by Tim Powers
Duffy paused another moment, then shrugged. 'You'd know best,' he said, and left, closing the door behind him.
There's no way, he thought as he headed back to the kitchen, that Werner could honestly beat Kretchmer at arm-wrestling; either Werner lied or Kretchmer voluntarily allowed himself to lose. And why would he do that? And why - weirder still - would the wife of a big, healthy-looking fellow like that be attracted to the likes of Werner? And why do you bother your head about it? he asked himself impatiently.
He found Anna scraping a pile of chopped, dried meat off a board into a pot. 'Genuine beef,' she announced when she looked up and saw him. 'Most of the inns have been serving dog and cat since before the weekend, though not calling it that, of course. We were better stocked - we'll have real pork and beef till about Thursday.' She laughed wearily. 'And even then we'll probably keep our integrity, because there won't be any dogs or cats left.'
I've been in long-besieged towns where even the rats were all eaten,' Duffy said softly, 'and we ate ants, termites and cockroaches. Some ate worse things.'
Anna put on a fair imitation of a bright smile. 'Really? I must say this does open up whole vistas for a revised menu.
He hooked a thumb at the storeroom. 'Piff still in there?'
'Well,' she answered cautiously, 'yes...'
He pushed the door open quietly so as not to startle her, and saw her and Lothario Mothertongue sitting together
on one of the few remaining hundred-pound sacks of flour. They were talking in low mutters and Mothertongue was stroking her hair. The Irishman closed the door as silently as he'd opened it.
He stood beside Anna and watched her chop an onion and then dice it. 'How long has that been going on?'
She scooped up the white bits and flicked them off her hand into the pot. 'A few days. It seems like everybody's behavior has changed during these last two weeks.'
'Do tell. Well, I'll still speak for her to Aurelianus.' 'Now there's generosity!'
He nodded. 'Biting, Anna, very biting. Rest assured I'm cut to the quick. Where will I find him?'
'Hell, I'm sorry. In the old chapel, probably. He spends a lot of time in there, doing all kinds of peculiar things with weights and pendulums and little tops like the ones Jewish children play with. And any time there's a bit of sun he'll be waving a little mirror out one of the windows. Like he was signalling, you know, but it's a windowless, high-walled court out there - the only ones who could see the flashes would be birds overhead.'
'That's the sort of thing these magicians like to do,' Duffy told her. 'See you later.'
The long hail to the western side of the inn was just as dark at mid-day as at night, and it took Duffy several minutes to grope his way through its length of varying height, width and flooring all the way to the two tall doors of the chapel. He had been hearing voices for the last hundred feet, and now saw that one of the iron doors was ajar.
Though he couldn't hear distinct words, there was something in the tone of the voices that made him cover the last few yards silently, his hand dropping to loosen his dagger in its scabbard. The same piles of boxes and stacked mops obstructed the doorway, and he carefully sneaked around the side so that he could peer into the
chapel from between two inverted metal mop buckets set atop a stack of ancient carpet rolls.
Though the light through the stained glass windows was gray and dim, Duffy's long grope through the dark hail had made his eyes sensitive to the slightest illumination. The tableau he saw at the altar looked, he thought, like the frontispiece of a treatise on some League of Outlandish Nations; of the six - no, seven - men confronting Aurelianus, two were blacks (one in feathers, the other in a long robe and a burnoose), one was the copper-skinned, leather-clad savage Duffy remembered seeing about the place five months ago, another seemed to come from the same far isles as had Antoku Ten-no, and the other three were apparently Europeans, though one was a midget.
'You've asked this before,' Aurelianus was saying with perhaps exaggerated patience, 'and I've answered before.'
The midget spoke up. 'You misunderstand, sir. We aren't asking any longer.'
Duffy softly drew his dagger.
'You'd take it by force?' Aurelianus was grinning. 'Ho! You're children with sticks coming to rescue a favorite lamb from a hungry lion.'
The black man in desert garb stepped forward. 'Two things, Ambrosius, are unarguably true. First, your power is severely circumscribed by the proximity of your inimical peer, Ibrahim, while our powers, though initially less, have remained undiminished - you are on nearly an equal footing with us now, and I don't think you could overcome all seven of us if we were to work together.'
