Sgt. Golem: Royal Mech Hussar - Books 2 & 3

I stepped through the servants’ entrance and resisted the urge to straighten my uniform. The place was bustling. A long hall led deeper into the lower levels of the mansion. Valets, chambermaids, servers and wait staff of every kind were moving about with hurried purpose. I could hear loud voices and the clash of pans from deeper in, toward the direction where my briefing told me the kitchens were. Several heads turned to look my way as I closed the door behind me.

A tall man in an immaculate uniform frowned. "No, no, no, you can't come in here. You'll have to stay outside." He was only half a head shorter than me as he stepped closer, though much more lightly built. A smaller, more hesitant man in a similar uniform followed him. "No matter how clearly stated it is on the invitations, someone always insists on bringing a golem servant. It's right there on the bottom in clear letters: human staff only.”

Several other staff members had stopped to watch the confrontation. The taller man pointed. "No, back the way you came, out!" He used the loud, slow diction of someone speaking to those they considered stupid. But he didn't turn towards the door. "You have to wait with the cars!" He drew out each word.

"Help… master?" I made each word slow and stereotypically stupid.

The head footman swore something under his breath. "Your master is fine. He doesn't need any help. Out! That's an order!"

I gave the word a slow consideration, like it was something complex that was confusing me.

I didn't need to do much of anything here, except buy time, during which no one from the servants' level was going through the door behind me. Less than a minute would be enough. I just had to buy time for Veronica and Piotr to come in the side door and slip up the stairs without being seen. With the party going on above, no one but the servants was using those stairs. A momentary distraction at this door would be enough.

"O…kay," I said with agonizing slowness. "Where… wait?"

The shorter footman muttered something blasphemous. "Why can't the Frankenstein Company make these things less stupid? My cousin from Kyev said he saw some golems from Germany, and they were like doctors or something, jabbering on about all kinds science stuff. They must give us only the rejects."

The taller footman ignored him. He grabbed my shoulder with a firm but non-offensive grip and nudged me back toward the door. I went along with it slowly as the other guy kept talking. "He said these guys were smarter than anything and sounded just like a human."

I took a moment to fumble with the doorknob before the footman reached past and opened the door. As we stepped into the foyer beyond, I thought I heard footsteps retreating up the stairs, but with the party on the floor above, it was probably my imagination.

Step one complete.

Veronica entered as soon as Piotr got the door open, slipping into the servant quarters. She could hear the commotion Sergeant Golem was causing, giving them their quick window to enter unseen. Piotr closed and secured the door behind them so no one would notice it was amiss. Then they hurried up the narrow, steep staircase to the concealed entrance to the grand ballroom.

Music was playing in the ballroom as a string quartet sawed their way through Tchaikovsky's better works. Veronica winced at an off-note from a violin. They were not up to the standards of the Austrian-trained musicians her father employed. She'd thought the Tzar of all Russia could get himself a decent bunch of players.

Piotr pressed an ear to the concealed door, then shrugged with a "guess we'd better risk it" expression eloquent on his face. She nodded. Piotr cracked the door, peering out, then slipped through. A moment later, Veronica followed. They edged around the crowded room, and Veronica's heart rate eased as she realized they hadn't been noticed.

The room was packed to the gills. This was a small residence compared to the opulent quarters the Tzar was used to. He had apparently crammed his whole court and hangers-on in anyway. The place was already almost unbearably hot.

Veronica and Piotr maneuvered over to stand in front of an open window, through which the last light of the day filtered in. Veronica unfastened the fan dangling from her wrist and raised it in front of her face, concealing her mouth and nose as she looked around the room. There were people here she knew, nobles from the border regions, here to placate the Tzar in hopes he did not turn his army on them, or perhaps to curry favor in the event of a future invasion. She wanted to avoid interacting with them and having to answer difficult questions like what are you doing here? or didn’t I hear you’d eloped with an American pilot?

