to stay with me? It is not as prestigious, and I doubt I can pay you as well.”

“I would like that,” said Magda. “And I will pay myself with the sum of money she set aside to bribe you, if you would not do it willingly; and she laughed, and said that she would easily charm a schoolgirl, who would do it for her beauty.”

“I did it because I felt sorry for her, always hounded by the press,” said Sophie.

“Of course you did, lady!” said Magda. “I don’t think she understands fellow feeling. I think you should read this draft of a letter she has written to her father, the king.”

The relevant passage ran,

“And it does not matter what happens to this English schoolgirl, whom Dmitry will likely have killed, assuming her to be me, because when it comes out who she is, which I will publish, England will let us have liftium to crush Dmitry and his separatists for ever, and we shall execute every last one.”

Sophie shuddered.

“Thank you, Magda; I needed to know,” she said. “Well, I will play on, to save my own life, and we will see what happens. Will she miss the draft or the money?”

“No, Miss Sophie, she is too careless,” said Magda. She provided writing materials for Sophie, who wrote,

“Dearest Papa,

Please do not worry Mama, but I find myself in a bit of a pickle, because I was taken in by someone of exalted rank. I will never trust princesses and princes again.  I saw the Princess Victorina of Svardia, and she saw me, and asked me to take her place. I have discovered from the Louse, whose nickname is an insult to all Lice, that it is because an attack on the train by Krasnytsyan separatists is expected; and I want you to know that their claims may be just, since I have determined personally that Princess Victorina is a cold and callous woman who is very good at projecting herself to the press, but in private, she hits her maids and is spiteful. Her tame louse is a vile little man; and such represent Svardia. I am including the draft of a letter that Magda has given me, my temporary maid, who is going to smuggle this out, as I am not allowed to communicate and am essentially a prisoner of the Svardian royal court, which shows what sort of people they are. Pray for me, please! I will have to pretend for now but perhaps I can tell Prince Dmitry who I really am.

 

Sophie.”

 

Sophie was quite tired of being a princess by the third day, but she wore the costume of loose trousers and tunic again, her hair in a plait, which she suffered Magda to put up with pins.

“I don’t suppose I would have been any less bored in my own cabin,” she said, to Magda. “I wish I had brought a novel to read on the train.”

“Oh! There are novels,” said Magda. “Often left by sundry people travelling with the royal carriages.” She opened a hidden bookshelf, and Sophie hesitated before choosing a speculative fiction novel by the celebrated Jules Verne, so many of whose speculations preceded scientific discovery.  She picked ‘To Jupiter’s moons,’ about a flight to that huge, mysterious planet and its satellites. It kept her happily occupied until she was startled out of her reveries when the train came to a sudden, unanticipated halt.

“Seperatists!” gasped Magda.

“They will not hurt you,” said Sophie. “And I will pretend for as long as possible to protect the princess.”

She looked out of the window, and saw the most extraordinary flying machine, a boat with wings and sails, as it swept over the ridge of the cutting in which the train had come to a stop.  It manoeuvred with a consummate skill which made Sophie murmur in appreciation, as it landed on top of the broad carriage. She took up the beaded bag she had chosen, which had a shoulder strap from which to hang it, and reviewed its contents again. The musical box, her pistol and ammunition, clean linen for bandages, a box of matches in a tin, a candle, an emergency sewing kit for running repairs, and her manicure kit.  It was extraordinary what you could do with a manicure kit. Quickly, she went into her ensuite and relieved herself, so she might be ready for anything with equanimity.

And then a hatch in the ceiling opened, and quite the most beautiful young man Sophie had ever seen dropped down in front of her.

