by David Bishop
"What happened? Did you fall into a septic tank?"
"Not exactly," Flintlock snarled. "That bitch Scullion had me cleaning the drains while Spatchcock, the foulest smelling creature in the Empire, is cooking the soup for tonight's meal!"
Dante clamped his nostrils between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. "I think your smell might beat Spatchcock's now." He opened the window in the hope of admitting some fresh air. "How come you got sewer duty?"
"Scullion is an alien from Arcneva," Flintlock replied grumpily.
A planet where the indigenous people consider offensive body odour an aphrodisiac, the Crest said. No doubt Spatchcock's scent seemed like a fine perfume to her.
Dante did his best to suppress a smile without much success. "I don't see what you've got to smirk at," Flintlock protested.
"No, you're absolutely right," Dante agreed. "What else can you tell me?"
"This mute act - how long do I have to keep it up?"
"A week at the most. Wartski confirmed the Tsar will be here for Easter Sunday, so we've got until then to find and stop this new weapon - whatever it is." Dante stood beneath the window, trying to catch the few wisps of air that crept into the room. "Where have you and Spatch been given access to so far?"
"The drains, the septic tank and the overflow pipes for me," Flintlock said testily. "Spatch hasn't got out of Scullion's clutches in the kitchen yet."
"We need to discover everything we can about what's happening here, especially in the north tower. Tell Spatch to grab every opportunity."
"And what about me?"
"Try not to catch anything fatal." Dante gestured towards the door. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave now. I need to get ready for my first faculty dinner."
"So? Perhaps I could help, I am meant to be your servant."
"No disrespect, but the longer you stay in here the worse I'll smell later."
Flintlock turned on his heels and flounced towards the door. "I've never been so insulted in my life," he muttered. "Forced to squeeze down a pipe filled with heaven only knows what then told to-"
"And go quietly, please," Dante called after him. "You're meant to be a mute, remember?"
Flintlock made an obscene finger gesture and departed, but the stench from his visit remained.
It was after seven when Dante found his way to the staff library. Inside the book-lined room five women and an elderly man were talking in hushed voices beneath a towering portrait of Doctor Fabergè. The painting neatly captured the cruel face and dismissive eyes of its subject, but added a haughty grandeur to the driven countenance. The staff gathered beneath the image of their director was not nearly so intimidating.
All of the women were middle-aged; their age reflected in the staid tweeds and checks of their clothing. Sensible shoes and thick woollen stockings, a few strings of second rate pearls, greying hair and crow's feet wrinkles were further evidence of their dry lives and interests. I doubt this lot start many orgies, Dante reflected ruefully.
Dante approached the only other male in the room, a crusty old man in brown corduroy trousers and an ancient blazer with leather patches over the elbows. A pair of half moon spectacles perched on his nose while red, rheumy eyes peered at the volumes on the shelves around him. Dante clapped a hand on the old man's back, sending a small cloud of dust into the air.
"Durward, Quentin Durward - I'm the new self defence instructor!" Dante announced cheerfully. "And what's your name, if I may be so bold?"
The old man coughed and wheezed before answering laboriously. "Mould. Professor Augustus Mould."
Dante suppressed a pun. "Fascinating. And how long have you been here?"
Mould looked at his watch, not noticing the sherry he was pouring over his brown brogues. "About twenty minutes, I think. Yes, twenty minutes."
"Really? I didn't realise the fun started so early here."
"Fun? What fun?"
"I, er..." Dante shrugged helplessly before muttering under his breath. "Crest? A little help here, please?"
Oh no, it replied gleefully. He's all yours. Enjoy.
"Wonderful," Dante said to Mould. "Well, a delight to meet you. Perhaps we'll get a chance to talk again later." But before he could move away the elderly professor had grabbed Dante's arm.
"Self defence, you said? Then you must be Russell's replacement."
"Yes, that's right."
"Odd chap, Russell. I think he'd have been happier at a finishing school for young men, if you know what I mean," Mould said, conspiratorially tapping the side of his nose. "Played for the other side, you might say."
