The City in the Autumn Stars

by Moorcock, Michael

  I grew disinclined to leave my room yet remained too fearful for sleep; and when the time came to venture into the streets to make the journey from The Martyred Priest to the Donan I was almost afraid to go from the confines of the inn to the carriage. Sergeant Schuster and his family bid us farewell, expecting to see us at supper that night. I knew further pangs of self-disgust at this.

  It was left to St Odhran to coax me, with patient sympathy, into the carriage which took us, all too speedily, through Mirenburg’s great walls and out upon the Little Field.

  Chapter Nine

  In which everything’s escaped – and everything escaped is fresh encountered!

  IN A CONDITION of near delirium, I allowed myself to be borne to where, in muddy snow, our balloon was already swelling. Our escape, however, was not to be made in secret for word was already out. Our vessel had been detected by the folk of Mirenburg before she was half inflated and the wall beside the Mirozhny Gate was so crowded with spectators the top was invisible. At the base of the wall people stood upon the roofs of their carriages, the backs of their mules, the seats of their wagons. The street-sellers had joined us. Red braziers glowed everywhere, both to warm the crowd and to cook chestnuts and potatoes. There were sweetmeat vendors, ginger-beer sellers, broadsheetmen (their standard rhymes and tunes suitably adapted for the occasion), gypsy women selling charms and hot apples. And all in the space of the hour it had taken to connect our balloon to the hydrogen!

  The beau-monde had made itself a kind of enclosure from red-and-white-striped canvas and now talked, as always, as if the object of its visit was not there. St Odhran’s amused dismay, whispering to me as he waved in full fashion at my side, was somewhat cheering to me. ‘Was ever an escape so well-attended?’

  I grew at once less nervous and yet more wary of sly attack. The sky was blue and so cold it might have been a single sheet of ice. A steady but only moderate breeze blew towards the south. Our balloon slowly took shape as the last of the hydrogen was pumped through one valve and into another. A barrel organ played the same banalities over and over and the mechanical monkey its proprietor substituted for the reality had more life than the tune. Red-faced women leaned against the weight of their food-baskets. Militiamen, their uniforms hastily tidied, stood on guard, muskets at the slope. They had more gold buttons and braid than any private outside the Turkish Sultan’s janissaries, and monstrous fine helmets: helmets which engulfed their heads and were moulded or engraved with an elaborate relish for classical motifs, topped with red and yellow plumes.

  Major Wochstmuth of the militia was there, eyes narrowed as he peered up at that huge, wobbling sphere of green-and-blue silk, at the undulating hose which hissed like a cobra as it passed gas from jar to ship. Elsewhere half Mirenburg’s aristocracy, many of her men and women of learning, wandered across the Little Field, their attention focused on the vast bulk of our vessel.

  The gondola was a proud and stern-eyed (if battered) bird. Most of our boxes now lay under a trap door, between the double layers of the gondola’s bottom, originally designed to carry the travelling galley required by King Louis’s pastoral enthusiasts, when shepherd-boy and shepherd-lass (in honour of Rousseau, they said) picnicked in the arbours and grottoes of Versailles’s new-fashioned Arcadia. There was room for us to sleep and food for more than a week. Once free of Mirenburg we would merely drift until some suitable landing place was sighted. We waved again as we walked towards the gondola. St Odhran had announced that we intended to ascend, tethered, to a height of five-hundred feet in order to test and demonstrate the properties of the inflammable air. The crowd grew noisy on the walls, cheering and calling out to us. The balloon thumped and tugged: she was almost filled to capacity. She lifted our gilded Gryphon about a foot off the ground, but he was still held captive by anchors, ropes and ballast. Nearby was the capstan which would as a rule wind us down to earth (and on that winch – borrowed from a barge owner at the docks – a section of rope had been designed to snap. St Odhran had rubbed at it in darkness for over two hours during the previous night).

  My partner opened the little gate allowing us to step into the gondola. He winked at me as I closed the gate behind us. The Gryphon swayed. The canopy was caught by the wind and boomed like a flaccid drum. St Odhran and I hauled in the first small anchor. The crowd cheered us again. Again, we waved.

