[Genevieve 01] - Drachenfels

by Jack Yeovil - (ebook by Undead)

  The ravers—the biters, scratchers, kickers, screamers and resisters—got all the attention, while Erzbet sat still and didn’t say anything. Sister Clementine tried to reach her, and took care to spend as much as an hour every day talking to her. She asked unanswered questions, told the woman about herself and brought up general topics. She never had the impression Erzbet heard her, but knew she had to try. Occasionally, she admitted to herself that she talked as much for her benefit as for Erzbet’s. The other sisters were from a very different background, and were too often impatient with her. She felt a kinship with this troubled, silent woman.

  Then, the man came from Crown Prince Oswald. A suave steward with a sealed letter for High Priestess Margaret. Somehow, Sister Clementine was disturbed by the steward’s sleekness. His carriage was black, and had discreet bars fitted on it—incongruous next to the generous upholstery—specifically for this mission. The von Konigswald arms—a three-pointed crown against a spreading oak tree—reminded her of her silly mother’s silly dreams. She didn’t know if her parents had given up searching for her, or simply never cared enough to make the effort in the first place.

  Margaret called her to the chapel, and told her to make Erzbet ready to take a trip. Clementine protested, but a simple look from the high priestess of mercy chilled her blood enough to dissuade her. The steward was with her when she went to see the madwoman in the courtyard. She thought the madwoman took notice of the man, and saw the old fears creeping back. Erzbet clung to her, kissing the silver dove on Sister Clementine’s robe. She tried to soothe her patient, but couldn’t be convincing. The steward stood aside, seeming not impatient, and didn’t say anything. Erzbet had no personal possessions, had no clothes outside the white robe the hospice’s residents all wore. All she had was herself, and now, it seemed, she belonged to another, to the whim of a prince.

  Clementine took the dove-pin from her robe, and gave it to Erzbet. Perhaps it would be a comfort to her. She stroked some semblance of tidiness into the woman’s hair, kissed her forehead and said her goodbyes. The steward helped detach Erzbet’s fingers from Clementine’s robe. That night, the sister of Shallya cried herself to sleep. The next morning, she was surprised and a little ashamed to find her pillow stiff with dried tears. She made her devotions and returned to her duties.

  High Priestess Margaret never told Clementine that in the coach on the road to Altdorf, Erzbet had found uses for the two-inch steel pin on the back of the dove the sister had given the madwoman. She gouged out the steward’s eye and, while he was screaming and floundering in his own blood, jammed the pin into her own throat.

  As the dancer-assassin died, she named her dead for the last time. The steward had never introduced himself, so she had to miss him out. But, as she finally slipped into the darkness where evil things were waiting for her, she remembered to list her last victim.

  “Erzbet Wegener…”

  VII

  Kerreth had proved skilled with more than simple shoe-making. When he had brought Detlef the samples of his other work, he had been promoted to head of the wardrobe department in what was now being called the Von Konigswald Players’ Theatre. He had seamstresses and tanners working under him, and was coming up with impressive designs for the special costumes. His leather suits of armour looked like iron, but weighed a fraction of what they ought to. The battle extras loved wearing them. And, on his own time, he came up with five separate leatherwork masks for Drachenfels. Detlef realized he was lucky to have found the little cobbler in the keep. Otherwise, he would have fainted under the weight of his costume half-way through the first act. At the last estimate, twenty-five per cent of the actresses who had been up for the role of Erzbet had fallen in love with Kerreth, and, after those months in Mundsen Keep, he had been only too happy to oblige them. Detlef felt the barest touch of envy, but ignored it. There was so much to do.

  VIII

  Lilli Nissen made an entrance while Detlef was busy shouting at Breughel about prop swords.

  “Darling!” he screamed, his voice rising a full octave.

  “Dearheart,” she answered. They flew into each other’s arms and kissed noisily. Everyone stood and watched the greatest actor and actress in the Empire play an impromptu love scene.

  “You’re twice as lovely as you were the last time I saw you, Lilli. Your radiance knows no bounds!”