 

Trouble in Svardovia 1

 my first steampunk which is sort of Ruritanian as well, a bit of a parody of the spirit of Ruritanian romances, and possibly a little bit of film noir creeping in at times. Sophie, a schoolgirl with ambassadorial parents, who ought to be staring Girls Own Paper in a school story like 'Patrica Plays the Game', finds herself in a rather more deadly situation between protagonists of two warring Ruritanian states, Svardovia and Krasnytsya. Don't try to work out where they are on a map; the globe obligingly wriggled to permit them and Vandalia to exist. Just enjoy the anarchy.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

“Take care, my love,” said Mrs. Harmon. “Remember to clean your teeth, say your prayers, and keep regular habits.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Sofie. It was not the sort of admonition a young lady of almost seventeen should need, on her way to finishing school, but the surroundings were intimidating. Berlin airship port was the biggest airship port in Europe, on several levels, and was a confusing labyrinth of steel, brass, and glass. Each terminal had its own domed station, not unlike a railway station, but so much bigger, and if one ventured to the edge of the metal walkways, one could look down.

A long way down.

And from all around, the graceful teardrop-shapes of the commercial liners came closer and closer to the star-shaped terminal, skilled release of the gas bringing them to the point where they might be snagged on the docking hook, and gently winched under cover. Meanwhile, other liners left, a beautifully choreographed three-dimensional dance, since smaller ships came from and left for more local destinations at the lower levels.  And weaving throughout them, protectively, the Prussian pride, cigar-shaped zeppelins, the Imperial Navy’s warships, protecting civilian travel.

Her parents had ridden the elevator down to the ground level with her, its pierced metal folding doors beautiful things in their own right, in the shape of the imperial eagle of Brandenburg-Prussia. The walls within had windows to see out, and stained glass filled the rear wall. But it had been a long way down, and it would have been foolish to wonder what would happen if the cables holding it should break.

Her father smiled at her, divining her fears as she glanced up.

“It’s quite safe, my dear,” he said. “An American called Otis invented failsafes which are in the designs all modern elevators. There are teeth to lock the car in place if the cable breaks.”

“Oh, thank you, Papa,” said Sofie.

“It would be impossible to have transport hubs like this without such safety features and guarantees,” said Mr. Harmon.

“Really, Edward, does the child need to know about such things as engineering details?” said Mrs. Harmon.

“If it gives her peace of mind, yes,” said Edward Harmon. “I haven’t drawn diagrams.”

“Oh, but you could send them to me in a letter, Papa,” said Sofie. “I do like to understand how things work.”

Her father laughed, and her mother sighed.

 

At last they were on the ground, in the massive train-station part of the transport hub, and Sofie was about to board a carriage of a transcontinental express, a behemoth of the art of steam transport, to travel to school in Svardovia, whilst her father, a diplomat, and her mother, who acted as his secretary, took the elevator up to a lower level than the one on which they had arrived from England, to take the airship to Warsaw.

Warsaw! A city of romance, capital of the newly-rebuilt Poland-Sarmatia, formed as a buffer state against the oft-times aggressive Muscovy, so soundly beaten by the Royal Navy and their superior skyships, built on a keel of the artificial element Liftium. Numerous small states had sprung up as well, freed from the Muscovy yoke, of which Svardovia was one. But Sofie would not join her parents there until she had finished school; and a school run on English lines in Svardovia was the closest, taking advantage of healthy mountain air.

 

There were sounds of people’s voices, shouting, gabbling, raised in excitement. Sofie shrank back, not sure what to expect. She had not heard a train come in, nor was there another due to leave as soon as her Transcarpathian Express. She preferred not to get into the train until about five minutes before it was due to leave;  she had a sleeper cabin, and her father had reserved her a compartment to herself, knowing that she disliked being crowded, so she had no worries about finding a seat, but she quickly opened a door, and got onto the train, dropping the window in the door to see what was going on.

The noise appeared to be the cries of what her father called ‘newshounds in full view halloo.’ Members of the press roiled onto the platform, some with cameras, the loud popping as they flashed, and following them, their quarry.

Sofie gasped.

She would have to have been living under a rock not to recognise Princess Victorina Pyshkaya of Svardovia, said to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, and certainly the most stylish. The princess had featured on many a magazine cover during her recent sojourn in Paris. Sofie’s father had started to call her the ‘most expensive’... something, but Sofie’s mother had put her hand over his mouth, and said, ‘not with the child in the room.’

