Genevieve 03 - Beasts in Velvet

by Jack Yeovil

  Leos brought up his foil, bent at the knees and hung his left hand in the air.

  'You have accepted the terms of this combat,' Dien Ch'ing said in his high, musical voice. 'This is a matter between gentleman and no other may intervene.'

  Von Tuchtenhagen brought up his shaking sword and Dien Ch'ing held its point against Leos's weapon.

  'The duellists shall fight until the matter is settled.'

  'First blood?' Von Tuchtenhagen suggested, a flare of hope in his tone. Leos shook his head, impatient to get on with it.

  'The victor shall be the gentleman left alive at the end of the duel.'

  Dien Ch'ing took a handkerchief from his sleeve. It was silk, embroidered with dragons.

  When the silk touched the polished wooden floor, the duel would commence.

  The Celestial's hand went up.

  Countess Emmanuelle von Liebewitz, elector, lady mayoress and Chancellor of the University of Nuln, examined her face minutely in the ornate mirror and plucked a stray hair from her arched eyebrows. 'There,' she said, 'perfect.'

  Yevgeny Yefimovich was getting tired of wearing his hood. He had sent Respighi out late last night to get him a new face, but his servant had not yet returned.

  In his upstairs rooms at the Holy Hammer of Sigmar, he addressed his most fervent followers in the Revolutionary Movement. Prince Kloszowski, the radical poet, lolled as usual, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his beard a studied mess. Stieglitz, a former mercenary who had served with Vastarien's Vanquishers, was fingering the stump where his left arm had been and groaning softly, as was his habit. The man's face was a mass of scars, the result of a few too many brushes with the aristocratic oppressor. Professor Brustellin, recently forced to resign in disgrace from the University, was polishing his round eyeglasses and drinking steadily from his ever-present, never-emptied silver bottle. And Ulrike Blumenschein, the angel of the masses, was combing out her long, tangled hair before a mirror. Between them, these people would bring down an Emperor. They believed this would usher in an age of justice for the common people, but Yefimovich knew it would lead only to a power vacuum which would allow for the triumph of Tzeentch.

  'We must seize the opportunity,' he told them, 'and exploit it for all we can×'

  'But what proof is there,' put in Brustellin, 'that the Beast is of the hated classes?'

  Yefimovich explained patiently, 'None, of course. It was destroyed by the lackeys of the Emperor.'

  'Proof that has been destroyed is the best kind,' said Kloszowski, with a sardonic smile, 'one never has to produce it.'

  'Remember, Dickon of the Dock Watch was seen to burn something at the site of the last killing,' Yefimovich said. 'That was our proof.'

  'The Ashes of Shame,' declared Kloszowski. 'That shall be the title of my next work. I'll have it written, copied and distributed by nightfall. It'll be sung in every tavern, to a dozen different tunes, by this time tomorrow.'

  Brustellin, disenchanted with words, sneered, 'More poems, just what the revolution needs!'

  The poet was angered. 'Clothhead academic! My poems do more for the cause than your dusty tracts. Poetry is for the people, not for ink-blotched scholars and dried-up prunes of clerics.'

  'I was flogged, you know,' said Brustellin, loosening his cravat, preparing to bare his back to exhibit yet again the marks left by the punishment that had preceded his expulsion. 'Twenty years of teaching and that young dolt Scheydt had me flogged and thrown into the streets.'

  He was down to his shirt and everyone was telling him not to go further. They had all seen a sight too much of Brustellin's ravaged back.

  'You were flogged and Stieglitz here was mutilated and crippled,' spat Kloszowski. 'But only I have been hanged by the hated classes'

  Dramatically, with a practiced movement, the poet pulled his scarf away to reveal the burn. The rope had been rotten and snapped itself instead of Kloszowski's neck. He had written several poems about the experience. 'I was face to face with the gods,' he claimed, 'and they were working men like ourselves. Not a plutocrat or popinjay in the lot of them.'

  Brustellin muttered something about the arrogance of princes. Kloszowski stamped his feet like a child in a temper tantrum. He hated to be reminded of his noble origins, although he was reluctant to drop the title from his name.

  'You cannot argue that I have not suffered with my working brothers, professor. My soul has been dragged through the dirt with the best of them.'

