Free The Empire of Yearning by Oakland Ross Page A

it’s perfectly legal. The boy is the legitimate grandson of an emperor.”
    “A self-proclaimed emperor. Executed by a firing squad.”
    “Sad to say.” Salm-Salm shook his head in a brief show of sympathy for the former ruler, then quickly smiled. “But the child possesses the necessary pedigree. That’s the important thing.”
    “I wonder why you told me none of this before.”
    “Oh, but I did,” said Salm-Salm. “In Veracruz—don’t you remember? I told you that Ángela Peralta had borne a child.”
    “That much, yes. But none of all this. Imperial lineage. Affidavits. The rest.” He paused. “Why not?”
    “Surely it’s obvious,” said the prince. He let his cigarette fall to the floor, where he ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He looked up. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.” He clasped his hands behind his back, rocked on his heels. “But now you do know—and I have a proposal to make.”
    Diego had expected something of the sort. “Yes?” he said.
    It was simple, said the German. Ángela would surrender her son to the emperor and empress. In exchange, Maximilian would pardon Baldemar as well as his new-found
compañeros
, all inmates at the Martinica Prison. Salm-Salm made a gesture of washing his hands. “Finished and done.”
    “Her son for her brother?”
    “Crassly put. But yes.”
    “I take it the Austrian—the emperor, I mean … he has agreed to this?”
    Salm-Salm’s expression darkened a fraction. “Not exactly.”
    “You mean he hasn’t agreed to it?”
    “Not yet. But he must. Without an heir, the empire lacks legitimacy and, without legitimacy, it is nothing.”
    “What of Bazaine?”
    “What of him?”
    “He was furious about the original pardon.”
    “I fail to see how that matters.”
    “Well, he’s bound to be even more opposed to this arrangement.”
    “So he is,” said Salm-Salm. “But Bazaine is not the ruler here.”
    “And you think you can persuade the emperor to accept this bargain—a pardon in exchange for an heir?”
    “I do.” Salm-Salm began to pace about the room again, alternately smoothing his hair and adjusting his frock coat. “In any event, there is no choice.” He stopped. “That reminds me. You received an invitation from His Majesty, I believe—an audience? Two days from now?”
    “Yes. That’s right.” The reason for the invitation remained a mystery, but Diego saw no reason not to acknowledge it.
    “Well, it’s cancelled. Postponed, anyway.”
    “It is? Why?”
    “I spoke out against it.” Salm-Salm shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s true. No reflection on you. It really has to do with the emperor’s secretary. Very ill. They say it’s the yellow fever. Poor man. Anyhow, this is not a good time.”
    He returned to his desk and began to poke through the drawers. In short order, he produced a bottle, half full, of what turned out to be an exquisite French brandy. He also came up with two crystal goblets, both embossed with the monogram
MIM.
    “Maximilianus Imperator Mexici,” he explained once again. He said the same monogram had been emblazoned on almost everything the Austrian owned, all of it newly purchased from the best suppliers in Europe. He uncorked the bottle and began to pour out two glasses, but something made him hesitate.
    “Oh,” he said. “Your hand. The bandages. I forgot.”
    “I’ll manage.” Diego was in need of a drink. He accepted a glass and lifted it gingerly. He studied the liquid, the way the oblique light filtered through it, the colour shifting from bronze to gold. He had already more or less forgotten about the Austrian’s puzzling summons and, now, its abrupt cancellation. He was thinking instead of Salm-Salm’s proposal—Ángela’s son in exchange for Baldemar’s freedom. It was impossible, of course. Only a monster would put any woman in such a position, much less Ángela Peralta. Force her to choose between a brother and a son? It was unthinkable—especially if