Sofie resented being called a child, but whilst she was still a schoolgirl, she could hardly complain. She had heard her father on the princess’s equerry, however, Baron Slabinysky, and thought that the weak-chinned, harried individual looked as if he deserved the title of the ‘louse fed on dried blood.’ The princess, however, was every bit as lovely as in her photographs, with a beautifully smooth oval face, big smoky eyes, and her Titian hair arranged so beautifully, with stars made of diamonds in it, reputedly every bit as fine as those belonging to the equally famously beautiful late Empress Elizabeth of Austria.

Sofie sighed.

The princess had hair almost the same shade as her own, but she managed to be beautiful, where Sofie was just a gawky, red-haired schoolgirl.

And then the princess looked across at the train as she posed in her beautiful Paris fashions, and she froze. And then she smiled at Sofie, a secret little smile.

Sofie gasped. Was the princess, then, as gawky at Sofie’s age, that she sympathised with a fellow red-head? She ducked back into the train, out of sight as some of the journalists started to turn to see at whom the princess might be smiling.  Sofie went in search of her compartment, wishing she had the boldness to flout convention like the princess, who wore flame coloured clothes to make her hair a feature, instead of sticking to insipid blues and greens. Her gown! It was a beautiful thing, terracotta at the hemline, sweeping up through orange and apricot to cream at the neckline, with thousands of straw-coloured glass beads in arabesques, and a terracotta three-quarter length, open coat over it, plainly cut, but a band up the front embroidered in dark brown, gold, and deep amber, all the way up the front to emphasise the height and slenderness of the princess’s lovely figure. The dark brown lapels really threw her auburn hair into relief, as did the nonsense of dark brown velvet she wore on her head, which was scarcely more than a crown of a hat with a big bow.

There was some ongoing kerfuffle up towards the front of the train as the princess and her entourage embarked on the special carriage. Sofie had wondered who would be using that palatially-accoutred carriage, which looked very opulent, what little she had been able to see through the windows.  Everyone got on, and judging by the press still hanging around, the princess was posing, and waving out of the window, as in other photos Sofie had seen. Sofie settled back, grateful that her father had bought six tickets, to enable him to reserve the compartment. She was learning not to be as painfully shy, but it was hard to be crammed for several days into a railway compartment with strangers, even if she spoke their language. She was fluent in French, of course, as it was the language of diplomacy, and she knew some German and Hungarian, for the need to understand those of the Austro-Hungarian Empire; and she had been learning some Polish for when she joined her parents. She wished she could have joined them instead of having another year of schooling.  But there were ticklish negotiations to be made after the total breakup of the Russian empire, and the springing up of many small countries, some little more than brigand principalities. It was why she was to go to school on the Transcarpathian Express,  there had been some trouble with some of these brigand princes, and the rebellious Krasnytsyans, who wanted independence from Svardovia. The airships had been attacked by such people, and the service was temporarily suspended.

And then the train was on its way, a faint lurch, and the feeling of movement, scarcely perceptible at first, as the sleek engine picked up each carriage. Day was fading, and the train would roar through the night, and they would wake up in Vienna, seven hundred miles away, having stopped briefly in Prague, where the train would wait long enough for those who wanted to eat in a restaurant for dinner, or send out for meals to be brought to them, using menus and the train’s radio-telegraphy service.  Sofie was happy to go to the train’s own first class restaurant car, behind the carriage in which she rode, where her father had bespoken early dinner for her.

The dish was one she had encountered before in Germany, Rouladen, pickles and bacon tied in parcels of thinly cut beef, with gravy, potatoes, dumplings, and cabbage. An ambassador’s daughter was rarely able to be picky about her food, but this one was easy enough to eat. It did not owe its origins to any particular German region, and was served all over as a meal which was not unfamiliar. The native Germans on the train, who considered the midday to be the proper place for a main meal, were eating cold buffet food, but Sofie had been used to an evening meal in France. Doubtless the morrow would see a choice for breakfast of the European perennial favourite of rolls with cheese, or honey, perhaps French pain au chocolat, and Sofie’s own choice, a full German breakfast of the choice of Kartoffelpuffen, pancakes of potato, flour, and egg, or Bratkartoffeln, hashed potatoes with bits of bacon and onion, either one served with egg and bacon, and followed by warm white rolls with jam or honey. If she was lucky, there might be apple pancakes as well.

