The City in the Autumn Stars

by Moorcock, Michael

  As I subsided, he proceeded to describe for me the story of his own life from poverty (he was no Scottish lordling, after all) in the filthy slums of Edinburgh to his earliest escape from prison at the age of seven (after he had been sentenced to transportation in the matter of a bolt of cloth – a hanging crime in someone older) and his journey to London. There he had found himself swiftly in Newgate, but with a far better class, he said, of rufflers, upright men and wild rogues. Recruited in prison for the East India Company’s army, he had gone to Asia and fought in a number of campaigns. Rising through the ranks, he meantime won the good graces of a certain native ruler to whom he deserted, helping this Khan to drive the Company back from his borders. He was made a Prince of Powjindra for his trouble, but aroused (in his view unreasonable) ire in the hearts of his former colleagues who put a high price on his head. This last, he told me, he found flattering, almost a reference to a future employer. Crossing through Afghanistan, trading various commodities, he eventually reached Russia in time to enlist with that nation’s army and destroy a variety of Cossack rebellions in the Don and Dnieper regions, also making expeditions into Georgia and, as a freebooter, even into Turkey, where he had helped arm and prepare Christian Armenians against their Ottoman masters in the hope this would provide Muscovy with sufficient excuse to declare War upon the Turks and annex as much of the Mussulman Empire as possible, in the name of a High Crusade!

  The bottle was drained by the time he got to Turkey and I was now fairly certain my love did not lie crushed beneath the landslide, so gave him increased attention. Here was my peer indeed! I felt as though I had found a true brother.

  The Mussulman sultans, he said, were familiar with his manoeuvre and countered it simply by setting fire to six entire Armenian towns one night and burning the communities in their beds. He knew St Petersburg well, and Moscow better than I, though he had never been so close to the Court. We compared memories here and he was overjoyed to learn of my time in Tatary. But I pressed him to continue:

  ‘After a spell in Klinsky’s 11th Light Infantry, as a major, I was taken up by the Duc de Mosset, who was part of a French diplomatic mission to Muscovy, and I returned with that gentleman to France where I became a darling of the Salons.’ He found ways, he said, of laying the foundations of a fortune, which he eventually spent in a couple of months, though not before being asked to suggest a new Financial Policy for the nation herself. ‘The Froggies seemed to conclude I was a financial Wizard since I had a fair idea how to balance a set of books and a decent instinct for buying and selling Investment Bonds. You’ll recall they were by that time in the habit of stopping any passing stranger on the street and begging him to become Minister of Finance.’ This period lasted only a few months before he found himself in the service of the Duchy of Luxembourg as an administrator organising the Military College. He had been given his title in that country, choosing for himself the name of an obscure saint (‘he was, I believe, St Patrick’s charioteer! From the misty Isle of Man’). It was perfectly genuine, he assured me, and had been bestowed for his many favours to the State; indeed he was a naturalised citizen of Luxembourg. By ill luck, he continued, he had gone back to France at the very moment the Bastille was stormed and, having no sympathy with Revolution, stayed only briefly, where he took up with the Montgolfiers before they were arrested. He and several other ballonniers moved quickly to Belgium, to carry on their work uninterrupted. Here his true career as an Aviationist, demonstrating the Montgolfier and Charles types of balloon, had begun. He had experimented with his own designs and dreamed of finding a means of steering the vessels accurately through the air.

  Now he busied himself with a fire, dragging pots and pans from his wagon, preparing a luncheon such as one might easily have eaten in Paris before it was considered an act of Treason to enjoy one’s meals in public. ‘My attempt to float capital for a new type of aerial boat, which possessed greater safety for passengers and more sophisticated accommodation than any before it, was at first successful. However, I spent the funds unwisely, forgetting they were not my own. The result – flight into Germany pursued by scandal. But in Germany, Sir! Ah, what a healthy and enlightened attitude towards Science, what a willingness to trust the New Mechanics!’ He had displayed his balloon all over Prussia, Saxony, Hanover, Westphalia and Bavaria and was frequently asked if he planned larger ships and longer expeditions. He had begun to draw up plans for both, going so far as to design vessels which could carry whole platoons of Infantry, together with cannon to fire broadsides down upon the enemy. The latter were particularly popular with Frederick II, who ordered the Chevalier to build such a ship, whereupon my new friend deemed it prudent to repair to Austria. In Vienna and Prague he attempted to sell the plans for his fanciful Air-ships, together with maps and images of hitherto undiscovered lands. But such trade, he told me, though safe was petty. He had a far more interesting scheme which he hoped to launch in Mirenburg, whose populace, he had heard, was more open-minded than elsewhere.

