He was a midget.
He started his second bottle. He was drinking sloppily now. There were stains on his shirt. His skin itched under his clothes, and he wriggled.
He had run away and joined a travelling circus, become a clown. Soon, he was running his own circus—although he had full-sized men to deal with people—and branching out into the theatre. There had been true dwarf clowns working in his circus, but they had not accepted him as one of their own. Behind his back or to his face, they called him a freak, and a warped monstrosity.
Which is what he was.
He had no wife, no mistresses, and bathed in private. His body was a secret, and he kept it well. But he examined himself daily for new changes. Often, there were two or three a month. And with the changes, came new abilities, new senses. The tubers under his arms, held together by bat-like webbing, could tune in to people’s emotions. He always knew how others felt, to what degree they were disgusted by him. So far his face had not been affected, but he had had to wear gloves for some years now, to cover the eyes in the palms of his hands. The eyes that could see sounds.
He was a midget. He was also an altered and a freak.
There was a new word for what he was. He had heard scholars use it, first of plants cultivated unnaturally, then of two-headed calves, wall-eyed dogs and the like. And now of humans affected by the warpstone, progressing beyond their flesh, becoming creatures of Chaos.
Vargr Breughel was a mutant.
XI
Karl-Franz I, of the House of the Second Wilhelm, Protector of the Empire, Defier of the Dark, Emperor Himself and the Son of Emperors, had come calling on the palace of von Konigswald. The foyer table was piled high with black-edged condolence cards delivered by messenger, but Karl-Franz laid his down in person. He brushed aside the stewards and guards, and walked briskly through the palace, in search of the new elector.
Others would have visited Oswald. The grand theogonist of the cult of Sigmar and the high priest of the cult of Ulric would have endeavoured to be polite to each other throughout the lying-in-state of the old elector, Maximilian.
Representatives of the city-states and the electoral provinces, emissaries from the major temples of Altdorf and the Halfling Moot would have called with messages of sympathy.
Karl-Franz came alone, without the usual pomp that accompanied his every move, and saw Oswald man to man. There were few others in the land who could warrant such treatment.
The Emperor found Oswald in Maximilian’s study—Oswald’s study, now—going through old papers. Oswald dismissed the secretaries and ordered wine to be brought.
“Your father was a great friend to me when I was a boy, Oswald. In many ways, he meant more to me than my own father. It’s difficult to rule an empire and be the head of a family. As I know too well. Maximilian will be greatly missed.”
“Thank you.” Oswald was still withdrawn, moving as if in a dream.
“And now we must think of the future. Maximilian is buried with honour. You must be confirmed in the crown as soon as possible.”
Oswald shook his head. This must be difficult for him. Karl-Franz remembered the agonizing ceremony that had surrounded his own ascendance to the throne, the days of torture as the electors debated the succession. He had never believed the verdict would be for him. He understood through his own sources that the voting had been eight to four against on the first ballot, and that Maximilian had talked round all but one of the other electors by the end of the session. If he truly ruled, rather than held together a squabbling collection of principalities, then he ruled only on the sufferance of the House of von Konigswald.
“The coronation will be at Castle Drachenfels. After the play. The electors will all be there, and the other dignitaries. We should have no need to reassemble them a few weeks later for another of these stately ordeals.”
“You are right of course, Oswald, but an empire expects due ritual process. Ruling is not enough. One must be seen to rule.”
Oswald looked up at the portrait of his father in his prime. He had a falcon on his hand and stood in the woods, at the forefront of a group. A golden-haired child was by his side. The young Oswald.
“I never noticed before. That youth taking the bird. He’s dressed as a falconer, but…”
Karl-Franz smiled. “Yes, it’s me. I remember those days well. Old Luitpold disapproved. ‘What if the future Emperor should fall from his horse, or lose an eye to an angry bird, or get stuck by a boar?’ He thought the future Emperor should be treasured like a painted egg. Your father understood these things better.”
“Yes. I believe he did.”