  “And you, my genius, you have written me the greatest part any actress could hope to fill. I kiss each of your supremely talented fingers!”

  Afterwards, Detlef told Breughel, “It’s a good thing that cow is playing a six hundred year-old in this one. It’s the first time she’s ever done anything near her real age.”

  And Lilli shouted at her dresser, “That fat, smug, oily monster! That foulest of worms! That viper-tongued tyrant! Only a personal summons from the grand prince of Ostland would persuade me to step into a room with that pus-oozing vermin, let alone play opposite him in another of his rot-awful shitguts melodramas!”

  IX

  Laszlo Lowenstein met his patron at dead of night in the back room of a supposedly empty house. He did not care who the man was, but often wondered what he hid behind his mask. Lowenstein’s career had had its ups and downs since he was forced to quit Talabheim a few paces ahead of the witch hunters. A man of his talents and his habits was too easy to find, he reflected. He needed friends. Now he was in the Von Konigswald Players, he was protected by his association with the crown prince, even by his work with Detlef Sierck. But still he returned to his old patron, his original patron. Sometimes, years would go by without the man in the mask. Sometimes, they would meet on a daily basis.

  Whenever Lowenstein needed him, the man got in touch. Usually through an intermediary. It had never been the same intermediary twice. Once, it had been a warpstone-altered dwarf, with a cluster of tentacles around his mouth and a jellied-over eye just opening in his forehead. This time, it had been a slender little girl dressed all in green. He would be given an address, and would find the man in the mask waiting for him.

  “Laszlo,” the even, expressionless voice began, “it’s good to see you again. I hear you have been having a run of fortune lately.”

  The actor was tense now—not all his patron’s requests had been pleasant—but sat down. The man in the mask poured him some wine, and he drank. Like all the food and drink his patron had served him, it was excellent, expensive stuff.

  “An indifferent house, don’t you think?”

  He looked at the room. It was undistinguished. Bare plaster, discoloured except where icons had hung. There was a rough table and two chairs, but no other furniture.

  “I do believe it’s due to be accidentally burned down tonight. The fire may spread to the whole street, the whole quarter…”

  His mouth was dry now. He took more wine, and sloshed it around in his mouth. Lowenstein remembered another fire, in Talabheim. And the screams of a family trapped in the upper storeys of a fine house. He remembered the look of blood in the moonlight. It was red, but it seemed quite black.

  “Wouldn’t that be a tragedy, my dear friend, a tragedy?”

  The actor was sweating, imagining expressions on the man’s mask, imagining inflections in his voice. But there was nothing. Lowenstein’s patron might just as well have been a tailor’s dummy brought to life as a real man. He spoke as if he were reading his lines without any effort, just to get the words right.

  “You have won yourself a fine role in the crown prince’s little exercise in vanity, have you not?”

  Lowenstein nodded.

  “The title role?”

  “Yes, but it’s still a supporting part. Detlef Sierck, the playwright, is taking the leading role, the young Prince Oswald.”

  Lowenstein’s patron chuckled, a sound like a machine rasping. “Young Prince Oswald. Yes, how apt. How, thoroughly apt.”

  Lowenstein was conscious of the lateness of the hour. He had to be at the palace early tomorrow, to be fitted by Kerreth the cobbler with his le
ather-iron outfit. He was tired.

  “And you play…?”

  “Drachenfels.”

  The chuckle came again. “Ah yes, the man in the iron mask. That must be uncomfortable, don’t you think? An iron mask?”

  The actor nodded, and the man in the mask laughed outright.

  “What do…?”

  “Come on now, Laszlo, spit it out.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “Why, nothing, my friend. Just to congratulate you, and to remind you of your old attachments. I hope you shan’t forget your friends as you achieve the fame you so richly deserve. No, I hope you shan’t forget…”

  Something small was crying softly in the next room. It bleated like a goat. Lowenstein felt the uncertain stirrings of his old desires. The desires that had led him to his nomadic life, that had made him a wanderer from city to city. Always cities, never towns, villages. He needed a population large enough to hide in. But he needed to hide while putting his face before audiences every night. It was not an easy situation. Without his mysterious patron, he’d have been dead seven times over.

