Had Montsorbier followed my quartet of Romantics all the way from Paris? Had he read reports of the balloon enterprise in the foreign press? Or was he now, like me, a fugitive from the treacherous tyranny he had helped create?
I came up straight, alert as a wary Mohock, and stared directly at him while he advanced slowly, with his usual elegant and attractive stride (almost a wolf’s lope) through the crowd, glancing here and there about the tables as he re-creased his huge bicorne hat. Swinging his cloak off his shoulders and over his arm, he revealed a sword and a single long-handled pistol in his sash. Thin, well-formed lips were curved as usual in the suggestion of a smile and the piercing eyes had a veiled, deceptively amiable expression. His hair was tied back and fell to his shoulder blades; his frock-coat was perfectly cut, his boots and breeches as exquisite as ever. He remained the Revolutionary dignitary in all aspects, whether he had renounced his politics or not. I found that in a strange way I was strengthened by that familiar danger. I inclined my head in his direction, enquiring after his health.
‘Improving, thank you, citizen. And yours?’ His voice was sardonic.
‘These winters bring a little fever, you know, but otherwise I’m in capital condition. You’re too far from Paris, Sir. Do you not find the weather here inclement?’
‘It’s devilish cold and sharp, but that’s always suited me, citizen, in season or in steel.’
‘Yet sustenance is hard to come by, eh?’
‘Not so hard, citizen. My needs are spare. And I’m amply satisfied at present.’
‘Then I’m mistaken, Sir. I thought you survived by sucking on a he-wolf.’
At this reference to Robespierre his eyes became angry for a split second, like a sudden squall at sea, then they returned to a deceptive tranquillity.
‘How did you learn I was in Mirenburg?’
‘I did not. I have other business, you see. I am an invited guest, part of a mission. I’m an envoy representing France. But, of course, I welcomed the opportunity to renew our old association. I have been in Mirenburg for two days. How is your friend, the woman who styles herself Duchess of some remote rock in the Adriatic?’
‘You speak in code, Sir. You’d oblige me if you could be more direct. Are you here to arrest me?’
‘I’ve no authority here, von Bek. What can you mean?’ He lifted his dark brows. I could not believe him suddenly free of hatred for me. Even now there was some suggestion that he coiled to strike. And sure enough his next words clarified the matter: ‘It’s a personal dispute which must be settled now,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ve kept a trace or two of honour since you became a man of business. You take my meaning?’
‘Perfectly, Sir.’
‘I shall leave the choice of weapons to you.’
I shrugged. ‘And the place?’
‘I’m told it’s traditional to use the Wool Yard at Mladota Quay. By the bridge there.’
‘I’ll say swords,’ I said in a murmur, not wishing to be overheard by my friends.
‘Sabres?’
‘Your choice.’
‘Sabres, since we’re both so equipped. What time, Sir?’
‘I’m easy on that, Sir. But dawn’s traditional. That would bring us to the bridge by about seven. Tomorrow, being a Sunday, we should be undisturbed.’ Duelling was frowned upon in Mirenburg and sometimes there were heavy penalties inflicted on those who resorted to the practice.
‘It should not take us long, I think,’ said Montsorbier signalling to Sergeant Schuster who was busy at the far end of his counter.
‘I hope not, Sir. I’ve much to do.’
He was almost grinning with pleasure, anticipating his Satisfaction. I had had little experience at swordplay in recent months, but I believed that we were evenly matched. Neither of us could have stood against a master for more than five minutes, but we were both fair steelmen nonetheless. This would not be his first duel, nor mine.
Somehow this challenge had come at a perfect moment for me. I felt relieved by its simplicity, by the promise of resolution. Sergeant Schuster came up at Montsorbier’s signal. The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed as he recognised Schuster but could not place him. Schuster, on the other hand, began to frown. Montsorbier became uncomfortable. Suddenly he turned away from Schuster and bowed to me, then he began to stride rapidly towards the door. ‘Tomorrow, Sir!’
I would need St Odhran and Schuster as seconds, so I informed them that I had accepted my pursuer’s challenge. St Odhran at once began to scheme a method of besting Montsorbier by a trick, remembering a duel he won by such means in Prussia, while Schuster offered me the use of himself as an exercise partner, for which I was grateful. ‘I recall the Frenchie’s style,’ said my Sergeant, ‘having fought him before, as you know. All I lost then was a commission, but you stand to lose your life, Captain.’