“And already I see signs that young Luitpold thinks of you as I thought of your father. Maybe I too try to cosset and smother the future Emperor. I hope I’m not the domestic tyrant old Luitpold was, but I see all the signs around me. Circles come around between our houses.”
It was an impressive painting. Karl-Franz wished he could recall the artist. He must have been one of Maximilian’s hunting friends. He had certainly had a feel for the forests. You could almost hear the wind in the trees, the cries of the birds.
“Soon, we’ll be in the woods again, Oswald. On the road to Drachenfels. There’ll be good hunting along the way. I must confess that when you proposed the trip, I wasn’t sure about it. But I’ve always wanted to see the site of your great victory. And I’m weary of the stifling comforts of palaces and courtiers. It’s been too long since we stalked a stag, or sang the old songs. And I was sorry that your friend Sierck’s History of Sigmar fell apart. Middenland sank a sum of my money in it, you know. I’ve been looking forward to seeing the fellow act. The ladies of my court tell me he’s quite the thing.”
“Yes, Emperor.”
“Emperor and elector, eh? I remember when we were just Karl-Franz and Oswald. There’s one thing I’ve always wondered, though…”
“What, Emperor?”
“When we were young men, when our fathers said you were mad to go up against the Great Enchanter…”
“Yes?”
“Why did you not ask me to come along? I’d have danced for the chance of such an adventure, such a battle.”
ACT FOUR
I
Detlef was not sleeping well. He had retired early, not wishing to be pulled back to the mundane business of the company and the play after having seen what was left of Rudi. Now, he lay awake in bed, wishing, as he had done more than once since this thing began, that he was back in his cell at Mundsen Keep. At least, Szaradat had been someone to hate. And he could see Szaradat, understand his petty nastiness. There weren’t any phantom monks pointing their ghostly fingers in Mundsen Keep, and there weren’t any fat-taking, eyeball-gouging killers either. Indeed, compared to the fortress of Drachenfels, the keep had been a resort. Perhaps Detlef would turn his prison experiences into the subject of a farce, one day, with the wily debtors outwitting the comically dim trusties and the pompous governor being forever humiliated by his charges.
It was no use. He could not think of the comic mask tonight.
Not only might there be a madman among them, prowling the darkened corridors of Castle Drachenfels, but also he was worried that Henrik Kraly, Oswald’s man, was a potential tyrant who would rather risk the lives of everyone in the company than inconvenience the crown prince in any way. Tarradasch had said “a patron is a man who watches you drowning for twenty minutes and, when you finally manage to drag yourself to the shore by your own efforts, burdens you with help.” With the elector of Middenland and The History of Sigmar, and now the crown prince of Ostland and Drachenfels, Detlef appeared to be making a speciality of distinguished backers and doom-haunted productions. He liked Oswald, but he had no illusions about his own importance in the crown prince’s ultimate schemes.
The only comfort he could take was that, apart from Lilli Nissen, the play was coming along startlingly well. If they all lived through it, Drachenfels would make their reputations. Laszlo Lowenstein was a revelation. When
the play transferred to an Altdorf theatre, Detlef would insist that Lowenstein go with the package. After the performance, he would be a leading light of the stage. Next time, Detlef would consider stepping back to write and direct only, and create a real vehicle for the man’s astonishing talents. There, weren’t any good histories of Boris the Incompetent, and Lowenstein might be right for such a tragic figure. There could even be a good story in the assassination of Tsarina Kattarin by her great-great grandson, the Tsarevich Pavel. If only Genevieve Dieudonne could be persuaded to play the Tsarina…
If only Genevieve Dieudonne could be persuaded to play herself. She’d certainly be less of a pain in the fundament than Lilli Nissen.
Detlef was thinking a great deal of the vampire. He guessed from the murder of Rudi that she was in some danger if she remained at the fortress, and he felt an obligation to her. Yet, how could he hope to protect a 660-year-old girl who could crush granite in her bare hands and had already faced the Great Enchanter and survived? Perhaps he would do better to ask her for protection?