'Were those both true things,' Aurelianus asked politely, 'or was it just one?'
'That was one. The second is this: Ibrahim will have this city, and he'll have it long before the thirty-first. The walls are tottering already, and there are fifty thousand fanatic Janissaries out on the plain waiting for a gap to run
in through. There's no way on earth this brewery will last these two weeks until All Hallows' Eve. Ibrahim will be in here in half that time, and he'll poison the Mac Cool vat, or more likely just blow it to splinters and vapor with a bomb. Do you understand? What you hoped to accomplish with the Dark is simply impossible.'
'I'm being a dog in the manger, you're saying.'
'Precisely. You would preserve the Dark beer untouched - which only means that Ibrahim will be able to destroy every last drop of it, thus insuring that it will never do anyone any good. On the other hand, if you sell some of it to us - at a fabulously high price, never fear!
- it will have served a purpose, two purposes, actually: it will have saved our lives; and out of gratitude we will help you and your King to escape from this doomed city. For though the Dark, if drawn now, would not have quite attained its full empire-redeeming strength, you know it would certainly be powerful enough to restore and rejuvenate a few old men.'
'What makes you think escape is possible for anyone?' Aurelianus asked. 'The Turks surround the city completely, you know.'
The midget spoke up again. 'You're not dealing exclusively with foreigners. Ambrosius. You and I both know half-a-dozen subterranean routes out of Vienna - one of them,' he added, nodding at the altar, 'accessible from this very room.'
Aurelianus stepped up onto the dais around the marble altar, giving the seven men the look of supplicants. 'The battle being fought here,' he said, 'is not the concern of any of you, for you have all dispensed with whatever allegiances you may once have had to East or West. My counsel to you is that you flee, by any of the routes your colleague here knows of - and bring water or wine to quench your thirst, for you won't have a drop of the Dark.'
'Very well,' said the black man in the burnoose, 'you force us to -'Don't talk, old man,' Aurelianus interrupted. 'Show me. Come up here.' He stepped back and spread his arms wide, and Duffy, peering from his hiding place, thought he could see the old sorcerer's hands flickering almost imperceptibly; like a mirage. The seven Dark Birds hesitated. Contempt put a sneer in the wizard's voice as he went on: 'Come up here, you children-playing-at-magic! Try your little spells and cantrips against the Western Magic that was growing in the roots of Britain's dark forests ten thousand years before Christ, the magic at the heart of storms and tides and seasons! Come up to me! Who is it I shall face?' He threw back his black hood. 'You know who I am.'
Duffy was actually brushed with tingling awe, for the gray light seemed to make ancient, weather-chiselled granite out of the face that looked down on them all. This is Merlin, the Irishman reminded himself, the last prince of the Old Power, the figure that runs obscurely like an incongruous thread through the age-dimmed tapestry of British pre-history.
The sorcerer reached out a hand - it wavered, as if seen under agitated water - and seemed to grab an invisible loop or handle, and pulled. The black man stumbled forward involuntarily. Aurelianus stretched forth the other hand toward the midget, whose hair Duf
fy saw twitch and stiffen at a straight-out angle; the wizard closed the fingers of that hand and the little man yelped in pain. 'I'm going to show you another way to leave Vienna,' Aurelianus said softly.
Then all seven of the Dark Birds were running for the doors, the two held ones having wrenched themselves out of Aurelianus' magical grip. Duffy scarcely had time to scuttle around to the other side of the carpet stack before they rushed past him and were sandal-slapping away down the hall.
He looked back at the altar, and saw Aurelianus staring at him. 'You appear out of a carpet, like Cleopatra,' the old wizard observed.
Duffy stood up and walked to the communion rail. 'I see Antoku wasn't the only one to get demanding,' he said. 'I'm glad I didn't ask for permission before snitching my sip of it.'
Aurelianus cocked an eyebrow at him. 'The Dark? You tasted it? When?'
'Easter night.'
The wizard frowned, then shook his head. Well, you wouldn't have been able to turn the tap if they didn't want you to have any.' He looked intently at Duffy. 'Tell me - how was it?'
