Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  “Are you saying that you rigged it?”

  “Of course, I rigged it.” He lowered the page. “It is the thing to do.”

  “I would have liked to see a fair result.”

  “You would have still won but not as impressive.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “Bribes mostly, but also a sore hand from filling out all those ballots.” He comically shook his hand. “The main thing is that you are legitimate now – not an appointment. No more snide whispers and cheap placards. You are elected by the people. In your district anyway – which reminds me, you will need to visit it soon, for publicity purposes only … I will make sure there are plenty of photographers.”

  They were interrupted by the ring of the telephone. Krass flung himself from his easy position and picked up the handset with a swoop of his hand. “Yes, this is Krass … hmm …” He listened intently and slapped down the handset. “That was the chief editor. He wanted you to know that there is huge news coming across the wires. The sultan is dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “They are not saying.” He straightened. “Not really earth-shattering in normal times. sultans have died before. They are like everybody else when it comes to this. But in this case, it could be dramatic. Especially with what is known about his expected successor. The nephew.”

  “Do you think it will be him?”

  “The nephew, Zade, will almost certainly become the next sultan. He is an old-fashioned tyrant – and a warmonger to company that. It is said that he dresses like a medieval king, has strangled servants for cold soup, killed a dozen in duels, and keeps a harem that would make the devil blush.” Krass nodded his head with childish glee. “And on the war front sees himself as a modern-day Mehmed, ready to take the empire to its new zenith.”

  “You seem pleased.”

  “Characters like that sell a lot of newspapers. The world needs more bold figures. Reckless is better. That reminds me – I know that you are going to ask. There has been nothing from the Cheval scheme, nor his Templar pals. I know that it is early and that they are preoccupied, but I don’t know. I don’t see him as the honorable type, and I don’t trust those religious fanatics. They think they are going to be kings of Jerusalem! We certainly kept our part of the deal.”

  “I can’t think how you had that information on Harry Habsburg, and even more so, why you were sitting on it.”

  “The secrets of the trade.”

  “Cheval will be compelled to do his part. I have a good feeling. I have a sense that P. is not in danger right now, and with all these Templars sent overseas, they will find him. Their Grand Master has ordered it, and they are like sheep.”

  “And what if they don’t make good?”

  “Then they will have their fiercest enemy, and I will unleash their very own fear of hell on them.”

  “Damn, you said that with utter conviction, and I sure don’t doubt it for a moment.”

  The halls were crowded with breathless talk of the impending war. She stopped to listen. It was more interesting than the Electrical Network Committee meeting that she was late for. “The reactionaries will not waste their chance,” a loud-voiced, pink-faced councillor informed his audience of stressed clerks. “The empire will strike back. They have been blaming New Europa for all the flare-ups across their lands. Are we ready for what is coming? How will we talk our way out of this one?” She could not remember if he was a Progressive, Traditionalist, or something else.

  “Firm leadership will be needed.” A gnarled, ancient councillor was lecturing while pointing his finger at nothing. “We cannot be rudderless. The usual stalemate that everybody is content with will only see us capsize.” He flourished his arms like a stage actor in an amateur show.

  Her arm was touched from behind. It was Dagni. The girl-woman had the same innocent smile from when they first met.

  “Congratulations on your victory.” Dagni beamed.

  “Congratulations on yours.”

  “Can we talk? My office is down here.” She held Ida’s arm.

  They moved down a corridor Ida had not dared to tread before. They were walking through the part of the Forum complex that housed the offices of the Traditionalists – the sworn enemy. The people that they passed stopped to gawk at her. They went through a narrow corridor and down a spiral staircase. Dagni was eager to lead, and Ida realized that she had not let go of her arm. “My office is what you could call the low rent. I believe when they last expanded the number of councillors, they converted the cleaner’s quarters.” She stopped at a door that was at the end of a dead-end corridor and had an opaque glass window. She unlocked the door and let Ida pass inside. “We will not be interrupted down here.”

  The office had only room for a desk, two chairs on either side, and bookshelves that covered a wall. There was no window, as they were underground. Ida scanned the bookshelves as she sat down. They were filled with cheap-looking publications of the kind that people paid to have printed and gave away. The desk was stained by countless coffee-cup rings and had disorganized, open pads and writing materials strewn across it. Typical antigovernment posters covered one of the walls – warning the state to keep its distance or else. Dagni squeezed through to her side of the desk.

  “I think you know why I want to talk,” Dagni started in a conspiratorial voice.

  Ida returned a modest smile.

  “It is all that people are talking about – or maybe not so much now that the sultan is dead. Good riddance to him. Yet it is even giving this news a challenge.”

  “The talk is that the next sultan will be much worse, and war is imminent.”

  “One devil is not worse than another – a devil is a devil. And war is always imminent. It has been for the last one hundred years. You know what I am talking about, don’t you? The Trio. It is drastically overdue for the vacancy to be filled. A Trio can’t work if there are only two.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I have been following this.”

  “Following! Your name has been right in the middle of discussions.”

