“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Largo said.
“Is it about the war?”
“There is no war.”
The waiter held up his tray to block the view of the other diners and whispered, “That’s not what I’ve heard. There’s talk that they’re already fighting along the border in the north.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Here. Bluenoses talk like the staff is deaf. It’s in some of the yellowsheets too.”
“I don’t believe it.”
The waiter lowered his tray to make another point, but a scream cut through the other noise. A fight had broken out and someone pulled the speaker down from the back of the truck. As he disappeared into the mass of bodies, the fighting spread. At the edges of the crowd, people grabbed bottles from trash bins and stole chairs from outside other cafés. The sound of breaking glass and shouts drew an even larger crowd from the nearby streets.
“Should we do something?” said the waiter.
“Such as what? Do you even know which side you’re on?”
The waiter craned his head around for a better look. “I’m not sure.”
“Listen to me,” Largo began, but the sound of a gunshot cut him off. People at the café screamed and threw themselves to the floor.
“Did you hear that?” shouted the waiter.
“Of course, you ass,” shouted Largo, crouching by the table. “Get down here.”
The waiter looked around. “We have to do something. Call the bullocks.”
Just as Largo grabbed the waiter’s sleeve to pull him down, the side of the man’s head exploded. The waiter spun onto the floor as more gunshots echoed off the plaza walls.
Two juggernauts roared to a stop outside. Police in armor and rifle-mounted Maras poured into the melee. Panicked diners ran from the café. Largo followed them and grabbed his bicycle. As he sped out of the plaza, a juggernaut coming from the opposite direction almost ran him down. He turned off the main road and took back streets all the way to the company, thinking, Wouldn’t it be funny if, after worrying about the Nachtvogel murdering me in the dead of night, I died in a fancy café with my face stuffed with cake? Branca would laugh himself sick over that.
Largo bought a copy of Ihre Skandale on the way home and read it that night. Indeed, there was a lurid story on the front page strongly suggesting that there were clashes along the northern border of High Proszawa. However, there were no chromes and so few details of the supposed skirmishes that he had his doubts.
If we really are at war, wouldn’t the government want everyone to know? They’d need soldiers and donations. Secret battles don’t make sense. Or am I missing something? Rainer would know, but how do I get to him without drawing the Nachtvogel in his direction?
When it was dark, Largo got on his bicycle and took a long, looping route from Little Shambles to the city center. He passed through garbage dumps and along dark streets bordered on both sides by bombed-out buildings. Squatters built fires and traded stolen goods in the ruins. He worried about them noticing his new bicycle, but he kept up his speed and in his old, ragged clothes he didn’t draw their attention. I hope my minder isn’t wearing a suit. They’ll find his body in the dump and his clothes parceled out to a dozen or more people.
Largo entered the Great Triumphal Square through Pillengasse, a narrow alley where food vendors dumped their unsold goods. Rats and piglike chimeras feasted on the waste.
Even with all the confusing streets he’d ridden and the sudden turns he’d made, Largo still had the nagging feeling that there were eyes on him. He didn’t dare go straight to Rainer’s yet. Instead, he went into Fräulein Sabel and ordered a whiskey, then huddled in the corner of the bar hoping that no one he knew would see him. He needed time to think.
Half of his whiskey was gone when Largo heard a commotion outside. His first instinct was to crouch down in case there was gunfire. Instead, the noise became rhythmic and steady. People stared out the windows as a torchlight march made its way past the café. From inside, the voices were muffled, but Largo recognized some of the chants as the same patriotic slogans he’d heard that afternoon in Händler. Running outside, he grabbed his bicycle and walked with it into the center of the march. He didn’t know the words so he simply mouthed along with the chants.