  Yefimovich spread his hands and the revolutionaries stopped arguing.

  'The Beast is the best thing to happen to this city since the thumb tax, my friends,' he said. 'For once, the people are angry with their masters. That anger is our strength.'

  'It's a shame that the Beast has killed only worthless drabs,' said Ulrike. 'The people would be more inflamed if he were to prey on decent, humble womenfolk. A good mother, or a precious daughter. Maybe a priestess of Verena.'

  'That can be arranged, my dear,' Yefimovich said. 'People are putting every crime in the city off on the Beast. If a few deaths would prove politically useful, we have people who can take care of them.'

  Ulrike nodded, pleased that her idea had been taken up.

  These people all had their reasons. Stieglitz had seen too much injustice, Brustellin had thought it through and reasoned that the rule of the Emperor was wrong, and Kloszowski thought the revolution sounded romantic, but Ulrike Blumenschein roused the rabble because she was mad. That made her the only one in the group who could pose a threat to Yefimovich. The mad often have insights that a sane person would not. If he were swept away, she would become the figurehead of the movement and, her hair trailing and eyes shining, would lead them all to be happily slaughtered by the Imperial Guard outside the gates of the palace.

  'Be ready to move at a moment's notice,' he said. 'The day is coming soon.'

  Kloszowski clapped, tobacco ash falling onto his loose shirt. He pulled on his workingman's coat and hat×Yefimovich was sure he had spent an afternoon rubbing his clothes between two stones to get that authentically proletarian tattered look×and left the room. Yefimovich nodded and the bent professor and the one-armed mercenary went after him. They all had their orders for the day. By nightfall, the city would be rumbling with dissent. The fog helped. It made everyone angry. Yefimovich fancied that he could deliver a speech blaming the Emperor for the fog and everyone would believe him.

  Ulrike was the last to go. She had taken to lingering around him lately. Being an Angel of the Revolution was a lonely job. Eventually she followed the others, on her way to the underground chambers where her trained scribes copied out the movement's pamphlets and poems, and she posed for inspirational pictures to be distributed on cards and posters.

  . Yefimovich only had to wait a few minutes before a rat-like scratching at the window told him that Respighi was back.

  He unlatched the window and his assistant crawled in. Respighi was an extraordinary mix of races. His father, it was said, had been a dwarf trollslayer and his mother a human woman under the influence of warpstone. He could usually pass for a dwarf if he wore loose pantaloons to cover his tail, although his face was pushing out recently, becoming more rodentlike. With his boots off he could climb walls and with his tail out he could hang from the ceiling. The creature loved Tzeentch as much as he hated his long-lost father.

  For the moment, he was the high priest's servant and it was his job to find Yefimovich the skins which concealed his true nature from the world.

  Respighi laid a pouch on the table.

  'How fresh is it?'

  The altered shrugged and whistled. 'Some time late last night. I've been on the dodge. Lots of watchmen out.'

  Yefimovich knew Respighi had just got lost in the fog. It didn't matter. It would be fresh enough.

  Yefimovich doffed his hood and enjoyed the slight flinch Respighi gave as he saw the high priest's face of fire. Then he pulled the new face out of the pouch and pressed it over his own.

  His fle
sh tingled as the magic worked, binding the stolen skin to his own. When it was fixed, he wiped the traces of blood away from around his still-burning eyes and licked his new lips. He tasted rouge.

  'What did you get me, Respighi? A man's face or a woman's?'

  The altered shrugged. 'Who knows? It was foggy.'

  Yefimovich felt his face. The mask was shifting, settling on to his old features. His skin was smooth, unstubbled.

  'I can tell you one thing,' Respighi muttered. 'It's human.'

  Dickon had known Schygulla for years. The dock manager had been a war chief in the Hooks long before Willy Pick's day when the watchman had been walking the waterfront with his eyes closed and his hand out. They had stroked and threatened each other many times, and the Beloved of Manann still sent him cases of wine and sweetmeats every festival day. The company brought in more goods and paid less excise than any other crew on the docks.

