The City in the Autumn Stars

by Moorcock, Michael

  Beyond the windows day slowly gave itself up to a long pollen-coloured twilight. Shadows grew huge and faint, as though the fabric of the world were spreading outwards, threadbare, as insubstantial as smoke on the wind. The colours of the flowers and foliage grew darker and richer and the white of the room’s walls turned to a dusty pink. I never saw such a sunset, never knew one last so long. Scarcely able to walk I pushed myself upright and went to the window. The light itself seemed to possess the quality of old parchment, of tallow candle-flame, though stable and diffused. And when I held out my hand into it, it seemed to settle upon my skin like gold dust, gilding me, preserving me. I heard the tired hoofs of a tradesman’s dray echo through the streets; musky scents filled my nostrils; my flesh was alive and seemed to emit its own radiance. I heard birds calling, heard citizens speaking their conventional goodnights, coming home in ones and twos. A few sluggish bees staggered up from half-shut roses and made their uncertain way back to their hives. ‘It’s a perfect dreamy evening,’ I told my Libussa. But her mind was still on destiny and grand designs. ‘Can there be many evenings like this in one’s life, even in Mirenburg?’

  For some unguessable reason I had amused her enough for her to forget her reverie and smile spontaneously, sweetly. She asked me to bring her a goblet of water and took a passing interest in the fading light. ‘Enjoy it, dear little von Bek. It’s doubtless the only Mirenburg sunset you’ll ever see!’

  ‘What?’ I was innocently smiling back at her, though the joke was beyond me. ‘Is my destiny to die, then? A sacrifice on alchemy’s altar?’

  She wallowed in the last of the warmth. ‘Life’s ever at risk in such a quest as ours. But that’s not why I smile. This is the City in the Autumn Stars. She will maintain herself as that, whatever passes in our other world. Her seasons are predictable to the minute. What you’re witnessing, Manfred, is not the end of a perfect summer’s day. ’Tis an entire summer’s ending. Look.’

  The leaves, from being green an hour ago, were growing russet before my eyes. ‘The Sebastocrator will be stirring now,’ she said. ‘In eight hours he’ll be fully awake and ready to resume his reign. He rules only in the night and will soon be upon his throne. He’ll stay there for the rest of the year. The Autumn Stars have peculiar properties and one shadows another to produce this phenomenon. Such complicated eclipses ensure Mirenburg’s long night. Not fifty miles hence it’s day and night, morning, noon and evening, just as we’re used to. But this is the Mittelmarch where many unusual things are to be found and for most of her lifetime Mirenburg is lit only by those dying stars, millions of miles distant.’

  ‘It defies logic.’

  ‘Then rejoice,’ she said, ‘since a defiance of Nature, or at least her transmutation, is what we strive for, you and I.’

  The gold slowly faded to silver. She rose and lit lamps. Her body was crusted with sweat. I looked up into the firmament where the old stars burned. ‘Let us bathe,’ she said, ‘then dine. We celebrate the return of a familiar darkness and the true city. This dark and fundamental Mirenburg shall soon grow to full life again.’

  Later, washed and perfumed, decently dressed, we went downstairs. I heard St Odhran’s lazy tones, Klosterheim’s frigid murmur, Prince Miroslav’s hearty bellow. Libussa put her arm in mine. I asked for no more. Yet as we reached the bottom of the stairs it came to me that I had learned nothing of substance. Had she sought merely to confuse me, so that she should not be thwarted in whatever it was she really schemed?

  The evening passed in casual, easy converse. That night I followed her towards her room but she paused, stopping me, showing me to my own chamber. ‘From now until the Concordance we must save such vitality. Then we shall be utterly fulfilled!’

  Baffled, once again full of conflict, I obeyed her. It scarcely mattered what my brain said. I had renounced my own will to become her puppet. This knowledge amused me and I smiled as I disrobed, crawling into the clean sheets of my narrow bed.

  Then, as I drifted towards sleep, I began to weep.

  Chapter Twelve

  An interview with the Sebastocrator. Of Byzantium and the Holy Grail. A pact and a plan. Emissaries for Lord Renyard. Discourse with a beast who mourns the Golden Age.

  IT WAS NOT a dream, for the actions we take in dreams need not affect our waking lives; but it resembled a dream.