  We were pulling in the second anchor when a carriage came in sight, drawn by four dappled mares. I guessed it was the conveyance of the Prince himself. He wished to get some measure, I supposed, of his investment. Had it been he who had given us the gas? The coach stopped nearby, only a few feet from us, the horses blowing and skittish in the shadow of the great Air-ship, and from it emerged the figures of two slender men, both swathed in fashionable black travelling cloaks and hats: unrecognisable. Then to my faint surprise, the man signalled for the coach to leave. The couple (surely the Prince and his brother, incognito) walked slowly towards our gondola, for all the world as if they were expected by us. I looked to St Odhran, he to me. Together we shrugged our mystification. Were we to be blessed? Were titles to be bestowed? Was some other ritual planned?

  Again the crowd began its wild cheering. I thought they had recognised their rulers. We were helpless. St Odhran murmurs to me: ‘Let ’em inspect us. Let ’em make any request of us. Then we’ll warn ’em of the danger of ascending with untested gas.’

  The taller man handed up the shorter, who steadied himself with a gloved palm against the side of the basket, offering me a faint bow by way of acknowledgement. Then the other jumped in, panting a little. His face was revealed as he turned towards me: ‘You can proceed, Captain von Bek. We are ready to rise.’

  ‘I’m obliged to you, Sir.’ I continued to haul in rope while below St Odhran’s hirelings untied tethering cords. But my heart was on the thump and my head was swimming, for our visitor was not the Prince of Mirenburg! It was Klosterheim and I knew he was there to hold me to my bargain. He went to lean with his back against wicker and carved wood, one hand upon a taut canopy rope, his features as expressionless as always. The other man’s face remained completely hidden. He was too tall for von Bresnvorts, perhaps a little short for Montsorbier. I could not be entirely sure of the latter idea.

  ‘What’s this, Herr Klosterheim?’ hissed St Odhran under his breath. ‘Don’t ye know, Sir, this is no more than an experiment to try the lifting power of our gas?’

  Klosterheim was joined by his companion, who wore some kind of domino mask. They stood together like two huge carrion birds, swathed in their black, and watched as we worked. Now all the ropes and anchors were free, save for the tether attached to the capstan. My heart was sinking. We had no choice but to continue and know that Klosterheim and his companion (a hired swordsman?) must be our passengers wherever we sailed. There was no chance of turning back.

  We rose with steady majesty above the Little Field, above Mirenburg, above the whole white world, and while the great crowd huzzahed and hallooed, our breath threatened to turn to ice in our mouths. The audience grew to the size of dolls, then insects, its cheering and applause a tiny sound. I remained aware of my miserable cowardice, no longer feeling godlike as I had done during my initial ascent. Everywhere was the great silence of the sky. Then the balloon had yawed and the gondola made a crazy, dangerous swing, as if suddenly pushed from the side, and we heard a vibrating, musical noise. The rope reached its maximum stretch.

  St Odhran’s stance suggested he would gladly push Klosterheim overboard at some appropriate moment. He took a step towards the gaunt intruder, then the gondola had rocked wildly again and we were all flung down. The rope had snapped, as it had been meant to snap. We were drifting free.

  I had no sense at all of exhilaration. Now we were forced to give an even more elaborate theatrical pretence than we had planned. St Odhran and I regained our footing, rushed to the side, made a pantomime of distress for the benefit of the innocents below. We pretended to shout. We displayed panic. The ship was
still swinging too much for my taste and I was flung to the floor again. Klosterheim, steadying himself by the rope and the velvet tassels (designed for this purpose) running along the top edge of the gondola, looked down at me. ‘Flying,’ he said.

  I turned my head to stare at his earnest skull. His lips moved as if seeking to frame unspeakable thoughts. He said no more on the subject. And the other man, too, was silent. He had a lithe, athletic way of keeping his balance, scarcely moving at all. It was not, I thought, Montsorbier. St Odhran was forgetful of both at that moment. He was laughing like an ape and hurling ballast down, bag after bag, at an immoderate rate, his neck-cloth whipping in the wind and his hair in wild disarray about his long face. He was careless of everything; he scarcely seemed aware any longer of the baffled Klosterheim and his close-mouthed companion. ‘Oh, von Bek, my dear! The plan’s succeeded!’

