The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘There’s nought of value to take,’ said the O’Dowd.

  ‘He means the Grail,’ I said.

  ‘If that’s done,’ she continued, ‘we may go away free. And no attack shall be made on us.’

  ‘That sounds like an Englishman’s bargain,’ said the O’Dowd with a frown. ‘The same as was made at Munster, where the garrison marched out in good faith only to be butchered by the king’s army.’

  ‘Well, Sir,’ said Libussa, ‘this could indeed be English honesty, but it looks to me as if it’s the best we have.’

  ‘You’ll give up your desire for the Grail?’ I was astonished.

  ‘That search can begin afresh,’ said she, ‘once we’re clear.’

  ‘No time,’ said Klosterheim sniggering, ‘for a new beginning.’

  She ignored him, addressing our host. ‘Well, Mr O’Dowd? How does it strike you?’

  ‘Not well, Sir. I think there are insufficient guarantees. How long do we have for discussing the bargain?’

  She shrugged impatiently, as if she had already decided her strategy and was irritated by the O’Dowd’s understandable hesitation. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, that is not enough! Go out again, Sir, I beg you, and get us half an hour!’

  Klosterheim had moved subtly, picking up an emptied musket from the floor. There was a bayonet fixed to the end. With frothing lips and unstable eyes he charged directly at the O’Dowd. ‘All betray me! All conspire!’ It was like a battle-cry.

  The O’Dowd arched his back, pushing out his pelvis towards us, shoulders in the opposite direction, and a little tip of steel emerged just above the bottom button of his waistcoat. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ he cried, aghast. ‘Sirs, I am buggered!’

  Grinning like a jackal, Klosterheim had bayoneted his anus.

  There was no way a person could die with dignity from such a cowardly wound. I had seen it before, amongst Washington’s men in particular, when they punished Indian renegades. The musket was still dragging behind him, like a wooden tail, as he moved on tiptoe, trying to escape the pain, trying to ensure the metal moved no further into his vitals. ‘Stand man!’ I shouted. ‘Bend forward!’

  ‘Oh, Mother of God!’ A little blood came from his mouth now. I pulled the musket free and more blood followed it, gushing. There was no saving him. His men hardly realised what had happened. I pointed at Klosterheim, who stood, crazy-eyed, upon the stairs, then ran up past the gallery and beyond, to the upper floors. Two men left in pursuit.

  The O’Dowd was weeping, lying on his stomach at last, upon one of his own trestles. ‘This is an unseemly, un-Christian death. An unmanly death, Sirs. Would ye hear my confession?’

  ‘You’d best have a co-religionist,’ said I, signing for one of the Ukrainians to come over.

  ‘That’s what ye get, Sir, for turning your back on the Devil.’ The Red O’Dowd offered us a small smile. There was so much blood around his mouth that the smile was almost obscured. Then he changed his responses and received his consolation.

  Libussa slung a pouch of shot and powder over her shoulder and retrieved another musket. ‘The cellar,’ she cried, racing down the steps. I was torn between following her and staying with the dying Irishman. Then she was back again, shaking her head. ‘I thought it was a fresh attack on us. Come, von Bek, we’ll defend the roof. Montsorbier’s interlude is over!’

  And sure enough the horrid mob was on the move again. The walls rattled, the whole tavern threatened to fall, everything was shaking loose. The O’Dowd’s men fired back in concert – it was discipline battling disorder. I handed the spontoon with the white flag on it to the square-faced Ukrainian who took O’Dowd’s confession. ‘I’ll leave you with this, to use at your discretion.’ O’Dowd’s eyes were closed. His great red beard stuck up around his poor, pallid face as he continued to murmur the appropriate catch-phrases which he hoped would lead him through the Gates of Heaven, or at least to wait patiently outside them until Lucifer and God came to a decision. It was a terrible, vicious action of Klosterheim’s. He struck at any vital creature which possessed what he had been denied. Libussa had been right, moreover. It was that following of murderous impulse which denied him unification either with his master or with mankind.