  The light which shone on this other Mirenburg was the light of a thousand senile suns; old light, dark gold and dull red, amber and ochre; the light of Autumn Stars diffused by a twinkling haze which was the fabric of some earlier universe, rotted and turned to dust. Shreds of weary starlight fell intermittently upon the bulk of the great town, making black marble gleam, reflecting a misty sepia before again becoming one with the massive silhouette above us. It was a unique illumination which set the city to moving like a slow ocean, creating shadows, sudden detail, so that not only buildings but faces were forever revealing a different aspect, displaying a character which, because of that inconstant definition, possibly only existed in one’s imagination. One’s senses had constantly to be re-examined beneath the Autumn Stars.

  Yet, taking Prince Miroslav’s carriage to the Sebastocrator’s palace, I was surprised to find streets and squares still filled with ordinary business, men and women opening up their shops and stalls, children tumbling and laughing, dogs barking, wagons of produce moving too slowly for impatient coachmen, self-satisfied merchants singing their songs of success and importance behind the sheets of the morning press as they filled the familiar coffee-house benches. Apprentices and school children trudged the routes to unwelcome learning; young women put before the world the results of their two-hour toilets; bucks perambulated with such practised posture they might have been the chorus in some vast performance of the Ballet. Save for the light, that ancient light, the jet and obsidian of the oversized architecture, we could have been in Weimar or Leipzig. Yet I seemed the only one to notice. Libussa leaned back across from me, lost in her own reveries of some gigantic destiny. St Odhran asked Klosterheim if Satan’s ex-general was familiar with the works of D’Holbach.

  ‘There was an Allbach,’ said Klosterheim, ‘in Bavaria.’ He tried to recall what he knew. ‘I believe he was nicknamed the Butcher of Nuremberg. But that was two or three centuries ago. Did he hang living women on hooks?’

  ‘I refer to the French philosopher, Sir. Système de la Nature?’

  But Klosterheim dwelt in the glory of his memories when his Allbach had doubtless been a recruit in the hosts of Hell and St Odhran had to raise his voice. ‘D’Holbach has written lucidly, Sir, about such things as these strange stars. Suns, he says – and forgive me if I render this poorly into German – are extinguished or become corrupted, planets scatter across the wastes of the sky; other suns are kindled, new planets formed to make their revolutions and describe new orbits, and Man, an infinitely minute part of a globe which itself is only an imperceptible point in the immense whole, believes the universe made for himself! Eh, Sir?’

  My lady stirred and glowered. ‘One expects such stuff from Voltaire! These men invent cosmologies to avoid responsibility for their moral crimes. By reducing all to universal movement one may cheerfully continue to maintain one’s behaviour, no matter how unjust. I sometimes believe Galileo invented the Cosmos to avoid his wife’s misery.’

  St Odhran answered mildly. ‘Maybe so, Madam. I was merely impressed by D’Holbach’s observation.’

  The coach advanced now across a mighty ceremonial square in which, lost in darkness, were tall columns bearing statues. A fountain of black water flumed at the centre; a pool of mercury swirled and reformed under the action of the cascade. And out of that agitated mixture of incompatible elements occasionally leapt glittering red shapes, elongated, fishlike, fanged, some five yards long. We were the only vehicle upon the black marble pavement and our horses’ hoofs set up a distant echo. I leaned from the window. Ahead was a great three-winged palace on some six or seven floors, of white and black stone with compl
icated multicoloured mosaics laid into it, with gilded domes and steeples reminding me of my days in Samarkand; they were more Oriental than European, yet not wholly eastern. The palace was surrounded by rails of silver and dark jade. Behind these was a wide courtyard and then the arched entrance to the palace. Guards were present, formal and dignified. They wore a uniform of feathered helmet, short sleeveless jacket over embroidered shirt, baggy silk trousers and boots. But for their features they might almost have been Cossacks. They were armed with pikes and short, curved swords. Reaching them, the coach stopped.

  Prince Miroslav’s coachman handed down a sealed sheet which the guard captain opened and read, becoming clearly impressed. He folded up the paper, saluted and bowed to us. ‘My Lady. Your Excellencies.’ The coach entered the gate and crossed a courtyard, passing under an arch hung with heavily embroidered banners, many showing scenes and portraits reminiscent of the ikon at Miroslav’s house. Then we were within the central bailey, lit with huge lanterns suspended from posts and brackets all the way to the top on four sides. The coach drew up at the bottom of a flight of steps down which more soldiers now marched. A tall man in a robe of green and white, wearing over this a chequered cloak and with a soft, velvet cap upon his grey head, descended from behind the guards.