‘But what shall I do for a partner if you’re killed?’ demanded St Odhran in genuine alarm. Reality had provided an unwelcome break in the brightly coloured clouds which had come to shroud the terrain of his thoughts.
I smiled. ‘Perhaps Montsorbier will join you, should he kill me?’
‘I need the name,’ said St Odhran reasonably. ‘Your name, not his.’
‘Before I go to keep my appointment, I’ll draft a letter to my brother, outlining your proposals.’
St Odhran then betrayed a sudden genuine sympathy. ‘I am serious, dear friend.’
‘I shall not be, if I’m extinguished tomorrow. However, I expect to win. I’ve had more direct experience at defending my life than I suspect has Montsorbier. Why do you not write an answer to the mysterious donor of inflammable air?’
He hesitated, glanced at Schuster, then, with parchment in hand, climbed the stairs to his rooms. For my part I had welcomed Montsorbier’s challenge, though I now grew cold with that category of fear which provided me with what had often proved a false sense of objectiveness yet which nonetheless successfully lifted my spirits.
That evening the taproom was emptied early. My four young friends were weary and went to Krasny’s family home to sleep. Sergeant Schuster saw that benches were cleared back, then with our sleeves rolled up and our knees bent, we addressed each other’s sabres, while St Odhran, returned from above, bit his nails in a corner and Ulrica and her mother watched with troubled eyes from the gallery above. I was pleased just to be active. Very rapidly my skills came again to me as we fenced back and forth over the sawdust, with Schuster grinning his pleasure at the sport.
But this single day was to be the pivot on which all our future fortunes would depend. There were many further events ahead of us. Even when we were through with all our feints and gambits there came a tapping on the door. Sergeant Schuster signed for Frau Schuster to respond. ‘It cannot be the Watch,’ said he. But for caution’s sake we set our swords behind his counter and snatched tankards in their place.
Frau Schuster took her comfortable bulk to the entrance, lifted up the bar and then staggered backwards as the door was driven violently inward and a dozen men, their faces masked by scarves, pushed brutally into The Martyred Priest. I thought first they were Montsorbier and his party, but they were dressed wrongly for Frenchmen. These bully-boys now pulled out great pistols from beneath their dark greatcoats, levelling some at Frau Schuster, the rest at Ulrica (who was fierce with anger).
‘The women die if you resist,’ said the muffled leader. He had the coarse, impatient tone of one who was a professional at this work and had, moreover, a vocation for terror and torture. Had Montsorbier turned coward and hired a parcel of footpads to save himself the trouble of rising early? I was unable to believe it of him. Then who had sent them? What other enemies had we in Mirenburg?
‘You’re St Odhran?’ asked the leader of me, gesturing with his barker. I made no reply. He looked towards my partner, who was feigning carelessness, still in his corner.
‘Oh, aye,’ he drawled. ‘What can I do for ye, gentlemen?’ He stood up and looked down his long nose at them. ‘Gad, ye�
��re big, healthy fellows. Are we off to a prize fight?’
‘Then this will be the other,’ said the leader of me. He sucked in air and blew it out suddenly through his muffler. ‘Good.’
We were surrounded. My only handy weapon was the sword I had hidden behind the counter. Sergeant Schuster and his family were helpless. The Sergeant looked towards our secreted weapons but I shook my head slightly. We could not risk the lives of the women. He contented himself with a snarl. ‘What is it you want? Money? It is already gone from the premises. The Watch will be passing here within ten minutes and if I do not respond to its signal you’ll find yourselves fighting half a score of trained militia! You’ll leave now if you’ve sense!’
But the leader of these invaders was unimpressed. He motioned with his pistol. ‘We’ve come for these gentlemen. You’re safe enough if you don’t interrupt us in our commission.’ His voice remained coarse and sinister. ‘And you’ll say nothing to the Watch, innkeeper, or you’ll find this pair skinned and gutted before morning, with apples in their mouths, trussed for the oven.’ Not one of his crew laughed or otherwise acknowledged his morbid jest. Silence dropped like a winding sheet upon us all.
