[Genevieve 01] - Drachenfels

by Jack Yeovil - (ebook by Undead)

  Detlef proposed a toast “to Rudolf Wegener, king of banditti” and everyone drank. Rudi belched, the turnip taste filling his mouth, and everyone laughed. Felix Hubermann, the master of the company’s music, signed to a few of his players, and instruments were produced. Detlef himself took the shrill rauschpfeife, Hubermann the portative organ, and others the shawms, dulcian, fiddles, lute, curtal, cowhorn, cornett and gamba. The ensemble played, and the singers sang, untrained voices joining with the trained.

  The old songs. “The Miller of Middenheim”, “Myrmidia’s Doleful Lads”, “Gilead the Elf King”, “The Lament of Karak Varn”, “The Goatherd of Appuccini”, “Come Ye Home to Bilbali, Estalian Mariner”, “The Reik is Wide”, “A Bandit Bold”—this over and over, “To Hunt the Manticore”, “Sigmar’s Silver Hammer”, “The Pirate Prince of Sartosa”.

  Then, the older songs, the near-forgotten songs. Menesh croaked an incomprehensible dwarfish ballad of great length, and six women burst into tears at its conclusion. Hubermann played an elven melody rarely heard by humans, let alone played by one, and made everyone wonder whether his ears weren’t just a trifle too pointed and his eyes on the large side.

  After some prompting from Detlef, Genevieve sang the songs of her youth, songs long dead except in her memory. Rudi found himself weeping with her as she sang of cities fallen, battles lost and lovers sundered. Bretonnia has always had a reputation for luxuriating in melancholia. Trickles of red ran down the vampire’s lovely face, and she was unable to continue. There are precious few Bretonnian tales with happy endings.

  Then the fires were piled high again, and the musicians played for dancing. Rudi was unable to stand up, much less dance, but he watched the others at their pleasure. Genevieve capered solemnly with Detlef, a courtly affair with many bowings and curtsies, but the music grew wilder, and dresses flew higher, Jessner took up with Illona Horvathy, the dancer cast as Erzbet, and swung her around in the air, so her skirts brushed perilously close to the fire. Rudi could have been watching his younger self, Illona was a spirited, athletic dancer, and she could perform acrobatic tricks the like of which Rudi had never seen, Jessner, who had taken Rudi into his confidence, assured him that Illona’s imagination and physical stamina were not confined to the vertical brand of dancing. But she missed something of the grace, of the abandon, of the seriousness of the original. He had talked to her, and she was a cheerful girl, pleased to give pleasure. But there was none of Erzbet’s passion. Illona had never taken a life, had never spared a life. She had not lived at the edge of experience the way Erzbet had.

  …and Illona Horvathy wouldn’t end her days in self-murder on the road from a madhouse.

  A hand fell on his shoulder. It was Veidt’s.

  “It’s over, Rudi. We’re over.”

  The bounty hunter was drunk, and his unshaven face was like a sagging skull. But he was right.

  “Yes, over.”

  “But we were here before, eh? Us old men. You and I and the dwarf and the leech girl. We were here when these play-actors were in their cribs. We fought as they’ll never have to fight…”

  Veidt trailed off, the light in his eyes going out, and keeled over sideways. Like all of them, he’d come out of Castle Drachenfels a different man than he had been outside the gates. Rudi regretted that he had not seen the bounty hunter in twenty-five years. They had shared so much, they should have been lifelong friends. The fortress should have brought them together, especially those hours injured in the dark, waiting for Oswald’s return, knowing that the prince would die, and that things with claws and teeth would be coming for them.

  The weight of wine shifted inside Rudi, and he desperately felt the need to piss. He shifted upright and staggered away from Veidt, his head spinning like a child’s top. Jessner loomed before him, saying something he couldn’t make out. The actor clapped him on the back, and sent him stumbling. The musicians were still playing. Illona was dancing alone now.

  He made it into the next room, away from the light and the clamour. After he had relieved himself in a cold fireplace, he turned to make his way back to his place by the fire, to his friends.