And in addition to the unknown murderer, the ghostly monks and whatever daemons might still cling to the stones of Drachenfels, might they not also need protecting from Henrik Kraly?
Detlef wished Oswald were here already. He had bested the perils of this place once. Furthermore, Detlef hoped the crown prince would be interested to find out what Kraly was doing in his name.
When there came a scratching at his door, Detlef clutched the bedclothes to him like a child who has heard one too many ghostly bedtime stories, and his candle fell over. He knew that it was all going to end here, and the ballads would tell of the genius murdered in his bed before his best work could be done.
“It’s me,” hissed a low, female voice.
Guessing he would regret it, he got up and unlocked the door. He had to pull a chair out from under the doorknob.
Genevieve was outside in the corridor. Detlef was at once relieved and excited by her presence.
“Genevieve,” he said, opening wide the door. “It’s late.”
“Not for me.”
“I’m sorry. I was forgetting. Do you ever sleep?”
Genevieve shrugged. “Occasionally. In the mornings, usually. And not in a coffin filled with my native soil. I was born in Parravon, which was civilized enough even then to pave over their beaten earth roads, so that would be a problem.”
“Come in, come in…”
“No, you must come out. There are strange things happening here by night.”
“I know. That’s why I’m staying locked up in my room with a silver throwing knife.”
Genevieve winced, and made a fist of her right hand. He recalled the story of the treachery of Ueli the dwarf.
“Again, I’m sorry. I should have thought.”
She laughed, girlishly. “No, no, I’m past bothering about all that. I’m a creature of the night, so I have to live with those things. Now, get your clothes on and bring a candle. You probably can’t see in the dark as well as I can.”
Her voice was light, flirting, but her eyes were serious. There’s a strange quality to vampire eyes.
“Very well, but I’m bringing my knife.”
“Don’t you trust me?” Her smile showed teeth.
“Genevieve, just now, you and Vargr Breughel are the only people in this place that I do trust.”
He pulled on his trousers and a jacket, and found a pair of slippers which wouldn’t make too much noise on the naked stone floors. He relit his candle, and Genevieve tugged at his sleeve.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re following my nose.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Neither do I. That was a figure of speech. I can feel things, you know. It comes with what I am. There’s a great disturbance in this place. When we came here, it was clear, empty, but something came along with us and has taken up residence. Something old, something evil…”
“The twenty-seventh wagon.”
Genevieve stopped and looked at him, puzzled.
“Remember, we could never get straight the number of wagons in the caravan,” he explained. “There were supposed to be twenty-six, but whenever we weren’t looking, there seemed to be twenty-seven. If what you’re talking about came with us, perhaps it came in that wagon.”
“That could be so. I should have thought of that at the time. I assumed you were just being artistically inept.”
“Thank you very much. It takes a lot of ineptitude to stage a major play, let me tell you. If it weren’t for Breughel, I’d be ploughed under with work. It’s not all writing and play-acting. There are finances and accommodation arrangements, and you have to feed all these people. There’s probably more organization involved than in a military campaign.”
They had ventured into a part of the fortress Detlef didn’t recognize. It was partially in ruins, and the cool night air blew through gaps in the walls. Moonlight flooded in. Oswald’s men had not been here, and there had been no attempt to clean the place up or to make it safe. Detlef realized how little of the structure he had seen, had been given access to.
“It’s near,” Genevieve said, precisely as a gust of wind snuffed his candle. “Very near.”
He put the warm stub in his pocket and relied on the moon. He couldn’t feel, see or smell anything out of the ordinary.
“What precisely are we looking for?”
“It could be anything. But it’s big, it’s disturbed and it’s not friendly.”
“I’m really glad you told me that.”
She looked good at night, with her long, moonlit hair and floor-length white dress. As dead people go, she was a lot prettier than Rudi Wegener. For a moment, he wondered whether he hadn’t been lured to this isolated spot for something more intriguing than a simple exercise in corridor-prowling. His blood ran faster. He had never been bled by a vampire, but he had read the erotic poems of Vladislav Dvorjetski, Tsarina Kattarin’s lover, and understood from them that the experience was quite something.
