by Simon Brett
As a result, within minutes Blotto had carved a route through them towards the beacon tower, while Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig had been quickly surrounded and disarmed. ‘Light the beacon, Blotto!’ he cried. ‘For the honour of Transcarpathia!’
Blotto was actually doing his doughty deeds for the honour of the British Isles and the Tawcester family, but he didn’t think this was the moment to explain all that. Instead, he leaped upwards towards the beacon, cricket bat in one hand, flaming torch in the other.
Before he could bring the fire to the waiting wood, however, there was another shout from the Crown Prince. ‘Watch it! They’re going to shoot the beacon down with their cannons! They’re going to destroy it! They’re going to –’ But he was gagged before he could say more.
Blotto looked coolly down on Vlsatislav’s guards. Above them on the rampart opposite stood four ancient cannons, each one manned by a gunner with a flaming fuse and each one trained on the beacon over his head. It would only require one hit to bring the structure crashing down and for ever deprive the Transcarpathian troops of their mobilization signal.
Blotto had a moment of déjà vu. As he thrust his flaming torch into the dry kindling of the beacon and took up a defensive stance with his bat, he was once again at Lord’s for the Eton and Harrow match. On behalf of Harrow, Twonker Mincebait’s bowling had cut a swathe like the Black Death through the Eton top order. Blotto – or Lyminster Minor as he was still known in those days, even though Loofah had long ago left school and joined the Coldstream – was placed at a modest number seven and, although he’d impressed as a Colt, he was still reckoned to be a rabbit for the big occasion. Hopes among his fellow players weren’t high and, although they sent him off from the pavilion with hearty cries of ‘Show him what you’re made of!’, they were all secretly afraid that that was exactly what he would do. And that Lyminster Minor was made of rather inferior stuff.
Twonker Mincebait was an old adversary of Blotto’s. They’d been at the same prep school, before following generations of their academic-talent-free families to Harrow and Eton respectively. Twonker had been a couple of years senior and at prep school Blotto had undergone the indignity of fagging for him. (Strange how the British upper classes, destined to spend all their lives ordering servants about, practise at their private schools by ordering each other about.) As a fag, Blotto had suffered no worse than most of his equals. It wasn’t the beatings, gougings and the roastings in front of the fire by Twonker Mincebait that he had minded – those he knew were part of the educational system, and character-building – but he had objected to the fact that on the cricket pitch the older boy sometimes questioned the umpire when he was given out. Whatever the rights and wrongs of a decision, questioning it just wasn’t cricket.
But Blotto would never say a word against Twonker’s skill as a bowler. In Mincebait’s hands the ball took on a life of its own, curving slowly down the pitch as if undecided about its own trajectory. It would find a rough patch of grass on which to land, very nearly far enough from the wicket to qualify as a wide, then do a couple of twiddles, a pirouette and a reverse half-chassis around the bat, before nudging gently against the stumps with just enough power to dislodge the bails. Had it been on ice, a Twonker Mincebait delivery could probably have won a figure-skating championship.
So when at Lord’s the young Blotto had faced Twonker, beaming devilishly with the confidence of being on the third leg of a hat-trick, he knew exactly what he was up against. And there was already bad blood between them. That blood was hardly purified by the contemptuous ease with which Blotto had sent Twonker Mincebait’s first ball for a massive six that landed somewhere in the middle of Regent’s Park. Nor was potential septicaemia averted by the fact that he thereafter monopolized the bowling and carried his bat at the end of the match, having secured the victory with an unbeaten hundred and seventy-six.
Blotto remembered the sheer glee of that innings, and he had a rush of the same feeling as he stood on the battlements of Zling, hopelessly outnumbered and armed only with his trusty cricket bat. This was the life, eh?
The gunner of Usurping King Vlatislav who fired the first cannon had none of Twonker Mincebait’s finesse. The ball that came thundering out was dead straight. Only Blotto’s head stood between it and the column of the warning beacon.
