The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘Unfortunately those I seek seem to be embroiled in it and I can only guess where to find ’em by getting some idea of what they’re here for. I doubt if the Duchess herself is an alchemist, but her friends may well be. Should she be an imposter, seeking perhaps to cheat the cheaters, she could have heard of this congregation and dashed for it like a bee to a field of flowers.’

  ‘You describe her excellently, Captain. I’ll pass the word amongst my fellow tradesmen to tell me if she guests with one of them. If she’s here they’ll soon have her flushed for you. In the meanwhile you must stay here for as long as you wish.’

  We raised our steins in a toast to friendship as through the doors came the daughters and the maids with dirty crockery piled high. At bowls, two boys carefully poured hot water from gigantic kettles, filling the kitchen so full of vapour it was almost impossible to see Sergeant Schuster a foot or two away. He added: ‘What’s more, if she’s not staying at an inn, but privately, we’ll know that too. We all have friends and relatives who are servants at the great houses. Twenty-four hours should get you the news you need, once she’s arrived. Now, Captain, drink another pot of this ale with me, for old times’ sake, and if you’ve no other business, get you to bed for an hour or two, for ye’re looking mighty weary.’

  ‘I’ll take your advice gladly, Sergeant. Meanwhile, you’re expecting, I gather, a gentleman named St Odhran. He helped me on the road and I think he must recently have gone through Prague. Can you make sure he has a good room?’

  ‘We’ve had his letter. From Prague, as you say. Aye, we’ll treat him well, never fear. He shall have the chambers next to yours.’

  ‘You’ve a good heart, Sergeant.’ I clapped him on the arm.

  ‘Captain, this is friendship. We’re old comrades and you were always true to me. Equality under the Law and the Rights of Man – you taught me what that properly meant. You transformed my understanding.’

  I laughed, raising a hand to stop this gush. ‘You’ll swell my head, Sergeant. We always were equals. You were a Captain yourself when we met!’

  ‘Acting. A day later I lost my commission.’ The little thin lips which so belied his generous disposition broke once again in a shadow of a smile. ‘For duelling, remember, with that peacock of a Frenchman. At least I had the pleasure of pinking him before we were nabbed.’

  I had not witnessed the duel, but knew its details. I had forgotten the incident until now. ‘That peacock’s now my pursuer,’ I said. ‘Montsorbier’s an important man in France. I’d swear he still means to have my life.’

  ‘He’s following you?’

  ‘Through Austria at least. He might have given up the chase. He’s older-looking now, though still a handsome dandy, even in his Revolutionary costume.’

  ‘I’ll recognise him if he comes through my doors. Now, Sir, look you! You nod off as you sit there! Here’s Martha.’ A woman who seemed scarcely older than her girls, with ruddy complexion, dark brown hair and smiling features, returned with a curtsey my kiss upon her hand. She made a dry joke about her husband’s tall stories being reduced to truth at last and begged me, laughing, not to give details of every drunken brawl which he now retailed as a duel or an historic battle.

  Assuring her of my discretion I went soon up to soft, sweet sheets, having washed away grime inside and out. As I lay naked in the linen, enjoying the sensation, my head gradually filled with unwelcome thoughts. Would I ever find Libussa? Would she agree to acknowledge me if I did find her? Would she reject me out of hand? Did she have an amour? Now jealousy made itself monstrous fat on my uncertainties, no matter how I reminded myself the lady had given me no assurances, and merely helped me escape one who wished to kill me. Drifting into sleep I conceived the crazed notion that I must discover who my rival was. The Duke of Crete himself, perhaps? But even this fresh discomfort could not keep my eyes open for long. Soon I heard a snort or two from my own nose as I drifted into exhausted slumber, utterly dreamless at first. I recall waking and noting that it was dusk. My window revealed a darkening sky. Then I had returned to sleep, but now I began to experience the most barbarous dreams I had ever known. The awful emotion of terror which filled me was unlike any previous fear – and the images which beset me were also unlike anything in any previous dream I could recall. I was besieged by malevolent creatures of unsurpassed ugliness, menaced by something creeping, insidious and completely evil which alternately chuckled and snarled and had me in its power…

  The supernatural pack waits only to choose its moment before sucking my soul and the marrow of my bones into their foetid, misshapen mouths. I walk through tunnels with no beginning or end. Somewhere a Beast is panting. Somewhere he stamps with cloven feet upon the ground and pounds at the walls with massive fists. Is it Satan Himself? Now he wields a great stone club. It is a Bull. It is the Bull and he rages against me alone. I am naked and helpless. I am a child. I am a girl. I can obey the Bull or I can perish. But surely I shall perish in obeying him?

