Weeks ago, when they had arrived at the fortress, he had retraced the steps of their original expedition, searching for the spot where he had lain unconscious while Oswald was killing Drachenfels. He had not been able to find it. One stretch of corridor looked much like another. Now, he paced the route again, reversing their path, pushing for the outside. He passed the great hall, where the play-actors were recreating the death of Drachenfels, then worked his way slowly through the passage where Rudi had been caught in the wooden jaws of the trap. Beyond lay the place of his ordeal, the poison feast chamber, the gargoyle stones, the enchanted door that had killed Stellan, and the outer wall.
His pains had receded in the last few days. Comfortable accommodations and real food will do that to you. He had been lulled by the luxuries, and wilfully ignored the dangers. But now fat old Rudi was gone, and one-armed Menesh, and poor, mad Erzbet. Buried without their eyes. Like him, they should have died here a quarter century ago, but had clung on beyond their time. Veidt intended to cling just a little longer, with just a little more tenacity.
He wandered for hours, longer than he should have, resting for a time in shadowed corners. It was late now. The dress rehearsal would be over, the feast quietening down. This part of the fortress was deserted—shunned, even—and no one stood between Veidt and the safety of the night outside. Rudi had been found here. And the room where Menesh had been skinned was only a few turns of the corridor away.
He was feeling the crab now, feeling it shift inside him. His heart hung like a stone in his chest, and his joints pained him. He was certain he was bleeding inside his clothes. He had to stifle coughing fits lest his noise attract the guards. Or even less welcome presences.
Veidt’s feet dragged, as if he were wading through heavy sludge. And he remembered the gargoyle poison seeping through his veins, turning his flesh to the semblance of stone. Perhaps the sickness had just lain dormant in him all these years, awaiting his return to Drachenfels to strike again?
Wet trickled down his face. He touched his hand to the graze, and found it bleeding. The wound made by the gargoyle’s horn had opened again.
He stumbled, trying to force himself forwards, and fell headlong. His skull rang as it struck the flagstones. In his convulsive grip, his pistol discharged. He heard rather than felt the dart whizz along the floor under him and bury its tip in his thigh. Then, the pain came. He rolled over, and shuffled back until there was a wall behind him. The shaft was bent, but the head was embedded deep in his muscle. He made a fist around the dart and pulled, but it slipped through his fingers and he was holding nothing. He couldn’t get a strong enough hold on the shaft to get it out of his leg.
Tired, he let sleep come…
…then he was awake, alert, the ache in his leg cutting through the fuzziness of his senses.
There were people in the passage with him. His old comrades. There was Erzbet, hanging back, long hair over her face. And Rudi, his loose skin flapping on his skeleton. And Menesh leaking as he held in his guts with a raw hand. There were others. Sieur Jehan with his open neck, Heinroth with his bones on the outside and skin on the inside, a cloud of hanging flesh particles in the rough shape of Stellan the Warlock. And the man in the mask, the man who was not quite Drachenfels, but who would do for the moment, the man who wanted Veidt’s eyes.
He realized he had found the spot at last.
VI
At the emperor’s feast, Genevieve felt she had been seated with the children. While Oswald and Karl-Franz were at the head table, surrounded by the other electors, Genevieve was considered a suitable adornment to the secondary table, which was lorded over by Luitpold, the Emperor’s son. The heir quizzed her excitedly about Drachenfels, but was disappointed to learn she had been unconscious during Oswald’s hand-to-hand combat with the Great Enchanter. Genevieve was stuck next to Baroness Marlene’s spotty daughter Clothilde, whose entire world was boundaried by her wardrobe and her dance card. Clothilde, who was almost eighteen, insisted on treating her like a very young child in order to assert her own adulthood. With some amusement, Genevieve realized that the girl had no idea who, and particularly how old, she was.
She ate sparingly, and drank nothing. Sometimes, she would glut herself simply for the taste, but she didn’t need meat and bread for sustenance and often too much ordinary fare would make her feel constipated and out-of-sorts. She could barely remember eating for the need of it.