He remembered his training in the nets, waited till the last minute, then raised his bat to tip the ball high above the beacon for a certain six. (In fact it landed in one of the main shopping thoroughfares of Zling, smashing the window of Number 417, the Bonetti Barbershop, which, as Twinks had established, was the only place to sell the exclusive masculine fragrance, Der Jäger.)
But Blotto couldn’t worry about where the first ball went, because there was another delivery on its way from the second cannon. This he flipped neatly round to leg and heard the distant sound of it removing a gargoyle from the façade of St Aloysius’ Cathedral.
Hardly was that done before the third cannonball was hissing viciously towards him. This one was targeted at the bottom of the beacon column, round about Blotto’s knee level. Perfect. He drew his bat back for a sweet cover drive, which sent the cannonball back the way it had come – with interest. Had Usurping King Vlatislav’s gunner learned cricket, Blotto might have been out for a ‘caught and bowled’. As it was, the ball caught the Mitteleuropian in the midriff and sent him flying out of sight over the top of the ramparts.
But the attack was not over. Not only had the fourth cannon now been fired, but the first of the gunners had had also time to reload, and Blotto realized his next shot would require great finesse and accuracy. In some strange quirk of memory, the first gunner seemed suddenly to have taken on the features of Twonker Mincebait. This was the shot, this was the one he couldn’t miss. Blotto played a classic straight bat to the ball from the fourth cannon, driving it fast and true towards the barrel of the first.
The ball disappeared into the cannon’s mouth just at the moment the charge ignited. The exiting cannonball met the entering cannonball with a huge impact which flattened both of them and blocked the barrel. As a result, the whole cannon exploded in a shower of fire and metal, which blew the three remaining cannons and gunners way over the battlements.
Following immediately on the blast, Blotto was aware of a great hissing, crackling and spitting above him, as the beacon blazed into ferocious life. And then he heard the welcome sound of Transcarpathian guns booming from the border. They were acknowledging the signal! The invasion of Mitteleuropia had begun!
Blotto smiled modestly and raised his bat by way of salute. He had played longer innings in his cricketing career, but few that had been so satisfying.
23
Betrayed by a Woman!
The effect of the Transcarpathian guns on the Mitteleuropians was instantaneous. The guards scattered in disarray, showing no regard for their fellows as they crammed themselves through the doors that led back into Korpzenschloss. Within seconds Blotto had the ramparts to himself.
He then realized that Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig was not with him. His comrade-in-arms was in the hands of the enemy! For a moment, Blotto was all set to rush to the rescue. But a rare moment of rational thought changed his mind. The mission that had brought him to Zling was the rescue of ex-Princess Ethelinde. He wasn’t there to get involved in the local politics between Mitteleuropia and Transcarpathia. Besides, freeing Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig from his captors would inevitably lead to the tiresome business of having a duel with him. No, Blotto’s duty was plain. Meet up with Twinks and Corky Froggett, get the ex-Princess into the Lagonda and head off out of Mitteleuropia as soon as possible.
He made for the door through which he and the Crown Prince had come on to the battlements what felt like an age . . . but could only have been minutes . . . before. Before he went inside, he noticed that a pinkish dawn was beginning to break over the snow-capped mountains of the Mitteleuropian horizon. The beacon had been lit only just in time.
There were s
ounds of commotion and panic inside Korpzenschloss, but he did not see anyone as he descended the long flights of the spiral staircase, cricket bat still triumphantly in hand. He decided he’d pick up his luggage and then meet up with the rest of his party.
Inside the bedroom he laid his cricket bat reverently at the bottom of his valise and closed it. He was just picking up his other luggage when he heard the door open. In the space stood Svetlana Lubachev Outlined by the light from the corridor, her skimpy costume seemed to melt away, and Blotto felt as if he was facing a naked woman. His tongue was far too well bred to hang out. But he could feel the pressure of it against his lips.
‘Um . . .’ he said, not reckoning he could improve on his usual opening gambit when faced by a member of the fair sex.
‘Blotto,’ Svetlana Lubachev breathed breathily, ‘you are in danger!’
‘Really? I thought I had just dealt with it.’