  I awoke, shivering with a chill but also perspiring so badly I had soaked the bed linen clean through. Before I could think clearly I had tugged on the bell rope. But it was no servant who came. It was Ulrica. She was alarmed when she observed my face, my shaking body, as, with sheet about my waist, I leaned against a tall chest. There were still voices in my head. The creatures spoke in the tones of cultured old men; old men jealous of my vitality, greedy for my youth. Look, I hear one say, as if at my shoulder, I told you he would behave like this. I warned you. I turn and there’s nought but the shuttered window. Ulrica had closed it. The yellow light of candles spread from the taper in her pretty little hand. She had lit them to ease my mind but they cast shadows, alarming me… I took a grip on myself, for the frightened girl’s sake as well as my own.

  ‘What is it, Captain von Bek? Do you have the Malaria? Another friend of Father’s, who was in India, suffers from it.’

  ‘A nightmare, child, I’m healthy enough. But I’m not much prone to bad dreams, so it came on me with some surprise!’ I made some attempt to laugh it away. She was not impressed by my poor play-acting.

  ‘You’ve nothing threatening you, Sir, in Mirenburg, surely?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I smiled. I bowed. ‘Thank you for coming so swiftly, Fräulein Ulrica. I apologise for my stupidity.’

  Her little face was grave. ‘You are safe with us, Sir.’

  ‘That I believe! But the reassurance is welcome. And so’s your company. Pray stay here a minute while I get my bearings on reality.’ I attempted to laugh but it was impossible as she continued to look at me with honest concern. I let a minute pass. The nightmares gradually faded from my mind and the shadows became merely shadows; the flickering movements were candlelight and candlelight alone. When next I smiled I met her eye and she smiled back.

  ‘Recovered,’ said I with a nod, and I thanked her again. ‘A passing fever. Exhaustion of the journey, I suppose.’

  ‘Then I’ll return to my duties, Sir.’

  I had been selfish. ‘Of course. Again, I apologise.’

  The anxieties and questions of my recent days had bitten deeper than I had realised and come out, I was sure, like a bursting boil – all at once, in a horrid rush given bizarre shape by my imagination. I have discovered, in the course of my adventures, that fear is an emotion which will seize upon any image and make of it its own. The more one refuses to acknowledge the true sources of one’s terrors, the more one becomes prone to reasonless panic, until finally madness ensues. Yet I was intrigued by the image of that horrible beast, the Bull. It could only be the Minotaur, and myself some Theseus in the Labyrinth. I made an association in my mind with Crete, no doubt!

  When Ulrica had gone with a message that I would be down soon to join the family at its supper, I washed with the water in the bowl and sat upon the edge of my bed to track the nightmare to its source if I could. It was plain I feared the power Libussa exercised over me. I feared the vulnerability of my condition. Was I becoming addicted, as some gro
w reliant upon laudanum? A further thought came into my head: A drug can never become its own antidote. Common sense told us so. Was I doing wrong in pursuing Libussa in that way? Was I like the drunkard who says he intends to give up wine but for a while must frequent the grog shop in order to know what kind of wine it is that harms him? I made up my mind to curb my pursuit of a woman who clearly had little interest in me or would have sought me out before now.

  As I completed my toilet I was determined to forget her and return to my original purpose in the city. If I craved sensual adventure, I could find it readily enough in Mirenburg’s whorehouses. Yet I knew I was in love, though the nature of my love was unfamiliar. Then I must reconcile myself to sadness in the matter. I should re-embrace comfortable cynicism as swiftly as could be. I must find something to engage my mind and, if possible, my emotions. A business enterprise. I must plot a fresh course, then lash my rudder and keep on. I would borrow funds from Schuster so that I could go that night to a brothel I knew nearby and there purge Eros from my body and my soul.