"Did he? I wouldn't know. I've never met him."
"Never saw the point in that sort of thing."
"Sex?"
"Chasing other men around. Much fonder of the fairer sex, myself."
Dante looked at the crusty professor. "You were? I mean, you are?"
Mould nodded wistfully. "Used to be. Quite the catch I was once. Had to fight the young girls off with a stick. At least I believe that's the expression."
"I thought the Tsar had outlawed corporal punishment," Dante said.
But Mould was no longer listening to him. "I sleep through most of my lessons now. The students here, they're not interested in history or language. They just want fame and fortune, how to catch a husband..."
"Madame Wartski doesn't share your views."
The professor's face darkened. "Beware of her, young Durward. Beware of any woman with that many warts. She has them for a reason, you know."
Dante leaned closer to the professor. "And why is that?"
"Toads. That's all you need to know. Beware of the toads."
"Beware of the toads?"
Mould nodded sagely. "I'll say no more."
"I understand," Dante agreed. "Well, if you'll excuse me..." He turned away and walked face-first into a large pair of firm, proud breasts. "Bojemoi!" Dante stumbled back a step, blinking to clear his vision. He reached out a hand for support and found himself grasping another breast to his right. "Diavolo, I'm surrounded by them!"
"You must be-" a woman's voice began.
"The new self defence instructor," another woman said, completing the first's sentence. "Perhaps you could do with-"
"A refresher course yourself?" the first voice concluded.
Dante looked up to find two Amazons towering over him. Their mighty breasts were level with his eyes, providing a daunting introduction to their physical presence. Their strong, angular features stared down at Dante, a difference in hair colouring the only way of telling them apart. Both were clad in skin-tight bodysuits that left little to the imagination. "Are you offering to give me one?" Dante asked hopefully.
"We already have-" the red-haired woman began.
"A full teaching load," the brunette said.
"Oh," Dante said sadly. "What a shame."
"Mr Durward," a familiar voice called out. Wartski was marching towards the trio, holding two glasses of sherry before her. "I see you've met the Furies." She handed Dante one of the glasses. "Storm and Tempest joined the teaching staff this year and have proved a great success with the students."
The Strangelove twins, Dante realised. He had caught a little of the media hype surrounding these remarkable women. In the flesh they were even more impressive. Dante felt a stirring in his loins at the prospect of finding out how impressive. "Which one's which?"
The red-haired woman offered her right hand to him. "I'm Tempest."
Dante kissed the hand, adding his wickedest of grins. "Enchanted," he whispered before moving on to the other twin. "And you must be Storm. How delightful to make your acquaintance." She did not offer Dante a hand, folding her arms instead. "I'm told you two do everything together."
"Almost," Tempest replied. "We find two heads are better than one."
"Still, three needn't always be a crowd," Dante countered. "Perhaps we could get together and talk about it sometime."
"I doubt that will be possible before the end of te
rm," Storm said brusquely before walking away. "Come along, sister." Dante watched them walk away, admiring the rippling muscles in their thighs and buttocks.
You're out of your depth, the Crest warned. Those two would eat you for breakfast and leave nothing behind.
"But what a way to go." Dante murmured. "What a way to go."
"Sorry, did you say something?" Wartski asked.
"Er, I was wondering which way to go - for dinner."
A chime sounded once, silencing the hubbub of voices in the library. Wartski nodded at the others. "Now you shall find out, Mr Durward. Dinner is served and Doctor Fabergè is dying to meet you." The hefty harridan strode away, leaving Dante to finish his sherry.
The evening meal was served in an oak-panelled dining hall next to the staff library. A long table ran the length of the room, but most of the seats went unoccupied with only the senior staff in attendance. Wartski stood near the head of the table, motioning for Dante to take the chair opposite her. Mould moved to beside Dante, while the other tutors choose seats nearby. But nobody sat down, all waiting patiently beside their chairs.
