by Alexis Hall
“There now,” said Granny Liesl. “All ready to go to the ball.”
I batted away an insistent raven that was trying to lower a powdered wig onto my head. “It isn’t a ball; it’s a train. And we are now even less appropriately dressed to fight a vampire.”
“Oh, Captain.” Ms. Haas extended her arms, allowing a small swarm of spiders to drag a pair of long gloves up her arms. “What is the point of doing battle against dark forces if you can’t look your best while you’re doing it?”
“And,” added the old woman, “if you really think that a gift from a witch does nothing you can’t see it doing, then you are a very stupid little boy.”
I was, needless to say, quite affronted at this, since when people insult me they usually do so less directly, but I refrained from defending myself, if for no other reason than that the lady had a point and I was not entirely certain what power she might hold over me or my companion.
“There’s just one thing missing.” Granny tapped her talons together excitedly. “Two such pretty young creatures can hardly arrive in town in an old woman’s cart.”
She led us outside to a lone yew tree that stood a short way from the cottage. Stretching out a hand, she scratched the trunk, which oozed something that I was certain could not have been blood. Then the tree cracked, bent, and twisted, its bark distending and its branches distorting until it resolved itself into the shape of a dark-hued and ominous carriage, detailed with curling vines and death’s heads. I was about to ask what manner of creature would pull it but then realised that I under no circumstances wanted to know the answer.
The door swung silently open and Ms. Haas entered without hesitation. And, first making certain to reassure myself that my clothes still housed my pistol and its ammunition, I followed her.
“Goodbye, dearies,” called out Granny, as the carriage began to pull away under some mysterious power of its own. “And take heed, Shaharazad. My other gifts are yours to keep, but the potion will wear off at the stroke of midnight. And it wouldn’t kill you to write occasionally.”
Ms. Haas carefully leaned out of the window, her jackdaw flapping to keep its balance. “I thought you were dead. Also I hated you.”
“You always were an ungrateful girl.”
“And you were always a grasping, covetous, manipulative, iron-hearted . . .” My companion continued to hurl an increasingly inventive stream of pejoratives at Granny Liesl until she vanished out of sight. At which juncture she pulled her head back into the carriage, adjusted her gown, and said in quite a different tone, “You know, I did miss the dear old thing in a way.”
I blinked. “She was flagrantly a monster.”
“Aren’t we all, Mr. Wyndham? Aren’t we all?”
Then she settled back in her seat and closed her eyes contentedly. The jackdaw continued to stare at me in a manner I continued to find disturbing.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Vedunia
After some minutes, the carriage emerged onto the road and set a course that I fervently hoped would take us down the valley towards Vedunia. We would not, on this occasion, have a great deal of time in which to explore the many sites of historical and cultural interest that fine city has to offer. Readers who are interested in visiting Vedunia themselves may wish to purchase Ms. Zheng’s excellent Southern Aurwald and Nivale, including Guienne and Lothringar, which, like all of the Zheng Guides, is a gold mine of practical advice for the commercial traveller.
For the purposes of this narrative, you need know only that it is a picturesque city of cobbled streets and golden spires with a spectacular cathedral in the architecturally lavish style of the Insular Church. It is renowned for its contributions to the worlds of patisserie and music, although its civic character took a turn for the melancholy after the strange and tragic fate of Crown Prince Florian, who, on his seventeenth birthday, ate of a poisoned apple and fell at once into a deathlike slumber from which he has yet to stir. This unfortunate sequence of events has led to the rather peculiar local tradition of Kissing the Prince, popular amongst natives and tourists alike. Prince Florian’s body lies in state in a glass coffin before the palace, where legend holds he may be awakened by a kiss from his true love. It is considered both good luck and a mark of respect for visitors to attempt to arouse the prince, although to date none have been successful. A fascinating peculiarity of Prince Florian’s unusual condition is that, since he has not technically died, he remains crown prince of Nivale and, given that the enchantment under which he slumbers seems to have preserved his body from either age or decay, it is like that he will remain so in perpetuity. The consequence of this is that the Kaiserin of the Hundred Kingdoms now rules Nivale as queen regent, amongst her other titles.
It was late afternoon by the time we arrived in the city proper. And, while I was eager to start out at once in pursuit of Miss Viola and Miss Beck, my companion insisted that we had little to no hope of locating them by simply roaming the streets. The Austral Express included ample time for its passengers to experience the locations in which it stopped; we could be certain that the two ladies were currently loose in Vedunia but equally certain that they would return to the station in the evening, which would undoubtedly be the most efficacious way to intercept them. Therefore, Ms. Haas concluded with the triumphant air of one declaring mate in five moves, we had nothing to lose by going to dinner.
Thus, we repaired to a tiny restaurant in a somewhat obscure part of town, whose owner Ms. Haas had assisted with a matter of considerable personal delicacy some twenty-five years earlier. This left us somewhat overdressed for our environs, although, in truth, I felt far more comfortable with stripped wooden tables and rough benches than I did with my crushed velvet and silk hose. We dined on a local dish of thinly sliced veal coated in breadcrumbs, which, in the moment, seemed quite the finest meal I had ever taken, a reaction which may have owed something to my having subsisted on dried fruit and bottled water since leaving Khelathra-Ven some two days past. Ms. Haas ordered dessert before I had the chance to intervene.