A few yards past the entrance to the underground tram station, he ducked and wheeled the bicycle out of the march, turning into a narrow passage between a church and a bank. The passage was too small to even have a name, but it ended on Schimpftestrasse, well beyond the plaza. After checking that no one had followed him, Largo got on his bicycle and rode as quickly as he could to Rainer’s flat. He’d thought of something exciting during the march and only Rainer could tell him if he was a fool or not.
The Walking Wounded
From “A Profile of Gemeiner Schenke: A Man, a Patriot” by Conrad Busch for Der Sonntagspitzel magazine
Iron Dandies stand out the most in the mornings. Groups of them, some large and some small, meet in different parts of Lower Proszawa. They are most easily glimpsed around the humble lodgings the government provides for them as part of their wounded-soldier pension. The more able-bodied will often meet in the Great Triumphal Square. On holidays or the anniversaries of important battles they will march in formation through the square and nearby streets, often picking up donations of food and coins. At other times, ex-sailors can be seen smoking by the docks where they shipped off to battle, while infantrymen will ride the ghost trams out to the cemeteries on the edge of the city and spend the day walking between the narrow rows of headstones. It is a fine way to spend time with old comrades and is good exercise.
Civilians and soldiers who came home from the Great War relatively intact generally assume that all the Iron Dandies are bitter, sullen men. How could they not be, swaddled in their heavy coats and hidden behind steel masks, their faces ruined beyond repair? Indeed, the vast majority of Dandies suffer from sometimes prolonged periods of melancholia, but not all. And even the downhearted experience periods of pleasure. True, some complain that their housing isn’t all it could be, but it’s guaranteed for life and costs virtually nothing. Additionally, they receive their pensions, have their own special hospitals, and ride the trams for free. The more level-headed Dandies understand that in many ways they are better off than those able-bodied soldiers who came home after the war to find only low-wage jobs or no jobs at all. Still, some days are harder for individual Dandies than others.
In the doctor’s office in the Midden, Gemeiner Schenke says, “I’ll admit that I sometimes become glum when people turn away or pretend I’m not there. But those who didn’t fight simply don’t understand that my mask—that all of our masks—are badges of honor. And when I sometimes grow despondent, I have my comrades. We understand each other better than any family member, civilian, or intact soldier ever will. Most of all, I’m grateful for all the government has done for us.”
Schenke enjoys the Mara prosthetics he received free of charge after returning from the war. Both of his arms have been replaced with elegant instruments of wood, steel, and wires, and work almost as well as his old ones. They simply need the occasional plazma recharge to keep functioning. And while some Dandies don’t care for the Midden, Schenke is grateful for it because the waiting list for plazma in the military hospitals can sometimes be long. Plus, as he jokes, he isn’t allowed to smoke or drink in the posh clinics. “But here in the Midden I can do whatever I like. Even bounce a pretty girl on my lap when I have money left from my pension check to pay for one.”
His mind wanders occasionally as he puffs on a small cheroot. The smoke blots out the smell of the ramshackle clinic (which requested its name not be used in this profile), which is simultaneously antiseptic and slightly rank.
Schenke says, “Civilians don’t grasp our situation properly. Things could be much worse for us. In the barracks house, we even have pets. Lovely, fierce little brown chimeras. Kleins, we call them. They’re bred down
from bitva war dogs for civilians. Someday I hope to have one all to myself.”
Schenke listens as the wires recharging his arms quietly crackle. He sometimes wonders how Midden doctors procure plazma, but the source is in the doctor’s back room and it’s forbidden for nonmedical personnel to venture back there. As tempted as he is to peek, Schenke is still a soldier at heart and understands that rules and orders exist for the greater good. And as long as the charges make his arms work, he’s content with the process.
As the session draws to a close, the doctor brings him a glass of whiskey with a straw to drink it from.
“Life is fine,” says Schenke. “More leisure than anything else. It’s good to be home and free, with the enemy sent running.”
When the session is over, Schenke pays the doctor and heads out, his arms as strong and fine as ever, even if they sometimes have a tendency to stick at the joints in cold weather. He takes a tram back home, still wistful about the strange, sometimes frightened looks he can get from other passengers. It’s even worse when his presence makes children cry.