  The money was willingly loaned, the address confirmed, and after supper I slipped off to taste the pleasures which Mrs Sliney’s inventive whores provided. Yet here came another coincidence, shortly after I had exhausted my lechery and was emerging, carrying half my clothes and tucking in the rest, from an upstairs room. The house was tall but somewhat narrow and the stairs curved tightly so I must step back hard against the wall to make room for another gentleman ascending.

  He offered me an elaborate bow and grinned up at me. For a second I did not recognise him in that discreet light, then I found myself returning his grin and his bow, for it was the Chevalier St Odhran, magnificent in golden silk and black linen, his hair lightly powdered and tied, his long, aristocratic features assuming a haughty, yet amiable expression and his eyes languidly hooded. He was a fine rival to Casanova!

  ‘Sir,’ says he.

  ‘Sir,’ says I.

  ‘We are lodging, I believe, Sir, at the same Establishment. I arrived tonight, just after you had left.’

  ‘The landlord told you of my destination?’ I was surprised at Schuster’s lack of tact.

  ‘Not at all, Sir. This is a regular resting place for me.’

  ‘I commend your taste, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Well,’ he paused with his left hand upon the banister, the other raised to his chin. ‘I’ll be going up.’

  ‘And I’m off down, Sir.’

  ‘I trust ye’ll consider my suggestion we combine our resources, Sir,’ said he as we passed. ‘One carriage or one horse is all we need between us, since it’s plain our orbits become virtually identical!’

  I smiled at this apposite jest, acknowledging it with a gesture of my head.

  ‘Think upon it, Sir, I pray you.’ He passed into the upstairs room and the door closed to hide his golden figure. I was greatly delighted by the coincidence. St Odhran might prove to be the Devil Himself, but he promised to be excellent company. I felt that the very best way of taking my mind off its unwelcome obsession might be to form the partnership he suggested.

  In a hired diligence I returned whistling to my rooms at The Martyred Priest.

  Chapter Five

  I embark upon a business career. The prospect of a flying navy. The coming of the New Age and how we plan to exploit it to our advantage. We begin to raise Capital.

  NEXT MORNING AS I sat at my breakfast, into the taproom came St Odhran. He wore a blue Nankeen housecoat to his ankles, a Chinese brocade cap and Oriental slippers making him look for all the world like some successful Mogul returned home with his fortune and bearing not a scrap of similarity to the mercenary rogue of his own description. His demeanour was that of an amiable English buck, some overbred but not undereducated frequenter of White’s or Goosetree’s, a crony of the Prince Regent. I had met this type (and its Colonial imitators) before and had learned not to underestimate the English dandy. That dandyism at its best pretended a bored and foolish foppery which disguised sharp wit and resolute courage. While I was in America I had heard them dubbed Macaronis, on account of their taste for exaggerated foreign fashions, and even Washington had had a touch of the same style.

  So here he came, with a hint of lavender and rosewater, into the taproom where Frau Schuster served hot chocolate, cheese, ham, sausages, boiled eggs, gingerbread and anything else one desired. St Odhran had the good manners to refrain from asking for one of those dishes with which the English ensure the bad temper of their fighting men, in much the same way as Berserker Northmen were given strong mead, or certain Polynesian tribesmen are said to be insulted and humiliated by their wives on the eve and morning of an important battle. The English, I now know, eat mashed fish and devilled sheep’s hearts to guarantee a bad digestion (and consequent irritability). It is their abominable cooking which has given them half the world as their Empire.

  My friend was a veritable Encyclopaedia of little bows, graces and gestures: a smile here, a brace of nods to myself and Schuster, a few legs made in the general direction of a skirt or a mobcap, and then seated across from me on my right, he praised Herr Schuster’s militaria, expressing interest in the Copperplate (which Ulrica, it emerged, had water-colour’d) upon the panelled walls and asking if the landscapes were, like the trophies, of specific memories. He listened carefully with half-bent head as my old Sergeant listed the scenes and his own recollections of them.

  St Odhran was impressed, he said, by the wide extent of this veteran’s travels. He smiled gently. ‘Most Wäldensteiners seem to feel little imperative to go beyond their own borders, perhaps because they know already that the rest of the world is unquestionably less perfect.’

