Defending the Crown
Harlequin Intrigue
May 2009
On Sale: May 12, 2009
Featuring: Prince Miklos; Judi Marezzi
224 pages ISBN: 0373694032 EAN: 9780373694037 Mass Market Paperback Add to Wish List
Today he would meet his bride. Prince Miklos hurried along
the narrow passageway. If all went well, in three months
they'd be married. Given the political climate of the
Valtrian kingdom, a traditional engagement in the public eye
that lasted a full year wasn't an option. The Royal House of
Kerkay desperately needed the positive publicity and all the
goodwill a royal wedding would bring. They needed it
quickly.
There came that noise again. His attention
focused on his surroundings. He wasn't alone in the
catacombs, the narrow corridors carved into stone that
crisscrossed most of the city and culminated in a jumbled
labyrinth under the Valtrian royal palace. Unease prickled
his skin, a distinguishable sensation from the goose bumps
the cool, damp air gave the prince every time he walked
through here. Which wasn't often. But today his schedule was
tight and he didn't want to waste time on the reporters who
loitered around the palace entrances armed with pointed
questions about the unrest in the south.
The lights
flickered, but that wasn't unusual. The electric system down
here was over fifty years old, currently scheduled for
maintenance. He strode forward without hesitation, his
military boots making a hard sound on the stone that echoed,
mixing with the scrape of other footsteps up
ahead.
Some of the catacombs under the city had been
turned into a tourist attraction, with guided tours twice a
day, but the closed-off section under the palace was guarded
twenty-four seven. He expected a palace guard would pop
around a corner in seconds.
Except that didn't
happen.
Odd. Whoever was down here with him had to
have heard him by now. A guard would have come to see who he
was, would have properly greeted him. The sound of footsteps
grew more faint, definitely not coming closer. Someone in a
hurry. To get away from him?
The lights flickered
again.
And he considered how he hadn't come across a
single guard yet. He picked up speed, but couldn't catch
sight of anyone, the footsteps always just around the next
corner.
"Halt!" he called out, the intonation that of
a military man—he was a Valtrian Army major.
The
palace guard would have recognized his voice and
obeyed.
Instead, the footsteps quickened.
He
took off running toward them, then pulled up short when the
lights went out and he was suddenly enveloped in complete
darkness.
Ambush, his military-trained mind said. He
stole forward slowly, taking care to soften his
steps.
His hand moved to his sidearm, although,
realistically, he didn't expect much more than an
opportunistic tourist who had somehow gotten past a chained
gate. Gotten too far while the guards were doing something
else somewhere else. The catacomb system was vast.
He
stepped to the side and put his back against the wall, ready
for anything. But when the lights flickered on for one
second, he found the corridor empty in front of
him.
And yet his senses told him something was off.
He slipped his gun from its leather holster and hadn't taken
two steps forward when the lights went out again.
He
could be walking into a trap—side tunnels frequently
interrupted the corridor he traveled. He moved forward one
slow meter at a time, preparing for whatever was to come
next, cautioning himself to restraint. A prince beating up a
lost tourist would make for terrible publicity, so he bade
himself not to jump to conclusions and rash actions when he
caught up with whoever was down here. But he kept his gun
out, although he didn't take the safety off, not
yet.
He followed the sound, turned when he had to,
going by feel through twisting corridors in the darkness,
enveloped by damp air and musty smells. Then the footsteps
suddenly died.
He strained to listen, but couldn't
hear anything. He braced his left hand against the wall to
orient himself— the stone in the various passages was cut
with different techniques, as the catacombs had been added
to over the centuries—touched something wet, pulled his hand
back.
In some places the walls were moist. There was
even a small underground stream, but that was at least a
mile from where he was standing.
Could be a water
pipe was leaking somewhere beneath the palace. He would have
to have that investigated.
He moved ahead, but could
no longer pick out any sound beyond the muffled ones he
made. The lights flickered back on again. He immediately
knew where he was and turned the corner toward the palace
entry he'd been headed for. He turned another corner, strode
down another long walkway, then another. And spotted a
guard, at last, by the steel security door.
