The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  For all his rather elegant sans-culottism, de Montsorbier was as natural a son of the People as myself. Blood flowed in his veins blue as my own, though like me he had renounced privilege. Originally a follower of Laclos, he was now under the spell of Cloots and other extreme Hébertists. To him Robespierre was a lily-livered conservative and Marat a feeble, weak-stomached revolutionist-manqué.

  I prayed the grime of travel and the stubble of my lower face would offer sufficient disguise. When next my fellow ex-Illuminatus addressed me I changed my voice to a wheedling whine.

  ‘From whom are your orders, citizen?’ he asked.

  ‘From the Commune, citizen. I’m commissioned by Citizen Hébert himself.’ This, of course, to impress Montsorbier.

  ‘You have your documents?’ He stretched out a gauntleted hand. Silver drops of rain fell on the black leather of his cloak. ‘Citizen,’ he moved his fingers, ‘I must see your documents.’

  ‘By what Authority?’ said I.

  ‘By the People’s!’ said he, all full of righteous pomp.

  I held hard to my rôle. ‘By which of their representatives are your own orders signed, citizen? I believe I must ask to see yours before I can reveal mine. They are secret.’

  ‘Mine also.’

  ‘We are close to the border. Our enemies surround us on almost every side. You might be a Prussian, citizen, for all I know.’ I could only attempt to carry him in a rush, an attack of my own.

  ‘It is you, citizen, has the accent, not I.’ His reply was calm, still containing amusement. ‘I’m true-born French. But you, Citizen “Secret Orders”, have both the voice and the demeanour of a German!’

  ‘I’ll not be insulted. Is Lorraine Germany? I’m a loyal republican. A revolutionist before ever you aristos pulled off your calfskin boots to play at peasants as you played Arcadians under Louis.’ Aggression was my only remaining rhetorical weapon.

  Montsorbier frowned. ‘Why so insulting of a sudden? Is it fear makes you snap like an otter in a trap, citizen? Why are you afraid?’ A finger crooked and his five men dismounted, pulling muskets from their backs and readying them. Whereupon I swung up into my saddle, drove spurs deep into my poor mare’s flanks and rode straight through them. The nag’s hoofs slipped in the mud, her nostrils blubbered, her mane flew, and muskets shot off in every direction, their balls whistling about us. All missed. Pretty soon I had left the road and was galloping over deep leafy moss in the hope of evasion, of crossing into Switzerland without troubling the borderguards.

  Montsorbier’s voice was still too close as he yelled to his men to stop reloading and follow me, but their confusion had given me a minute’s start and I meant to use the old hunter to my advantage. One thing she was used to was a chase over rough ground. Thus I had the smallest chance of escape and even should I be cornered I’d be able to choose territory more easily defended. With that in mind I had my sword unscabbarded, though its unique Tatar workmanship would identify me at once to anyone who knew aught of me.

  Suddenly I was out of the forest and riding uphill between snowdrifts, rocks and brush, blundering into depths which near drowned the horse, breaking through; galloping over virgin, rain-spotted tracts of white, while behind came a floundering halloo; like drunk English huntsmen, all ways in the saddle, legs sliding, bridles hauling up resistant heads, muskets going off – only Montsorbier himself rode at full gallop after me, his face against his horse’s neck, his hair flying and tangling with the stallion’s mane, his hat askew, a great pistol in his left hand, the harness in his right: a true rider with a horse to match his skill.

  My own skill was equal if not better. My nag, to my misfortune, was not. A pistol sounded in the frozen air and I heard the ball hiss, saw snow start up and flint shiver immediately ahead. I felt relief that with his pistol discharged Montsorbier and I came closer to parity. If he drew far enough ahead of his own men it would be worth fighting him in the hope of gaining a better horse as my prize.

  I heard him shout: ‘Von Bek, I know you!’ This from a yard or two away. I wondered how far it was to the border.