For a moment the scene was completely still; then the leader signalled again and St Odhran and myself were roughly shoved, made to stumble towards the door where, in the snowy darkness, a box-wagon stood waiting, its doors open. It was the kind of covered cart used for transporting cows to market, or bringing butchers’ meat from the charnel house. It stank of just such recent use.
‘Do not jeopardise your family, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘We’ll send news to you if we can.’
‘Get inside,’ ordered the chief rogue.
St Odhran hesitated, his manner theatrical. ‘Demme,’ he said in drawling English. ‘I do believe the fellow’s not joking. Old friend, we’re captured for no special merit of our own! The butcher’s run short of pork! We’re to become the contents of a pie!’
He led the way into the stinking, blood-spotted hold, crying out for all the world like an impatient aristo: ‘Drive on, man! Drive on! ’Tis a cold night and we’ve no topcoats!’
Chapter Seven
In which we discover a little of what lies beneath Mirenburg’s surface. A dangerous Farce. Lucifer’s name taken in vain. Conversation regarding the Anti-Christ. A supposed acquaintance of my family. An invitation to dine in Hell. I accept.
WITH SO FEW clothes upon our backs we were, indeed, near to freezing by the time the van passed into what, by the echo, was a courtyard. A gate was locked shut behind us and we heard whispers in the darkness outside.
‘This stink is dreadful,’ complained St Odhran. ‘Do they mean to stifle us to death?’
Almost as if we had been overheard, the doors of the charnel-wagon were opened and we gasped gratefully at the purer air. Three men entered the van. Two held pistols at our temples while the third tied our hands behind our backs and blindfolded us, for all the world as if we were prisoners on the way to execution.
Perhaps, thought I, Montsorbier had prepared this death. Did he possess his own guillotine? Might he not, in his fury, believe that I must not cheat the machine? But why manifest his vengeance on poor St Odhran, who had given him no offence, save in the bearing of a title and an aristocratic lisp, albeit both recently acquired.
Now we stumbled, boots upon rough paving, from van to doorway and into somewhat warmer air (though damp), down steps on which we slipped, grunting and falling, shoulder against shoulder, no longer caring to protest since we had no answers as yet – and would possibly never have any until we were finally in Hell. Down still further – echoed drops of water from high vault to flooded floor – and further – natural rock, stalactites and fungus, the sound of viscous liquid and a stink as if a sewer emptied nearby.
‘Cover my nose and not my eyes, I beg thee, gentlemen,’ said St Odhran desperately, perhaps by way of a joke. The rufflers pushed us on, sliding and staggering, down another level at least. Could there be anything below the very sewers? Were these Svitavian catacombs where Christians hid from Pagans and then vice versa? Where Ritter Igor von Miroff slept to wake if his name-city were ever subjected to the rule of tyranny? I’d once thought these caverns fanciful legend, borrowed from Rome or Constantinople. But here they were for certain and I told myself that no-one could mean to kill us out of hand or we should have been dead by now. Such White Thuggees as these are too lazy for overmuch caution or for considered finesse. It had become almost hot. I felt, in fact, a fire’s heat on my face, sensed a flickering brand. Footsteps retreated. A door was closed.
There was a smell of sulphur in the air. A stink more reminiscent of chemicals and retorts. Could it be he who had written us the note about the inflammable gas? A benefactor with a savage’s sense of humour. We were pushed by invisible, insistent hands back until we reached a wall. The stones were smooth. Something snapped around my ankle and chain was slithering now. We were manacled.
The blindfolds were taken away from our eyes, but the bonds remained. I could see only glaring flame, then red baskets of coals swinging from the roof, then a huge, bloated face – and the whole charade was suddenly explained!