‘No. Usurping King Vlatislav is out to get you. His guards will be here any minute.’
‘Oh, broken biscuits,’ said Blotto, and reached down to retrieve his cricket bat.
‘But I know a way you can escape,’ Svetlana purred on.
‘I don’t want to escape. Not without my sister Twinks and Corky Froggett.’ He felt sure there was someone else he should have remembered . . . ‘Oh yes, and ex-Princess Ethelinde.’
‘Come with me! I will take you to where they are!’
Blotto needed no second invitation. Grabbing his cases, he followed the woman out of his bedroom, through a secret door in the panelling of the corridor and down yet another narrow spiral staircase.
‘This is very good of you,’ he murmured.
‘It is the least I can do. I want to do my bit to help the restoration of King Sigismund to his rightful throne.’
‘You’re a good greengage,’ said Blotto. It was one of his highest forms of praise.
Bluish light grew, as they entered another subterranean chamber. A heavy iron door stood open. ‘Your friends are in there,’ whispered Svetlana. ‘Off that room is a secret passage which leads down to where your Lagonda is ready.’
‘Beezer,’ said Blotto. ‘Can’t thank you enough.’
‘No time for thanks! Usurping King Vlatislav’s guards are not far behind! Quick, through the door.’
‘I’ll write you a thank-you letter,’ said Blotto, as he followed her instructions.
But the moment he was inside the room, he heard the iron door clang shut behind him. He also heard the scraping of bolts being shot home, accompanied by an evil laugh of triumph from Svetlana Lubachev.
24
The Square of the Butcher
There was no sign of humanity – or even life – in Corky Froggett’s eyes. God knew by what devilish means the transformation had been achieved, but as he stood behind the gleaming brass of the Accrington-Murphy, he was now a zombie, deaf to everything but the commands of Usurping King Vlatislav The chauffeur was what he had always been, just a killing machine. But now mesmerism had ensured that he had a new master.
The Square of the Butcher had been a popular place of execution in Zling since medieval times. A long line of Schtiffkohler monarchs had recognized the political value of combining punishment with popular entertainment and, though few had aspired to the ingenuity of Black Sigismund the Sadist, public executions remained very much a part of the Mitteleuropian social calendar.
They were also occasions that kept up with the latest fashions in terms of the methods used. Stoning and breaking on the wheel were considered by the beau monde of Zling to be crude and medieval. The vogue for hanging, drawing and quartering was long past. Burning at the stake had lost its sparkle. Decapitation and garrotting had also had their day. Even the once-exciting innovation of the firing squad had rather lost its lustre.
But mowing down the condemned with the latest model of Accrington-Murphy machine gun offered everything the Mitteleuropian crowds could have wished for. Such an execution would be yet another coup for Usurping King Vlatislav, and endear him to his people as a supporter of advanced modern technology.
The Square of the Butcher was a natural amphitheatre, which in the thirteenth century had been embellished with raked stone seating on three sides by King Sigismund the Poet and named ‘The Square of Beautiful Thoughts’. He had intended the place as a venue in which his subjects would hear extended readings of his rather ornate and inaccessible work, but not a single stanza was ever spoken there, because that Sigismund had soon been killed and replaced in a coup by his brother Vlatislav the Vindictive. (Mitteleuropian history has always had a tendency to repeat itself.) The usurper quickly changed the usage of the venue and renamed it the Square of the Butcher.
For public executions a large viewing platform was always put up for the current King of Mitteleuropia and his entourage. Normally it was taken down between events, but since Usurping King Vlatislav’s seizing of the throne he had had so many old scores to settle that the structure had become a permanent fixture.
News of the day’s entertainment had spread overnight through the Zling social grapevine, and every seat in the Square of the Butcher had been filled by nine o’clock, a full hour before the fun was due to begin. At about a quarter to ten, the already extensive military presence had been augmented by a large contingent of the King’s personal guards, and a few minutes later the day’s victims were led out from the dungeons and chained to four upright stone pillars, which stood in front of a wall heavily pockmarked with the evidence of former firing squads.