  ‘Stop, traitor! Stop, you damned royalist. You’ll be tried fair!’ He was near to pleading with me, even offering me terms. He knew as well as I, however, that death was the only consequence of arrest in those days; so on I chased, risking all, driving my poor nag far too quick, hoping for some sign we were on Helvetian soil where Montsorbier would follow only so far. We vaulted a frozen stream, careered through copses, came close to falling on a dozen hidden outcrops, both mindless of the danger; while I panted and prayed the rush of air would dry my pistols or that Montsorbier, now half a mile from his nearest soldier, would fall at the next jump – leaving his mount unhurt.

  ‘Von Bek, you need not die!’ shouted my thin-lipped hounder-of-Dukes and off went his second barker with a bang loud enough to stop my heart and I’m demmed if powder didn’t singe the sleeve of my miserable greatcoat.

  ‘Zeus!’ thought I. ‘It will be the worst end any man ever had to face – to meet his Maker in a third-hand artois and a dirty neck-cloth.’

  This consideration alone was enough to power the heels which rammed the rowels into my poor beast’s bleeding flanks and she was over a hedge so neatly trimmed I would swear it belonged to some Swiss Landsdorf; though the rest of the fields seemed too rich for that notoriously impoverished mountain folk, whose main industry was the export of mercenary soldiers to various Courts abroad, especially to Rome. The Pope trusted them to guard him because, like hireling brigands everywhere, their firmest loyalty was to a full purse. Fanatic purpose is a mystery few Swiss can comprehend. They are not as a rule subject to fits of Idealism. Their lives have been too hard for long centuries so that, rich or poor, their main desire is for a warm hearth and a full belly. Only my friend La Harpe ever had any imagination amongst those mountaineers and his was essentially a practical quality, not much coloured by excess.

  Next I was sliding. With ears flat, back legs bent as if to squat, my horse bore us down towards a shallow valley brimming with unbroken snow. Some distance off, through the sleet, I detected a single low, thatched house, from which gusted piney smoke. Another shot made me look up. At the crest of the hill stood Montsorbier, reloading his second thunderer and calling after me ‘Fool!’ as if somehow I’d betrayed good taste and common sense by evading capture.

  My mare reached the valley floor, tried to stand in six foot of yielding snow, then keeled over with a groan and lay panting. She looked at the grey sky with unseeing, rolling eyes and enough steam issuing from her to power one of Trevithick’s monstrous road-engines. I disentangled my foot from the stirrup and peered back at Montsorbier, who now waved white and cried ‘Parley’. But the scarf was not easily visible amidst the general whiteness so I felt free to assume I had seen nothing and dragged out one of my own pistols. The lock sparked but the powder in the pan refused ignition, so I lost my best opportunity to rid myself of that troublesome foe.

  ‘Truce!’ he yelled. ‘We’ve something to discuss, brother.’ He was referring to older loyalties, but I was never much convinced of Illuminati advertisement and was contemptuous of his ploy.

  ‘Henceforth the world transforms herself without my help,’ I called back. ‘Let me go, Montsorbier. I’m no traitor, as you of all people must accept.’

  ‘I have read the Document of Arrest!’ His breath poured in clouds and I expected to see in it the captions of a political cartoon. He was hoping to keep me fixed until his men arrived. Yet argument is one of my great temptations. Though I risked death for remaining where I was, I found myself replying.

  ‘A mere restatement of the original tune, Montsorbier. Choose what you wish to believe. My reason for leaving France is that Truth’s become altogether too malleable. I’ll not revise my life and experience to accord with Theory. Robespierre imposes only his disappointment upon a broken dream. I refuse to be a victim of his dementia. Shall we guillotine the whole world if she refuses to accord with our original optimi
sm?’

  ‘You leave France in her moment of greatest need, like all the fine-talking fashion-plates who thought Revolution must come with the passing of a few hours, the changing of a few names.’

  I felt no pang of guilt. ‘I leave, Sir, because Robespierre wishes to lay blame everywhere but upon himself and his crazed delusions. Those delusions, Sir, would lose me my head. My motive therefore is singular. More to the point, I’d assay, than your own. Is this Switzerland, by the by?’

  ‘The border’s a league or more to the north.’

  I began inspecting my saddlebags. ‘I’ll be upon my way, I think.’

  ‘You have made an enemy of me, von Bek.’