“Are you honestly telling me,” she said, when I questioned the necessity of the indulgence, “that your god took time out of its mighty works and divine labours in order to specifically prohibit its followers against eating chocolate desserts?”
“Oh yes, there are large sections of scripture devoted to the subject. We call it tort law.”
She stared at me for a while, with her head quizzically cocked. “Was that a deliberate joke, Mr. Wyndham?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”
“Well, since you’ve clearly committed yourself to a path of madcap frivolity, you might as have well have some cake.”
“I’m not sure it’s philosophically supportable to make one lapse excuse another.”
“Were I inclined to take this debate seriously”—she plonked her elbows on the table—“I might advance the argument that if one violates an essentially arbitrary rule and in so doing finds it has precisely no negative consequences for oneself or for others, one might be not only justified but wise to conclude that there can be no harm in doing so again.”
“I do not think,” I replied, “that it is always correct to conclude that a thing which has been done safely once may safely be done with impunity.”
“And that is why my life will always be far more interesting than yours. Now eat the dashed cake, man.”
She did not say “dashed.” I did, however, eat the cake. In truth, I found it rather rich for my tastes and its layers of apricot jam sat especially poorly with my day spent eating nothing but dried fruit on the Clouded Skipper. Nevertheless, the experience taken as a whole was so singular and strangely pleasant, despite the unfortunate circumstances of our visit, that I have been left ever since with a peculiar fondness for that variety of torte, and will seek it out in patisseries on special occasions.
We finished our meal at a pace
I considered rather too leisurely given the urgency of our endeavour and departed shortly before sunset for the train station.
The Austral Express was a majestic blue-and-gold locomotive, every detail of whose design stood as testament to its unique marriage of technology and luxury. Passengers were already returning from their sojourn in Vedunia, some still milling about the platform making the most of the view over the hillside and others boarding the train with the unhurried ease of pleasure travellers. We made enquiries of the guard and were informed that Miss Viola and Miss Beck had not yet returned.
Taking up a position close to their cabin, it was not long before we espied the two ladies approaching, arm in arm. They both seemed relaxed and contented—even Miss Viola, despite the unrelaxing and discontenting circumstances that had led to their present holiday. That she showed no outward sign of the uncertainty she must have been feeling was testimony to either her deep affection for Miss Beck or her tremendous skill as a dissembler.
As they drew closer I realised that Miss Viola could on no account have failed to notice us, Ms. Haas being a recognisable figure even when she did not have a live jackdaw in her hair, and concluded therefore that her resolute failure to acknowledge our presence was a deliberate stratagem.
“Eirene,” bellowed Ms. Haas. “We’ve got some very important news for you.”
Miss Viola’s smile faltered momentarily, and she bent down to whisper something to her fiancée before swiftly crossing the platform towards us. “This better not be one of your games, Shaharazad.”
“Oh, it’s a game, darling. But not mine.”
“You have ten seconds,” Miss Viola snapped, “to stop being gnomic. Or I put a pin in your eye and this time it’s tipped with hagsbane.”
Ms. Haas sighed. “Very well. Your former lover, and I appreciate that doesn’t narrow it down, so your former lover the vampire, and in case that doesn’t narrow it down either, your former lover the vampire Contessa Ilona of Mircalla, is coming here right now to murder your girlfriend.”
“Fiancée,” I interjected.
“Because”—my companion rolled her eyes—“that little detail is so much more important than the erotically frenzied vampire who will be upon us any minute.”
Miss Viola put her gloved fingers momentarily to Ms. Haas’s lips, which had the somewhat unexpected effect of silencing her. “So, she’s the one who wrote the letters?”
“Come now, Eirene, when was life ever that simple?”
“Are you really telling me that two completely different people are independently trying to ruin my life?”
“The question of whether the removal of Miss Beck would detract from your life or enhance it is still very much open to debate.”
“Not to me,” retorted Miss Viola.
Any continued defence she might have intended to make of her intended was interrupted by the sudden appearance at her elbow of the lady in question. “Eirene, what’s going on?”
“This is Mr. Wyndham, who you know, and a friend of his from Khelathra-Ven. They were just leaving.”
“I know it runs contrary to your nature,” sneered Ms. Haas, “but this is one of those few situations in which telling the truth is actually safer than lying.”
Miss Beck’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure who you are, but I don’t think I appreciate the tone you’re taking with my fiancée.”
“I am the sorceress Shaharazad Haas. And I am here to save your life.”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.” Miss Beck did not look at all obliged.
“I’m afraid,” admitted Miss Viola, staring abashedly at the ground, “it’s true . . . You know I haven’t always lived the best kind of life.”
Ms. Haas snorted. “You’re too modest, Eirene. I’d argue that you’ve led the very best kind of life.”