  When the body was discovered, Schygulla had sent a runner not to Dickon's family house but to the rooms of his mistress. The Hooks knew him too well, he reflected as Francoise 'Fifi' Messaen berated him for having her early morning despoiled by the interloper. The great Detlef Sierck had kicked Fifi out of his repertory company for being 'a talentless slut,' but the actor-manager had been wrong: Fifi was a girl of many talents, most of them horizontal. After a night with her, Dickon needed to go home to his wife and get some rest and a cup of tea. But today that wasn't going to happen.

  The runner had guided him through the fog to the wharf, where the Beast's leavings had been dragged up and gathered together on a sheet of soaked canvas. This one was worse than the others.

  'Merciful Shallya,' Dickon swore.

  A young man was sobbing at one corner of the dock. Schygulla looked at him with contempt and spat. 'That's Buttgereit,' he said. 'He found the thing.'

  Dickon understood why Schygulla called the corpse a thing. It was hard to imagine that it had ever been alive, much less a woman.

  'Do you know her?' he asked the dock manager.

  Schygulla looked disgusted. 'Are you kidding me, captain? Her own true love wouldn't recognize her after a night with our Beast.'

  It was true.

  The fog was getting into his bones. It would be time soon for Dickon to go into the back room at the Luitpoldstrasse Station and take his savings out from the hollowed statue of Verena. He had been supplementing his salary very well and should have enough to take Fifi and the children and retire to the country, somewhere far away from Hooks and Fish and smugglers and slashers.

  'Let's get some coppers down here and clear this up, captain,' Schygulla said. 'I'm losing business.'

  Dickon agreed.

  V

  The gymnasium doors opened and a huge man strode in, his heavy bootsteps like bass drumbeats.

  Dien Ch'ing paused, his arm still upraised. His kerchief fluttered but remained in his grip, hanging.

  This was all absurd, but amusing. Only trousered barbarians could bind themselves with so many rules in such a simple matter as murder.

  Graf Volker pulled his sword away and barked with panicky laughter. Viscount Leos stayed cool, his weapon still at the ready.

  'Hold,' said von Tuchtenhagen. 'I invoke the rules of chivalry.'

  Leos straightened up and let his sword rest by his side. He was a chilly character and strange for a Westerner. Ch'ing wondered if the beardless young aristocrat had any Cathay in his blood. There was certainly something subtle in his eyes.

  'I am unable to fight and so I request that my champion, Toten Ungenhauer, stand in for me.'

  Leos did not seem concerned. Von Tuchtenhagen's champion was a full foot and a half taller than the youth and had a chest as big as a barrel. He wore a tunic emblazoned with the von Tuchtenhagen arms. It left his massive arms bare.

  At the Second Siege of Praag, Ch'ing had seen Gotrek Gurnisson, the dwarf Trollslayer, in action, wielding a two-edged axe against a horde of beastmen. Toten Ungenhauer was proportioned like Gotrek, but nearly twice his size. Leos von Liebewitz was rumoured to be the greatest duellist in the Empire, but surely he could not stand against such a monster.

  Ungenhauer stepped into his master's place and took a sword. It looked like a knitting needle in his ham-sized fist. Ch'ing assumed he would throw it away and simply wrench the viscount's head off, ignoring any feeble cuts he might sustain in getting past Leos's foil. That would not be against the rules of chivalry.

  Although it was not strictly according to the code, spectators were filing in to the chamber and taking seats. A knot of von Tuchtenhagen creditors who had hoped to see the Graf Volker shredded were leaving in disappointment, but other courtiers were settling in. Ch'ing saw Johann von Mecklenberg and the future Emperor sitting high up, near the back of the hall. Hergard von Tasseninck, who had been present when the original insult was delivered, was there with his mistress. And, veiled, Marquess Sidonie of Marienburg, whose husband Bassanio had been efficiently despatched by Viscount Leos late last year in a similar duel. The most notable absence was that of the Countess Emmanuelle, who supposedly didn't care for the sight of blood.

  Von Tuchtenhagen had overcome his fear and was excitedly walking back and forth, chortling to himself and to the audience, working himself up.

  'Von Liebewitz,' he said, 'I should like to elaborate upon my comments of the last night. Your sister, I understand, spreads her legs for servants and sailors'

  The audience gasped. Leos seemed unmoved.

