by Kage Baker
Herr Muller replied, sounding stubborn and somewhat affronted. The other addressed himself to Ludbridge and Ressel and spoke forcefully. He turned, said something else to Herr Muller, opened the counter and walked out, letting the counter bang down after him. Taking a hat and walking stick from a stand by the door, he left the shop and walked quickly away. Herr Muller sighed.
“He said some, er, disrespectful things to Herr Muller and he told you that the source of the red is a secret closely held by his firm and when it is to be had he makes announcements in all the papers, and not before. He also told Herr Muller he was going out to get something for his, er, katzenjammer, what you get when you are drinking too much?” Ressel spoke in an undertone.
Just so. Ludbridge bowed to Herr Muller, replaced his hat and left the shop. Ressel followed like a shadow.
When they were out on the pavement, Ressel said, “I don’t think Hirsch is a very nice man.”
“Don’t you?”
“He’s been stealing my socks.”
“Mm. Something queer about him, or d’you think he’s simply lazy?”
Ressel shrugged unhappily. “He uses my comb too. There was a boy at school like him. Always bullying other boys. Always showing off and defying the schoolmaster.”
“Well, don’t trouble yourself about it. I’ll give you a couple of pounds and you can buy yourself some new socks at a haberdasher’s.”
“But those were knitted by my mother.”
“Steal ’em back then.” Ludbridge took out his cigar case and lit a cigar. After a long pause he added: “We can get to Bayer, I think.”
“WINE, WOMEN AND song,” said Hirsch, and hiccuped. “Especially women. Herr Bayer spends his money like water! Eats at the best places, so I was obliged to as well—I’ll need a little more money, Ludbridge. Has his favorite route that takes him to all the best drinking-places, and I’m not talking about beer. Brandy and champagne for our friend Bayer! And naturally I was obliged to have a drink or two myself, to remain inconspicuous, wasn’t I? You see why this is getting a bit expensive.
“And every evening ends the same: the women! But no streetwalkers with muddy skirts for him, no. He goes for the higher-priced establishments. When he’s had his schnapps he’ll go after any beauty, respectable ones even, if his eye lights on them. He’s fought four duels in his time. Two marriages broken up and a well-born daughter disgraced. It’s cost him a lot of money in lawsuits, I can tell you. An uncontrollable Don Juan!”
“I take it you weren’t obliged to spend on similar quality entertainment?” Ludbridge said. Hirsch waved his hand.
“No, but information isn’t cheaply bought, either. And here’s a tidbit that cost me two crowns, since you’re asking: his late father was several times approached to engage him in marriage with assorted daughters of well-to-do merchants. Having the only knowledge of where the red can be found makes him desirable, you see? And though he boasts when he’s in his cups, that he never brags of. No hints, no oblique remarks about knowing a big secret, nothing.”
“Good to know.” Ludbridge tugged at his beard. “An idiot, in everything but that.”
“Precisely.” Hirsch grinned wide.
“Very good.” Ludbridge rose to his feet. “Well done, Hirsch.”
“Shall I go out again?”
“Not tonight. Get to bed. I’ll have work for you tomorrow.”
“Ah! Obtaining certain valuables at bargain rates, by any chance?” Hirsch mimed hitting someone with a cosh. Ludbridge shook his head.
“Not yet. Fairly soon, I think, but not just yet.”
Hirsch bowed mockingly. “I am at your service whenever required,” he said, and left the room.
Ludbridge lit a cigar and waited patiently, listening to the sounds that indicated Hirsch was retiring: boots pulled off and dropped, rustle of undress, sounds at the washstand. A dance tune hummed loudly, Ressel’s sleepy protest, the tune continuing at a slightly lower volume. Creaking as Hirsch crawled into his bed; snores following fairly soon.
When Ludbridge had finished his cigar, he rose and quietly drew his traveling-bag from under his bed. Opening it, he took out what appeared to be a cigar box, followed by an apparent pair of ear muffs, and at last something that closely resembled one of the brass ear-trumpets used by persons hard of hearing. The brass trumpet fitted into a circular port in the cigar box; Ludbridge unwound a cord from around the ear muffs, slid them on his head, and pushed a sort of aglet on the end of the cord into a second port in the cigar box. Lastly he slid one side of the box upward, after the manner of a Chinese puzzle, revealing beneath a row of small dials and switches.