Finally a doorway opened and the Strangelove twins emerged from it, Doctor Fabergè followed them inside. He moved to the head of the table, fixed the gaze of each staff member and nodded to them individually. Lastly he acknowledged the presence of Dante, then sat down. The staff followed his example, the twins sitting opposite each other but farthest from Fabergè.
Murmurings of small talk began along the table while everyone waited for the first course to be served, giving Dante a chance to cast a furtive eye at Fabergè. Twelve years had passed since their last encounter, enough time for the doctor's hairline to recede further and more lines to appear on his face. But for these changes Fabergè was much as Dante remembered, proud of bearing and inquisitive of eye. He noticed the attentions of the new teacher and addressed them immediately.
"You must be our new self defence tutor, Mr Durward."
"That's correct, Doctor Fabergè," Dante replied.
"And why have you been looking at me so intently?"
A hush fell upon the table, the others waiting for the newcomer's reply.
"I was comparing your true appearance to the portrait I saw in the library."
"Indeed. And how would you rate the quality of that likeness?"
Dante smiled. "The artist captured your looks, but not your stature."
Fabergè regarded him carefully. "Well chosen words. I wonder how close they are to the truth?"
"As someone versed in the arts of self defence, I know that such skills are as much about brain as they are brawn. You can often talk your way out of trouble with less danger than you can fight your way out."
The doctor stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Have we met somewhere before, Mr Durward? Your face seems familiar, but I cannot recall from where."
Dante shook his head. "I have a common aspect but can say for certain you have never met Quentin Durward before."
"Perhaps I was mistaken..." Fabergè was interrupted by the arrival of Scullion, carrying eleven bowls of steaming soup in her many tentacles. "Ah, the starter. Let us eat, drink and be merry..."
The meal continued for three hours and twice as many courses, until Dante felt his belly bloating and trousers tightening. "I'm not sure I shall be able to lead my classes for long, if you feast like this every night."
Wartski waved away his concerns. "We only eat this well on Sunday evenings. Simpler fare is served during the week."
Fabergè had been watching Dante throughout the meal. "We live by an old proverb here, Mr Durward - eat the honey, but beware the sting."
Dante, be careful! the Crest warned. He's trying to draw you into a battle of wits - and that's one fight you can never win. Just repeat what I say...
Dante listened to the voice inside his head and then smiled at the institute's director. "I prefer a different saying: luck is a stick with two ends."
Fabergè laughed out loud at that. "Well said, Mr Durward, well said. Perhaps you've heard another adage: God made two evils, tax collectors and goats. Which one are you, I wonder?"
Dante nodded before replying. "Well, I'm not a god, if that's what you're wondering."
"Few of us are," Fabergè agreed. "But some aspire to match the achievements of the Almighty."
"Is that always wise?" Dante asked, pausing as if choosing his words carefully. "As the proverb has it, the spirit is God's, but the body is the Tsar's."
"Well, the Tsar is expected here in a week's time. You may debate morality and proverbs with him then," Fabergè said. "You have an interesting habit of waiting before you reply, Mr Durward. Why is that?"
I like to think before I speak, the Crest prompted Dante, who repeated the phrase out loud.
"An admirable quality, and one many of our pupils could do with learning. Perhaps you're the man to take them in hand?"
"I'm sure I'll soon have a firm grasp of their strengths and weaknesses."
"I hope so," Fabergè said before standing. Everyone else rose from their chairs, Dante swiftly following their example. "In the meantime I have more work to do if my research is to be complete in time for the Tsar's visit. I bid you all a good night's rest. Tempest, Storm - will you join me in the laboratory? We have a very busy week ahead."
Wartski and the others murmured their good nights, watching as Fabergè and the twins strode from the dining hall. Once the trio had departed everyone returned to the staff library, whether they had finished or not. "Once our master leaves his seat, the meal is over," Mould whispered in Dante's ear. "It always pays to eat as quickly as possible."
"That explains why we were the only ones talking." Dante wanted to ask the old professor a question but Mould was already scuttling towards the sweet sherry decanter, intent on refilling his glass. Instead Wartski gravitated to the new arrival's side, the aroma from her sweaty armpits indicating her presence.