  Remindful of our company, he turned, straightening his clothing as he hung by one hand to the edge and made a quick, unbalanced bow. ‘Servant, gentlemen.’ He looked towards me. ‘Get up, man. What’s wrong?’

  I felt unwell. Slowly, after several false starts, I climbed to my feet and drew in deeper breaths. The air was a razor to my lungs. I opened a hamper and dragged out an old sea-cloak Schuster had given me and I wrapped it around my shivering body. St Odhran was oblivious of the cold. He was shouting at the Sun; shouting at the pale gold and silver of the infinite sky. There was nothing else to be seen, save the contours of white clouds in the distance and mist above like a milky lake.

  The clouds were all that remained of the malleable landscape, of the unstable past. St Odhran yelled in pleasure at the glittering canopy of our ship. A rainbow flashed across it every few seconds as the coloured silk gyrated in the sun’s light. He was taking us too high and at last realised it when the air grew distinctly thinner and even he saw that his own skin was turning blue.

  So now he reached up to his valve-wire and let out a little gas to drop us lower. ‘I’ve sighted Africa!’ He was smiling, for he joked. ‘Over there!’ Only Klosterheim looked.

  The wind had an odd relentlessness to it, neither strengthening nor weakening, neither whirling nor gusting. I had never known it so consistent, on land or sea. It might have been generated by a machine. I went to our compass. Something confused it, for the needle could not be steadied. Light struck the glass, half-blinding me. When I looked back into the gondola everyone was an unfocused shadow. Another turn of the Gryphon and the clarity was restored. Everything sharpened and the two black-clad passengers seemed a solid silhouette against the gilded wickerwork. St Odhran now squatted nearby. He was like an overbred wolf as he stared at the pair. He addressed me: ‘Has Klosterheim made introductions?’

  I shook my head. The gondola swayed regularly now: the gradual pendulum of some enormous clock.

  ‘Shall you make introductions, Herr Klosterheim?’ asked St Odhran sardonically.

  Klosterheim considered this without any hint that he had understood the implication. Then: ‘Not yet,’ he said.

  ‘Was it you, Sir, who sent us the gas?’

  The gaunt immortal shook his head and looked out at the sky. St Odhran shrugged. He reached for his map-case, smoothing the chart on the floor and trying to calculate our progress. We were travelling at a speed of some twenty miles an hour; the gauge showed it as a steady 19.7. We were heading due south and must soon, he thought, be over Italy, then the Mediterranean, then – with a wild, excited look to me – the African continent.

  Plainly he had decided to ignore our unwelcome passengers. Both of us spoke quietly together, wondering at their motive for joining us. I wondered if they might be the Landgräfin’s murderers, after all, escaping Major Wochstmuth. At this I decided to make a small test of my own. ‘Klosterheim,’ said I, ‘did you hear that von Bresnvorts had murdered his aunt?’

  The pale lips formed careful words. ‘I did not. But ’twould explain his anxiety to leave when last I saw him. And, of course, Montsorbier’s already gone with the others. Is that the reason so many soldiers searched my catacombs? Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘You know Montsorbier?’ I was on a fresh tack already.

  ‘His brotherhood had dealings with von Bresnvorts. There was talk of co-operation. Their methods and goals are dissimilar, however. Montsorbier was lodging with Bresnvorts.’

  Now the Republican’s absence was explained! He had known me captured, guessed me dead, and so made no attempt to rise before dawn to keep his appointment at the Wool Quay. But, unless my reading of his character was utterly topsy-turvy, Montsorbier would have had no part in our kidnapping, nor in the Landgräfin’s murder. Had he despaired of von Bresnvorts as an ally (in what?) and returned to France? ‘How were they in league?’ I asked Klosterheim. I pulled on heavy gauntlets to protect myself from the cold, but his hands, though clearly as frozen as my own, were naked on the rope he held. He replied in his monotone. ‘They merely debated alliance.’

  ‘Why consider one in the first place?’

  ‘On account of the predicted Conjoining.’ He was mildly surprised. ‘Every brotherhood so confers. We must gather forces, share knowledge, abolish rivalries. It is necessary.’

  ‘Scientists, occultists, alchemists? The Church? The Jews? The Mussulmans? Who conjoins for what?’