Turning a switch, Ludbridge saw a tiny red light flash on the panel. He turned one of the dials carefully, hearing as he did so shrill whistles and inorganic screams within what were clearly not earmuffs. After a long moment he spoke into the brass trumpet, in a low and penetrating voice.
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen, Night Operator. Gentlemen. What becomes of illusions?”
A sleepy voice answered in his ear, immediate and yet hollow and echoing with distance. “We dispel them.”
“And we are everywhere. Ludbridge communicating. I require a message delivered.”
“One moment.” Ludbridge fancied he could hear, miles away, the Night Operator scrambling for pen and ink. “Sender, Ludbridge. Recipient?”
“Corvey.”
“I see. Message?”
“I’ll thank you not to take that tone, boy. Message is, ‘We require your best. Can pay one-way Urgent Passage for one via Governess Cart. Location is—’ ” Ludbridge scowled a moment, and then gave the hotel’s address.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
“No…. ‘Advise, drastic measures possibly called for.’ ”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send that straight over by courier, shall I, sir?”
“Please do.”
“Response should be available within two hours, sir.”
“Thank you. I shall wait. Ludbridge concluding.”
“Gentlemen concluding.”
Ludbridge removed the ear apparatus. He got up, walked to the window, stared out at the night awhile; sat down and lit another cigar. When the cigar was out he settled comfortably in his chair, hands clasped across his waistcoat, and fixed his nearly-unblinking gaze upon the transmitting apparatus. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later he saw a green light flash on beside the red one.
Moving with surprising speed for a man of his bulk, Ludbridge crossed the room and pulled on the earpieces.
“Gentlemen? Communicating.”
“What becomes of illusions?”
“We dispel them.”
“And we are everywhere.”
“Ludbridge.”
“Response from Corvey, sir.”
“And it is?”
“ ‘Expect Lady Beatrice by Governess Cart no later than Wednesday.’ ”
IT WAS CALLED a Governess Cart because it was made to look like one, and in fact it was possible to hitch a pony to its traces and proceed at a modest trot by daylight. Any uninitiated person seeing it might wonder why such a large trunk was crammed under the seat, but few uninitiated persons ever laid eyes on the Governess Cart because it traveled primarily along the deserted highways of the night.
Those few who did glimpse it, generally as they staggered home in an advanced state of inebriation, were never believed if they unwisely spoke of seeing a nocturnal thing with glowing eyes that rocketed down empty lanes at speeds exceeding forty miles an hour, steam engine rattling. The Governess Cart was extremely useful, therefore, as a light priority transport for individuals or packages that simply had to cross distances with greater alacrity than was possible for anyone else in 1845.
Lady Beatrice, who had ridden painfully through the Khyber Pass over the frozen bodies of her father’s regiment some years earlier, much preferred speedier means of transportation, and so she quite enjoyed traveling by Governess Cart. It was true that one’s hair became wildly disar
ranged unless one wore a special canvas bonnet tied down and reinforced with hatpins, but Lady Beatrice was well accustomed to wearing specialized clothing. Neither did she mind the goggles nor the long canvas coat recommended for high-speed travelers, since the one kept dust out of one’s eyes admirably and the other insulated one against the damps of the night. Lady Beatrice had spent enough time exposed to the damps of the night and was disinclined to suffer them further.
Lady Beatrice was, to put it bluntly, a whore, albeit a well-bred and well-educated one. Being raped by Ghilzai tribesmen had ruined her chances for making a good marriage or, indeed, entering into polite society at all, but fortunately she had encountered the proprietress of a distinguished and exclusive establishment known as Nell Gwynne’s. Lady Beatrice now serviced statesmen and diplomats, in the process extracting state secrets and passing them on to Nell Gwynne’s fraternal organization, the Gentlemen’s Speculative Society. Occasionally blackmail or other, more extreme measures needed to be taken. Lady Beatrice, who had slit the throats of her three Ghilzai assailants and stolen their horses, was equal to specialized work of any kind.