  “Ha, I’m not thinking of that. I would be younger than Montague the younger or Montague the later. I am not sure which one.”

  “That does not matter. You have the experience of your family to hold you up. Von Esbeck. My mother still has a portrait of your grandfather in her sitting room.”

  “I use the name Revel. I don’t have the votes, so I am not going to bother thinking about it.”

  “How short are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many votes are you from having the votes?”

  “Ah, my numbers man, who really does not have much experience at this – he’s a journalist – reckons twelve … but I’m not sure.”

  “I can get you twelve.”

  Ida staggered forward. Both her hands landed open on the table. “What? Why would you do that? You have your own candidate.”

  “I have twelve in my faction. We are not going to support the usual run-of-the-mill Traditionalist candidate. We are at the edge of the party, and we intend to blow things up. We want to work with someone exceptional. You are that person.” Dagni radiated.

  Ida dropped her head and exhaled so that papers on the table were shifted.

  “You are shocked,” Dagni said and leaned comfortably back in her chair.

  “How do you know I am that person?”

  “Listen to this. It is from a speech. ‘A genius political party is one that creates poor people with its policies and then convinces those poor people that the only way they can get out of poverty is to vote for it.’ Do you know who said this? It was you. You said it about the Progressive Party. I told you I was a fan. It is from your university graduation speech.” Dagni reached over and put her hands on both of Ida’s hands and clutched them tightly. “Ida, you are going to be one of the most powerful peo
ple in this city.”

  Ida arrived at the place that was called Paradise. She could see no guests in the shadowy light. The waiter who had organized the salvage of Hassan’s body was standing behind the bar. His face had the youthful, well-cut features of a matinee idol. She had returned often since that fateful night, always sitting in her usual place. There was a lot to be explained. It was pieced together slowly. She had questioned how Hassan afforded the rent for such a prestigious location. She was told that he paid no rent because he owned the floor and many others in the building. Likewise, the running costs were not a problem, as Hassan had spoken of stockpiles of capital invested in gilt-edged securities whose six-monthly coupons were enough to cover costs for years at a time.

  She sunk into the comfortable chair, crossed her legs, and looked over the never-ending Metropolis. The waiter-barman had stealthily crossed to her table. He stood with his hands behind his back. She watched his reflection in the window. “Is it the usual, madam?”

  “It will be,” she answered. He turned with precise movements. “Wait. Could you come back a moment?” He stepped in front of her and kept his movements militarylike. “What is it you do?”

  “I am the chief barkeeper, madam.”

  “Mm, and what else?”

  “I completed many assignments for Hassan,” he answered with an empty face. “Madam, when you are ready – we await your commands.”

  “Assignments? Commands? Like what?”

  “Perhaps if I show you the office of the Old Man, you will comprehend better.” He held up his arm for her to follow him and moved toward the bar.

  There was a hidden mirror door at the rear of the bar. He pushed against it, and it opened. He led her down a long, dark corridor. She touched her finger against the polished marble of the walls. He turned a switch, and faint lights came on with enough illumination to see ahead. A short series of glassy steps led upward to a solid steel door. The barkeeper stopped on the landing. He held out his hand, and there was a key on his palm. “I should not go in without the proper invitation. It is yours now. I am sure the invitation will be forthcoming in time.” His face kept the same drab seriousness. “Stay as long as you like.”

  She unlocked and pushed open the heavy door. She pulled a lever for the lights, stood still, and gaped. There was too much to absorb. It was a room from another time. The door was closed behind her, and she was alone. The smell was a beautiful aroma, as if she were in a flower shop. Intricate tapestries covered the walls. Sculptured furniture sat on lush Arabian carpets. There was a domed skylight window in one corner of the room with a telescope pointed to the stars. Vials and chemistry equipment were set up on another table.

  A large claw-legged desk sat on a raised platform and was crowded by bookshelves with globes and head busts of the ancients atop it. This was the desk of the Old Man of the Mountain – where he had plotted and planned his schemes. A round chair that looked as if it had been carved from an ancient log was behind the desk so that he could sit and look over all of the room. She stepped onto the platform. The chair was covered with velvet cushions, and she sat down. She reached for a book from the near shelf. It was a book titled Metempsychosis, and she nodded that her expectation had been met that it would be something esoteric.

  She settled into the chair to look over his domain. Her eyes stopped dead. She had looked at the wall in front of the desk and had seen herself. A large portrait of her that reached from the floor to the ceiling looked back at her. It was nothing she had posed for, but it was categorically her and painted by a well-trained hand. In the painting she was wearing the gown of her wedding with her hair in the same arrangement that it had been on that night. The strangeness was that she was holding a sword. Her fingers were firmly on the pommel, and the thick, silver blade pointed down as if it had been stabbed into the ground.

  She leaned back on the chair. In spite of the strangeness of the portrait, her head was clearer than it had been. Her eyes dropped to the desk. She noticed a backgammon set. A curl of a smile played across her lips. She reached and picked up a piece. She fingered it for a moment, placed it back on the board, and started to play.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Jerusalem,” Pedro said. “The ultimate prize. The completion of the chronicle.”