It was at this point that Miss Viola made certain remarks to the effect that Ms. Haas should keep her own counsel, but I shall not reproduce her exact phrasing for the sake of the lady’s modesty.
“You know I don’t care about any of that.” Miss Beck slid a protective arm about Miss Viola’s waist.
“There’s a vampire coming to kill you,” remarked Ms. Haas, wilfully ignoring, as ever, any suggestion that she refrain from comment. “You might start caring quite a lot, quite quickly.”
“What? Why?” In context, I felt Miss Beck’s reaction displayed commendable stoicism.
Ms. Haas opened her mouth to reply, but Miss Viola got in first. “We were lovers, Cora. Many years ago.”
“And you’re just mentioning this now?”
“I didn’t want you to think less of me.”
“It’s a sweet sentiment, but if it gets me killed I’ll be quite hacked off.”
“Oh, Eirene.” Ms. Haas clasped her hands over her heart with surprising sincerity. “She’s delightful. I deeply regret calling her a dreary bourgeois kipper-peddling fart.”
Miss Beck’s generous mouth thinned a little. “I’m so glad I’ve got your blessing, though I’ll have you know there’s good money in kippers. Now can we get back to my being murdered?”
“We need to run, Cora,” said Miss Viola, stepping clear of her fiancée’s embrace and reaching for her hand instead. “I’m sure we can get lost in the city.”
“I’m not sure that’s going to work. I mean, she’s tracked us this far and I don’t want to spend my entire marriage running from an immortal.”
Miss Viola cupped Miss Beck’s face and drew her close. “Trust me, I’ve been doing this my whole life. There’s a time to think about the next ten years and there’s a time to think about the next ten minutes.”
“Well, isn’t this adorable,” purred Ms. Haas. “But, have no fear. I didn’t fly three hundred miles and let a witch destroy my best aeronautical jacket just to watch you get exsanguinated on a railway platform. I have a plan.”
“Is part of the plan,” asked Miss Beck, with the air of someone who has been troubled by something for a while and only just found the right opportunity to mention it, “having a bird on your head?”
“No, darling, that’s just for fun. The plan involves Wyndham and I taking your place aboard the train while you two have a lovely romantic evening by the Verdun and take the first airship back to Khelathra-Ven in the morning.”
“And what if your plan doesn’t work?”
“Then we’ll all be dead. What a silly question.”
They took a little more persuading, but neither Miss Beck nor Miss Viola was able to raise any serious objections to Ms. Haas’s proposed course of action. They surrendered their tickets to us and left the station, arm in arm once more, although no longer painting quite so ideal a picture of carefree young love. Ms. Haas and I, for our part, turned and boarded the Austral Express, there to settle ourselves into our cabin and await the coming of the vampire.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Austral Express
It was perhaps a rather tragic condemnation of my lifestyle that the suite which we had taken over from Miss Viola and Miss Beck was substantially more pleasant than our lodgings at Martyrs Walk. Indeed, it was rather more pleasant than any of my prior residences, save the two terms at university when, owing to a clerical error, I was permitted to reside in one of the sets of rooms normally reserved for the masters. The cabin where we waited was oak panelled and sumptuously upholstered, with a double bed set into an alcove at the back of the room. Obviously, we did not make use of this particular item of furniture, as it would have been both unseemly and strategically unwise. Instead, I settled into a velvet-covered armchair and Ms. Haas, with no regard for the comfort or convenience of her resident jackdaw, stretched out on the sofa. The bird itself finally quit her hair and perched on the complimentary bottle of Avienese sparkling wine that had been set out in readiness for the couple’s return.
We did not have to wait long before there was a hiss of steam a
nd we pulled smoothly away from the station. Under different circumstances it could have been a quite charming experience, there being something almost magical in travelling so comfortably through the darkness that enfolded the valleys and rivers of the Nivalese countryside. But it was hard to enjoy the fairy-tale glimmer of the moonlight across the landscape when you knew that at any moment a night-stalking she-devil could fall upon you from the shadows.
I prepared for this eventuality by reloading my pistol with silver bullets and loosening the cap of the hip flask that contained the water of suspect holiness. Ms. Haas prepared by taking rather too much of the wine, to the chagrin of the jackdaw, which was forced to seek alternate lodgings on a corner shelf holding a variety of decorative objets d’art.
“Ms. Haas,” I remarked as she poured herself a third drink, “should we perhaps be taking steps to secure the points of entry?”
“I agree that would ordinarily be sensible, but any ward I could place would not only rob us of the element of surprise but also reveal at once that we are not Eirene and her fishmonger.”
“But surely we are at a significant disadvantage if we take no measures to limit our enemy’s lines of attack.”
Ms. Haas tossed back her beverage with an alacrity that did not trouble me at the time, but in retrospect I realise was a criminal waste of a fine vintage. “We’re talking about a vampire, not a Marvosi raiding party. However she gets in, which I suspect will be either through the window or door, or percolating through the floor like mist, she will undoubtedly take a moment to savour the end of the hunt.”
“I hope you are correct.”