We were surrounded by the banalities of a theatrical stage; the kind of scene one finds everywhere in the modern Playhouse, where a multiplicity of mechanical devices is used to affect the Public sensibility, to make folk swoon with terror for want of being moved by poetry of honest drama. Here was a setting for a Satanist coven if ever I’d seen one! And sure enough the men and women who stood in the shadows of this grotto were clad in monastic habits, cowled and masked. I was convinced now that this was not of Montsorbier’s engineering. From behind the great Goat-faced screen came a diminutive red-robed Abbot with splayed feet. He spoke in that sing-song all such people prefer to substitute for ordinary speech: archaic and somewhat immoderate in its use of adjectives. Out it rushed as if from a suddenly unblocked Privy:
‘Wretched, reckless, rebellious rogues! You dared reject the warnings of our Malevolent King. Now you must suffer our ruthless revenge! Horrid wriggling worms, your heresies make you hateful in the eyes of Hell and her Unholy Host!’ All this affected by the speaker’s difficulty in pronouncing the letter ‘R’ and substituting for it the familiar ‘W’. ‘How plead you in your perversity? Can you reasonably claim your crimes have not made you ripe for Lucifer’s righteous revenge?’
‘Gad!’ said St Odhran, still in English, ‘a worse fate than this is impossible to imagine, eh, von Bek? We’ve fallen into the clutches of a demented juvenile with a penchant for poor alliteration. You and I shall discover no wit here, I fear.’
‘You’ll speak a civilised tongue, Sir,’ squeaked our captor, ‘or suffer to have it removed completely!’
Now I recognised the speaker. I had met him once before, at our Landgräfin’s. It was her devil-dabbling nephew who had so resented the largesse she had thrown our way. Doubtless he was already counting his inheritance.
‘My dear Baron,’ said I, ‘’tis easy to tell you’re piqued because your aunt favours our enterprise over your expectations. Yet don’t you think even your friends here would agree your reaction’s a touch exaggerated…’
‘Mock not this terrible tribunal, lest ye be judged instantly and condemned with neither indictment nor defence. We have gathered, miserable man, to try you in the matter of your disobedience to the dictates of our sinister Master, Lord of the Infernal Realms, Ruler of Rulers, Commander of the Infinite Legions of the Damned, His Most Satanic Majesty, Prince Lucifer! You defy the dictates of Hell by intruding into that disputed territory of the upper air – the Realm already claimed by our master and to which Man is forbidden. That the Arch-usurper Jehovah already claims this region as his own is well known, but that men should interject their prideful designs into that dispute is unacceptable either to Hell or to Heaven. For the War is soon to be fought that shall decide the Struggle. The Stars Conjoin!’
St Odhran raised a well-trimmed eyebrow. ‘I
must congratulate you, Herr Baron, on your most splendidly elaborate disguise.’ He spoke bravely enough. ‘But I must say I find your speech a trifle confusing.’ His words came out a touch blurred, with a tremble to them. He knew as well as I that we were in the hands of a small-minded degenerate. This Baron sought only the mildest excuse to commit the most hideous acts of torture and murder. There was no appeal to such as him (as I’d already found in France): one’s only appeal would be to God, and God had long since been abolished from my Universe. St Odhran, however, would call on any aid, whether he believed in its existence or not. He there and then flung back his head to shout:
‘O, my Patron! O, Lucifer, Prince of the Morning, make these ignorant people aware of whom they Persecute!’
The Baron was baffled for a second by that. He hesitated. He cleared his throat. There came a murmuring from the congregation. How many used their Satanism to release their carnal lusts, how many at least partially believed in the power of Lucifer? How many were faithful converts to His cause? I did not know. But St Odhran had found our only argument and again I was impressed by the facility (if not the morality) of his wits.
‘Lucifer! Hear me!’ bellowed the clever Scot. ‘Your name is used in vain, Master, and turned upon your Son!’
The red robe made an agitated, flat-footed swirl, to address the throng. ‘He lies! He’s no adept!’
‘Adept?’ says St Odhran, gathering momentum and pushing forward his small gain. ‘True, I’m no “adept”. I am Thog-Mogoch, Count of the Fiery Pit, and Lucifer is my father! I am His emissary upon Earth. The sole vessel of His power and wisdom! I shall be called the Beast!’
He had his audience captured, whispering amongst themselves while our Baron is trapped midway, a rogue sphere between Sun and Earth.
‘Now do ye know me, foolish dabblers!’ St Odhran bellowed. ‘NOW DO YE KNOW ME!’ The echoes of the catacombs amplified his voice. He had their properties finely judged. His skills of play-acting were being fully utilised. Even I might have believed him the Son of Lucifer! ‘RELEASE ME!’
The City in the Autumn Stars Page 17