  St Odhran climbed out first, helping Libussa to the ground. Then Klosterheim, moving awkwardly, joined them. I was the last and the man in check was already hailing us with: ‘Welcome honoured strangers. The Sebastocrator greets you. I represent him as he represents our Emperor and our Despot. I am called the Pankypersebastos Andreas.’ He took a rolled parchment which Klosterheim handed him. This merely contained our names and part of our purpose there. He read slowly, rolled it up again and ushered us forward. The palace was so brightly illuminated it might have been day. The walls were massive mosaics from roof to floor, depicting scenes of battle, courtship, love and trade. The pillars were all marble, also set with gold mosaics. From time to time we passed decorated alcoves containing benches or cushions. The interior reminded me somewhat of Catherine’s Kremlin Court. This Mirenburg seemingly retained more of her Slavic character than her counterpart. Yet nowhere did I see the Christian cross, though I had been told the Mittelmarch had her share of Jesus’ followers.

  Turning sharply, then turning again, we reached the beaten brass-and-gold doors to what proved to be the Throne Room (described by the Pankypersebastos as the Receiving Chamber). There, without guards or courtiers, reading a book as he sat with legs crossed in his enormous chair of granite and silver, was the Prince of Mirenburg – her ‘Sebastocrator’ (but not, we’d been warned, her Emperor or Despot). He was a heavily bearded man and on his head was a wooden crown set with rubies. His eyes were small, well-spaced, clever; his rosebud mouth made him seem at first a popinjay; he was fleshy, in need of exercise and open air, but when he spoke in rich, musical tones, rising from his throne, laying his book carefully on his seat, he was evidently a man of substance. He descended the steps to greet us. ‘In the name of the Despot and the Emperor, I welcome you to New Constantinople, capital of the world-to-be.’

  Klosterheim was our spokesman for that occasion. ‘We thank Emperor and Despot both for their hospitality and we thank you, also, Lord Sebastocrator. My name is Johannes Klosterheim, known sometimes in the Mittelmarch as Wandering Johannes.’

  ‘Aha! The same whose soul was put back in him after the battle at the Edge of Heaven!’

  ‘The same, lord.’

  The Prince looked searchingly at Klosterheim, then relaxed to listen as the man continued. ‘May I introduce Libussa, Countess Cartagena y Mendoza-Chilperic, Duchess of Crete.’

  The bearded ruler brightened. ‘Of Crete? Are you free of our conquerors at last!’

  She bowed deeply, kissing his extended hand. ‘Sadly not, my lord. Yet that’s my title. My ancestors were born there.’

  ‘Von Bek,’ said Klosterheim next.

  The Sebastocrator raised his brow. ‘The same as slew you?’

  ‘A descendant, lord.’

  I was privileged to kiss the royal rings as he said, graciously, ‘Greetings, my dear Count.’ I made no effort to explain that my father still lived and was the present Graf. St Odhran was last, approaching the fingers with a flourish, as if his lips graced the hand of a Gainsborough belle. ‘Honoured, Sir. Your servant. I’ve no old blood, I fear. No inherited Quest. No special destiny. No history of resurrection. I’m merely the boatman who ferried this trio across whatever divides my world from yours.’

  ‘Ah, the balloonist! They informed me as soon as I awoke. I should like to see your machine, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll be delighted, your honour, to demonstrate her powers.’

  ‘It shall be included on our Calendar.’ The Sebastocrator rubbed one half-shut eye, yawning. ‘Forgive me. I am as yet not fully awake. This hibernating has much to recommend it, but ’tis devilish hard to rouse from.’

  ‘Has your honour always slept through Mirenburg’s Summer?’

  ‘Always, Sir. I took the vow, you see, not to look upon the sun until Emperor and Despot are both restored to us.’

  ‘Are they prisoners, your honour?’

  The Sebastocrator was disbelieving. ‘Know you nothing of our history or our doom?’

  St Odhran made a repentant gesture. ‘’Tis my first voyage here.’

