Act One, Part Four

The party broke up soon after that; most of the guests showed every sign of embarrassment at what had happened, and once the king, his face still glowering, made an early exit, the others quickly followed suit. Captain Andreshko escorted West and Gordon back to their suite, which was a good thing; what with all the running around the palace they'd done earlier, they'd have been hard pressed to find the door again on their own.

Once there, the agents invited their young friend inside for a small nightcap. Artie poured, and after a brief toast to old times, Jim asked, "Is she all right?"

Andreshko looked up warily. "She?"

"Your sister."

The young captain studied his glass for a moment. "She… is nervous," he said.

Artie gave a cough, and Andreshko looked up to find both men fixing him with piercing gazes. "Nervous?" Jim echoed.

Andreshko shrugged. "She… she is having, ah, chilly feet, I think the expression is?"

"Cold feet, you mean," Jim corrected, but Artie gave a snicker. "Son, if that's cold feet, then she's got two big blocks of ice at the ends of her legs."

"But you see, she…" Again he looked at the glass in his hands. "You… recall the remark I made on the way to the palace? The particularly indiscreet one?"

"Ah…" Artie frowned at Jim, who suggested, "The one about Anje making a better queen?"

The young officer nodded. "Mireje has been saying that as well recently, with great frequency. Not in front of His Majesty, of course, but to me and to Anje as well. My sister thinks that perhaps she was too hasty in accepting our cousin's proposal, but…" He shrugged and spread his hands. "The fact is that she did accept, and it is too late now to change her mind."

"So she drinks as a way of dealing with it," said Jim gently.

"Dasda."

"And maybe in the hopes that Stepanko will have second thoughts himself about marrying a drunk?"

Andreshko eyed Artemus sharply. "Perhaps…"

Artie sighed. "Well, good luck with that one! If it were going to work, I think it would have worked already."

"Especially before the invitations went out," said Jim. "The king was embarrassed by her behavior tonight, but I think he'd be even more embarrassed to cancel the wedding now."

"That's what I think too," said Andreshko. He downed the rest of his nightcap and set down his glass. "Good evening then, my friends. Until tomorrow."

"And the happy wedding day, yeah," said Artie.

Andreshko paused in the doorway and sighed. "Happy…" he repeated with a shake of his head before drawing the door shut behind him.

…

Whatever the disappointments of the night before, the wedding day dawned bright and festive. When the agents arose and pushed the windows of their suite open to greet the new day, they were greeted in turn by the sounds of music and singing wafting up from the Old Town. And later, as the men finished dressing for breakfast, Jim took note that Artie too was singing, in his case a favorite Stephen Foster tune.

"You're chipper," Jim commented.

Artie beamed. "No call not to be! Whatever else may be going on, we at last have good reason to rest assured that we won't either of us end up under arrest and languishing in a Pterovnian dungeon. A ponderous weight has been lifted from my shoulders, Jim. God's in His heaven, and all's right with the world!" He knotted the bowtie at his throat, smiled and nodded at his reflection in the mirror, then clapped Jim on the shoulder. "Life is beautiful, James my boy!"

There came a knock on the door. Jim opened it to find little Dr Rodin blinking up at them as he polished his pince-nez. "Bonjour, mes amis!" the little Frenchman bubbled. "A wonderful day for a wedding, n'est-ce pas? I am to escort you to the dining hall for breakfast."

However happy Artie, Dr Rodin, and the city of Ljuko at large might have been that morning, the atmosphere within the royal dining hall was subdued at best. Anje slipped from her seat at the table and swept over to the door to greet the new arrivals, each with a kiss upon his check. "Tansha mjana, djenkozí mujo," said the young woman. "That is," she added for Jim's benefit, "good morning, my djenkozí. I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, thank you," Jim replied.

"And you?" asked Artie cordially.

"For my part, yes, quite well. His Majesty, on the other hand…" She cast troubled eyes toward the monarch at the head of the table.

No, King Stepanko certainly didn't look like he'd had a good night's rest. His eyes were bleary and red, and in the expert estimation of both Secret Service agents, the king had apparently made off with — and subsequently emptied — at least one bottle of brandy when he had vacated the party last evening to return to his own royal suite.

"Hung over?" Artie murmured to Anushche, offering her his arm to escort her back to the table.

She nodded, pained sympathy in her eyes as she gazed at her cousin.

Jim glanced around. "Mireje is not here?"

"Not yet, no. Nor is Andreshko," the girl replied. In fact, except for the five of them, the enormous hall was empty.

Quietly the small group moved to the table, choosing seats well away from the king and his obviously pounding head. "Do you have a custom here in Pterovnia," Artie asked, "of the groom not being permitted to see the bride on the day of the wedding?"

Anje stared at him, baffled. "Not see the bride! But how do they exchange their vows then?"

"Artie means that they don't lay eyes on each other until the bride comes down the aisle during the ceremony," Jim explained.