  Lowenstein controlled himself. “I don’t forget.”

  “Good. You’ve enjoyed your wine, I trust?”

  The crying was quite loud now, not like a goat or a lamb at all. Lowenstein knew what awaited him next. He wasn’t as tired as he had thought. He nodded his head to his patron’s question.

  “Excellent. I like a man who enjoys his pleasures. Who relishes the finer things in life. I enjoy rewarding them. Over the years, I’ve greatly enjoyed rewarding you.”

  He got up and opened a door. The room beyond was lit by a single candle. The thing that cried was tied to a cot. On a table beside it were laid out a trayful of shining silver implements such as Kerreth the cobbler might have, or one of the barber surgeons in Ingoldtstrasse. Lowenstein’s palms were slick now, and his nails dug into them. He finished his wine with indecent haste, wiping a trickle from his chin. Trembling, he got up and walked into the other room.

  “Laszlo, your pleasure awaits you…”

  X

  Detlef was discussing sets with Crown Prince Oswald’s architects. The crown prince had managed to arrange for the purchase of the actual fortress of Drachenfels, with the intention of staging the play in its great hall. The advantages were obvious, but so were the drawbacks. Some parts of the castle would have to be restored to their original condition, and others remade as dressing rooms, scenery docks and actors’ quarters. A stage would be built in the great hall. Initially, Detlef was tempted by the idea of having the play take place in real time, with the audience tagging along after the characters as they made their way to the fortress and then penetrated its interior. But the scheme was too reminiscent of The History of Sigmar for Oswald to authorize.

  Besides, while the audience would be few enough in number—only the most important citizens of the Empire would be privileged to attend the performance—they were not likely to be in the first bloom of youth. It would be difficult enough to transport the creaky and antique dignitaries to the fortress by the gently sloping road that had been impassable and daemon-haunted in Oswald’s days, let alone the vertiginous path the adventurers had taken. Even if Detlef’s cast could brave the perils, it would be likely that some high priest or lord chamberlain would take a nasty tumble from the sheer cliffs on top of which the fortress stood.

  This would be the crowning achievement of his career, this single performance. But, all the while, Detlef was planning to prepare a less lavish version of his text more suited to ordinary theatres. He saw no reason why Drachenfels shouldn’t enter the repertoire of every company in the Empire, on the condition that substantial royalties were paid him. He already had Guglielmo putting out feelers for a theatre in Altdorf where the play could have a good run after its much-publicized premiere. There was already much interest, with the involvement of the crown prince doing a good deal to offset Detlef’s bad reputation. Detlef was waiting for a good bid from a house which would let him stage his play by his own lights, and take the central role himself. Currently, he favoured Anselmo’s on Breichtstrasse, but the more experimental Temple of Drama was running a close second. Anselmo’s was just a bit too wrapped up in regurgitating two-hundred-year-old productions of Tarradasch’s lesser works for the burghers and merchants who came to Altdorf and felt they had to snore through a play while in the city.

  Detlef glanced over the architects’ sketches, and put his initials to them. He was satisfied with their suggestions, although he would have to go himself to Castle Drachenfels before making any final decisions. After all, it should be safe now. The Great Enchanter had been dead for twenty-five years.

  “Detlef, Detlef, a problem…”

  It was Vargr Breughel, waddling into Detlef’s chambers with his usual perpetual expression of anxiety. It was always a problem. The whole art of drama was nothing but a succession of problems solved, ignored or avoided.

  “What now?” Detlef sighed.

  “It’s the role of Menesh…”

  “I thought I’d told you to settle with Gesualdo. I trust you in matters dwarfish, you know. You ought to be an expert.”

  Breughel shifted on his feet. He was not a true dwarf, but the stunted offspring of human parents. Detlef wondered if his trusted lieutenant didn’t have a touch of the warpstone in his nature. A lot of people in the theatrical profession had an iota or two of Chaos in their make-up. Detlef himself had had an extra little toe on his left foot which his lamented father had personally amputated.