  “How much have you actually written?” Clavdia asked.

  “Not a word. It is all up here,” he answered and tapped a finger to his temple.

  They could not see the famed city. She lay on the other side of a dry hill. The expeditionary force had reached the surrounds of the Holy City during the night.

  They walked along a baked, dirt track that twisted up the hill. “This will be the sixth victory for the chronicles, Lord Commander,” Pedro said.

  “Sixth?”

  “The three in the Qing Kingdom. The Battle of the Arks. And Acre.”

  “Acre? There was not a shot fired.”

  “That will not be the case in the chronicles. History needs to be exciting. Otherwise, who will read it?”

  They reached the crest of the hill. It was the closest to the city that they had ventured. A band of Templars held the position. It was the Black Swans. The city was shrouded by the morning gloom. Captain Miles was with them. He had rejoined after his mission. They completed the Templar salute as she neared.

  “Our scouts have been found, Lord Commander,” a sergeant said. He pointed to a dilapidated wall across the empty terrain. “You may need your binoculars.”

  “I don’t. I can see.” The bodies had been impaled on crooked stakes and the heads severed and affixed atop them. “Sergeant, notify the chaplain. Have prayers for these men. Speed their souls to heaven.”

  Miles stood next to her. “We saw the handiwork of these devils on our path to Beersheba. Villages burned, some still smoking. Corpses for the crows to feed. Peasants fleeing, dazed, with bundles on their backs. The enemy did not show itself to us for a fight, though.”

  “It looks like they have chosen to fight here.”

  “It does. What are your thoughts, Lord Commander? Richord’s cannons?”

  “Did you bring them? They are not with me.”

  “I came across the desert. You had ships.”

  “There was not enough space.”

  “Hmm. Then it is a reverse of the Qing battle. Do we lure them out? I don’t want to fight in those narrow streets. I could stand out the front with a small force and convince them that we are lot less than we are.”

  “You would look like an idiot attempting a siege with no cannons. Let’s think about it. I can’t shake the thought that this is going to be a street brawl.”

  There was no sign of the enemy other than the grisly caution and the black flags hanging limply from the city walls. The first light of the morning began to illuminate the scene. The sand-colored buildings were crammed together behind the ancient walls. The golden dome gleamed among the dullness. Pointed citadels and square watchtowers were the only other buildings above the low-lying, centuries-old buildings. The many-walled city was clustered to the spur of a plateau with steep valleys and dry riverbeds on the flanks. Aqueducts and stone terraces crisscrossed the bare land, and mountains came into view in the distance.

  Clavdia studied the walls that were first built by Suleiman the Magnificent. They looked formidable – the height of six men standing on one another’s shoulders and slanted for the advantage of the defenders. They would be impossible to scale, and siege towers were things of history. There were gates. She could see three from her position. They were not defended by any significant-looking doors. Ideas jostled in her mind.

  “We don’t have the capacity for a siege. We are going to need to force this,” she said. Miles nodded. “How secure is our rear? I don’t want any more surprises. We have had enough. We prepared for Ottomans, and instead we are facing these madmen.”

  “It is secured. We scoured all tha
t we passed and could not find a single red tunic. The Ottomans have left. It’s a mystery. Were they spooked by the End-of-Days Army? Have they been redeployed? Is there something we don’t know?”

  “How were the Copts?”

  “I left all of them except a few in Beersheba to protect the rear. Strange people. I was always breaking up fights until I was told that this is the wrong thing to do. You are supposed to let them fight. It is an insult to both parties if you step in. I was making a lot of enemies. Seems that they are all related, and the fights were over things like whose auntie was the better dancer. I was glad to leave them behind.”

  They met with the others under the shade of an olive grove. Captains Fulke, Jodi, and Richord of the Templars with Gondemar to keep notes. Kani Minamoto of the Two-Headed Wolves. Frank Paulus as the military liaison for the Montgisard Corporation Militia, which was only second to the Templars in contingent size now that the ragtag of Volunteers had been swept up into its ranks. Magnus, the lord commander of the Knights Hospitaller. A sedate man named Andrzej who was the commander of the Order of the Holy Ghost and had been elected to represent the remaining Orders. Davos Walgren of the Bear-Hounds. And the representative of the Abyssinian Volunteers, who was Tulock. He had arrived to lead their contingent, which were not really Volunteers but those whom the queen wished to banish from her queendom. He was not trusted initially but had survived tests and appeared to have genuine military nous.

  “There are seven gates and two areas where the old wall has fallen – so nine entry points,” Miles advised the group. “The only way in is through these. Forget the walls unless anyone here can fly.”

  “We don’t know how many defenders there are,” Richord was quick to add.

  Miles looked at Clavdia.

  “They all have to be attacked at once,” she said. “A great rush. Some of them will be well defended. They all can’t be.”

  “Very risky, Lord Commander.” Richord frowned.

  “We keep a strategic force in reserve,” she continued. “At the first breach, that force is called through, and we are in. Once we are in – this is over. Whatever numbers they have they won’t match ours.”