  At the mention of Mirenburg I came alert, wondering at the coincidence. St Odhran’s destination was identical to mine! However, I was not fool enough to trust him with every confidence. I said nothing of this to him.

  Seeing that I had grown more relaxed with the wine he ventured to ask of me a personal question. The name von Bek, he said, was familiar to him. Was I related, perhaps, to a famous general in Old Fritz’s army? I informed him that mine was a very respectable Saxon family. Members of our clan were inclined to worthy, frequently obscure, public office.

  ‘You are too modest, Sir. I would swear I recall a tale, some sort of legend, attached to your family. Did you not have an ancestor in King Arthur’s time? Or was it Charlemagne?’

  I was embarrassed. ‘Ah, Sir, you speak of the Grail tales. There’s scarcely an old German family which hasn’t similar legends in it.’ I remembered the misery, as a boy, of being nicknamed Sir Parsifal and constantly asked where I was hiding Christ’s blood. ‘We certainly don’t credit ’em.’

  St Odhran was grinning with delight, however. He snapped his fingers. ‘I once had a taste for such stuff. Your great-grandfather – possibly your great-great – was himself the subject of his own Romance. Was he not the knight in the story? Who went down to Hell to wage war against Satan? Who used magical charts to find an entrance into a new world and there discover the Grail?’

  ‘The villain who published that tale was taken to Law by my grandfather, Sir. The book was destroyed by order of the Emperor himself!’

  ‘Yet copies exist. The story’s a favourite in Saxony.’

  ‘Sir,’ said I, leaning on my shovel, ‘I’ve no wish to discuss that vulgar tale.’

  St Odhran acknowledged my discomfort and began digging again.

  Perhaps the conversation, or at least the nature of it, had worked some magic upon us, however, for, as the Chevalier began to go into details regarding the good sense of opening a pork-shop in a street already full of butchers, we found the landslide was not near as bad as it had seemed. Suddenly, we were looking upon the trail beyond it! Part of the track had gone down with the fall, but there was enough remaining to allow the wagon to pass if we dug a little to one side. Moreover, of course, no other carriage had been buried.

  We had been at work for some seven hours, but only now noticed our fatigue. The Chevalier put down his shovel to look back at the channel we had dug. He was proud of it. ‘By God, Sir, I am proved a demmed pessimist!’ His face glowing, he shook my hand. ‘Shall you be immediately upon your way or will you celebrate with another bottle and the remains of our lunch? I have a mind to discuss a business partnership with you.’

  But I was anxious to continue my journey. Only politeness made me pause, offering to help clear the way for his wagon. He shook his head with a grin. ‘I can do that in my own time, Sir, for I’m in no great hurry and will camp here a further night.’

  As we stumbled back towards his wagon, I bluntly wondered why, with all his accomplishments, the Chev
alier was not again wealthy. He laughed loudly at this. He thought his own restlessness was to blame. ‘I am easily bored. Taking the odd risk, throwing myself, as it were, into the arms of Fate, maintains my interest in life. Well, Sir, I’ll not delay you. But should we meet again, I’ll put that proposal to you!’

  I went immediately to my horse. ‘I shall look forward to it, Monsieur le Chevalier, when my circumstances permit. Are you sure you need no aid to dig the last few feet?’

  ‘It is less than an hour’s work.’ He stood in his shirtsleeves, smiling up at me as I mounted. I leaned down to shake him, once more, by his hand.

  ‘I am certain our paths shall cross again in time, Sir,’ said I.