  We were rushing up the stairs now, in pursuit of Klosterheim. Up the narrow servants’ stepway, up a spiral, then a final ladder of polished wood which pointed towards the open skylight. It was obvious he must have climbed to the roof but there was no sign of him. Some of the O’Dowd’s bravos were still positioned there, with Greek fire burning and ready to be projected, and the two who followed after Klosterheim were there, too, looking very baffled. We searched across the slopes and chimneys. He had gone. We peered over the knee-high battlements, but there was no sign of him on the ledges below, no sign of his body in the street. The Mass was like writhing, maggoty meat from that perspective. I drew back.

  ‘I’ll keep watch here,’ she said, ‘you search downstairs again.’

  I returned, flight by flight, to the taproom without seeing any sign of Klosterheim and I began to believe he had magical powers as he had claimed. O’Dowd was breathing his last and wanted me near him. I approached and placed my ear close to his mouth, to hear what he so urgently wished to tell me. ‘Don’t, Sir, I beg ye, retail to anyone the manner of my dying…’

  ‘I see no dishonour in your death, Sir. The dishonour was all Klosterheim’s.’ I made no promise.

  His eyes closed and his laboured breathing was over. But there was smoke curling under our doors and windows. ‘They’re firing us as they fired the chandler’s!’ shouted the Ukrainian. Dropping his master’s dead hand he reached for his musket again. ‘Oh, Christ, they’re using petroleum!’ The stench could have been nought else. At the same time I heard Libussa screaming from the gallery: ‘Von Bek! Up here! Hurry, man!’

  Certain that she had found Klosterheim, I took the stairs in twos, but she led me upward, all the way back to the cold air of the roof. She was shouting to the soldiers. ‘Down there. Quickly lads, you’re needed!’ Wearily they abandoned their positions and, one by one, lowered themselves through the skylight. Libussa looked oddly gratified. I was not sure we should risk leaving the roof unprotected and said so. She glared at me as if I were the victim of a March moon. ‘We’ve no further need to stay,’ she told me, and pointed upward. ‘Look, fool!’

  There was a great shadow crossing the Autumn Stars, but it was not a bird, nor yet a witch. It was St Odhran’s aerial ship, with its little sails and paddles, its monstrous round canopy and its body the form of a flying Gryphon. There were peculiar muttering noises issuing from it now. Every so often a small explosion, like a gunshot, cracked out, but no-one was firing from there. I saw sparks and feared lest they catch the inflammable gas and take the whole thing, a roaring ball of fire, to the ground.

  The thing jerked, quivered and dropped lower. St Odhran seemed to have better than usual luck in steering the craft. He shouted to us now, through a great brass megaphone: ‘Stand clear! Stand clear! We’ll throw you down a ladder!’

  The whole tavern rocked as the Mass collided with it once more. The musket-fire grew more ragged. I prayed the defenders would leave before they were overrun. Would they leave their dead leader and escape through the sewers? I was tempted to return, to order them to leave, and then, out of nowhere, I heard a voice at once strange and familiar. It called out softly to the Mass. There were no words to the song but it lulled them. As one the mob began gradually to calm, like a sea after the storm. The voice crooned on, gentling that filthy tide until it had subsided completely. Next the Mass began to sway, moaning in concert. I was scarcely able to accept the change, wondering if I were victim of an illusion. Then a rope ladder had struck the roof and Libussa began to climb, dropping her musket but keeping shot and powder. I could now see, peering from the side of the gondola, Prince Miroslav’s face. The Russian was grinning down at us, plainly delighted with the adventure.

  I did not pause to won
der for long how they had found us, but thankfully put foot to ladder, starting my own climb, which was hampered somewhat by the unwieldy sword in my sash. I reached the gondola at last and was pulled to safety by a chuckling St Odhran. Libussa was already being wrapped in a great woollen cloak by Prince Miroslav. The balloon swayed and jerked in the air. It seemed heavier and differently weighted. ‘Good morrow, St Odhran,’ said I. ‘I’m glad to see your steering’s improved!’ I, too, was slightly crazed on account of our experiences, but remembered to ask: ‘How did you know we were at the tavern?’

  ‘Don’t credit me with the steering, Sir,’ said St Odhran. ‘You can blame Prince Miroslav for that! And surely you know your lady arranged this rendezvous, when she came from here to Prince Miroslav’s in that stolen carriage!’