“If that’s the price I have to pay to be a patriot, so be it,” he says.
Never forget, dear reader: Gemeiner Schenke was a soldier, he is a patriot, and he will endure.
Chapter Sixteen
LARGO AND RAINER SAT ON HIS SOFAS SMOKING HASHISH. THEY DROPPED the ashes into the mask he used as a bowl. Rainer was silent as Largo told him about Remy’s disappearance, his arrest, and the Nachtvogel.
“I’m truly sorry about Remy,” said Rainer. “It’s bad enough to lose someone like that, but to be accused of her murder. I can’t imagine how awful it must be.”
“It’s not even awful anymore. I’m numb to it. To most things, really. These last couple of days I’ve felt like I was swimming through a dream.”
Rainer took a puff of the cigarette and passed it to Largo. “What are you going to do now? Working for the Nachtvogel can’t be pleasant.”
Largo held the hashish for a moment without smoking it. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Have you heard the stories about war breaking out in the north?”
“I’ve read the reports in the yellowsheets.”
“And?”
Rainer made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I don’t believe a word of it. Trust me, even if the border fighting started with rifles and juggernauts, the moment either side lost ground they’d bring in artillery and airships, forcing the opposing side to do the same. You’d be able to hear that kind of fighting all over Lower Proszawa.”
Largo said, “Then where do the stories come from? Are the papers simply making them up? If they’re real, why wouldn’t the Chancellor say so?”
Largo handed the hashish back to Rainer, who took a long drag. He thought a moment and said, “After the Great War, only a lunatic would have an appetite for a new war. But if the politicians did want to launch a new campaign, claiming that Proszawa was attacked first would help sway public sympathy.”
“Playing the victim,” said Largo.
“Exactly. It’s an old trick and it often works.”
When Rainer offered Largo the hashish again he shook his head. Rainer pinched off the burning end and put the rest in the upturned mask.
“Let me ask you this,” said Largo. “What if you’re right and have been all along? Let’s say there is no war, but things are still happening to the north. Let’s say that smugglers are regularly running goods from High Proszawa and using slave labor to dig them up.”
“What’s your point?”
Largo put his hands down flat on the table. “What if Remy isn’t dead? And she hasn’t been kidnapped for ransom?”
Rainer blinked. “You think she’s been taken across the bay?”
“You have to admit that it’s a possibility,” said Largo.
Rainer wiped some spit from his lips with a handkerchief. “A vague one at best.”
“I know, but what if I’m right? The bullocks and the Nachtvogel are looking in Lower Proszawa. If she’s north, I might be the only one who can save her.”
Scratching his cheek, Rainer said, “Are you sure you’re not just looking for a way to escape the Nachtvogel? There must be less drastic ways to do that.”
“Trust me, it’s not that.”
“Good, because they don’t forget or forgive. If you ran and ever came back they’d be waiting.”
Largo shivered. It had started raining outside and the flat was close to freezing. Rainer brought Largo a blanket and put more coal in the fireplace.
“What do you think?” said Largo.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, this is a surprising change in your personality. I’ve never seen you this brave or reckless before.”
Largo looked at the cuts on his knuckles, felt the ache in his bruised face. “It’s easy to be brave when there’s nothing left for you to lose.”
“Is that enough reason to give up everything?” said Rainer.
Largo looked at him, afraid of what he’d say. “You think I shouldn’t do it?”
Rainer blew on his hands for warmth. “I didn’t say that. If you’d been in the war I’d feel better about telling you to do it. You’ll be going into plague zones. There are dangerous ruins and unexploded bombs. And if you find the slavers, do you think they’ll simply give you Remy and let you take her home?”
“I don’t know,” said Largo, his mood darkening as the limitations of his idea set in. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Anyway, I have no idea how I’d get there.”