"Your
Highness." The man snapped his heels together and pulled his
spine ramrod straight, staring ahead.
"Has anyone
come up this way?" he asked.
"None, Your
Highness."
"You're the first guard I've seen since
coming in through the stables." He'd entered the catacombs
through the secret door at the royal stables at the foot of
Palace Hill.
"I'll alert the captain
immediately."
"See that you do. Are the lights
working properly?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"They
keep going off and on down there."
"It'll be seen to.
Is there anything else, Your Highness?" The man's face was
set in stone, but his voice betrayed his nerves. His unit
had been caught derelict in their duties by none other than
a member of the royal family.
And Miklos didn't feel
like going easy on him. He was a military man through and
through who considered his duty sacred. "Tell the captain I
want a full sweep. There might be unauthorized personnel
down there."
If the man was surprised, he didn't show
it. A complete sweep of the catacombs was rarely conducted.
The last time they'd done a full survey was over a decade
ago, for architectural reasons. They were testing the rock
bed for stability before beginning renovations on the East
Wing of the palace. Before his father's death.
He
left the guard behind and walked up the stairs, was greeted
by another guard as he entered the palace proper. He checked
his cell phone when he passed the man. Three unanswered
calls from the chief of security. Cell phones didn't work
down in the catacombs.
He checked the times for the
calls. All in the last ten minutes. Since he was already
late for a meeting, he didn't immediately return them. He
crossed a receiving area and came out by the library, walked
straight through and into the business offices, into the
private meeting room where Chancellor Hansen was waiting for
him.
"Your Highness."
"Chancellor." He nodded,
hating that he was two minutes late. "Go ahead."
"Are
you hurt, Your Highness?" The man was staring at his left
hand.
And when Miklos brought it up, he realized why.
His palm and fingers were stained with blood. He hadn't felt
just groundwater seeping through the stone down in the
catacombs when he'd leaned against the wall.
The full
sweep would tell him what was going on. Miklos would make
sure to check in later with the captain. He turned into the
small bathroom off the office, left the door open as he
pumped soap and thoroughly washed. "I'm fine. I would hear
your report."
The chancellor knew better than to push
with questions, and gave his usual twenty-minute update
instead, leaving ten minutes at the end of their weekly
appointment for questions and answers as he always had. But
when that was over, uncharacteristically, he didn't
immediately take his leave. He was fidgeting, shuffling
papers in his appointment book.
He decidedly
lingered, although he was the type to plow through his
report with the force of a steam engine then be gone,
rushing to the next item on his endless to-do list. He had a
propensity for believing that he single-handedly kept the
kingdom running.
He probably wasn't too far off the
mark.
"Is there anything else?" Miklos
asked.
The chancellor closed his leather-bound folder
softly and looked up with trepidation on his lined face.
"The queen is…" He drew a quick breath. "The queen is…"
Moisture gathered in his eyes under lids that drooped with
age.
"The queen is dying." Miklos said what for most
of the country was still unthinkable. He, himself, hadn't
said it out loud until now, although he and his brothers had
been aware of it for some time, communicating with half
sentences and long looks of regret. "My mother is dying," he
said it now, again.
The chancellor hung his
head.
"Dr. Arynak is requesting
audience?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
But the good
doctor had asked the chancellor to break the news first. At
another time, in a different situation, Miklos would have
smiled at that.
Dr. Arynak never delivered bad news
to any of the members of the royal family. He had an
aversion, more of a phobia, perhaps going back to his
predecessors, some of whom had been beheaded for being the
harbinger of bad news during the less enlightened
centuries.
His evasive techniques, which he took to
the extreme at times, could be annoying. He was an excellent
physician, however.
"I'm so sorry, Your
Highness."
Miklos's heart darkened. The weight that
had been straddling his shoulders for the last couple of
months now slid to settle firmly in his chest. How long?
He wanted to ask, but for that he had to wait for the
doctor's audience.
"I'll see him as soon as we get
back from the airport."