He put his hands on her waist, and drew close to her, smelling her hair. Then, they heard the chanting.
Genevieve turned her head and put a finger to her mouth, shushing him. She stepped from his half-embrace, and pushed her hair back from her face. Detlef couldn’t tell whether she was baring her teeth consciously or unconsciously. They looked longer and sharper in the moonlight.
The chanting was only just audible, but it had a horrid quality to it. If this were a religious rite, it would be dedicated to one of the gods whose altars Detlef habitually shunned. If this were some magical incantation, it was the work of an outlaw wizard conjuring up something utterly vile.
Slowly, quietly, they crept down the corridor, passing through alternating patches of light and dark. There were doors in the walls, and one—about twenty feet up ahead—was ajar. The chanting came from beyond that door, Detlef was certain. It grew louder as they approached, and he could make out the low pipe music being played under the vocal. Something about the tune turned his stomach. Something that made him fear he had seen his last sunset.
They pressed close to the wall, and edged nearer.
There were lights beyond the door. And people, moving in a confined space.
Detlef had his silver knife out.
They came to the door, and peered through. The slit only afforded a very limited view of what was taking place inside the chamber beyond, but that was enough to make Detlef feel sick again.
In a circle of black candles lay a small figure. A child or a dwarf. It was impossible to tell, because he had been flayed. His exposed musculature glistened red in the candle-light. Shadows danced around him, cast by unseen participants in this grisly scene.
“Menesh,” whispered Genevieve.
Detlef saw that the red thing in the circle had but one arm. As he gazed at the writhing snakes of the dwarf’s intestines, he came to realize that Menesh was still, somehow, alive. He would have vomited then, but there was nothing left
in his stomach to come up. Bones stood out white amid the bloody jelly of the remaining flesh.
Genevieve was straining forward, tensing to leap into the room. Detlef held her back by the shoulders. They would have no chance against as many murderers as he thought joined in the chant. She turned, and took his wrists. He felt again the strength of the vampire, and saw red anger flare and die in her eyes. Then, she too realized they couldn’t afford to barge in and get killed. She nodded her thanks.
Then they heard the clatter of boots. People were coming down the corridor, and they were caught between the two factions.
Lanterns came out of the dark. Halberds scraped the stone ceiling. Six men-at-arms marched, and Kraly stood at their head. He looked disapproving as he saw Detlef and Genevieve. For once, Detlef couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed by the man’s presence. Just now, he looked like the Imperial cavalry turning up in the last act to relieve the castle.
The chanting had risen now to a weird ululation that resounded throughout the passageway. Menesh was screaming in time with the music, and the shadows clustered around him.
“What are you doing here?” snapped Kraly.
“Never mind that,” said Detlef, having to shout now to be heard over the chant. “There’s murder being done in this room.”
“So I gather.” He pushed his helmet back, and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his doublet.
“Kraly, let’s end this thing now.”
The steward considered a moment or two. “Very well.”
Detlef stood back, and let the first pair of Kraly’s bully boys crash through the door, knocking it off its hinges. The heavy wood fell with a gust that extinguished the black candles. The chanting and the music shut off suddenly, and there were cries in the dark. Some of the voices were human. Detlef rushed into the room. As he stepped through the portal, the candle he was holding went out and he found himself in total darkness. He had the feeling of being in a vast, exposed plain under a starless, moonless night sky. He stepped in something soft and wet, and heard a groan that told him what it was. Then, he was buffeted this way and that by heavy bodies. There were screams, and the noise of weapons clashing. He was lifted bodily from the ground and thrown across the room. He collided with someone, and went down, his arm twisted under him. There was a wrenching at his shoulder, and he prayed the bone wasn’t broken. Kraly was barking orders. Someone stepped briefly on his chest, and he tried to stand up, clutching his agonized shoulder.
[Genevieve 01] - Drachenfels Page 14