"It's supposed to ward off bad luck," Artie added.

Anje still looked dubious. "What a strange superstition!" she mused softly. "No, no, that is not a Pterovnian way."

"Obviously not," Jim agreed.

Conversation fell away as a small troop of servants entered to silently bear breakfast to the newcomers. One of the group deferentially approached His Majesty to offer some steaming hot coffee; Stepanko's reply was a shake of his head, followed instantly by a heartfelt groan at the effect that modicum of activity had on his aching head.

The hush continued throughout the meal, the other guests not wanting to worsen the king's affliction. They were just finishing when the door opened and Andreshko entered. He glanced around the room, frowned in puzzlement, then approached Anje to kiss her cheek. "Where is Mireje?" he asked softly.

Anje spread her hands with a shake of her head.

"Perhaps I should go up and see if…" he began. But at that moment the door opened once more, admitting Ruvenko Duzko. The majordomo hesitated a moment, bowed politely toward the group at the foot of the table, then squared his shoulders and straightened his tunic before crossing up to the head. "Zartechko dujo…" he said softly.

"Oh, what is it now?" Stepanko grunted, his hand shading his eyes as he took a sip of whatever he was drinking — judging from his refusal at the beginning of the meal, the liquid in his morning's cup was plainly not coffee.

Duzko glanced at the others, then leaned closer to whisper his message into the sovereign's ear.

"What?" Stepanko jerked back in his chair, his eyes nearly popping from his head. "What do you mean, she isn't… No, that isn't possible!"

"Teshnante djo, Zartechko dujo…" said Duzko, murmuring apologies, "but I'm afraid it's the truth. My wife went to awaken the baroness, and she found…"

The king smashed a fist down onto the table top, snarling out a Pterovnian oath. "This cannot be possible!" he proclaimed loudly. He surged to his feet, his face twisting with the agony produced by such sudden activity, as well as by its accompanying loud noises. He then pointed at the other end of the table. "You! My friends, Mr West, Mr Gordon. You are lawmen in your own country and know how to do this sort of thing correctly. Come with me at once!" He stalked from the room, Duzko following close behind him.

Jim and Artie glanced at each other, then turned to the remaining three in the room. "What's going on?"

Anje spread her hands again, a look of bafflement upon her face. "Dreshko? Do you know?"

"Njede — no, I have no idea. But… His Majesty requests your presence, my friends. You must hurry after him."

"Right." The two Americans strode from the dining hall, leaving Anje, Andreshko, and Dr Rodin staring after them.

Rodin pulled off his pince-nez, polished them, and popped them back onto his nose. "Dear me!" he murmured distractedly. "I wonder what could have happened?"

"That is a very good question, Dr Rodin," said Anje.

"And the way to find out the answer is to follow the king, I would say," added Andreshko. "Come!"

Moments later a servant peeped out from the door to the kitchen to find the dining hall empty. "Hey, Luigi!" he called over his shoulder. "I told you, but you wouldn't listen to me. Definitely too much garlic in the omelets!"

…

The king with his abbreviated entourage swept through the halls of the palace and on up the stairs. As they arrived at a certain door, Duzko stepped forward demurely to open it for His Majesty, who strode on inside and glared around darkly. "Now, what is this?" he barked. "What is all this nonsense…"

Duzko's wife Catalina bounded to her feet, a lace handkerchief pressed to her face. Wordlessly she led the way to an interior door and pushed it open, then pointed within.

Jim and Artie followed the king inside, their eyes taking in the room before them. It was a beautifully appointed bedroom, the curtains wafting in the breeze from the open windows. A lavishly decorated white wedding gown stood upon a dressmaker's dummy in one corner, its yards-long train coiled around the mannequin's base.

Catalina, however, was pointing at the bed. The silken sheets of the massive four poster were in a state of great disarray, some of them fallen half off the bed. And on the pillow itself was, of all things, an envelope.

Stepanko glanced back at the government agents, then crossed the room to take up the envelope. He turned it over, studied the seal for a moment, then broke it and drew out the letter from within.

His eyes scanned the writing on the sheet of paper rapidly, then closed as he let out of groan of anguish. He dropped the letter, staggered, and leaned against one of the posts of the bed. "Njede," he whispered. "Njede!"

Jim seized the sovereign's arm and led him to a chair. "Your Majesty," he asked sternly. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Great jumping balls of St Elmo's fire!" came a voice from near the bed.

Jim looked over to see his partner now holding the letter to the king. "Artie, what is it? What does it say?" He held out his hand to take the sheet of parchment.

Artie handed it over willingly enough, then pointed at the lines in neatly written Pterovnian. "It says… well, I'll give you the exact translation later. The gist of the letter is this: Baroness Mireje has been kidnapped!"

From the doorway came a gasp. Anje, having trailed after the royal party up to her cousin's rooms, reeled back against Mireje's brother and collapsed.

End of Act One