“If you’d be so kind as to give me your papers,” said the agent, extending his hand.
“I … um … well, yes, I don’t see why not.” He handed over his passport, visa, and other documentation in a neat bundle.
The man rifled quickly through them. “I shall need your ticket as well.”
“My ticket? But why?”
“So that I can escape the country, of course,” said Johannes Cabal.
Meissner bridled. “What? But … you are from Count Marechal, aren’t you?”
“I come directly from the count,” replied Cabal. “In fact, I borrowed this from him.” He drew the count’s handgun and levelled it at Meissner. “Now, time is pressing. Your ticket, Herr Meissner.”
* * *
Later, in the departure lounge — heaving with people running from tales of massacre and riot in the capital city of Krenz — Cabal studied Meissner’s documents. They were of a height, both blond, both lean. The photograph wasn’t very good, either. If Meissner had tried looking like a person instead of a civil servant, there might have been more of a problem. As it was, Cabal had only to purse his lips and give the impression that everybody he spoke to was dung on legs and he wouldn’t have any difficulties. He practised his impersonation on several small children and, when he’d got it to such a pitch that any child under five burst into tears at the sight of him, he relaxed, satisfied.
He’d left the unfortunate Meissner tied up and gagged in the bay and hoped and trusted that he wouldn’t be found until the Princess Hortense was well on her way. In the last few months, he’d found himself prey to strange twinges that, after some research, he had discovered to be his conscience. This unwelcome quality took exception to many of the perfectly logical actions he had previously committed with the regularity of habit. In the present case, however, Cabal’s conscience had apparently taken account of Herr Meissner’s occupation as a civil servant and remained as quiet as a church mouse while Cabal stuffed a dirty rag in Meissner’s mouth and trussed him up with little concern for his comfort. Even a conscience knows its limits. There might have been a slight moral tremor when he injected Meissner with a variant of the same anti-deteriorant he had used on the emperor. It caused a deep comatose state for perhaps a week in four cases out of seven. The other three would be as dead as Sanskrit long before that week was out. It was a considered risk on Cabal’s part but, after all, he wasn’t the one who’d be dead if it didn’t work properly. These were odds he could live with.
As for the gun, he had regretfully dumped it in a drum of waste oil in a supply shed. He doubted that the customs and excise officials would recognise his sword cane for what it was and would hardly care if they did, Mirkarvia being Mirkarvia. He had found his switchblade tucked unmolested into the corner of his Gladstone and had transferred it to the roll of surgical instruments for safety. It and they would barely raise an eyebrow. A revolver, however, might excite comment. Especially one with the Marechal coat of arms inlaid in the butt. There was no easy way he could explain its presence, so he didn’t even intend to try, and the gun ended up under three feet of filthy waste. Besides, it had only one round in it.
He roused himself and went to the dispatch desk to check on the details of the flight, and also to make sure that his Mirkarvian accent was as convincing as he believed it to be. He was basing it on Marechal’s own aristocratic drawl, the effect he was reaching for being that of a third son to landed gentry having been dumped into civil service after his elder brothers got the plum jobs.
The woman there checked his ticket and, despite having dealt with Herr Meissner earlier, had managed to expunge the event from her mind in sufficient detail to accept one supercilious, tall, blond man for another. She also seemed entirely at ease with his accent, which was comforting. “The flight takes two days to reach Senza, sir, where there’s a pleasant evening stopover. You will arrive in Katamenia around noon the following day. I can’t be more accurate than that, I’m afraid; the meteorological bureau reports changeable headwinds.”
“Senza, you say?” Cabal stirred around in his memory for anything relating to the place. He seemed to recall some ugly border squall a few years ago.
“It’s quite safe, sir. The state of détente remains secure.”