Are we really here to rescue the murderer who ordered the invasion of Hungary and killed so many of my countrymen and women? Veronica wondered. Some of the girls killed in the attack on the base at Budapest had been -- not friends, but acquaintances. It felt like dishonoring their memory to be here.

"Hurry up," Piotr whispered. "We don't have all night."

"I know," Veronica snapped back as she looked around. "But I don't see the Tzar anywhere. You're going to have to help me figure out how to get to him."

She didn't trust the Russian officer. He had cleaned up, slicking his hair back with pomade and dressing in a fancy gold-buttoned uniform jacket he'd acquired from somewhere, probably with the help of Colonel Mazur. Veronica's own gown had been strategically acquired from town earlier that day. She hadn't asked how. It was a bit too short, and the shoes were too small. Her feet hurt already, adding to her annoyance. It wasn't fair. She'd been given a stupid make-work task while the others had real jobs to do. The Russian girl, Anastasia, was accepted into their group, even though she was the enemy and had done nothing to prove herself, just because she had a working mech and Veronica didn't.

She could feel that loss as she looked around the room, averting her gaze from anyone she recognized as she fought to get her emotions under control. Her severed bond was still an open wound, aching within her. She could feel the energies of the world swirling around her, but she couldn't touch them, not without the istota produced by her Mech. This was why the Red Widow had betrayed, backstabbed, and murdered her way across hundreds of miles of Eastern Europe in a desperate attempt to keep her power. Because without it, you were just another pretty face, another bargaining chip for the men in back rooms to use when they wanted to expand their power. That would not happen to her. Veronica was going to bond another mech. She would see the end of this war. And then, then… her mind fled away.

She wanted to help Hungary. She did. It was her homeland, her people. But they had little need for yet another mech rider, not compared to a countess whose marriage could make alliances. Maybe other girls were content with that fate because they'd been raised to expect it. Until Veronica's powers had emerged, she'd just been another bastard daughter of a powerful man. Not interesting in her own right. After that, she'd been so busy training with mechs and learning to use her power, she hadn't really thought about it. Not until recently when her father had surprised her with the news he was negotiating an alliance for her.

When she was done here, she ought to return to him and accept that fate. But she knew deep down that she would never return to that cage.

"Over there," Piotr whispered, subtly indicating the far side of the room.

Veronica peered through the shifting crowds as the band struck up a waltz. Through the gracefully gyrating couples, she spotted several middle-aged men walking swiftly away. The Tzar was in the center. She'd met the man twice before at diplomatic events. She very much doubted he would remember her, but one never knew with politicians.

He was shorter than the other men with him, and a bit dumpy around the midsection. Unlike the overly aristocratic good looks of his predecessor, Tzar Nicholas, who had been, in Veronica's opinion, a very European-looking man, favoring his royal English grandmother, Tzar Alexander looked Russian, with a hint of the Asiatic around his eyes. She remembered hearing that his grandmother had been a Siberian witch woman, an early mech rider who had married into a military family.

The officers were walking rapidly away, leaving Tzarina Olga and her attendants presiding over the dance. The Tzar and his men disappeared into a room on the far side of the hall. Veronica turned to Piotr.

"Shall we dance?"

He nodded, a grim look in his eye. "Yes."

He gave her a bow, offered his hand, and they spun out onto the dance floor. Veronica allowed Piotr to maneuver them across the room a little at a time, as she kept watch for enemies. That was ridiculous. No one ought to know they were here. Still, she didn't know what form enemies would take anyway. After days of being on alert, she couldn't help seeing every Russian face as a potential threat.

Piotr was a good dancer, though barely taller than Veronica herself. He was studied and measured, not like Frank. It was such a shame she hadn't got a chance to have a dance with Frank back at the ball in Budapest. She was certain he would be a fabulous dancer. Of course, he had a real task to do tonight, like everyone else except her. Even Eva had real work. Veronica had to get her hands on a mech. She was no use to anyone without it, relegated to being sent to parties and relaying messages.

