The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) Read Online Free Page B

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    “Twenty fobs for each of you: now open the doors!” she cried, flinging the coins out the window.

    As they clattered against the road, the guards temporarily forgot all about curses and Blackbeards. Twenty fobs a piece? Enough to die happy in food and drink, with a bit left over for the funeral. Trading wary glances, they stooped down to pick up the coins and waved her through.
    “Say you overpowered us with swords and pistols!” they called after her.
    “And that we resisted heroically!” the other added.
    But Mary was no longer listening. As the coach rumbled under the gates, her thoughts focused on Leopold and if he would take her. If not, she was ruined. She had abandoned her marriage and family in one fell swoop, fleeing the estate with only a few, precious belongings and her servant’s petticoats. Not even the coachman knew her identity; she had given him a letter with special instructions to “take this servant directly to the palace of the Count of Cinquefoil and ask no questions!” Beyond that, she had no plan. She felt that he wanted her to come—he had hinted as much—but she didn’t know how to ask. “Do you want me?” was a simple question. But did anyone actually say it? If he refused now, she would have to return in shame and scandal. Her fiancé would most likely turn his back on her (not the worst part of this equation), and she would be sent to eke out her existence in a nunnery on the distant coasts of Scanda. But it was worth the risk. It was the only way she knew to ask him, and she would risk oblivion itself to learn the answer.
    Once in the courtyard, she slipped out of the coach—giving a brief wave of thanks to the coachman, who refused to acknowledge her (she was a mere servant, after all)—and scanned the palace walls. She knew he lived on one of the highest floors, but how to reach him? From her own experience, servants lived in strict seclusion to a given task and floor; looking suspicious would be as productive as flashing her jewels. How thoughtless she had been! It was one thing to defy her parents and the expectations of society, but quite another to masquerade as the one thing that no amount of money could prepare her for: the life of a servant. What did they do? How did they act? After nineteen years of living among them she had never really seen one. She knew they cleaned things, arranged things, made things…and oh, they also brought things. What could she bring? A chamber pot?
    “You there! Standing about like a halfwit! Come here!” someone shouted.

    Terrified, Mary realized an older, very neatly dressed servant was gesticulating at her. She approached and did her best attempt at servility, which only made the elder servant enraged. The servant shook her a bit and asked her what in the world she was up to.
    “I…just arrived…appointed here by my mistress, Lady Mary Bianca—”
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    “Oh, that’s nice, more deadweight!” the servant snapped. “So now I have to train you, eh? No time for that, there’s terrible business about. The young master, they say he’s taken ill—called for a sorcerer by the name of Hairygrim Redbeard. Sounds like a pirate! Come, come, hasten down to the armory, where the master was recently seen; ask if he needs anything. And then come right back, you hear?”
    Mary took the opportunity for what it was: she traced a jagged path to the armory, dodging the odd servant who glared at her suspiciously. Once there, she crept stealthily past each door, listening for his voice, straining to catch a single clue—a cough, a cry, even a footstep. Where could he be? She advanced down the darkened hallway, feeling the cold stone against her fingers, stone he might have brushed against only moments ago; she was that close.
    “Mary!” a voice cried.
    She started and spun around. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to come from the door at the far side of the hall. Mary took a few tentative steps forward before