Did it? Cabal wondered. He remembered something about export controls between Mirkarvia and its allies in Katamenia. He doubted that some “pleasant evening stopover” was their reason for touching down in Senzan territory. More like a fine-tooth-comb search by the local authorities to make sure no military aid was making it through their territory. As if he cared. Still, it was a handsome bit of serendipity; he didn’t really want to end up in the hands of the Katamenian secret police, who would, no doubt, send him straight back to their cousins in Krenz. In Senza, he could disappear into the shadows, sneak across a neutral border, and be home in time for tea, metaphorically speaking. Splendid, things were finally starting to look up.
He thanked the woman with civility but without warmth and moved on. A step away, he paused and asked, “Is it permissible for me to join the Hortense? The lounge bores me, and I would prefer to be settling in.”
She checked the time and the departures board and nodded pleasantly. Cabal almost forgot himself and smiled but managed to turn it into a frown of self-importance, nodded curtly, and headed for the field apron. The further away he was from the police agents that cluttered the concourse, the happier he would be.
* * *
Lieutenant Hasso was Karstetz’s replacement, and was already demonstrating himself to have the charismatic flair of his predecessor. “So, this Cabal wallah beat you? And now he’s loose? Is that it?”
“He did not beat me,” grated Marechal in a patently dangerous voice that Hasso blithely failed to detect. The Count Marechal was rubbing feeling back into his recently freed hands, the pieces of bellpull rope that had bound him now lying severed on the floor.
“You are the finest swordsman in all Mirkarvia, aren’t you?” asked Hasso, trying to get his facts straight.
“Forget about swordsmanship. Cabal cheated.”
“Ahhh.”
Marechal looked at him furiously. “What do you mean, ‘Ahhh’?”
“Oh. You know.” Hasso shrugged. It was obvious he didn’t. “‘Ahh.’ As in … ‘Oho!’ I should think.”
“‘Oho’?”
“I should think.”
“Yes, you should.” Marechal decided there were more important things to do right that moment than murder new adjutants. “Is there any word of Cabal?”
“The chap who beat you?” Hasso finally caught the count’s look. “Or should I say, didn’t beat you,” he added hastily. He winked conspiratorially. “Ahhh. Oho!”
“Is there?” demanded the count.
“No. Nobody’s seen him. As soon as he beat … as soon as he’d finished here he just vanished into thin air. Some sort of magician, isn’t he? Izzy wizzy, wands and all that? Rabbits?”
“He’s a necromancer, you idiot, not a children’s entertainer. He can no more vanish in a puff of smoke than you can. Regrettably. Are all the ports being monitored? The borders? Mountain passes?”
“There is a rebellion going on out there, old man. Our chaps are terribly, terribly busy crushing the proletariat. But fear not, the orders have been sent out. Just have to hope that he shows his face.”
* * *
Business or pleasure?” asked the customs man.
“Pleasure,” replied Cabal. “The pure animal pleasure of presenting these government documents to my counterparts in Katamenia.” The officer looked at him blankly, and Cabal decided that this wasn’t going to be a meeting of minds. “A little joke. A very little joke. I’m on government business.”
“Oh? Pertaining to what?”
“Agricultural policy. I’m not permitted to say more.”
“Very fortuitous timing, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” said the officer, riffling through the stolen papers for the fourth time. Cabal wasn’t worried. Th
e man obviously wasn’t reading them. “What, with all this trouble? You just happen to be leaving the country. Very fortuitous.”
“Yes,” said Cabal, pleasantly. The customs man was clearly trying to imply that Cabal was some sort of moral coward for abandoning his country in its hour of need. Cabal didn’t mind implying exactly the same thing back. Anything to annoy the hirelings. “Isn’t it? Aboard a beautiful new ship like the Princess Hortense, too. Lucky old me, hmm?”
“Yes. Very, very lucky. Fortuitously lucky.” The officer seemed to believe that it was possible to win some sort of implication prize if he kept it up long enough.
“You have it there in a nutshell. Are you finished with my hand baggage?”
The officer waggled his moustache and looked in Cabal’s Gladstone. “What’s this?” he asked when he found the roll of surgical tools.