Sofie was a healthy eater, and did not have to watch her weight, being an active girl who was also growing more or less permanently still.

 

Sophie had returned to her cabin and was about to get undressed when there was a discreet knock on the door.

“Who is it, please?” she asked.

“I am an equerry of her Serene Highness, Princess Victorina,” said a soft voice in accented English.

“A moment,” said Sophie. She picked up the little pistol her father had taught her to shoot, and dropped it in her pocket; and after a moment’s thought, added the extra ammunition. The person might, after all, be lying. She opened the door. “I was about to go to bed,” she said.

“Her highness wishes to speak to you; it is imperative,” said the equerry.

“Very well,” said Sophie, trying to look as if princesses wanting to speak to her was an every day occurrence. The equerry looked on her with approval.

“If I may say so, you have a most excellent manner about you,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Sophie, inclining her head.

 

The princess’s carriage was every bit as opulent as it had seemed from Sophie’s glance through the window, with velvet, gilded wood, and an illusion of space in the first of the two special carriages. The Transcarpathian express ran on a track of some seven feet wide, like the old Great Western tracks of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, permitting wider carriages in any case, unlike the standard gauge in Western Europe of four feet eight and a half inches, which mimicked the average width of the tracks of horse-drawn carriages.  The princess sat on a love seat upholstered in soft blue velvet, as if it were a throne, a vivid, flame-like creature in a cocoon of gentle luxury. Sophie curtsied.

“Oh, good, you can curtsey like a lady, not a schoolgirl,” said Victorina. “Darling! Miss Harmon, or may I call you Sophie? I had Boris – Baron Slabynyski, you know – find out all about you, once I saw you, and now I see you close to, you are even more perfect.”

“I am?” asked Sophie. “Perfect for what?”

“For me,” said Victorina. “You are going to take my place.”

Sophie frowned.

“You seem to be assuming that I am prepared to do so,” she said, a touch of ice in her voice. Edward Harmon always maintained that his daughter, like his wife, could be led, but not driven.

Victorina looked taken aback.

“But do you not want to be me for a few days? Where is your English spirit sportive?”

“My sporting spirit has nothing to do with it, your highness,” said Sophie. “But where I come from, we have a habit of good manners, and asking someone to perform a favour, not presuming it.”

A brief, ugly look crossed Victorina’s face, but was controlled so fast, Sophie almost wondered if she had imagined it.

Then the princess gave a tinkling laugh.

“Oh, my enthusiasm carried me away; please say you will do it. I want a brief rest, and to be anonymous for a while. All you will have to do is to smile, and be photographed, and pose; you will do it, for me, won’t you? I am so tired of being stared at.”

“But you are beautiful; everyone will see it is not you.”

“Child, we could be twins. All you have to do is permit my maid to put on your makeup, and do your hair, and wear my clothes with confidence. Come! Will it not be exciting and an adventure? And in Svardovia, we can swap back again, and what a story you will have to tell at your English school!”

Sophie wavered.

And that was enough, and she was being ushered into the luxurious bed chamber, all in white and gold, with curtains on the bed, and being stripped into a nightgown her mother would have thought indecent, by the helpful maid, whose name was Magda.  Sophie firmly hung onto her own clothes.

“I will need them to change back into, later,” she said to Magda.

“I will fetch you fresh,” said Magda.

Sophie sighed, and slid her pistol and its box of ammunition from her pocket, holding a finger to her lips.

“My papa’s orders,” she said.

Magda nodded. A good girl always obeyed her papa’s orders.

Sophie climbed into the luxurious bed, slid her pistol and ammunition under her pillow, and fell asleep.