"Yes, Your Highness." But the
chancellor didn't look relieved for being done with
delivering the doctor's message.
"What
else?"
"Have you talked to the chief of
security?"
"Not yet." Miklos's voice picked up some
impatience, which he regretted. But what could be worse than
the queen's impending death? And the country in the worst
turmoil already. He was tired of the political fires they
were fighting at every level of government.
And still
the chancellor wouldn't talk.
"We must leave
momentarily," Miklos reminded him.
"There seems to be
a plot to assassinate the crown prince." The words came in a
rush, with a pained expression on the old man's face. And
anger over the audacity that anyone would want to harm the
royal family. And unease because he was treading on the
security chief's territory by reporting that information
first.
Information that made Miklos's head reel.
"Arpad?"
The man in the catacombs… It had been a man;
the footsteps gave that much away. Probably young. He'd been
fast, and there hadn't been any shuffling. Miklos looked at
his left hand. No trace of the blood remained. His body went
still for a moment when he thought… Alarm and urgency filled
him as he asked, "Where is my brother now?"
"Meeting
with a team of security advisors."
He acknowledged
the brief moment of relief and headed for the door. "Where?
And why am I not there?"
"We have another
appointment."
He stopped in his tracks. How could
that slip his mind even for a moment?
He appreciated
that the chancellor said "We," even though he spoke of a
burden Miklos alone must bear. "I should still go and see my
brother." He glanced back.
"But Your Highness…" The
Chancellor paled. "You must receive her."
He wasn't
in the mood for musts. "I must nothing. Am I not
still a prince?"
"Which is exactly the reason." The
chancellor took a tone he'd employed often during the
princes' childhood, using it for the same argument once
again— duties of royalty.
Which hadn't chafed in a
long time, but they did now, when his mother and brother
needed him, and Miklos had to go on a side trip to receive
some girl he hadn't met in twenty some years, all because
protocol demanded. He almost told the chancellor that
protocol be damned. Then reminded himself that a Kerkay
never shirked any duty of the crown.
In an hour's
time—two at the most—he would be rid of the girl, and he
would be back at the palace. He glanced at his watch. "Where
is the meeting?"
"The Map Room. Shall I come along,
Your Highness?"
"I'll only be a moment." He glanced
at his watch again. "You should probably start getting
ready."
The Map Room was called as such not only
because the floor displayed the map of the world in various
colored granite, but because the shelves housed all the
royal maps that had survived the tumultuous centuries of
Valtria, starting with an outline of the country's hills and
rivers, hand-painted on scraped sheepskin in the tenth
century.
His five brothers looked up as Miklos
entered.
"We weren't expecting you," Arpad, the crown
prince, said with obvious pleasure in his voice, although
Benedek and Lazlo—the twins—looked rather
guilty.
"The chief of security and the rest of the
advisors aren't here yet." Janos stated the obvious. He was
a prominent economist and involved with politics, as well.
His face showed the shadows of sleepless nights.
"And
yet you're all here," Miklos remarked, glancing at the old
leather-bound book Janos had shoved behind his back as
Miklos had entered but now was pulling out again.
Not
the book?
Miklos put a scowl on his face,
regretting that none of his brothers was easily intimidated.
"No," he said with emphasis.
"The times are calling
for—" Lazlo, a brilliant entrepreneur and born gambler,
started to say.
Miklos cut him off. "When were you
going to tell me about this?"
"Tonight." Arpad leaned
against the fifteenth century massive walnut desk. "We
thought you were, er, otherwise engaged?" His right eyebrow
slid up, an amused look on his face.
"Leaving
momentarily," Miklos said with utmost restraint. "You can
put that book away. I'll take care of this with the security
chief. You'll be safe, Arpad, I swear to that."
Arpad
was a colonel in the air force, but he was the crown prince
and could not be part of the kind of foolishness that had
been cooked up, no doubt, by the youngest princes. Arpad was
to be protected.
Miklos was the only other one with
military training among the six brothers. He was the one who
was involved with state and palace security anyway. "The
Brotherhood of the Crown is a legend," he snapped at them.