Cabal quickly undid the knot and unrolled it. Sitting in a spare pocket, the switchblade looked like it belonged. “Surgical equipment. My job sometimes includes pathological examinations of sick animals.”
“You’re a veterinarian?” The officer was suddenly interested.
“In a manner — ”
“Do you do parrots?”
“Not by choice.”
“What’s scales and falling feathers?”
Cabal paused. “Is this a riddle?”
“Great scales, like … sort of … dandruff.”
“Is this a test?”
“No, no.” The officer shook his head urgently. “My Liese’s got mange.”
“Liese being your parrot?”
“I thought I’d said that? Or at least as much?”
“So you did, eventually. I’m only licensed to dissect cows and sheep,” lied Cabal, having to use more inventiveness than seemed necessary or fair after all he’d been through. “I’m afraid I know nothing of” — he endeavoured to sound knowledgeable — “exotics.”
The customs officer looked at him askance and sniffed. “Well, that’s a shame. Thank you, Herr Meissner. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Not at all. We do what we do for the good of the state, yes?”
“Of course. The good of the state. Enjoy your trip, sir.”
“Thank you.” As Cabal walked out of the customs building, he had the feeling that could have gone a lot better. Then he saw the Princess Hortense and forgot all about the customs officer.
The customs officer, however, hadn’t forgotten all about him.
* * *
Lieutenant Hasso stamped into Marechal’s presence and performed a salute that was a lot of everything but brief. “He’s been spotted, sir! A customs officer at the port got suspicious and checked the wanted list.”
“Trying to leave the country, eh?” It always paid to state the obvious when dealing with men like Hasso — it would save a lot of explanation later. “We’ve got him now. I want a patrol of the household guard ready in five minutes, understood?”
* * *
Unaware of the excitement at the palace, Cabal took a long minute to gaze up in appreciative silence at the Princess Hortense. She sat in her cradle, a huge basket of pylons and girders that supported the hull where it was designed to bear this weight. Despite appearances when airborne, aeroships like the Hortense were not lighter-than-air dirigibles. Instead, they nullified their weight with banks of Laithwaite gyroscopic levitators and pulled themselves through the air using magneto-etheric line guides that located and attached the vessel to the earth’s own magnetic fields. The gyroscopes were out of sight within the aeroship’s upper hull, but the line guides — four massive aerodynamically smoothed nacelles twenty feet in length and ten square — were held at a distance from the ship’s skin by pylons jutting out just below the dorsal surface, fore and aft port, fore and aft starboard. Although these provided both propulsion and steering, there were also four great rudders set wide to aft, two thrusting downwards and two — bearing the MirkAir colours and the crest of the Imperial Warrant — up. Along her sides were the rectangular cabin portholes and, to aft, the wide picture windows of the salon. At her prow, the nose was constructed almost entirely of glass panels exposing the bridge, its command stations, control linkages, and aluminium mesh floor plates. From either side of the bridge thrust covered walkways, each ending in glass observation spheres that contained a crew station, reminding Cabal a little of the horns of a snail. These would be “flying bridges” analogous to those on a large oceangoing vessel, he guessed, there to give clear sight of the docking cradle during the approach. Members of the bridge crew were visible moving around the bridge and looking out at the field. Cabal nodded slightly with satisfaction; he respected good engineering for its purity of thought, and the Princess Hortense was clearly that.
Passengers were embarking from a balcony that extended directly from the side of the departure lounge, and he belatedly realised that he had come out of the wrong entrance. Rather than walk all the way back around again, he made for an iron spiral staircase within the cradle itself that seemed to be the crew’s entrance. Deciding not to stand on ceremony, he hefted his bag and started up the stairs. His footsteps clanged harshly as he stepped up the iron helix and the shadows the metalwork made in the low light of the dying day swept around and around him as he rose, spiralling twenty, thirty, forty feet above the field. He paused, as the gloom of the aeroship’s underside enveloped him, and looked back at the port buildings.