  I looked across at her, but she was hidden in the cloak. Now both her movements and her costume were explained. But I could not guess why she had not told me the truth. Why had she lied to me on so many issues? It suggested that she sought to manipulate us all by the best means: confusion and deceit.

  When in the next moment the gondola jerked violently, St Odhran was mystified. ‘What’s this now?’ He went to peer over the side, then whistled in surprise. ‘By God, man, I didn’t know ye were with us! Hold on for pity’s sake! I’ll drop the ladder to ye!’

  ‘Who is it?’ Libussa broke free of Miroslav’s comfort. She and I went to join St Odhran at the gondola’s side. ‘Ah!’ She was furious.

  We were high above the tavern now, with the roof at least a hundred feet below us, but there was a creature holding on to our trailing rope, swinging and kicking like a monkey. I heard his thin, desperate voice screaming: ‘Traitors! Traitors!’

  Libussa put a restraining hand on St Odhran as he stooped to gather up the ladder piled at his feet. ‘No.’

  St Odhran was disbelieving. ‘It’s your ally, Madam. Klosterheim! What? You think it more prudent to lower the balloon. If he slips he’s done for, eh? Very well –’ He reached for the valve cord but Libussa shook her head. ‘No.’

  St Odhran glared at her in outrage. ‘Madam, I’ve made it plain that I do not serve ye! Would ye have me do murder for ye now?’ He released gas from the valve. Slowly we dropped back towards the tavern roof and it became apparent that Klosterheim, with daemonic tenacity, had succeeded in climbing a few more feet up the rope. I could hear him panting, see his black eyes glowing in that terrible skull.

  ‘By God!’ said St Odhran in admiration. ‘He’ll do it without the ladder. He’s still stronger than Hercules!’

  Soon Klosterheim was little more than twenty feet from us. His expression was fixed – a silver mask of hatred which bordered on lust. He climbed steadily. He would be revenged on us all if he could and was entirely without reason. St Odhran held the descent steady, his gaze on Klosterheim almost as intense as Klosterheim’s on us. Prince Miroslav crossed the gondola to busy himself with a new piece of machinery blowing and throbbing there. Then the balloon stopped altogether, hanging as if frozen in the air. There was the sound of wind in the rigging, some mutterings from Miroslav’s machine, our own breath, and we looked down.

  Far below, the tavern was shaking violently, seemingly torn asunder by the swaying and chanting of the mob. Flames rose everywhere in Salzkuchengasse. It was as if we stared into Hell itself.

  Klosterheim clambered another few feet. His gasps became the sound of bone scraping bone. His ghastly face glowed in the hot light from the fires below. I shuddered, for it seemed that Death itself climbed implacably up through Old Night to claim our souls for damnation.

  Then Libussa had unsheathed her sabre and, before St Odhran understood her intention, had made a single expert passage and the rope was sliced!

  Klosterheim screamed, but it was not a scream of terror. He was screaming pure outrage, a predator thwarted of his victims!

  He screamed, even as he flailed towards the distant surface, towards the greedy fires and that swaying, unwholesome chorus of the damned. It seemed there was a moment when, screaming still, he clawed at the very air for support and found purchase – he was refusing to fall! During that moment I truly believed he would arrest himself in mid-descent and continue his climb. His hating eyes met mine and I shuddered.

  But those clutching, skeletal fingers found no purchase in the cold emptiness.

  Down dropped Klosterheim in noisy imitation of his old commander: Lucifer flung out from Heaven. With one last bellow of angry impotence, with one shrieking curse upon his lips, he plunged, twisting, into the flames and was consumed.

  Libussa smiled her satisfaction and sheathed the sabre, careless of St Odhran’s horror. ‘He must have been hiding in the flues,’ she said. ‘Did you notice how dusty his coat was?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  An intimation of the Nineteenth Century. Libussa displays an acquisition. An informal proposal. More Omens and Portents. Theft in the night. Our desperate pursuit.

  NOW RELATIONS ABOARD the Donan were, to say the least, somewhat strained. My lady at once began murmuring to Prince Miroslav, who leaned over her, his hair and beard blowing in the wind, listening like an old Russian boyar doing courtesy to his liege. St Odhran would not speak to her at all and, since his opinion was of no special value to her, she ignored him. Thus it was left to me to explain why Klosterheim’s killing was justified. My friend shrugged and accepted what I said. ‘But there’s been so much double-dealing in this business, von Bek, it’s impossible to guess who’s now friend and who’s foe!’