  ‘An honest enemy’s preferable to a perfidious friend, Citizen Montsorbier. Good afternoon to ye.’ I made to revive my horse, but she had died as we talked. Montsorbier’s dark brows were drawn together in a triumphant frown. I unstrapped my bags, considered the saddle and chose to leave it, for it was in even worse condition now than when I had bought it at the ostler’s. I began to wade out of the ditch, hearing Montsorbier yelling from the horizon above (he had retired and was at that moment invisible).

  Ten paces later another pistol belched at my back but I ignored it. ‘Lecher!’ cried my miserable ex-fraternalist. ‘Libertine! Turncoat! You’ll not escape your punishment.’

  Pretty soon I heard a scrabbling and confused shouting from the hillside. All the horsemen were cautiously descending. Montsorbier led them.

  Perhaps, after all, I was still on French soil? I began to experience a dull expectation of death. I was helpless to evade so many mounted men. However, I maintained my direction and waded at last onto stonier ground, a track which appeared to pass the cottage ahead. I turned to see how far behind me they were.

  Their horses were tired and encumbered by the deeper drifts, yet it would not be long before I was caught. I drew my Tatar scimitar and dropped my saddlebags, running for the shelter of a nearby copse. Then I stopped in fresh apathy.

  Along the road before me came another detachment of some half a dozen well-equipped horsemen. All had muskets on their shoulders, giving them the appearance of regular soldiery.

  It was plain, then, that Montsorbier had driven me into a trap.

  Chapter Two

  In which I encounter young Revolutionists, old soldiers, fresh friends and foes. I also fall in love.

  AS THEY UNLIMBERED carbines from their sturdy young backs, the martial party also moved their horses, to form a wall across my road. At this, I considered throwing myself on their mercy – of surrendering in the hope they were regular soldiery, famously more merciful than the People’s peace-keepers. I instantly experienced self-disgust: since I was to die anyway, I determined to do so with a degree of dignity. Thus disposed, I put the point of my sabre to the frozen ground and my wrist upon my hip, in the attitude of a duellist awaiting his ‘en garde’. However, when six Brown Besses bellowed in unison I was astonished (for the accuracy of the English gun was famous) first that I was not struck and secondly that I was not the target at all. I turned my head.

  Four of the National Guard were down. One horse kicked on the ground with red foam starting from his mouth. Two men gasped over cracked leg-bones, while two more, with arms flung back against the snow, were stone dead. Montsorbier himself was in momentary retreat, riding hard for the security of what remained of his squadron and yelling of ‘demmed Swiss gentlemen-bandits!’

  Of a certainty his description could have been truth. The young men shooting from the saddle were all decently dressed, used to hunting customs, and were armed in uniform, even to the swords at their belts (though the fashion they adopted was a year or two past). I was reminded of youthful German landowners taking the opportunity of a holiday jaunt to Munich or Nuremberg. But their sashes, I would swear, contained the red, white and blue of Revolution.

  I decided we must surely be in Switzerland. Montsorbier knew, as well as I, the French government’s policy of respecting Helvetian territory. Angering the Swiss Confederation could hamper France’s policies elsewhere. If Montsorbier took my mysterious allies for Swiss, then Swiss they must surely be.

  My adversary was wounded. Even as he rode he clutched his shoulder, swaying badly. Reaching his own ranks, he lost his balance in the saddle then fell directly into the arms of a comrade whose own leg was damp with blood. The great black Spanish courser drew up her knees, snorting her bafflement at being suddenly riderless. Fate offered a favoured second. Sword in hand I demanded all of my legs and ran towards my pursuers, met the first head on, cut him down, and with a final thrust of my calves mounted Montsorbier’s Spaniard, turning her round once more towards Switzerland and the unknown landsmen.

  These elegant youths were casually repriming their muskets as I galloped up. They were laughing and talking amongst themselves like lordlings at the pigshoot, careless or unexpectant of retaliation.

  ‘I’m much obliged, gentlemen,’ said I with a finger to my hat.

  One of their number, a boy with red cheeks and yellow hair, bowed in his saddle. ‘Always ready to serve a citizen of the Republic.’ His French was uninspired, his accent German by its gutturals. ‘Those Swiss dogs have no nerve for an honest fight, eh, brother?’