  ‘Should you journey to Wäldenstein, no doubt you shall find me in Mirenburg,’ said the Chevalier. ‘I always lodge as a rule at The Martyred Priest in Mladota Square.’

  ‘I know both inn and keeper very well, Sir. I thank you most truly for the pleasure of your company, and your aid.’

  I left him in an attitude of complete weariness, collapsing back onto the wagon tongue in the position he had assumed when I first encountered him. Yet there was a smile on his face and he seemed greatly satisfied with the day’s adventure.

  As I rode again towards Lausanne, I reflected how pleasant the encounter had been. If I ever reached Mirenburg (still many days’ journey hence) I would surely seek him out.

  But now, alone with my imagination once more, thoughts of Milady were paramount. I determined to ride as fast as I dared and pray the Duchess of Crete would still be in Lausanne when I arrived there.

  Chapter Four

  In Lausanne I am hugely disappointed. There begins a chase across Europe. Loss of the majority of my reason. Rumours of quarry, signs of pursuit. The most beautiful city on Earth. My further frustration. The Martyred Priest. Acquaintances renewed. The comforts of the past. Dreams within dreams.

  LAUSANNE, CONTRARY TO my expectations, was not a crowded metropolis but rather a pretty country town, with a few buildings of special note but none which was especially ugly. The place smelled sweet enough (compared, say, to Paris or Venice) and was as sedately ordered as any Swiss settlement where law prevailed. Enquiries with gatekeepers and gendarmes led me to a hostelry maintained by a monkish order (the Deniseans) as an appendix to their abbey. Here I learned to my dismay that the Duchess of Crete had left that morning, apparently for Vienna. Montsorbier, it seemed, had ridden back, hell-for-leather, for Fribourg. This was my solitary consolation. Both my horse and I were too tired for further travel, so I sought out my friend La Harpe (who demanded all my intelligence, for he had grown pessimistic of the Revolution’s progress) and was most hospitably treated.

  In return for my information, La Harpe told me all he knew of the Cretan dukes and duchesses. It was an intriguing story. La Harpe, folding his fine, almost transparent, fingers before him and looking through his great windows at the moonlit waters of the lake, admitted his own curiosity about the family.

  ‘They’re Spanish-French with Hungarian and Greek branches, associated in past centuries with lechery and wanton cruelties. The family name is Cartagena y Mendoza-Chilperic. According to legend they were sorcerers and a good many seem to have entered Hell by way of the Inquisition! Others were priests, providing Rome with several Cardinals and almost a Pope (he was poisoned). There’s suicide in the blood, too. Yet their patronage of the Arts and Sciences shows a genuine passion for creativity and natural philosophy. In modern times Prague is where they’ve chiefly left their mark. The Academy there could only exist thanks to the family’s endowments. Other gymnasia in Prague and elsewhere were founded by discrete grants from cadet branches of Mendozas and Chilperics…’

  ‘What of the present Duchess?’ I asked eagerly.

  He was puzzled. ‘I’ve heard only of the present Duke. Lucian he’s called and he’s wintered in Prague for five years past, travelling abroad only in the Summer months. They speak well of him. He is an enthusiastic patron of musicians and painters, I hear, and of natural philosophers in particular…’

  ‘Alchemists, too?’

  My friend shook his head. ‘I believe the young man is anxious that his family name no longer be associated with such pursuits. He has bestowed so much gold on convents, monasteries and lay schools it must be assumed he is a devout and conventional Christian!’

  ‘And the Duchess? You’ve heard nothing at all about her?’ I insisted.

  ‘Unless he married secretly…’

  ‘The lady I met was no matron, I’d swear. Could it be a sister – a cousin? This woman is a wit. A beauty!’

  A look of mild irony and curiosity crossed La Harpe’s features. ‘All this brings to mind is a scandalous whisper I heard a year or more since. I dismissed it. The gossips said the Duke had taken to dressing as a woman and venturing into quarters reserved for low, vicious creatures. Well…’ He shrugged.

  I laughed outright. ‘Friend, this was no male in doxy’s garb!’