  ‘But you must know.’ He put a tongue to his lower lip. He looked towards his feet, then looked up again. His eyes were searching. He looked momentarily at his partner, but he did not respond. ‘For many centuries the various occult brotherhoods have understood that on rare occasions the stars appear in such an order in the heavens that the invisible universe intersects with the visible. Thus it becomes possible for adepts – even those who are not adepts – to cross the geometry separating one plane from another. This momentous event comes infrequently. Sometimes a thousand years must pass. Sometimes two thousand. Coincident with these concurrences are certain events in the histories of all worlds, when a watershed is reached and new realities established – sometimes because one world, normally hidden from another, influences its neighbour.’

  ‘And that’s why alchemists congregate, eh?’ said St Odhran. ‘The Baron mentioned some astral event, I recall.’

  ‘The future of our Globe can be determined,’ continued Klosterheim, almost in excitement, ‘for the next Millennium at least. Shall the machine be dominant? Or shall we have a planet where Man’s reconciled with his own Nature?’

  ‘You take an old-fashioned view, then?’ said I.

  ‘I’m neutral on that,’ said he.

  ‘The alchemists in the main are against the mechanistic philosophies of Newton, Arkwright and Tom Paine,’ said St Odhran. ‘Which makes it all the more mysterious why one should supply us –’ he pointed above – ‘with that!’

  Klosterheim turned his head away.

  ‘It’s said to be a period for the gathering of power,’ I recalled. ‘Much is decided during the time of an astral concordance: which tendency shall rule, for instance. Is that what you promised me, Klosterheim, when you promised me my own Realm?’

  ‘You shall have it still,’ he said. ‘My word was given. Even if you plotted to break yours.’

  ‘So now mankind stands between Reason and Faith, is that it?’ I was openly contemptuous. ‘Between mechanical flight and the magic carpet?’

  ‘You think you speak rationally, von Bek, but what if the supernatural regained control of the world? What if the Anti-Christ were to emerge? Would God and Satan set aside their discussion and go to War? Would Man lift his sword against both Heaven and Hell, making a reality of Revelations?’

  ‘It’s nonsense-talk, Klosterheim. The world slowly embraces Enlightenment. The age of superstition has gone the way of religious wars. The future belongs to Newton and his followers.’

  ‘There’s a battle already taking place,’ said Klosterheim firmly. ‘Armies are being drawn up. Great forces are at work everywhere. You must know this! You, of all people, have seen the evidence.’

  ‘I know
only what you’ve told me. Warlocks and witches debate to determine how to make their broomsticks fly again. But how shall they ever come together in strength? Even if your ideas had any truth, they’re so frequently, by their very character, at odds. Each claims to hold the key to the only wisdom. That’s where natural philosophers, who do not impose what they need to believe (or at least not so readily!) upon the world, but analyse what they see, have the strong advantage.’

  From the corner of my eye I saw the other man make a movement with his hand, but he restrained the gesture. Klosterheim could not rise to my bait, however. He was incapable of ordinary anger. Perhaps a deeper, hungrier anger burned like a volcanic stone at the core of his being. ‘There have ever been momentary advantages and disadvantages to those viewpoints,’ he agreed placidly. ‘But the Astral Concordance will decide the matter, at least for a while. Why, I wonder, are you such a spokesman for Reason with a family history, a family destiny indeed, more rooted in supernatural experience than most?’

  ‘Perhaps because I abhor the fictions which shape those histories, as they shape nations. A myth to me, Herr Klosterheim, is no more than a fanciful lie, allowing men and women to deceive themselves and others with all manner of fine-sounding rhetoric. A legend, if called upon to justify action, is an excuse for murder, theft, rape, genocide – any crime, so long as it’s committed in the name of a dead hero or some dignified pagan devil to whom, for political reasons doubtless, you give the title “Saint”. There may be less truth in the world than there are glamorous lies, Klosterheim, but I’ll take the few scraps we have in preference to a basketful of your Romance.’

  Klosterheim had no interest in the discussion. He seemed both bored and mystified by my attitude. His deep-set eyes were fixed on matters singular to himself. The other man drew back his cloak a little to reveal garb resembling that of a Turk. He made a small sound. What was he? I wondered. Some Oriental Magus requiring a swift passage home?