  “There’s been some controversy over your selection of the Tilean jester for the part,” said Breughel, waving a long curl of paper covered in blotty signatures. “Word got out, and some of the dwarfs of Altdorf are presenting this petition. They’re protesting against the representation of all dwarfs on the stage as comic relief. Menesh was a great hero to the dwarfs.”

  “And what about Ueli the Traitor? Is he a great hero to the dwarfs?”

  “Ueli wasn’t a real dwarf, as you well know.”

  “He’s also not likely to be the source of much comic relief, is he? I can’t think of many stab-in-the-back gags.”

  Breughel looked exasperated. “We can’t afford to upset the dwarfs, Detlef. Too many of them work in the theatre. You don’t want a scene-shifters’ strike. Personally, I hate the smug bastards. Do you know what it’s like being turned out of taverns for being a dwarf when you aren’t one, and then being turned out of dwarf taverns for not being a real dwarf?”

  “I’m sorry, my friend. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Breughel calmed down a little. Detlef looked at the illegible petition.

  “Just tell them I promise not to make any unwarranted fun of Menesh. Look, here, I’m making some cuts…”

  Detlef tore up some already discarded pages. Accidentally, the petition was among them.

  “There, no more ‘short’ jokes. Satisfied?”

  “Well, there’s another objection to Gesualdo.”

  Detlef thumped his desk. “What now? Don’t they know that geniuses need peace of mind to create?”

  “It’s the one-armed dwarf actor we saw. He’s insisting he have the role, that he’s the only one who can play the part.”

  “But Menesh only gets his arm torn off at the very end. I admit we could do some clever trickery with a fake limb full of pig’s guts and have a convincing horror scene. But he’d never be able to go through the whole drama without the audience noticing the stiff and inactive hand. Besides, the fool was at least twenty years too old for the part.”

  Breughel snorted. “He would be, Detlef. He’s the real Menesh!”

  XI

  The prisoner was going to make an escape attempt. Anton Veidt could see Erno the burglar tensing himself for the break-away. They were only three streets away from the town house of Lord Liedenbrock, the citizen who had posted reward on the man. Once Veidt dropped his charge off and collected his bounty, Liedenbrock would be free to do whatever he wanted t
o get his property—twenty gold crowns, some jewels belonging to the countess and a gilded icon of Ulric—back. And since the thief had fenced the merchandise in another town and drunk away all the money, Liedenbrock would probably turn his mind towards extracting repayment in fingernails or eyes rather than more common currency. The lord had a reputation for severity. If he hadn’t, he would have hardly employed Veidt.

  The bounty hunter could tell precisely when Erno would make his run for freedom. He saw the alleyway coming a hundred yards away, and knew his man would try to duck into it, hoping to outdistance Veidt and find some willing blacksmith to get the chains off his arms and legs. He must think the old man wouldn’t be able to run after him.

  And, of course, he was right. In his youth, Veidt might have raced after Erno and brought him down with a tackle. But, then again, he would more likely have done exactly what he was going to have to do now.

  “Veidt,” said the burglar, “couldn’t we come to some arrangement…”

  Here was the alley.

  “Couldn’t we…?”

  Erno swung his chains at the bounty hunter. Veidt stepped back, out of range. The burglar pushed aside a fat woman nursing a child. The baby started bawling, and the woman was in Veidt’s way.

  “Get down,” he shouted, drawing his dart pistol.

  The woman was stupid. He had to shove her aside and take aim. The child was squealing like a roasting pig now.

  The alleyway was narrow and straight. Erno couldn’t weave from side to side. He slipped on some garbage, and fell, chains tangling about him. He rose again, and ran, reaching for a low wall. Sharply conscious of the pain in his twice-broken, twice-set wrist, Veidt brought his pistol up and fired.

  The dart took Erno in the back of the neck, lifted him off his feet, and brought him down in a heap of limbs and chains amid the filth of the gutter. Evidently, the alley was used mainly by the inhabitants of the upper storeys of the adjacent houses as a receptacle for their wastes. The stones were thickly-grimed, and a smell of dead fish and rotting vegetables hung like a miasma in the air.