  ‘Just so,’ said I, baffled by his logic but grateful for the mistake. ‘Just so, citizen.’ I was close to laughter as I realised how Montsorbier, by choosing to travel incognito, without flags or cockades, had defrauded himself of my skin!

  The Germans again levelled their muskets on their shoulders, but this time they fired high, in impressive unison. At which Montsorbier and his remaining men made their way with unseemly haste to the terraces and bushes of the valley walls. For a moment my Hébertist pursuer stood upright, scowling and shaking his healthy arm at me. ‘Ye’ve not escaped me for long,’ cried he like a brigand in some Ritter-und-Räuber tale. ‘I’ll find thee, von Bek!’

  But I was laughing hard behind my hand, realising I was the only one of us to be wearing the full sash and favour of the Revolution. He hesitated, then turned his back sharply, stamping up the hillside until he was gone from sight.

  ‘See them scamper!’ One of these merry youths rocked in his saddle and joined me in my laughter. ‘Is this France, monsieur?’

  I used my amusement to disguise my further surprise and managed to utter a muffled ‘I thought this Vaud, in Switzerland!’

  Their red-cheeked spokesman holstered his musket and rode closer to me. ‘In confidence, Sir, we’re lost. We were seeking the border when we came upon you.’

  ‘I’m mighty pleased ye did, Sir. Pray, why d’ye travel to France in these times?’

  He was proud of his moral nobility. I saw in him my own self of only a few years since. ‘We go to offer our services to the Revolution in the name of the Universal Republic.’

  I retained some fragments of my old conscience and believed I owed it to them to reveal at least an outline of what they must find now in France.

  ‘The Revolution will welcome you as she welcomed me,’ said I. I began to mop sweat from my forehead. ‘Where do you come from, gentlemen?’

  The answer to this simple question was also of some pride to them. A swarthy little cockerel in a red-edged tricorne on a slightly yellowed wig walked his horse past me. ‘Two from Poland, two from Bohemia, one from Venice and one from Wäldenstein,’ he informed me. He reached my fallen saddlebags and leaned down to pluck them up. He rode back as slowly as he had gone. ‘We’re part of a club, monsieur, dedicated to Republicanism and the Rights of Man. We were chosen by our fraternity to ride to France and offer our services to the Cause. We are only six, but we are the representation of more than a hundred others. Their subscription equipped us!’

  ‘Gold well-spent,’ murmured I with considerable sincerity and gratitude, since they had saved my life.

  ‘I’m named Alexis Krasny,’ said the leader. He pointed out his comrades, one by one: ‘Stefanik’ (moon-faced, bashful), ‘Poliakoff’ (assured but a little di
m-witted by the look of him), ‘Staszekovski’ (gloomy, sardonic, dark), ‘Ferrari’ (the swarthy cockerel, who now handed me my bags), ‘and von Lutzov’ (pale, Slavic, grinning). ‘We saw your colours and bethought the Swiss sought to stop you reaching the safety of your homeland.’

  ‘Indeed, Citizen Krasny, that’s a good guess at the facts.’ I was getting the feel of my Spanish thoroughbred, believing it might soon be necessary to choose swift flight once more. ‘My name’s von Bek.’

  ‘Mary’s teeth, Sir!’ Stefanik was admiring and joyful. ‘Not the same who went to France with Cloots?’

  I saw further advantage, so acknowledged him gracefully. A modest bow.

  ‘This is an honour,’ said Ferrari, suddenly less of a bravo, and the others joined in the flattering chorus. In truth I had no notion of my fame and unfortunately became still more conscientious in the light of this new responsibility. ‘I’d advise you,’ says I to the whole party, ‘that I’m no hero to the Republic. Paine is jailed, so could Cloots himself be by now. Half the people who came with us to Paris are either dead, in prison or fled. Robespierre rules France as a King, and Terror attacks innocent and guilty alike.’

  ‘Yet the tricolour remains in your hat, Sir,’ said Krasny in boyish innocence.

  ‘So it does, Sir.’ I was in two minds. Would these young idealists, if told my whole circumstance, the mistake they had just committed, promptly turn upon me and arrest me?