Matthias, adviser to the grand theogonist of the cult of Sigmar, nervously asked her if she danced, and she answered rather too emphatically in the negative. He didn’t look up from his plate for the rest of the meal.
She kept glancing at the head table, and observing them. Oswald was quiet, sitting back and looking satisfied. The Countess Emmanuelle was endeavouring to outshine everyone in the room, and Clothilde had already rhapsodized about her twenty-foot train with its embroidered tracing of the Imperial family tree and the intertwining line of von Liebewitz, her necklace of three hundred matched sapphires, and her plunging cloth-of-gold bodice. Genevieve assumed the countess’ tight clothes were padded. No real woman could fill out that much whalebone and silk.
When the dress rehearsal was over, the feast was joined by a select few invited from the company. Detlef entered, with Lilli Nissen uncomfortably on his arm, and the actress was presented to the court. Some of the electors had the decency to blush, and others the indecency to drool in public. Genevieve was amused to see the look of utter hatred that passed between Lilli and the Countess Emmanuelle. Their gowns were a match for tastelessness and discomfort. Lilli could not compete with the house of von Liebewitz with regards to expense, although she wore enough jewellery to drown a witch, but she could certainly expose more pink skin through cut-away panels and mesh leggings. The countess and the actress kissed each other’s cheeks without quite touching lips to skin, and complimented themselves on their youthful appearance, venom dripping from every syllable.
And I’m supposed to be the bloodsucker, Genevieve thought.
“You know,” Genevieve said to Clothilde, who was always forgetting that she was only almost eighteen, “I must be the only woman in this room who never has to lie about my age.”
The girl giggled, nervously. Genevieve realized she was showing her teeth, and closed her lips demurely.
“I know how old you are,” said Luitpold. “It’s in the ballad of Oswald and Genevieve. You’re six hundred and thirty-eight.”
Clothilde choked on her watered wine, quite spoiling her dress.
“That was twenty-five years ago, highness,” Genevieve said.
“Ah, then you must be…”
Luitpold stuck his tongue into his cheek and worked it out in his head, “…six hundred and sixty-three.”
“That’s correct, highness.” She raised her glass in salute, but not to her lips.
The meal was over, and the company stood up. Clothilde got as far away as possible, and Genevieve felt a little sorry for the girl. She reminded her of her sister, Cirielle.
Luitpold was attentive now. “Let’s go and see Daddy. He can’t stand Middenheim and Talabheim. He’ll want to be rescued.”
The future Emperor escorted her to the knot of highly-placed toadies gathered around Karl-Franz. Lilli was doing her best to attract the attention of a tough-looking young man Genevieve believed to be the elector of Sudenland, and not doing terribly well. Countess Emmanuelle was fluttering her eyelashes at Detlef. In the South Lands, Genevieve had seen great black cats being civil to each other over the carcasses of deer and then tearing red flaps from their rivals’ glossy hides. Now, she could almost see the claws sliding from their sheaths as the countess and Lilli purred around each other.
Genevieve did feel like a child in this company. Their interrelationships were so complicated, and the things she could see on the surface of their minds ran so violently counter to the things they said. Still, it was no worse than the court of the First Family of Parravon had been. And she felt better about Karl-Fr
anz than almost any other man of power she had ever met.
Hubermann’s musicians were discreetly admitted, and there was dancing. This was not the joyous abandon there had been at the party for poor Rudi, but a courtly ritual that had changed only slightly since it was taught to her as a girl of Luitpold’s age. It had nothing to do with enjoyment, and everything to do with ceremony and the reassertion of each dancer’s place in the rigid order of the world. In the absence of his wife, Karl-Franz led the dance with the Countess Emmanuelle, looking considerably happier than she as he peered into her cleavage.
Oswald pleaded exhaustion after the journey, and sat at his table. Lilli forced herself on Sudenland, who trampled her feet deliberately and obstinately stayed out of step. Detlef petitioned Genevieve, but she had promised the first pavane to another.