  La Harpe appeared to humour me. ‘Just so. The Duke’s regarded as a most eligible bachelor. And he’s the last of his line. The Mendozas, you know, were conversos in Spain, of both Moorish and Jewish extraction. Those ancestors took up residence abroad during the unfortunate limpieza de sangre investigations which came to a head under Torquemada. They married into the Chilperics in France during the fifteenth century and so could be the only inheritors of that particular strain of Merovingian blood. Prague, as you know, has several families boasting similar antiquity. You say this woman introduced herself as Duchess of Crete?’

  ‘Clearly. I’d never heard the name until then.’

  La Harpe sighed. ‘I’ve no other clues for you, my boy. But I would suggest you look for an answer to your mystery in Prague. There, I’d guess, you have the best chance of finding the person of your Duchess. Did she claim to be an alchemist?’

  ‘Did I say so? She could be a witch or a ghost, the way she’s vanished.’

  La Harpe was embarrassed by this fanciful remark. ‘All I can say is that in Prague there’s said to be gathering a number of the more enlightened alchemists, called by Cornelius Groot, whom some believe a mere market-place trickster while others insist he has supernatural powers. You know my distaste for such stuff. Groot’s a resident of Brno. I met him once. I must admit he impressed upon me a sense of great dignity and learning. But the alchemical brotherhood is a secret one, so I have no real knowledge of its affairs.’

  ‘No notion of this convention’s purpose?’

  ‘Only a rumour or two. Some churchmen have attempted to outlaw Groot and his comrades, declaring the meeting heretical, blasphemous, even illegal, but so many of their own kind now belong to Masonic and Mystical orders that very little’s been done to dissuade Groot. The alchemists claim themselves men of learning, doing no harm to Austria. Plainly Austria believes them or we’d have seen a different story. Most of these alchemists appear to hold decidedly orthodox political opinions and are as pleased to maintain the Right of Kings as any Hapsburg. I gather it’s some momentous date in the alchemical almanac. What would you guess?’ He smiled quietly. ‘The imminence of the Second Coming?’

  ‘An old-fashioned notion.’ I shared his amusement.

  ‘Aye. I saw your brother’s friend Lobkowitz just before the New Year. Lobkowitz has astrologers amongst his acquaintances. You know his huge curiosity! He told me that the astrologers were speaking of a specific conjunction of our own star with several others.’ La Harpe shrugged. ‘How strange if Prague were to provide the stable and the manger! A city most closely identified with Reason, containing more agnostics per acre than Paris or London! Only Mirenburg harbours greater doubters!’

  ‘It surprises me they did not hold their conference there, where they would surely be doubly welcome.’

  ‘Mirenburg’s Prince favours less supernaturally influenced bodies than the alchemical adepts. He’s presently bent on passing laws to make all secret societies illegal.’

  ‘He fears a potential
Jacobin Club?’

  ‘Less, I would hazard, than most hereditary rulers. His stated principle is that all knowledge should be at the public disposal. He argues against the hoarding of scientific discoveries, believing that the miserly act of secretion is in itself bound to produce fear and unnecessary caution in the mind of the citizen. Superstitious destruction of the unfamiliar is its most common expression. Prince Badehoff-Fischer argues that in such matters a secret is parallel, if not identical, to a lie. Both occur because one body seeks power over another.’

  ‘So soon there will be no secret societies in Mirenburg?’

  ‘Well,’ again La Harpe smiled, ‘the least secret of ’em will be outlawed, at any rate. But ’tis in the nature of such bodies to burrow deeper and grow unwilling to admit new members, for fear of betrayal.’

  ‘Then they must eventually wither up,’ I said.

  ‘Your logic isn’t perfect, my dear von Bek. Some are like fleas – apparently dead, then suddenly awake and more alive than ever, hungry for blood! I wonder what attracts men and women to join such things.’

  We debated this for another hour or two until both of us were completely tired and more than ready for our beds. Next morning early I bade goodbye to the kindly philosopher and set out in bright, cold dawn light, first for Vienna and then, should I fail to find my madonna there, for Prague. Yet in the back of my mind I believe I hoped I should see her sooner, somewhere on the road. I argued to myself that a lone man on horseback must surely overtake a carriage, as I had overtaken hers once already.