"You'll have to forgive the professor. A brilliant tutor once, but past his prime; now slowly pickling himself to death."
"Why do you keep him on if that's the case?"
Wartski smiled. "Call it user loyalty."
Dante nodded, not wanting to think about what her remark implied. "Well, I think I've imbibed quite enough sherry for a month, let alone one night. I shall be returning to my room for the evening." He walked from the room, nodding a goodnight to the other teachers, but Wartski followed him out.
"Mr Durward, there is something I forgot to mention earlier. I advise locking yourself in each night. Your predecessor was prone to sleepwalking. Indeed, that's what caused his death."
"His death? I thought he went to another place of learning."
Wartski shook her head. "That's what we told the pupils and some of the other tutors. In fact Mr Russell was a frequent sleepwalker. He wandered into the north tower one night and was cut to pieces by the security defence lasers. Not a pleasant sight, not pleasant at all."
"I can imagine," Dante said grimly.
"So, as I said, best if you lock yourself in. We wouldn't want such an unhappy incident to happen to you too, would we?"
"Thank you for the warning. I'll be sure to remain on my guard." Dante walked back to his quarters, seething at the veiled threat. The unfortunate Russell had been murdered to preserve whatever secret Fabergè had locked inside the north tower, just as Di Grizov had been tortured to aid whatever barbaric research the doctor was undertaking.
Just be grateful Fabergè didn't remember you from the Casino Royale, the Crest said. He would not hesitate to have you killed if he realised you helped Di Grizov steal the Steel Military Egg.
"Tell me something I don't know," Dante muttered bitterly.
SEVEN
"Temptation is sweet, man weak"
- Russian proverb
"How do I look, Crest?" Dante's luggage had appeared in his quarters while he was at dinner the night before, carried there by Flintlock if the vile smell on the handles was any indication. The next morning Dante
took a hearty breakfast, showered and scrubbed in preparation for his first class, and was now admiring himself in a mirror borrowed from the late Captain Arbatov.
Like an unshaven monkey, the Crest replied archly.
"I can hardly remove my moustache and goatee, they're keeping my identity secret from Doctor Fabergè."
You asked, I answered. It's not my fault if the truth offends.
Dante sighed. "Let's not start the day by bickering, alright? If I'm going to teach these girls about swordplay and self defence, I'll need your help."
You've had enough women fend off your dubious charms, the Crest said, I'd have thought you'd have plenty of experiences worth sharing.
"Yeah, yeah, make all the jibes you want. When the time comes, your programming requires that you help me avoid death or ignominy."
Death, yes. But avoiding ignominy? Even I can't perform miracles.
"Just tell me when I'm going wrong and offer a few helpful hints, okay?"
I'll try.
"Thank you."
But you still look like an unshaven monkey.
"Bojemoi! Give me strength." Dante chose a quilted crimson jacket and matching fencing helmet from among Arbatov's clothes. The jacket was a tight fit across the shoulders, its seams straining to contain Dante's bulkier frame.
May I suggest you avoid the cooked breakfast from now on. I doubt that stitching will last the day if you eat much more.
"You're not my mother and you're not my wife, so stop nagging!"
Fine. Have it your own way.
"I will."
Good.
"Be like that!"
I will!
"Suits me!" Dante snapped.
Unlike that jacket...
Dante resisted the urge to push his fingers into both ears, knowing it would not shut out the insistent, superior voice of the Crest. "Think calm thoughts," he told himself. "Just think calm thoughts".
Natalia Sokorina was not only the youngest pupil at the Fabergè Institute, but also the brightest. Students were not normally accepted before the age of eighteen but Natalia won her place on merit, having already finished a university degree before her seventeenth birthday. She had never wanted to waste a year in such a place but her ambitious mother insisted. "I let you go to college on the condition you went to a finishing school afterwards. I mean, how can you ever hope to become a young lady if you spend every minute with your nose buried inside text books? How will you ever find a worthy husband? Your sisters all attended finishing schools and now you shall do the same."