Piotr skillfully ended their dance on the far side of the room. As the music stopped and the couples stepped back, applauding each other and nodding their heads, Veronica raised her fan to her lips again to cover her words.

"Now," she said.

Piotr stepped forward. As they approached the door the Tzar had gone through, a pair of guardsmen stood in front of it, their appearances stiff. The guards looked the pair over and shook their heads.

"Not here. If you wish a place for privacy, try the hall down the stairs."

"I am Commander Piotr Pavlov Magzyon," Piotr said. "I have been called into the meeting with the Tzar."

The guards shook their heads. "The Tzar just said no one was to enter. He did not leave an exception for you or..." The guard's eyes traveled over Veronica. "This woman."

"Come on," Veronica hissed, dragging Piotr away. "We don't want to make them suspicious enough to pay attention to us.”

"The men he was with included Commandant Sergei Pavlenko, right-hand men of Admiral Karpov," Piotr complained. "They could be cloistered in there for hours."

Veronica glanced at the clock. Almost nine already, and the rendezvous was scheduled for ten. She made up her mind. "We're going to have to risk speaking to the Tzarina."

"What?" Alarm flashed across Piotr's face. "Colonel Mazur's negotiations were with the Tzar. We don't even know if the Tzarina is in on this."

"We don't have a choice," Veronica said. "It's either that or the whole mission is wasted."

She set off across the room as a sprightly tune began and the next dance happened.

"Piotr, go over there and ask the senior-most of the Tzarina's attendants to dance. I'll step up and introduce myself while they're still clucking over your audacity."

"This is a bad risk," Piotr said.

"Do you want to get your Tzar out or not? Besides," Veronica said, casting about desperately, "If Anastasia arrives and the Tzar isn't ready and waiting, do you think she'll just take off again and leave?"

He clenched his jaw. "No."

"Then if you wish to keep your Grand Duchess as safe as possible, we must relay the message."

Without another complaint, Piotr set off. Veronica trailed in his wake, nodding and smiling to the nobles around her. Piotr stepped right up to the throne, bowed low to the Tzarina, then turned to her attendants, asking one to dance. The women, middle-aged like the Tzarina, plump and idle, with rings sparkling from every finger—just the sort of gossip-hanging, meddling, useless types Veronica was desperate not to become—tittered and giggled as Piotr set off with one of the number.

Veronica came in from the side, ducking behind a couple of the ladies to approach the Tzarina's throne. "Tzarina Olga," she said.

The Tzarina stiffened and turned, her eyes narrowing. "Who are you, impudent girl?"

"I am Countess Veronica Diennes, here with a message from your sister, Grand Duchess Anastasia."

"My sister?" The Tzarina's face flashed, a combination of fear and something Veronica couldn't read. "And you, you're Hungarian. Are you here to say my sister has been captured?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Veronica assured her. "I met her at the border. She sent me here with a message for you."

"And why should I believe you?"

In answer, Veronica drew a pendant from under her dress, holding it up so the Tzarina could examine the crest. The Tzarina's eyes widened.

"What is it my foolish little sister has to say?"

Veronica wet her lips. This was the tricky part. "You and your husband are guests of Admiral Karpov, yes?"

"Yes?" The Tzarina agreed, snapping just a little. Veronica guessed she was not happy with the situation.

"Are you perhaps dissatisfied with his hospitality in any way?"

"He is a most kind host," the Tzarina replied promptly.

"Well, Anastasia is worried you grow tired of your accommodations here. If you and your husband wish to see about an earlier departure, have him standing on the south balcony at ten o'clock precisely. Anastasia will be there. She will give you the details."

The Tzarina looked as though she wanted to ask more, but Veronica thought she'd been here too long already. She bowed low. "May our two great nations stand as friends once more," she said, and slipped back into the crowd as the waltz finished. A moment later, Piotr joined her.

"We'll have to hope she delivers the message," Veronica said. "Let's get out of here before something worse happens."