  The Sebastocrator laughed in apparent delight at my friend’s ignorance. ‘Of course! Yet in your world lies the source of my vow. In 1453 our Emperor Constantine died at Byzantium’s St Romanus Gate. He defended his city and his religion against Mohammed the Second, Lord of the Osmanli Turks. When the Emperor fell, so did the city, and the Turkish Sultans have ruled there for over three hundred years. Constantine’s successors and the remnants of our legions marched through Thessaly and Macedonia, seeking a citadel to command which they might dedicate to those they worshipped. When they entered the mountains east of here they suffered starvation, exposure, hopelessness. Then it was that Stephen Palaeologus, our newly elected Emperor, opened his heart to any being who would listen, promising his own soul, his own life, if the others could be granted a sanctuary from Turks, Bulgars and Serbians. He received a vision. The Byzantines would be granted the boon he craved but, until their capital was restored to them or their descendants, they must cease to practise their religion (though they need not deny it), whereupon they should find the sanctuary. After much debate the Byzantines agreed, believing they should easily, in a year or two, find new allies and restore their city to her former beliefs.

  ‘Next day they made their way from Summer to Winter. They had entered the Mittelmarch. Another day and they discovered this settlement, already a rich trading city, cosmopolitan and tolerant, but under threat from a daemonic tribe, half-beasts, who had wandered into the valley in search of game and loot. In return for their hospitality, Stephen, his Despot Andreius Caractoulos and their soldiers destroyed the demons, sparing only a few for slaves. The grateful city invited my ancestors to rule them. This we have done ever since, until the day comes when we must leave Mirenburg to fight against the Turk.’

  ‘You are not yet strong enough for that?’

  ‘Another important matter holds us here. Since we settled it became clear God had either been imprisoned or exiled. Special emissaries, descendants of our old priesthood, search all Realms for news of God. As yet we receive no satisfactory answer. So meanwhile we rule without benefit of Church, without consolation. We cannot demand consolation while God Himself has none. Also we rule without Emperor or Despot until we come again to Byzantium.’

  All this was given so flat and directly to St Odhran that I could make no response. Klosterheim seemed the only one of us not confounded. Either he was familiar with their beliefs or had heard such a multitude of heresies in the course of his long existence he was unimpressed.

  ‘This city has not been threatened,’ continued Mirenburg’s lord, ‘for two hundred years. The past hundred and fifty have been singularly tranquil. I regret I t
ake little interest in Mirenburg’s daily affairs, however. I have my books, my drumsticks, my toads. But you must tell me how I can be of service.’

  There came a pause. I looked from Klosterheim’s frozen skull to my Libussa, who displayed cool self-control. Klosterheim spoke suddenly: ‘We’re come to seek the Holy Grail, lord. We know it’s here.’

  The Sebastocrator was sceptical. ‘The Grail is in the hands of Satan. Your ancestor, Count von Bek, delivered it himself. It’s as much one of Satan’s spoils as the Hagia Sophia or the Great Treasure of Jerusalem!’

  ‘But where’s Satan?’ said St Odhran with mocking levity. ‘Is he not exiled, too?’

  ‘We have no dealings with Him. I understand Lord Renyard of the Moldavia accepts Satan as his liege. ’Twas from Renyard I heard the story of the Grail. He rules the Lesser City.’

  ‘Did he not speak of Satan’s desire to be reconciled with God?’ asked Klosterheim in disbelief.

  The Sebastocrator was dismissive. ‘We become used to resisting the attraction of rumours. We remain faithful to our vow.’

  ‘But Satan rules on Earth now,’ said Klosterheim in a furious murmur. ‘God’s charged Him with Man’s salvation!’

  The Sebastocrator heard nothing. For him, God was either exiled or Satan’s prisoner. If He was not, there was no meaning to the Prince’s exile and imprisonment. He laughed. ‘Well, Johannes the Wanderer, perhaps you know your own master best…’

  ‘He’s no longer my master.’

  ‘Then finding the Grail will not be easy, eh? You may search in Mirenburg if it pleases you, of course. Amongst all our citizens with their multiplicity of interests you’ll maybe discover a clue to its hiding place.’ He became vague, to ease away any of Klosterheim’s meaning. ‘While you remain in the city, be ever assured of our hospitality.’ His voice faded. He studied his throne, its cushions, the book resting upon them. ‘Can we provide anything?’ He looked absently over our heads.