It should be mentioned that she was a tall and slender woman with a chilly autocratic beauty and rather startlingly clear gray eyes. When not traveling abroad, as she was now, she preferred to dress in scarlet. Lady Beatrice was nothing if not honest.
The first faint pallor of dawn had appeared in the east as the Governess Cart crossed from Bavaria into Bohemia. When they were well past the village of Horitz, Mr. Reed, the operator, leaned over sideways to shout over the noise of the engine. “We shan’t be able to make much more distance tonight, I’m afraid, but we’re nearly there. It will be necessary to get out and walk soon, I’m afraid.”
“Shall we walk the rest of the way?”
“Oh, no indeed, madam. As a rule, I simply get between the traces and wait until some farmer passes in a wagon. Generally I spin him a tale about gypsies having stolen my pony, and generally he’ll let me tie up to his wagon and ride with him the rest of the way into town.”
Conveniently enough, this ruse worked with the first wagon-driving farmer they met, and they rode into Budweis in comfort if not style.
Ludbridge, waiting patiently outside the hotel, saw their approach. He rose, removing his hat. Mr. Reed spoke to the farmer, who paused long enough for Mr. Reed to hand down Lady Beatrice and set her bags on the pavement. Ludbridge took Lady Beatrice’s hand and bowed over it, as Mr. Reed and the bemused farmer drove on.
“I trust your journey was uneventful, Ma’am?”
“It was, Mr. Ludbridge. I hope I find you well?”
“You do indeed.” Ludbridge picked up her bags. “And very obliging of Mrs. Corvey to spare you on such short notice, I’m sure. Shall we go up to the room for a briefing? I’ve told the desk clerk my wife was coming for a visit.”
Lady Beatrice followed him through the lobby, drawing the startled attention of the clerk, who had imagined Frau Ludbridge would be stout and middle-aged. When Ludbridge paused at the desk to request coffee and breakfast for four sent up, the clerk found himself blushing and stammering like a schoolboy. For some hours afterward he was unable to clear his mind of the gaze of Lady Beatrice’s gray eyes.
THAT EVENING THE staff at the Wienhof were similarly affected by the sight of Lady Beatrice, though in their case a certain amount of apprehension was also involved. That a beautiful woman should be dining alone in their establishment was, perhaps, scandalous, but not unusual; a number of the better class of prostitutes were accustomed to plying their trades in the Wienhof, in a low-key and discreet manner.
The staff was at a loss to know quite what to do about this foreign woman, however, who sat at a rear table nibbling biscuits and sipping tea. She did not smile, she did not wink or call out familiarly or in any way employ the signals of her trade. Her appearance, on the other hand, was anything but circumspect. She wore an evening gown of scarlet silk, cut swoopingly low. Her cheeks were rouged scarlet, her lips were scarlet, her gray eyes were rimmed in blackest kohl. She might as well have stood on the table brandishing a placard that advertised her specialties and rates.
Consequently they were much relieved when Herr Bayer arrived for his customary meal and was immediately smitten by the scarlet beauty. He wasted no time in having a glass of champagne sent to her table, and in making eye contact when she had graciously acknowledged him with her thanks. He followed up with an invitation to dine at his table, which she accepted. He ordered the finest (and most expensive) meal the Wienhof provided, partridges in a sauce of brandy and cream, and during the meal trotted out his entire repertory of seductive phrases. The woman appeared receptive, smiling demurely and replying in schoolroom German. Herr Bayer seemed to find this quite charming.
So intent were the staff in watching the little comedy play itself out, and so intent was Herr Bayer on the thrill of the chase, that none of them wasted a thought on the pair of gentlemen seated across the room. One was an Englishman with somewhat blunt and leonine features, who seemed interested in nothing but his plate of Wiener schnitzel, rotkohl and spaetzle. The other was a timid-looking fellow who picked at his dish of rouladen. Neither of them looked up when Herr Bayer shouted for a waiter, nor when he demanded whether a room was available upstairs. Nor were they distracted from their meal when Herr Bayer and his inamorata rose from the table and retired to an upper floor of the Wienhof.