Luitpold was tall for his age, and so they danced well together—the youngest and the oldest in the room. She touched his mind, and sensed his excitement at the occasion. He was looking forward to the play, and to more hunting with his uncle Oswald. In the distance of his life was the Empire and the crown, but he was ignoring them for the moment. She found herself clinging to this ordinary boy in fine clothes, feeling in him a hope for a future she would inevitably have to live to see.
Detlef prised her away from the heir to the Empire, and she realized he was insistent partly because he wished to be with her and partly because he suspected her intentions with regards to Luitpold. Young blood could be so enticing.
They danced together for the rest of the evening. At some point, Oswald slipped away. Genevieve felt his absence less keenly than she felt Detlef’s presence, and they continued in each other’s arms.
Inevitably, the feast had left her aroused, but unsatisfied. Now, she was thirsty. And here was Detlef, hot blood coursing through his veins.
That night, in Genevieve’s chamber, Detlef gave of himself to her. She undid his jerkin and pulled it open, then loosened the drawstrings of his shirt. His hands were in her hair, and his kisses upon her brow. Delicately, with her sharp teeth, she opened a fold in Detlef’s neck, just grazing the major artery, and savoured on her tongue the blood of genius. In his blood was everything he was. As she lapped the welling red, she learned of his past, his future, his secrets, his fears, his ambitions. Then, she fastened upon him like a leech as he responded to her caresses, and gulped greedily, smearing her mouth. The blood was warm and salty in the back of her throat as she took it down.
She forgot Oswald von Konigswald, and clung to Detlef Sierck.
VII
Constant Drachenfels stared at his masked face in the mirror, peering into his own malevolent eyes, relishing the powers he felt rising within him. He flexed his hands, feeling the strength soaked into the bones with seas of blood. He passed his pointed tongue over long teeth. Inside his armour, his body was drenched with sweat from his recent exertions. He was so close to the attainment of his purpose. He needed water, to replenish his fluids. A jug and a goblet stood by the mirror. He pushed his mask off his face…
…and Laszlo Lowenstein poured himself a drink.
“Great, Laz. You were terrific!” That fool Jessner thumped him on the back. “You chilled my blood.”
“Thank you.”
Soon, Lowenstein would have to be polite no more, would bow to no man, neither emperor nor director. He looked at the mask in his hand, and saw his real face.
When Jessner had gone, he worked away at the make-up around his eyes, peeling it off. He renewed the subtle paints he had applied over the discoloration of his face. Tomorrow, he would have no need of deceptions and could show himself as he really was. The changes were mainly under the skin, but soon the new bones would poke through. Soon, he would truly fill the armour of the Great Enchanter. Soon…
Long after everyone had left the dressing rooms, Lowenstein departed. He made his way to the part of the fortress where his patron awaited him. There was more to be carved, and Lowenstein was growing ever more skilled at the task.
The man in the mask stood over a corpse, arms casually folded, unattended by any of his ghosts.
“The bones,” said his patron. “This time, we need the bones.”
Lowenstein’s knives worked quickly. He filleted Anton Veidt expertly, carving away the flesh, and soon had the skeleton unclothed. In the red meat there were stringy lumps of a black stuff he had never seen before, but it parted under the knife like ordinary meat.
“Don’t forget the eyes.”
Two scoops, and the job was done. Lowenstein imagined his patron smiling behind his mask.
“A fine job, Lowenstein. We have it all, nearly. The heart, the flesh, the skin, the vitals, the bones. From the vampire lady, we shall need the blood…”
“And from the grand prince? From the murderer of the Enchanter?”
The man in the mask paused. “From him, Lowenstein… from him, we shall take everything.”
ACT FIVE
I
An hour to curtain-up. There was no feeling in the world like it. Each sensation was amplified a thousandfold. The itches of his love-bites, covered now by the high collar of his Prince Oswald costume, excited him. The air in the dressing rooms was electrically charged. He had sat in his chair, applying his make-up, calming himself, thinking himself into the role. Twenty-five years ago, Prince Oswald had won his greatest victory in the great hall of Castle Drachenfels. Tonight, the battle would be refought, but the triumph would be Detlef Sierck’s.