  ‘One thing perfection brings, Herr Chevalier,’ said Schuster readily, ‘and that’s boredom. To grow up in the certain knowledge one shall never know serious threat, nor yet much discomfort, has its own enervating influence. We Mirenburgers send our sons abroad as often and as soon as we can. Similarly, our daughters are generally given the better education. We’re proud of our traditions, but there’s danger in complacency and we seek to avoid decadence as best we can. Happily, since our population’s constantly replenished from abroad, we keep our stock pretty healthy, while many Mirenburgers remain in the service of foreign nations. Then there’s our standing army, which is of considerable strength and resources. While it’s kept entirely for our defence, it’s made up of men like myself, who’ve experienced War in all his evil forms and would not have him foul our own homes. Yet we never involve ourselves in the struggles of others. Thus no potential enemy ever considers it economical to attack us: at the same time they know they need fear nothing from us, so long as we’re left in peace.’

  ‘Truly the triumph of Reason,’ said I, half-jesting.

  ‘A state run upon such rational principles shows an example to the whole world,’ said our Chevalier. ‘Yet one wonders why her example’s not followed. By England, say.’

  ‘I believe it’s a question of acreage, Sir,’ I proposed. ‘Wäldenstein’s an ideal state because she’s an ideal size. Once a nation grows, say, to the size of my native Saxony her proportions dictate not merely the use of her resources but also her method of administration and so forth. Kings and governments look upon expansive conquest as a means of increasing both wealth and security, but the larger their domain the more problematical are their decisions, for this item must be balanced against that, one party’s interests against another’s, and all this involves a plethora of promises and compromises. The small state need hardly consider compromise at all and debate is therefore more welcome, while solutions are sooner arrived upon.’

  ‘So you would recommend a breaking of the large states into several smaller ones? A general reduction of empires!’ St Odhran shook his head as his chocolate cup went down to his saucer with a rattle. ‘It would mean the end of our civilisation.’

  ‘It could mean the end of these bloody struggles for territory,’ said Schuster.

  ‘But it will never
happen,’ said I. ‘There’s no suitable rhetoric, no vainglorious posture, no material justification, for the backward step. And since progress, the quest for Justice and Reason, is identified in all minds with the steady gaining of territory, we shall forever be in the position of knowing the solution and aware that while our race follows its present logical methods it can never solve its problems. Therefore, half at least of its hideous injustices will continue to be perpetuated, while Colonial conquest is celebrated and we vie with one another to paint as much of the map in our own colours. Look what happens in America. Having rid themselves of imperial rule, the republicans already spread the rule of might by gun and sword throughout the Indian nations. A children’s parlour-game in which each decision results somewhere in the death of thousands and the enslavement of millions! And, moreover, while we continue to judge ourselves in terms of our power, the lot of Woman will remain as miserable as ever.’

  ‘Ha!’ cried St Odhran in delight. ‘Wollstonecraftism!’ Then his face clouded and he was no doubt thinking of his native heaths. ‘Not only could you convince no-one in England of the virtue of your argument, Sir,’ he said with a sigh, rising from his chair, ‘but if you attempt to put it into action, as they did in Scotland fifty years ago, you’re called Traitor, Rebel and worse. Your people are tortured and executed. At best they’re driven into exile. While as for the women, Sir, they’re worse treated than ever. Women and children are hounded like game by brutal soldiery; raped and mutilated, killed, allowed to starve, and your very houses are burned to the ground. I hold no brief for the Stuart cause and Charles Edward’s name will forever be linked in my mind with Northumberland’s. Fine words cannot fight a battle. A mere wish for kingship is not an ideal. They were piled, those corpses, one upon the other, at Culloden, and still they ran – unarmed little boys – towards the English guns. Prince Charlie’s as much to blame for their deaths as anyone.’ During this passion, his drawling manner fled him completely and instead he pronounced his German with the fierce, rolling accents of Hibernia. Then he sank back in apology, fanned his face with one elongated Mandarin sleeve, flourished his hand and smiled. ‘Pray forgive me.’ A self-deprecating gesture to the ladies, an inclination of his head towards us. Then the familiar expression was resumed and he was saying: ‘Blood! But the large shall ever feed upon the small, the strong upon the weak, and we must not quarrel with our Lord’s will, nor indeed with His mercy.’ There was a trace of a sing-song in his tone, as if he mocked some childhood guide. He smiled suddenly and put a piece of cheese into his mouth. ‘’Tis a pretty day,’ said he.