  She was in the doorway, between him and the party. He recognized her slim-hipped figure and long dark hair at once. She wore her dancing dress, slit to the thigh on one side and immodestly tight in the bodice.

  “Rudi,” she said to him, and it was twenty-five, thirty years, ago. The days of plunder and glory and adventure.

  “Rudi,” she extended an arm to him, her bracelets jingling.

  He felt the weights falling away from him, and stood up straight. There was no pain in his back now.

  “Rudi,” her voice was soft, yet urgent. Inviting, yet dangerous.

  He lurched towards her, but she stepped aside, into the dark. She went to a door, and he blundered after her, pushing through it.

  They were in a corridor. Rudi was sure this was where they had fought the living gargoyles, but Oswald’s men had cleaned it up, put fresh candles in the sconces, laid down carpeting for the visiting dignitaries.

  Erzbet led him on, into the heart of Drachenfels. In the chamber of the poison feast, a man waited for him. At first, because of the mask, he thought it was the actor, Lowenstein. It wasn’t.

  The man looked up from the table at him. His eyes shone through the slits of his mask. He had cutlery laid out before him, as for a meal. But there were no forks and spoons. Only knives.

  The man picked up a knife. It shone like a white flame in his hand.

  Rudi, cold inside, tried to push himself away, back through the door. But Erzbet stood before it, blocking his escape. He could see her better now. Her low-cut bodice disclosed the great red gash, like a crushed mouth sideways, in her breast.

  She threw her head back, and her hair fell away from her face. He could see that she had no eyes.

  VI

  Lilli Nissen’s favoured method of communicating with her director-writer-co-star was through Nebenzahl, her astrologer. If she was unhappy with a line of dialogue, or the performance of some lesser light of the stage, or the food served in her private rooms, or the noise made by the party she pointedly hadn’t attended, or by the way the sun persisted on rising in the east every single solitary morning, she despatched Nebenzahl to whine at Detlef. Detlef was beginning to feel quite sorry for the poor charlatan who was finding his easy berth so unexpectedly rocky. It was the man’s own fault, Detlef supposed, for not foreseeing in the cards, stars or entrails what a monster his employer would turn out to be.

  The company were in the great hall of Drachenfels, which had been converted into a theatre. Lilli chose to make her entrance over the stage. As usual, she assumed there was no business connected with the play more important than her whim of the moment, and had herself borne in by her chair-carrying giant in the middle of a rehearsal.

  It was an early scene, where Oswald, in the palace at Altdorf, is visited by the projected spirit of the Great Enchanter. They debate in verse the conflict to come, and the major themes of the play are foreshadowed. Detlef was having Vargr Breughel read his own lines, so he could concentrate on Lowenstein’s performance and the lighting effect that would make him seem insubstantial. With the mask, the thin actor seemed a different creature altogether. Genevieve, who was sitting in on the rehearsal, was shuddering—probably reminded nastily of the real Drachenfels—and Detlef took that to be a tribute to Lowenstein’s skills. When he could get perspective on the play, Detlef realized he was in danger of being overshadowed by the villain, and resolved to make his own performance the more masterful. He didn’t mind. While he took pride in his acting, he disdained those stars, of whom Lilli was most definitely one, who surround themselves with the most wooden, untalented supporting actors available in order to make themselves seem better.

  During the journey to the fortress, Lilli had tried to persuade him through Nebenzahl to cast some of her favourite walking statues in the other female roles in Drachenfels and he had kicked the astrologer of
f his wagon. Having written, directed and conceived the play, Detlef felt he could afford to let others shine in it. He planned on taking last billing as an actor in the programme, allowing the weight of his name to be felt as the creator of the piece rather than as one of its interpreters.

  Lowenstein-as-Drachenfels was towering over Breughel, vowing that his reign of evil would continue long after the puny prince’s whited bones lay in forgotten dust, when Lilli made her unscheduled entrance, trailing her entourage. The black giant carried an oversized armchair without complaint. Lilli sat primly in it, like a child being carried by a fond parent. Her crippled dresser limped a few paces behind, bearing a basket of sweetmeats and fruit—part of the star’s “special diet”—and a few other functionaries whose exact purpose Detlef had never divined were also along to lend weight to their mistress’ current gripe.