He was the young Oswald, working up his courage before daring to challenge the Great Enchanter.
He felt his freshly-shaved chin, and played with his moustaches. A bottle of wine stood unopened on the table. Good luck notes were sorted in order of importance. There was even a modest message of well-wishing from the elector of Middenland, who must be praying for Detlef to trip over his sword on his first entrance and split his tights in the love scenes. He glanced over his shoulder, at a hunched shape he’d glimpsed in the mirror. A hunched shape where there should be none.
It was a cloak, carelessly flung. He picked it up, folded it, and put it away. Vargr Breughel’s small chair was empty.
“For you, my friend,” Detlef vowed. “Not for the Emperor, not for Oswald. For you.”
Detlef tried to feel that Breughel was present, but it was useless. There was nothing.
He felt nervous, but good. He knew the six-hour performance was going to be an enormous drain on his resources. He had worried that Genevieve had sapped his energies too much. On the contrary, since her kisses he had felt doubly alive, as if her strength were shared with him. He felt able to bear the weight of his role. He had the reserves to perform lengthy soliloquies, to take part in strenuous and spectacular fight scenes, to clash with the powerful stage presence of Laszlo Lowenstein.
He could even overcome his distaste and make love to Lilli Nissen.
He left his room, and went among his cast. Illona Horvathy was being sick in a bucket. “It’s all right,” she choked between heaves. “I’m always like this. It’s a good sign. Honest.”
Reinhardt Jessner was taking a few practice swings with his sword.
“Careful,” said Detlef, “don’t bend it.”
The actor bowed as best he could in his padded jacket with its false stomach. He saluted his director. “You are right, my prince. Know well that I, Rudi Wegener, king of the bandits, will serve you faithfully. To the death.”
Since Rudi’s death, Jessner had been throwing himself into his role almost as much as Lowenstein, as if trying to bring the old man back to life through the power of impersonation.
Gesualdo was pumping pig’s blood into the bladder in his armpit, whistling as he did so, in defiance of an old superstition. He gave Detlef the thumbs up.
“Nay problem, chief.”
“Where’s Lilli?” Detlef asked Justus.
“No one’s seen her all day. She should be in her dressing room.”
“Any idea whether the elector of Sudenland came through�
�?”
The trickster priest laughed. “Evidently not, Detlef.”
“Good. Maybe the frustration will build up in her. We might see a performance from the monster yet.”
Justus, a gargoyle below his neck, lashed his tail. “We’ve come a long way since Mundsen Keep, eh?”
“That we have. Good luck.”
“Break a leg.”
A piercing scream rang out. Detlef looked at Justus, who looked back in astonishment. There was another scream. It came from Lilli’s dressing room.
“Ulric in heaven, what plagues us now?”
Lilli’s dresser exploded from the room, blood on her hands, screeching insanely.
“Oh gods, she’s killed the bitch!”
Justus held the bowed and bent woman, calming her. Detlef pushed into the dressing room.
Lilli stood in the middle of the room, in her Genevieve dress, a stripe of blood running from her face down her bosom to the floor. She had made fists in the air and was screaming at the top of her considerable voice.
An admirer had sent her a present.
Detlef tried to get through to the hysterical actress. When that failed, he took great delight in slapping her face. She lashed out at him, going for the throat, and he had to get a wrestler’s hold on her.
“I knew I should never have come here. If it weren’t for Oswald, I’d never have worked with you again, you lowest of the loathsome, you vermin-tongued piece of swine-shit, you leech-spawn!”
She collapsed, sobbing, on a divan, and refused to be comforted. Detlef turned to the mess on the floor, and immediately understood what had happened.
It had been like a jack-in-the-box. Once opened, it had flung its contents up at Lilli Nissen. And its contents were only too recognizable. There was a face in there. The eyeless face of Anton Veidt.
[Genevieve 01] - Drachenfels Page 17