Past the sweep of the customs house, he thought he saw mounted soldiers, but a girder interrupted his view and he couldn’t be sure. He sniffed; there was no point getting paranoid at this juncture. He’d done what he could. Now he could only hope it had been enough.
* * *
Hasso had ridden his horse into the customs area, scattering nervous refugees. The horse, disappointed at not being allowed to ride down the common people — a favourite pastime of both rider and steed — was consoling itself by stepping surreptitiously on non-military feet. Muffled shrieks marked its progress.
Hasso stood up in the stirrups. “Where’s the cove who called the secret police?” he roared, before adding conversationally, “That’s us, y’know.”
Marechal, who had taken a moment to dismount, walked past him. “Have you ever heard of ‘discretion,’ Lieutenant?” he asked as he went by. Both Hasso and his horse looked equally bereft of a clue.
A hatchet-faced customs official, who looked as if he may have been turned down by the secret police at some point in an attempt to improve their image, strode up to Marechal, having instantly discriminated between the monkey and the organ-grinder. “One of my juniors became suspicious of the subject,” he said without preamble. “Passing himself off as an official. Didn’t look much like his passport photograph. Checked lists, called you.”
Marechal waited for a moment; the words the official’s statement seemed to be missing might be turning up late. They did not. “Good,” said Marechal finally. “Excellent work. Where is the man now?”
“Aboard. But the vessel will not get permission to leave until we are satisfied.”
Marechal’s nostrils flared. The savoury aroma of hot vengeance was wafting through the air. The Italians might prefer it cold, but they had girlie sabres, too, so what the hell did they know? “Excellent,” he said again. “Hold it until I’ve had a chance to talk to this official.” He turned his head to one side and barked, “Hasso! Come on! We’ve got him! Bring up the guards.” He waited for the inevitable clip-clopping to begin before adding, “And do it on foot, you bloody moron.”
* * *
Cabal saw the uniforms and stopped. Then he took a studied moment to recover his breath and reached the top of the spiral stairway. He’d entered the Hortense in a corner of the salon and the uniforms belonged to officers of the crew — civilian officers, not military. Even so, they looked very military. A man in his late forties with a lot of gold braid on the epaulettes of his white uniform — Cabal guessed he was the captain — was talking to a subordinate. The subordinate listened
attentively and, when he was dismissed, threw a salute and clicked his heels before leaving. Cabal sighed. What was it about this country that bred toy soldiers both inside and outside the army? The captain turned, and was surprised to see Cabal there. His brow darkened momentarily and then cleared as he walked over.
“Forgive my astonishment, sir,” said the captain, thrusting out his hand. Cabal shook it politely and without grimacing as the captain ground his metacarpals together. “Passengers usually embark through the aft gangway. Those stairs you’ve just come up are intended for the crew, Herr …?”
“Meissner,” said Cabal without hesitation, producing his stolen travel documents.
The captain smiled a little tautly and waved them away. “Not my job, sir. The purser deals with that end of things. If you were to go aft, I’m sure he’d be delighted to deal with you.”
Cabal wasn’t a man given to apologising, but he could see that he’d got off on the wrong foot here and was drawing attention to himself. He leafed quickly through his memory until he found an image of somebody smiling apologetically, and then mimicked it. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, being nothing of the sort. “I’m making a dreadful nuisance of myself. I went out onto the edge of the field to get a breath of fresh air and then, then I saw the Hortense was boarding. I really couldn’t face going all the way back through the departure lounge.” He balled his hands together in what he sincerely believed to be a contrite posture and simpered slightly. Facial muscles that had never been used previously for anything other than stony implacability and the occasional sneer screamed under the strain. “I saw the steps and just thought it wouldn’t be any bother. I can see, however, that I’ve broken your routine. I’m in the government, so I know how important order and procedure are. Why, my whole job is about order and procedure. I’m carrying the documents for the forthcoming agricultural land-remittance discussions and, believe you me, what a sad shambles they would be without a sense of order and procedure. For example, if we look at the first programme — ” Cabal reached for his case.
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