  Nebenzahl strode up to Detlef, visibly embarrassed, but nerving himself to make the complaint. Lilli snarled imperiously, like a mountain cat with delusions of leonine grandeur, and fixed her flaming eyes on him. He knew it was going to be a bad one. If she chose to air the problem in front of the entire company, it was bound to involve a major row. The other actors on stage and in the audience shifted nervously, expecting a firestorm of holocaust proportions.

  The foppish astrologer stuck out his fist, and opened his fingers. The teeth were in his hand.

  “Lilli Nissen has no need of these, sir.”

  He threw them on the ground. Kerreth had carved them especially, working away at scraps of boar’s-tusk ivory. The wardrobe man was in the hall now, angry at the treatment of his work, but keeping quiet. He obviously had no wish to go back to being a cobbler, let alone a convict, and had correctly gauged the extent of Lilli Nissen’s vindictiveness and influence.

  “So, it’s a toothless hag, you think I am now, Detlef Sierck!” shrieked Lilli, her face reddening. Her slave put her down, and she flew out of her chair, raging across the stage, knocking Breughel and Lowenstein out of her way. Detlef imagined angry eyes peering out from Lowenstein’s mask. Lilli wasn’t winning herself any more admirers this morning.

  And, of course, it was such a stupid thing to bitch about!

  “Lilli, it’s no reflection upon your own teeth that I want you to wear these. It’s the part you play.”

  Lilli rose to the bait. “The part I play! Ah yes, the part I play! And who cast me in such a role, who created such a disgusting travesty of womankind with me in mind, eh?”

  Detlef wondered if Lilli had forgotten that Genevieve was with them. He suspected not. It was plain the women—vampire and vamp—didn’t care for each other.

  “Never in my career have I been asked to play such a part! Were it not for the involvement of my dear, dear friend Prince Oswald, who personally implored me to step in and fill out your petty little cast, I should have rent the manuscript to bits and flung it back into the gutter where it belongs. I’ve played empresses, courtesans, goddesses. Now, you want me to play a dead leech!”

  Being reasonable wasn’t going to help, Detlef knew, but it was the only tactic he could think of.

  “Lilli, our play is a history. You play a vampire because Genevieve was… is… a vampire. After all, she lived this story. You only have to recreate it—”

  “Pah! And is the drama invariably subject to history? Do you mean to tell me you have changed nothing for the sake of emphasis, to show yourself to the best advantage…”

  There were mutterings at the back of the hall now. Nebenzahl was looking distinctly sheepish, patting down his ridiculous wig, self-conscious now he found himself on stage facing an unknown audience beyond the footlights.

  “Of course, but—”

  Lilli was unstoppable. Her bosom heaved as she drew breath and continued, “For an instance, are you not somewhat too old and fat to play my good friend the future elector of Ostland as he was when but a boy?”

  “Lilli, Oswald himself asked me to play him in this drama. Given the choice, I’d probably want—and no reflection upon you, Laszlo—to play Drachenfels.”

  The star flounced towards the lights, and came so far forwards her face was in shadow. The house lights came up.

  “Well, if you’ve rewritten Oswald as an ageing and overweight child prodigy, then you can rewrite Genevieve as something more suited to my personality.”

  “And what, pray, might that be?”

  “An elf!”

  No one laughed. Detlef looked at Genevieve. Her face was unreadable. Lilli’s nostrils flared and unflared. Nebenzahl coughed to break the silence.

  Elven Lilli might once have been, but she inclined rather to the voluptuous these days. Her last husband had referred to her as having “the breasts of a pigeon, the lungs of a bansidhe, the morals of an alleycat and a brain like Black Mountain cheese.”

  Lowenstein laid a hand on Lilli’s shoulder, and spun her round to face him. He was a full foot taller than her, and his built-up Drachenfels boots brought him up on a level with her silent giant.