With his finger, Rainer moved the platen on a spirit board an inch or two. “If you’re determined, I might be able to help you,” he said. “My friend who brings in goods from the south knows smugglers who sometimes go north. It turns out that I know some of them from the war. I might be able to persuade one to take you. But he won’t do it for free.”
Largo inched forward on the sofa. “I have some money saved from work. He can have all of it.” His heartbeat raced as Rainer stared at him without speaking.
Finally he said, “You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely.”
Rainer poured them each a shot of whiskey. “Let me reach out and see what I can do.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” said Largo.
Rainer clinked his glass against Largo’s and they both drank. After he wiped his lips, Rainer said, “I have some supplies you’ll need for your trip.” He went into the bedroom and after a few minutes came out with a small bundle, which he dropped on the table. The first thing he handed Largo was the bottle of morphia Largo had given him.
“I can’t take this,” said Largo. “What will you do for pain?”
Rainer held up a hand. “I’m fine. I traded one of my telescopes for an ample supply. You told me that the morphia gives you some immunity to the plague. You don’t want to run out.”
Largo felt a deep shame when he accepted the bottle. Rainer had lost a telescope to get his supply and now Largo might be depriving him when that ran out. He promised himself to bring the bottle back to him as soon as he got back.
“All right,” he said.
Rainer tossed him one of the heavy coats the War Department gave to all the Dandies as part of their pension.
Largo said, “Winter is coming. Won’t you need this?”
Rainer pointed to a similar coat hanging from a nail by the door. “I have another. And if I complain to the government enough, I might be able to get a newer one. Consider this one yours.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. You’re not nearly ready to go yet.”
Rainer upended the mask bowl on the table and wiped out the ashes with his handkerchief. When it was clean, he tossed it to Largo. “Try it on,” he said.
Largo felt a little dizzy and wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey or Rainer’s offer of the mask. As much as the Dandies were shunned, masks were also revered objects and more valuable than any medal. Largo pushed it back to him. “No. I
t’s too much,” he said.
“How do you intend to get past the Nachtvogel?” Rainer said. “Why do you think I gave you the coat? You’ll become one of us. Trust me. In the mask, you can go anywhere you like and no one will look at you twice. You’ll be invisible.”
Largo’s dizziness deepened, but he took the mask and put it on. Rainer pointed to a peeling mirror on the wall and Largo went to it. He thought, Rainer’s right. No one would ever recognize me. I can walk right by my minder. He took the mask off and sat down again.
“There are just a couple of other things,” Rainer said.
Largo set down the mask. “I can’t take anything else. It’s already too much.”
“You aren’t the experienced one here. I’ll decide what you need,” said Rainer firmly. “How much money have you saved?”
Largo thought about it and gave him a figure. Rainer stood up. “That’s not nearly enough. Here.” He took a tightly wound cylinder of bills from his pocket. Largo had never seen so much cash in one place. Rainer sat down and said, “Don’t ask how I got it. Just take it and no noble arguments.”
Largo nodded and put the bills in his pocket without a word. He wanted to thank him, but he could tell that Rainer didn’t want to hear it.
“There’s something else you’ll need.” Rainer opened a drawer in the table and took out a pistol. He set it on the table between them. “Do you know what this is?” he said.
“A gun, of course,” said Largo, feeling even more uncomfortable than before.
Rainer picked it up by the barrel and held it out, butt first. After a moment’s hesitation, Largo took it.
“Wrong. It’s a Drachen semiautomatic nine-millimeter Parabellum pistol. When you shoot, aim at the torso. It’s the biggest part of the body, so the easiest to hit. You’re inexperienced, so don’t try to shoot anyone too far away. You’ll have to wait until the danger is close enough that you’re sure you can hit it.”
Largo turned the pistol over in his hand, already having doubts about his idea. “I’ve never held a gun before.”
The Grand Dark Page 30