The Irishman spread his hands. 'It was.. .incredibly good. I'd have gone down for more, but it seemed to paralyze me.
The old man laughed quietly. 'Yes, I've heard of it having that effect.' He crossed to a couple of narrow chairs by the windows, sat down in one and waved at the other. 'Drop anchor. Drink? Snake?'
Duffy thought about it as he walked over. 'Snake,' he said, and kicking his rapier out of the way, perched on the edge of the chair.
Aurelianus opened a little box and handed Duffy one of the sticklike things. 'You've been fighting these days. How does it look? Was our thirsty friend correct about the walls?'
The Irishman leaned forward to get the snake's head into the flame of the candle Aurelianus held toward him. 'They've got miners and sappers under them, yes,' he said when he'd got it well lit, 'but your blackamoor is wrong in thinking that it's decisive. You've got to keep in mind that October is insanely late in the year for the Turks to be here - as far as supplies go, I suspect they're in worse shape than we are, and they still have to turn around and face a damned long trip home.' He puffed a smoke ring, grinned, and tried without success to do it again. 'The walls could probably be tumbled in a day or two; the question is, do they dare wait another day or two? To say nothing of the - I'd estimate - additional day or two of street-to-street fighting that would be necessary for them actually to take the city.'
Aurelianus waited a moment, then raised his white eyebrows. 'Well? Will they dare it?'
Duffy laughed. 'God, I don't know.'
'Would you, if you were in charge?'
'Let's see - no, I don't think I would. Already the Janissaries are probably on the brink of mutiny. They'll be wanting to get back home to Constantinople - for it will take months for them to get home, and even now they've waited too long to hope to elude winter. If Suleiman stays for the - let's say - additional week it would require to break and seize Vienna, he'd almost have to winter right here, and leave in the spring; and that's long enough for even Charles the Tardy to do something about it.' He shrugged. 'Of course guessing is just guessing. He may think he could keep his Janissaries in line and hold the city till spring, crumbled walls and all. It's hard to say. I think he's shown inexcusably bad judgment in hanging on here as long as he has.'
Aurelianus nodded. I suppose you're right, militarily speaking.'
The Irishman grinned sarcastically. 'Ah. But I'm all wrong spiritually speaking, eh?'
'Well, you've got to remember that Ibrahim is the one who finally decides, and his first concern is ruining the beer - when it comes to betting on the last card, he doesn't really care if Suleiman actually takes Vienna, or if the Janissaries all die on the way home, or if Charles bloodily evicts them all from here during the winter. If he can wreck the beer before the thirty-first of this month, when we hope to draw the Dark and give it to the Fisher King, he'll have done what he set out to do - and no cost will have been too dear.'
The Irishman stood up, trailing smoke. 'Then we'll have to rely on the homesickness of the Janissaries.'
'Tell me, are Bugge's Vikings proving to be of any use in the defense?'
'Well, no. Von Salm says they're unsuited for disciplined warfare. I suppose they'll be useful if it does come to hand-to-hand fighting in the streets, but right now they're just sitting idle and frustrated in a leanto by the north barracks. You might as well have kept them living here.'
'I couldn't. It seems one of them mauled Werner and pitched him down the stairs, and he insisted they be thrown out. Bugge denied it, but Werner was adamant. Poor fellow still limps.' He tapped the ashen head off his snake. 'You know, I still have hope that they'll figure in this in some significant way. They were sent here so.. .purposefully...'
'They're a bunch of old men.
'Yes. This is a war of old men. Oh, I know Suleiman is only thirty-four, and Charles isn't yet thirty, but the conflict is old, the true kings are old - and I am perhaps the oldest of all.'
Unable to think of a reply, Duffy turned to leave.
'Will you have a drink with me tonight in my room?' Aurelianus asked.
'No,' said the Irishman, recalling what had prompted him to leave five months ago. Then he remembered the harp-playing episode of the previous night, and he shrugged fatalistically. 'Oh, why not,' he sighed, 'I'm not really due back at the barracks till noon tomorrow. What time?'
'Nine?'
'Very well.'