  'If it were dark enough, she would take a dwarf or a halfling into her bed. Or an altered if he were freakish in the right direction'

  Leos brought up his sword slowly and placed its point against Ungenhauer's outstretched blade. The giant grinned, displaying gaps in his teeth.

  'I believe it would take a beast to pleasure her to her full satisfaction,' von Tuchtenhagen spat, 'an absolute beast!'

  Ch'ing raised the kerchief and let it flutter to the floor.

  The swords clashed and parted with a resounding chink!

  Karl-Franz I of the House of the Second Wilhelm, Protector of the Empire, Defier of the Dark, Emperor Himself and the Son of Emperors, poured sugar into his coffee. He was mildly surprised that his son had not turned up yet for their hour together. It was part of the palace ritual. Karl-Franz would quiz Luitpold on his lessons and try to impart some of the wisdom he had acquired in his years of office. Still, it was not the first time the future Emperor had found some distraction elsewhere. He yawned. These days, nothing ever seemed to happen

  There was a '317' worked into the headstone above the door. On the docks, there was a joke that the sign signified the average number of bribes the Dock Watch accepted in any given week. The watchmen at the Luitpoldstrasse Station admitted him without question. The older ones recognized him and the youngsters had heard of him.

  Elsaesser said good morning and he nodded to the young officer.

  He found Economou, a sergeant he remembered, and enjoyed the burst of rage and fear in the man's face.

  'What?!'

  Harald curled his lip and held up his fist.

  A couple of bullies came up behind Economou.

  'Joost,' Harald said, 'Thommy. Have you missed me?'

  A slow grin spread over the sergeant's face. 'You're trespassing, Kleindeinst. You two, strip your tabards and eject this intruder from the station.'

  The bullies enthusiastically pulled off their apron-like garments, embroidered with the emblems of the city and of the Dock Watch and rolled up their sleeves.

  'I've looked forward to this for a long time, Kleindeinst,' said Joost. 'It took me years to work off the black mark you put on my record.'

  'Yes,' agreed Thommy, unconsciously massaging his once-broken collar bone. 'It's a delight to see you again, especially now you're a civilian'

  Harald held up his fist and uncurled his fingers, letting the officers see his badge.

  Economou's jaw hit his chainmail choker.

  'You came back?'

  Harald l
et a slow smile spread. 'Yes, sergeant. I came back.'

  Joost and Thommy hustled back into their tabards and backed off.

  'Find me a desk, sergeant. And get me what you've got so far on the Beast.'

  Economou hurried away. Joost and Thommy crammed into the door, trying to follow him.

  Harald miaowed at the retreating watchmen.

  'I beg your pardon,' said Elsaesser.

  'Pussies,' Harald explained. 'Just a pair of pussies.'

  The young officer nodded. 'Oh.'

  The double doors pushed inwards and a pocket of fog belched into the station. A man stepped out of it, gasping. It was a messenger and he had run a long way carrying a fog lantern.

  He put the dripping lamp down and got his breath back.

  'There's been another one,' he gasped, 'down at the docks. Another killing.'

  'The Beast,' said Elsaesser.

  The messenger said, 'Yes.'

  'Come on, boy,' Harald told the younger man, 'let's go goose Dickon and get this investigation underway.'

  Etienne Edouard Villechaize, Comte de la Rougierre, the ambassador from Charles de la Tete d'Or III of Bretonnia, inflated his chest like a peacock as he prepared to explain, for the millionth time, that yes, he was a dwarf and yes, did also hold high office in one of the kingdoms of men.

  'My parents were hostages for life, Gropius,' he told the dancing master. 'I was raised in the household of one of the king's ministers. My brothers were content to become jugglers and jesters. I have always felt a higher calling'

  He twirled his waxed moustaches and waved his puffed sleeve at the man, allowing a shower of lace to flutter around his arm. The auditorium of the Flamingo Club, a private theatre located on the wrong side of Temple Street, was small, but still encouraged de la Rougierre's flair for the dramatic gesture.

  'I have repudiated my dwarfish name and taken that of my noble benefactor. My body may be that of a dwarf, but my soul is Bretonnian to the core. I am the best of both races, strength and style.'