The appearance of the traitors was greeted by raucous booing, but Blotto and Twinks, the latter still dressed as Klaus Schiffleich, held their heads high. They knew what belonged to an Englishman and an Englishwoman. Ex-Princess Ethelinde and Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig also held their heads high. Though they were, respectively, Mitteleuropian and Transcarpathian, Blotto reckoned their exposure to his own countrymen must have taught them what belonged to an Englishman and an Englishwoman too.
‘Sorry, Twinks me old muffin,’ Blotto had murmured to his sister, as the chains were locked around him, ‘to have got you into this gluepot.’
‘Not your pawn ticket, Blotto. I got myself into it.’
‘Yes, but the Mater will be cross. She was hoping to breed from you.’
‘Oh, toffee to that!’ Twinks had said. ‘Don’t think I’m cut from the right dress pattern to make a mother. Larks like this’re much more fun.’
‘Hoped you’d see it that way, Twinks me old biscuit barrel.’
The booing from the crowd had changed suddenly to ecstatic cheers as, from the entrance opposite the prisoners, Corky Froggett had appeared carrying the gleaming Accrington-Murphy He set it up in the middle of the square, equidistant between the royal viewing gallery and the prisoners, its barrel pointed firmly in their direction.
His face remained as implacable as a coffin lid. Blotto thought rather wistfully back to the time when his chauffeur had said that, rather than betray his master, he would allow hot coals to be sprinkled liberally over his extremities, have his finger- and toenails extracted one by one, or suffer red-hot branding irons writing the entire Sanskrit alphabet on the most sensitive parts of his anatomy. Oh well, people change. Must find out more about this mesmerism business, thought Blotto. Though he wasn’t sure when he’d have the opportunity.
Exactly as the clock of St Aloysius’ struck the hour of ten, Vlatislav himself had led the royal party out on to the viewing platform.
His arrival had been greeted by a shouting from the crowds of ‘King Vlatislav! King Vlatislav!’ so loud and manic that a casual observer might have thought each individual feared punishment if he or she did not shout their loudest (which of course they did).
With a single gesture, Usurping King Vlatislav had modestly stilled the ovation. Svetlana Lubachev stood to one side of him. (His mistress was so much more decorative than Vlatislav’s wife, Usurping Queen Gerthilde, that he preferred to have her as a consort for public occasions.) Eyes restlessly scan
ning the crowd, Zoltan Grittelhoff was stationed behind his monarch. And next to the King was a man unfamiliar to the crowds, but who was also dressed in a uniform whose frontage looked like an over-iced Christmas cake.
Vlatislav’s first act was to welcome his loyal subjects. Blotto, because of his limited linguistic skills in Mitteleuropian, had no idea what was being said, but Twinks, Ethelinde and the Crown Prince understood every word.
The usurper then introduced the newcomer to his people. ‘I would like you to meet my cousin, Prince Rudolph, who is Colonel-in-Chief of the Armed Forces of Transcarpathia.’
The entire crowd intook their breath at the same moment.
‘Yes, my friends, you thought that the Transcarpathians were our enemies, but let me tell you that I – I, your loving and benevolent King Vlatislav – have achieved in one night a feat of international statesmanship that could never even have been attempted by the corrupt and disgraced ex-King Sigismund.’
The crowd knew their cues well enough to break into immediate booing and hissing at the name.
Usurping King Vlatislav raised a hand for silence. ‘Last night I personally foiled a cruel plot not only against my royal head – which counts for nothing – but also against the peace and stability of my beloved subjects – which counts for everything!’
The crowd vociferously expressed their appreciation of their ruler’s magnanimity until they were once again silenced by his raised hand. ‘The conspirators behind this plot were the four miscreants you see chained before you!’
He halted the dutiful booing prompted by the revelation and went on, ‘I think I’ll get through this quicker if you don’t react to everything I say. At the end of the narrative I’ll raise my hands and you can give me a big burst of applause then.’ The crowd was appropriately silent. ‘Last night Transcarpathian troops were massed on our borders to invade and help restore to our throne the evil and corrupt ex-King Sigismund!’