It puddled into images, glyphs and profiles, some of them demonic, others more human in appearance, but all of them unknown and ominous. The kitchen staff swore that the blood on their tiles actually took the form of Empress Elizabeth in silhouette, and that it began to smoke and spit curses at them. A few puddles congealed into full faces that rose into the air, thin as masks, and began to talk rapidly with the voices of growling dogs. It was said later that if one could translate the words, they would know the formula for immortality. Regardless, the phenomena could not be explained. Were they related to Gur? Were the spirits of Bärenthoren bleeding themselves free of the castle in response to the presence of the Mongol sorcerer?
By morning, the entire countryside of Anhalt whispered in fearful tones. Rumors spread from field to tower, each retelling more ghastly or horrific than the one before. The many ghosts, sprites, were-fairies and Prussian demons of Bärenthoren aligned before the Mongol warlock in their ranks and bowed to him—the event witnessed by a butler from Berlin who intruded by accident into Temujin Gur's bedchamber and was blinded for his untimely entrance. Tales also of new windows opening onto other worlds filled with golden towers and snowy mountains, distant and ghostly moanings, and the smells of death mixed with an odd incense, as if from India or Tibet.
Freddie heard all rumors the day after the arrival of the Empress, and from Babette, of course, who signed herself with the cross as she spoke—her voice and manner like that of a child horrified by her first glimpse of war. Even the nobility of Europe spoke of Empress Elizabeth's spellcrafter in hushed tones, believing him to be her source of power and longevity on the throne. No one knew how she secured his services or rewarded him. The peasants rumored that she fed him serf children for dinner. The nobles rumored he walked into her skin and pulled strings on behalf of the Papacy and England’s king, or the Ottoman Turks, depending on the politics of the year. Most Russians blamed him for every calamity, from bad winters to dead chickens. Freddie could well blame the apparition of Vermeer Girl and all else supernatural on him.
She shuddered to imagine the magical Mongol beast roving the castle and leaving walls of blood in his wake. What might happen at the banquet for Empress Elizabeth then? Would the roasted meats begin to bleed, or the wine turn to blood, or the ceiling drip with gore? Would he even be present at the banquet or simply bleed things from a distance?
The Princess von Anhalt had no choice but to face whatever came.
At the appointed time, she strolled confidently, head high, into the Bärenthoren Great Hall, holding herself so high because she felt so low, like a moldy leaf in a stream (a sorrowful comparison she would carry all her days). She was out of place, as if she belonged in another world, for the one of European nobility did not suit her. Perhaps her mother, representing this world in her mind, created this general mood of hatred which always led to melancholy. Regardless, the core trouble for Freddie was the European noble mentality, the swaggering sense of infallibility and superiority—all due for a fall in her mind. Way overdue.
So perhaps the infamous Gur will shake things up tonight.
Perhaps even bleed the walls on a few nobles.
What a bizarre comedy that would make!
Freddie passed through the big stone archway of the Great Hall, glancing up to see it chiseled with Roman-like gods and satyrs, all of them leering down at her. Where were they now? Gone to stone memory above a world of apathy. At least this doorway was wide enough to accommodate her stupid hoop skirt. But never mind the skirt. The scene in the Bärenthoren hall burst onto her senses, rising up before her like a great stage full of color and pomp, fire and shadow: flaming wax torches, together with the huge Bärenthoren fireplaces, lit the hall along with hundreds of candles set on the white-linen banquet tables, as well as something new: a strange column of trembling white light sweeping over the throng, emanating from a device of science. Raised high on a wooden platform to one side of the entrance, it looked like large circular glass inset within a housing, rather like a giant black monocle, and it squatted upon a thick wooden tripod. The thing was operated by three men who swiveled it back and forth. Prince Christian loved his devices, and no doubt, this one was arranged by him, whereas Freddie's mother loved her rockets.
Yes, rockets, exploding ones, the kind that smashed armies.
One of them she claimed was created by Hyder Ally's father, the famous Indian rocketeer. Princess Johanna couldn't get enough of them, and yes, there they stood, a collection of big iron rockets flanked on either side by two musket-wielding men of the castle guard in dark armor plate. Freddie spotted the rockets to her left, on a metal stand, their black conical tips pointed to the ceiling, looking as if ready to launch and blow Bärenthoren to pieces.
Glancing up, Freddie's eyes scanned the ceiling so high and dark, waving with shadows. One appeared like a giant manta or great hawk. What was it? She didn't know. Her fingers pricked for a moment, and as she stared at the shadows she felt her insides begin to heat, followed by an urge most odd. She heard a voice within herself, no particular words, just a deep and full ohhhhhahhhh. It welled up from the oven of her soul to brim above her eyes and rush to her head, and there it throbbed, vibrant, as if from an opera aria, primal and commanding.
Then it was over.
The Princess von Anhalt had received complements on her rich voice from time to time, yes, and her father once told her that her singing would make an army of men lay down their weapons, but now her voice had just come to life on its own, as if willed by someone other than her? Strange. Only her imagination, just that, it must be, so much going on with the terrible magic of Temujin Gur, the sins of the tyrant, this insane banquet, the threatening violence of her mother—all too much for the system.