Duffy left the chapel and made his way back to the dining room. The Zimmermann was too far north and west to attract many soldiers these days, and it was haggard citizens that filled the tables around him. A new girl was working, and he signalled her.
'I'll have a bowl of whatever Anna's got in the pot,' he told her, 'and a flagon of Werner's burgundy - oh hell; forget the wine, make it a flagon of beer.' Speaking of Werner had reminded him that he'd intended to talk to Aurelianus about Epiphany's job. I'll tell him tonight, he thought. 'Say, does Bluto come in here anymore?'
'Who, sir?'
'The man in charge of the cannons. He's a hunchback.'
'I don't think so.' She smiled politely and went onto the next table.
Duffy sat quietly waiting for his beer, savoring the weirdly wheaty aftertaste of the snake - which he'd ditched before entering the dining room - and ignoring the curious stares of the citizens around him. When the beer came, he poured himself a mug and sipped it slowly. After a while he noticed Shrub helping to carry steaming plates out to the tables.
'Hey, Shrub!' he called. 'Come here a minute.'
'Yes, Mr Duffy?' said the stable boy when he'd delivered a plate and made his way to the table.
'You've been bringing food to old Vogel? Epiphany's father?'
'I did for a few days, but he scares me. He kept calling me by the wrong name and telling me to get liquor for him,'
'You don't mean you just stopped? Holy
'No no!' the boy said hastily. 'I got Marko to do it. He's not scared of crazy old men.'
'Marko? Is he the kid with the red boots?'
'Yes, sir,' assented Shrub, obviously impressed by the idea of red boots.
'Very well. Uh, carry on.'
Perhaps as an apology for her shortness with him earlier, Anna had the new girl carry out to Duffy a capacious bowl of the stew, and he laid into it manfully, washing it down with liberal draughts of cool Herzwesten Light. At last he laid down his spoon and struggled to his feet; he looked around the room, but there was no one in the scared-eyed crowd he knew to say good-bye to, so he just lurched to the front door and out into the street.
To the plodding Irishman the whole outdoors seemed far too bright - though gray clouds hid the sky and made a diffused glow of the sun - and the breeze was too cold, and the yells of the ragged children were unbearably loud. How many hours of sleep did you get last night, Duff? he asked himself. Well, I don't know, but it was something less than adequate for a tired middle-aged soldier with a primordial ki
ng riding on his shoulders like the Old Man of the Sea.
He sighed heavily, and turned right at the corner of the inn instead of pressing on toward the Rotenturmstrasse. Soon he had come round into the inn's stableyard, and he leaned on a clothesline pole for a few moments and looked reminiscently about.
I see Werner hasn't re-roofed the stalls that were blown up by that petard, he noted. I wonder if he still thinks I was responsible for that. Probably he does. At least somebody patched the fence where Zapolya's damned forty-pound iron ball passed through it. And over there's where the northmen were quartered.
He crossed the yard to the stables and saw that there were still several straw-filled bunks against the back wall. Almost without conscious thought he rolled into the lowest, closed his eyes and was soon asleep.
With the lucidity typical of afternoon dreams, he was sitting across a table from Epiphany. Her hair was still more dark than gray, and her expressions and gestures hadn't yet lost the careless spontaneity of youth.
Though he couldn't hear his own words - in fact could apparently only speak as long as he didn't try to listen to himself - he knew he was talking earnestly to her, trying to make her understand something. What was it he had been trying to make her understand, that long-ago morning? Oh, of course! That she'd be mad to go through with her planned marriage to Max Hallstadt - that she ought instead to marry Duffy. He paused in his speech for a sip of beer, and had a moment of difficulty in regaining the thread of his faultlessly logical argument.
'Oh, Brian,' she said, rolling her eyes in half-feigned exasperation, 'why do you only bring these things up when you're sick, drunk or tired?'
'Epiphany!' he protested. 'I'm always sick, drunk 'or tired!'
The scene flickered away, and he found himself shoving his way into the vestibule of St Peter's Church. Several of Hallstadt's friends were there, evidently posted for the specific purpose of keeping the Irishman out if he should attempt to get in and disrupt the wedding.