this to its end. So I must turn to others—as I turn to you, Yan!”
Numbly, Yanderman waited for the words he feared. They came.
“Kesford!” the Duke whispered. At once the pale-faced secretary came alert, having to swallow hard as he forced himself to look at his master.
“Kesford, you have the draft with all those legal terms—read it over. Yan, hear what’s said and repeat it. Let me hear you repeat it!” On his couch the Duke tensed as though to—draw himself up, but he was too weak now. Beads of sweat wandered over his forehead and lost themselves among the foul greenness covering his eyes.
Kesford began to recite monotonously, a phrase at a time. “I, Jervis Yanderman, loyal subject of Esberg and of the Grand Duke Paul Manuel Victor Mark, and of his designated heir Victor Gort Fury Mark—”
Tonelessly, as though the Duke were speaking for him, Yanderman echoed each phrase.
“—do receive into my charge command of and authority over all forces of the city Esberg and all goods chattels livestock and other appurtenances whatsoever at this present time in the neighbourhood of the town known as Lagwich adjacent to the so-called barrenland situate—”
Yanderman had to wipe his face at that point. Kesford went on: “And do undertake to direct the said forces in all respects as far as my ability shall allow as my master the Grand Duke may while in life instruct me—”
Yanderman stopped there. He said in a thin voice, “No!”
“What?” Now the Duke did rise up on his couch, his horrible blind head turning to seek the source of Yanderman’s voice.
“Sir, I—I can’t undertake to lead them into the barrenland!”
“You must! You shall !”
Yanderman took an involuntary pace backward. Glancing about him helplessly, he caught the eye of the medic in his green gown standing at the head of the couch. You must. That was the message in the man’s eyes. You’ll kill him if you don’t !
Yanderman hesitated, torn between personal loyalty and his deep-rooted unwillingness to make promises he knew he could not keep. The hesitation was too long.
While he was still forming the lie, the Duke screamed. He fell back on the couch, choking and gasping for air. The words he forced out were barely comprehensible.
“Take him—traitor—Yanderman—lied to me—burn him—nail him at the city gate—curse his name and his family name—burn his house—find me a man of honour—am I the Duke or am I a mud-grubbing peasant—traitor—weakling—!”
The tirade lost itself in a bubbling sound so loathsome it was barely conceivable a human throat could utter it. Yanderman’s heart lurched. Frozen, he watched as the medic picked up from a table beside him a long thin razor-sharp knife.
“I witness—” That was Kesford, clutching his note-board as though it was a plank supporting him in time of shipwreck. “I witness this to be your duty, and affirm the Duke’s command. Sir!”—to Yanderman, turning. “Say the same!”
“I witness this to be your duty and affirm the Dukes command!” Yanderman gulped, and added to the medic, “Is there no hope now?”
“I saw Ampier die,” the medic answered, and plunged the knife home.
Mechanically Yanderman attended to the formalities; Kesford had them stored away in his capacious memory. Send to the town to recall the liberty-men; detail an honour guard for the tent, to stand with arms reversed till the funeral; detail a pyre-party to assemble fuel on a scale fit for a princely corpse; post general orders for funeral drill at dawn, a funeral as soon thereafter as possible because of the risk of keeping the body unburned; carpenters to make a coffin, tailors to make a shroud—which would have to be draped over the remains, not wrapped around them, for the medics forbade it …
An officers’ parade to pay posthumous respects, during which certain incongruous whispers were uttered regarding relief at the end of the Duke’s mad plan, resentment at his
Numbly, Yanderman waited for the words he feared. They came.
“Kesford!” the Duke whispered. At once the pale-faced secretary came alert, having to swallow hard as he forced himself to look at his master.
“Kesford, you have the draft with all those legal terms—read it over. Yan, hear what’s said and repeat it. Let me hear you repeat it!” On his couch the Duke tensed as though to—draw himself up, but he was too weak now. Beads of sweat wandered over his forehead and lost themselves among the foul greenness covering his eyes.
Kesford began to recite monotonously, a phrase at a time. “I, Jervis Yanderman, loyal subject of Esberg and of the Grand Duke Paul Manuel Victor Mark, and of his designated heir Victor Gort Fury Mark—”
Tonelessly, as though the Duke were speaking for him, Yanderman echoed each phrase.
“—do receive into my charge command of and authority over all forces of the city Esberg and all goods chattels livestock and other appurtenances whatsoever at this present time in the neighbourhood of the town known as Lagwich adjacent to the so-called barrenland situate—”
Yanderman had to wipe his face at that point. Kesford went on: “And do undertake to direct the said forces in all respects as far as my ability shall allow as my master the Grand Duke may while in life instruct me—”
Yanderman stopped there. He said in a thin voice, “No!”
“What?” Now the Duke did rise up on his couch, his horrible blind head turning to seek the source of Yanderman’s voice.
“Sir, I—I can’t undertake to lead them into the barrenland!”
“You must! You shall !”
Yanderman took an involuntary pace backward. Glancing about him helplessly, he caught the eye of the medic in his green gown standing at the head of the couch. You must. That was the message in the man’s eyes. You’ll kill him if you don’t !
Yanderman hesitated, torn between personal loyalty and his deep-rooted unwillingness to make promises he knew he could not keep. The hesitation was too long.
While he was still forming the lie, the Duke screamed. He fell back on the couch, choking and gasping for air. The words he forced out were barely comprehensible.
“Take him—traitor—Yanderman—lied to me—burn him—nail him at the city gate—curse his name and his family name—burn his house—find me a man of honour—am I the Duke or am I a mud-grubbing peasant—traitor—weakling—!”
The tirade lost itself in a bubbling sound so loathsome it was barely conceivable a human throat could utter it. Yanderman’s heart lurched. Frozen, he watched as the medic picked up from a table beside him a long thin razor-sharp knife.
“I witness—” That was Kesford, clutching his note-board as though it was a plank supporting him in time of shipwreck. “I witness this to be your duty, and affirm the Duke’s command. Sir!”—to Yanderman, turning. “Say the same!”
“I witness this to be your duty and affirm the Dukes command!” Yanderman gulped, and added to the medic, “Is there no hope now?”
“I saw Ampier die,” the medic answered, and plunged the knife home.
Mechanically Yanderman attended to the formalities; Kesford had them stored away in his capacious memory. Send to the town to recall the liberty-men; detail an honour guard for the tent, to stand with arms reversed till the funeral; detail a pyre-party to assemble fuel on a scale fit for a princely corpse; post general orders for funeral drill at dawn, a funeral as soon thereafter as possible because of the risk of keeping the body unburned; carpenters to make a coffin, tailors to make a shroud—which would have to be draped over the remains, not wrapped around them, for the medics forbade it …
An officers’ parade to pay posthumous respects, during which certain incongruous whispers were uttered regarding relief at the end of the Duke’s mad plan, resentment at his
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