Chapter 2
Only in death had Topo, the old Duke, taken on any dignity in Frank’s eyes; before he was murdered by his son he had always seemed to be nothing more than a caricature of a planetary duke—either draping his ludicrously fat body in multicolored jewelled robes in order to ride a gaudy float in a parade or to publicly sign some obscure proclamation, or disappearing into the Ducal Palace to indulge himself in his dining room and harem. Rumor had it that even in the harem the old Duke would not permit himself to be seen without a suitable tunic and turban; the more utilitarian of his visits there were said to be conducted in absolute darkness to preserve the dignity of his station.
When Frank’s father had begun doing the old Duke’s portrait two weeks ago, the old painter had jokingly suggested that the Duke pose nude. Frank, who’d been setting up the easel, actually thought for a moment that Topo was going to have his father flung out of the palace. The Duke had managed to swallow his rage, though, and then force a laugh and decline the offer, but it was lucky that Frank’s father had been in the early, blocking-in-with-pencil stage of the portrait, for Topo’s face didn’t lose its redness during that entire session.
Only at one other session had Frank’s father apparently deviated from strictly respectful professionalism; Frank wasn’t sure, for he didn’t understand the bit of dialogue he’d overheard when he returned, more quickly than usual, from a turpentine-fetching errand. On their way home that evening Frank had asked his father about it, but the old painter had just laughed and said he couldn’t discuss it, that it was a state secret. Frank had puzzled over it later. “Sure you don’t want me to make it either all-bird or all-girl?” his father had muttered quietly to the Duke, before either of them had noticed that Frank had returned. “I still could, you know.” The Duke had replied with some remark about a stretched canvas, and then saw Frank and hastily changed the subject.
The session yesterday, which had ended with the murders of Topo and old Rovzar, had begun ordinarily. The guards at the barbican gate had recognized the old painter and his son, and waved the pair on inside with sociably slack slingshots. The wait in front of the palace doors was perhaps a little longer than usual, but they were in the cool shadow of the wall, and the page who took their horse brought them a bucket of chilly beer and two wooden mugs when he returned, and they used the extra time to comb their sweaty hair and stamp some of the road dust off their boots.
At last the doors were unbolted from the inside and swung open by an expressionless guard—Frank thought now that it had not been the usual doorguard—who beckoned them inside and escorted them up the stairs and along the familiar hall to the throne room. The man pulled the doors open for them and stepped back, and Frank, getting a fresh grip on the satchel of painting supplies, followed his father inside.
“Ah, there you are, Rovzar!” boomed Duke Topo from the tall chair of mosaic-inlaid ebony in the center of the room. As usual for these sessions, his bulky person was enclosed in a baggy pair of blue silk trousers and a green velvet coat. Ringlets of hair so shiny as to seem varnished, covered his head and clustered about his shoulders.
“Your Grace,” acknowledged the older Rovzar. Father and son both bowed. The room was lit by tall, open windows in the eastern wall; bookcases hid the other three walls, and a desk and chair were set in one corner. In the middle of the room, facing the throne in which the Duke sat, was a wooden stand supporting a canvas five feet tall and three feet wide. The canvas, which was framed temporarily in plain wood, was the nearly finished portrait of the Duke, done in oils. It presented him dressed and seated as he now was, but it conveyed a dignity and strength, even a touch of sadness, that were lacking in the model.
“You think you’ll finish it this session?” the Duke asked.
“It’s not unlikely,” answered Frank’s father. “But I can’t say for sure, of course.”
“Of course,” nodded the Duke.
Old Rovzar put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Okay, now, Frank,” he said, “you set up the palette and turp and oil while I say hello to the picture.” He crossed to the painting and stood in front of it, staring intently. Frank unbuckled the satchel, set up a small folding table and laid out on it a dozen crumpled paint tubes, then poured linseed oil and turpentine into two metal cups. He unwound a rubber band from a bundle of brushes and set them in another cup. A young page, standing beside the sitting Duke, looked on with great interest.
The doors opened and a slim, pale young man entered. He wore powder blue tights and a matching tunic with ruffles at the throat. A fancy-hilted sword hung at his belt.
“Costa, my boy!” greeted the Duke. “Finished with your piano lesson so soon?”
“I despise pianos,” the prince informed him. “Is he still working on that picture?” He walked over and peered closely at the canvas. “Hmmm,” he grunted, before turning and walking to the window. His attitude implied that this painting wasn’t bad, in a provincial way, but that he’d frequently seen better. Frank remembered the prince’s tantrums after he had been told that he was not to be included in the painting—for a week Costa had sulked, and then in the days since tried to make it clear that he regarded Rovzar as an inferior painter.
Frank’s father was sketching lightly in a background area of the canvas, oblivious to the world. What is it that’s different about young Prince Costa this morning? Frank had wondered. He’s quiet, for one thing; usually he makes himself tiresome with frequent questions and distractions. Frank suppressed a smile as he remembered one day when Costa had brought a drawing pad and pastels and made an attempt to portray the Duke himself, with much squinting and many theatrical gestures. But now he simply stood at the window, staring down into the courtyard.
Frank’s attention was caught by his father’s blocking in of the background. With a few passes of a pencil the artist’s hand had converted a patch of blank canvas into several bookshelves in perfect perspective. He set about defining the shadows with quick cross-hatching.
Suddenly it occurred to Frank what was different about Prince Costa. This was the first time Frank had seen him wearing a sword.
“Where’s my number eight camel hair?” asked old Rovzar, pawing through the brushes. “Right here, Dad,” replied Frank, pointing out the one in question. “Oh, yes.” The painter took the brush, dipped it into the linseed oil, and began mixing a dab of paint.
A loud bang echoed up from the courtyard.
“What was that?” asked the Duke.
Several more bangs rattled the glass in the windows, then there was a series of them like a string of firecrackers going off.
“By God,” said Frank, “I think it’s gunfire." He spoke incredulously, guns and powder being so prohibitively rare and expensive these days. Panicky yells sounded, punctuated by more shots.
“We’re beset!” gasped the Duke. Prince Costa ran out of the room, and the Duke took his place at the window. “Troops!” he shouted. “A hundred Transport soldiers are within the bailey!”
Old Rovzar looked up. “What?” he asked. “I trust my painting won’t be interrupted?”
“Interrupted?” The Duke waved his fists. “The Transports will probably use your canvas to polish their boots!” An explosion shook the palace, and the Duke scrambled back from the window. The pandemonium of shouts, shots and screams was a mounting roar.
The Duke ran bobbing and puffing across the carpeted floor to the desk. He yanked out drawers and began throwing bundles of letters and documents in a pile on the floor. “How did they get in?” he kept whining. “How in the devil’s name did they get in?”