  Unused to such treatment, she raised a hand to slap the impudent actor, but he caught her wrist, and started whispering to her in a low, urgent, scary voice. Her colour faded, and she looked quite afraid.

  Nobody else said anything. Detlef realized his mouth was hanging open in astonishment, and shut it.

  When Lowenstein had finished his speech, Lilli blustered an apology—an unheard-of thing for her—and backed out, dragging her slave, her minions and astrologer with her. Nebenzahl looked appalled as he was yanked out of the great hall.

  After a moment, there was a spontaneous round of applause. Lowenstein took a bow, and the rehearsal continued.

  VII

  Maximilian stood to attention while the general was speaking. It was late, but the general had awoken him with secret orders. The general told him he must get out of bed, get dressed, and go down to the battlefield, where the fate of the Empire was to be decided. After the Emperor, the general was the most important military leader in the land, and Maximilian always wanted to impress him with his obedience, resourcefulness and courage. The general was the man Maximilian would like to be. Would have liked to have been.

  When the orders were finished and understood, Maximilian saluted and put the general into his top pocket. This was a serious business. These were times of grave danger. Only Maximilian stood between civilization and anarchy, and he was determined to do his best or die.

  The palace was quiet at this time of night. Quieter in the days too, now that Oswald’s theatre friends had gone. Maximilian missed them a little. There had been one dancer who’d been sweet on him, and liked to join in with his battles, making suggestions and asking questions, even though nurse disapproved of her.

  Nurse disapproved of a lot of things.

  In his slippers, Maximilian was almost silent as he proceeded through the corridors and down the stairs. His breath was short, and he was getting a stitch, but the general would want him to continue. He would not let the general down, no matter what. He thought he saw robed figures in the shadows of one passageway, but ignored them. Nothing could keep him from the fray now he was needed.

  The battle room was not locked.

  There were several armies on the table. Goblins, dwarfs, elves and men. And in the centre was a castle, the objective. The Imperial standard was flying from the great tower of the castle. The flag was tattered, but waved proud. The armies were clashing already. The room was filled with the tiny sounds of their weapons clanging together, their cannon popping. When they were hit, the soldiers screamed like shrilling insects. The table-top battlefield was swarming with life. Miniature swords scraped paint from lead faces. The dead were melted in grey pools. Puffs of smoke rose. Battle trumpets sounded like echoes in Maximilian’s head.

  The general had ordered him to hold the castle for the Emperor. He needed a chair to step on before he could reach the table. He put his foot down on the battlefield, crushing a bridge to stickwood, pushing a platoon of wood elf wardancers into the p
ainted stream. He pulled himself up, and stood like a giant on the table. He had to duck to avoid a chandelier as he stepped into the castle. The walls barely came to his ankles, but he was able to stand in the courtyard. The defenders of the castle cheered to have such a champion.

  Moonlight came in through the tall, thin windows. The night battle swept across the table, backwards and forwards. The armies had lost all direction, and were turning upon themselves. Sometimes, all four forces appeared to combine to launch a new onslaught on Maximilian’s castle. Mostly, every single soldier seemed at war with every other. He detected the claws of Chaos in this business. The felt of the hill was torn as charges fell back from the castle walls, and dark wood showed through the scratches.

  The general kept up Maximilian’s morale as a wave of goblins clambered up the hill and breached the walls. Dwarf engineers pushed a war-tower forwards. Cannonballs stung his shins. Still he held the fort, at attention, saluting. The castle was in ruins now, and the armies were attacking him, trying to bring him down. The defence forces were sought out and slaughtered. Maximilian stood alone against the enemies.

  The wounds inflicted on his feet and ankles were fleabites. Bretonnian soldiers poured fire over his slippers, but he stamped it out, and the fires spread back to their ranks. He laughed. The sons of Bretonnia at war always were noted more for viciousness than valour. Then the battle-wizards came forward, and threw their worst spells at him. Frightful fiends swirled about his legs like fish, and he swatted them away with his hands. A three-headed creature with eyes and a maw in its belly flew for Maximilian’s throat, and he caught it. It came apart like cobweb in his hand, and he wiped it away on his jacket.