It was noticed, however, that the two gentlemen dawdled lengthily after finishing their entrees. They requested coffee. They requested two helpings each of hazelnut torte. They requested after-dinner liqueurs, and seemed content to sit for hours, nursing their glasses of kirsch and chatting quietly.
HERR BAYER, HAVING ridden to bliss three times in succession, sagged sideways and collapsed into the feather bed. Lady Beatrice smiled and shifted sideways to face him.
“Such splendid endurance!” she murmured.
“God in heaven, I’m like a greedy child in a sweets shop,” said Herr Bayer. He pulled her close and crushed her against him, kissing her ravenously. Lady Beatrice endured his attentions with perfect ease, showing neither revulsion nor discomfort. She had long since grown accustomed to detaching herself from the things her body was obliged to do, and during Herr Bayer’s recent frenzied passion had been fondly recalling a recent holiday in the Lake District.
Now, however, she became aware that the present tussle had revived Herr Bayer’s tumescence. He released her and looked down at himself.
“Bah! The naughty thing wants attention again. And what am I to do, my beauty? I faint with exhaustion. I will have to wear a hot poultice on my back tomorrow, I’m certain I’ve sprained something. But perhaps you would like to eat some sausage? Eh?” Herr Bayer leered as he ground his hips against hers suggestively.
“I have a better idea,” said Lady Beatrice, smiling as she pushed him back. “But first, shall we have another glass of champagne?”
“Play Hebe, my fair one, and pour the flowing wine!”
Lady Beatrice turned and sat up on the edge of the bed. A single languorous gesture, like a cat stretching, enabled her to reach the tumbled mass of her clothes and pluck what appeared to be a small glass button from the waistband of her crinoline. Palming it, she rose and dropped the button in one of the pair of champagne glasses on the bedside table. She refilled the glasses, waiting only to assure herself that the button had dissolved without a trace before handing the glass to Herr Bayer.
“Prost, Herr Stallion.”
“Prost, my Queen of Sheba!”
They clinked glasses and drank. Lady Beatrice set her glass aside after a sip and, with slow deliberation, moved to straddle Herr Bayer.
“Now, my dear, you lie there at your ease and rest your back. I will deal with the naughty creature.”
Rising above him, she did something—again, slowly and consideringly—that made Herr Bayer’s toes curl. He gasped, whooped, gulped down the rest of his champagne and hurled the empty glass across
the room, where it shattered against the wall and dropped to the floor in a shower of sticky crystal fragments.
“Yes!” he screamed. “Yes, my adored, my little cat, my sugar cake!”
Lady Beatrice continued to do what she had been doing, settling into a steady rhythm. Herr Bayer writhed underneath her, fumbling and squeezing at her breasts. She gazed steadily into his eyes and saw the gradual look of happy idiocy that came into them. His hands fell away from her breasts; rose again to bat at them as a feeble kitten bats at catnip mice, before finally falling back to lie on either side of his head. He had begun to drool slightly.
Lady Beatrice wiped the drool away with a corner of the sheet. Herr Bayer giggled.
“I understand you are a jeweler, my dear Herr Bayer.”
“That’s so.” He emphasized his reply with a nod.
“You used to sell that particular red gemstone, the meteor-glass, the sort that only Bayer and Son can procure.”
“Of course! We will again. All it’ll take is a crop failure… season without rain… hoof and mouth disease, you will see, sooner or later the Reithoffers will need money and then they’ll come with a big box of it, hat in hand. You’ll see. This is always the way it is.”
“And who are the Reithoffers, my dear?”
“Farmers. Nobodies. But they own the secret mine, you see?”
“They obtain the red glass from a mine on their property?”
“Yes.”
“And their mine is the only source?”
“Of course. We have tried for a hundred and seventy years to find any other. We might as well have been looking for fairy… pancakes.” Herr Bayer giggled again. “Not, nothing, none, never, nowhere. Only the damned Reithoffers know where it is. It’s quite unfair.”
“Why do they only mine the stone when they need money?”
“Because they are superstitious peasants,” Herr Bayer replied. “ ‘Ach, mein herr, the mine is cursed! Every third man who goes in to dig for the stone, the Witch gets him! The Witch got great-great-uncle Hans, and Grandfather Horst, and Uncle Wilhelm! Boo hoo hoo!’ ”