  He softened enough to explain to me, with growing enthusiasm, how Prince Miroslav had improved the Air-ship by furnishing her with an engine turning a screw. We went aft to admire the screw, a great four-bladed affair, whirling on an axle. The alchemist had also provided a new gas of his own discovery, not nearly as combustible as the Hydrogen and which he called Vodorodium. The Engine was worked, St Odhran said, by firing off tiny gunpowder charges in a series of cylinders, and while not wholly reliable it allowed him to steer against a fairly strong wind. This was not unlike the steam experiments, he told me, of the new school of British engineers, but far less bulky. The contraption was all pops, wheezes and sudden shudders: a collection of rods, cylinders and cogs whose logic defeated me. The Russian was proud of it and was pleased to explain its principles to me, but while his enthusiasm was inspiring, his language was meaningless. I was almost grateful when he returned his attention to the Duchess of Crete.

  ‘It’s ready,’ he said to her, ‘and tested as best I could.’

  ‘And all astrologers agree?’ she asked. They spoke in tones just above a whisper.

  ‘All. The Concordance will be complete in a little over twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Then we have only to consider the ritual.’ She was aglow with excitement, her smile a grimace of anticipation. But Prince Miroslav was disturbed. ‘If the transmutation could be achieved without the ritual, Madam, I believe our chances of success would actually improve…’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Angrily she turned away from him.

  ‘I still hold that it’s a perversion of our idea!’

  ‘Hold what you like, Sir!’

  The Air-ship crossed from Deeper City to Outer in a matter of a quarter-hour. Soon we were dropping down to the grassy street where Miroslav had his simple residence. The haze which filtered the old starlight parted for a moment: it was almost like early dawn as we descended. Barely conscious of what went on around me, I could scarcely believe we were rescued. The horror of all that death was paramount in my mind and I had entered a kind of shocked daze.

  The Air-ship was tethered to Prince Miroslav’s tall chimney, then it was but a step to his roof and through the skylight to his upper landing, where servants were ready with rum toddy and bricklings, blankets and towels, as if we were survivors from a shipwreck. We sat ourselves in Prince Miroslav’s parlour, where an open fire cosily danced, and soon it was possible to believe the whole episode at the tavern a terrible nightmare from which we had just awa
kened…

  Were it not for Libussa’s overbright eye and flushed cheeks, I would have been happy enough to sink into the contentment of that pleasant domesticity, at least for a few hours, but I could tell she was a primed cannon waiting for a target. She could not keep still. In a corner, she spread charts and diagrams over Prince Miroslav’s tables. She asked obscure questions of him and received cryptic replies: they spoke the argot of alchemy and natural philosophy, and half of it was mathematical while the rest concerned wombs and the binding of elements, with references to the Philosopher’s Stone, the Male Element (sulphur) and the Female Element (mercury), to incantations, tinctures, elixirs, furnaces and the final marrying. I had heard much of it before, but never understood a great deal, for it had always sounded as if one discipline were confused with another – the cracks in the logic filled in with gaudy abstraction – and the result, while sounding devilish convincing, was always a useless Hybrid when put to the test.

  I dozed in the chair next to St Odhran and from time to time instructed him in what had befallen us since we had left him at the Obelisk. Each new tale astonished him more. I said nothing of Lucifer or how I had acquired the sword my friend admired. ‘The image of the eagle is almost real, von Bek! One might believe the poor bird actually shrieked to be released.’ He laughed. ‘But I would not risk setting it free, would you? It could rip out your liver in a flash!’

  ‘Perhaps Paracelsus used it to carry off his creditors,’ said I. We were enjoying this speculation when Libussa crossed the room to put a hand on my shoulder. ‘We should get to our beds, Sir,’ said she. ‘I should like tomorrow to be our wedding day.’

  ‘Wedding?’ I turned in some surprise. She had said nothing so direct before, and I was used to such things being announced months, sometimes years, in advance. ‘What? Married at the barrel?’

  ‘Sir, I’ve no burden awaiting legitimate entry to the world, but the auguries are good. There’s no question, by all the signs, that we should not become one.’