Fight or flight, Friederike?
Still, oddly enough, the voice within had invigorated her, like a puff of flame heating a balloon to the sky. It felt addicting, so soon. But why had it happened? Perhaps her mind had come to life in a way she never knew possible, working to restore her, to stoke her inner fire back to hope and dreams.
Perhaps.
An explosion of laughter and a dropped glass distracted her back to the scene erupting all about her: Prussian and Russian counts, barons and dukes (the Russians having arrived in dozens of carriages only hours after the Empress) clumping and debating and guffawing about in their long coats and powdered wigs (that smelly white powder she hated). Their shiny black shoes gleamed with their master's chins while their wives roamed and laughed, snipped and quipped from one group to the next, their comically wide hoop skirts of red and blue and white-gold slapping one another as they passed, their puffed hives of hair glittering in the firelight with tiny jewel-lets of ruby and diamond; and as they circulated in the room like bad blood, a small orchestra of flutes, bassoons, oboes and violins played Water Music by Handel in the background. Freddie found the piece gay and uplifting. She admired Handel—one of Prince Christian's favorite composers. The music soothed her as scents of almond and cinnamon filled her nostrils, calming her further, easing her mind so recently upset by Benjamin’s tale. Calming her, yes, until she spotted her mother joyfully chirping with the Russian nobles.
Oh, how lovely she is. Such a fraud!
Unknown to Freddie, Princess Johanna put on her best face in an attempt to forget the horrific blood seepage throughout the castle. After all, her moment had arrived, and certainly, no one, much less her, wanted blood dripping into the Great Hall and forming grotesque devil heads, at least not until the Empress had left. Nothing could be allowed to upset the presentation of le grand courvert, for the French way of dining was considered by the nobles of Europe to be the only civilized way to gobble their evening food; and with Empress Elizabeth present, Princess Johanna’s reputation and future depended on the lavishness and pomp of her banquet presentation, and in execution of her service à la française. Even worse, to not display the proper proportions of gold, silver and porcelain on the tables, or to not include enough fancy dis
hes and desserts, might risk insulting the Empress. Therefore, Princess Johanna, together with the chief steward and other castle staff, had spent months in preparation, pouring over recipes and testing various combinations and layouts of food on the tables, cooking and arranging and fussing like spoiled children as they rehearsed for the big night. And price mattered not. Everyone knew that Prince Christian complained incessantly to his wife of staggering costs, especially as regards her purchases of Chelsea porcelain, fine India China, and the many dishes from Meissen—a business whose specialty was creating such delicate things.
Unfortunately for Prince Christian, his wife strove to mimic the famous service presented recently by the King of Saxony to the British ambassador Sir Charles Hanbury-Williams that included grand and glistening dessert dishes shaped like giant artichokes and sunflowers. Her own unique tastes, noted to Meissen's finest artisans, fashioned leaping wolverines and charging bears, shooting rockets, and huddles of cold but happy serfs scooped out with cupping holes in which to plop various ice creams, butters and jellies.
Next, came Princess Johanna's elaborate and magnificent centerpieces.
All the nobles, even Empress Elizabeth, could not help but oooooo and ahhhhhh over the grandeur of them. Prince Christian had winced after receiving a bill for the custom-made creations born of his wife's ambition, but there they stood, amazing everyone. Many rose like the gleaming towers of Babylon whose golden balconies and silver terraces bulged with colorful delicacies of all sorts including cheeses, bright fruits, and sweetmeats, while other centerpieces made of thinnest porcelain resembled gleaming white Greek temples and oyster-blue fairytale towers. The chief steward dubbed one of the fantastical creations, "the Hanging Gardens of Cheese Wig"—a pyramidal wonder of blue-white china mounting at least three feet high, each layer an open shelf brimming with plums, strawberries, sliced pears, seven kinds of pickles, and an abundance of cheese wigs (small bread buns coated with cheese sauce, shaped and baked to resemble a man's wig).
To those fortunate few, including Prince Christian, the grand and shining display on the tables appeared in the distance like Biblical rumors of Heaven: a soft whiteness upon which floated a mythical city, one with its town squares and temples and fantastical structures, and all interwoven with silver and golden sauceboats, candle flame, and sails of white napkin.
* царица *
THE PORTENTOUS, COW-SIZED BODY OF THE BARON of Eschenbach obscured Freddie’s view in a manner she found extremely irritating, but once she circumnavigated him, imagining herself Sir Francis Drake sailing above an ocean of obese noble, she saw the woman she’d been searching for: Empress Elizabeth of Russia, standing high and regal towards the rear of the Bärenthoren Great Hall. A huge stone fireplace blazed behind her. The flames appeared to lick her waist and rise along the rim of her skirt, and yet, despite the hellish implications, her exalted form presented itself as gift to the ages. Her hair mounted high and white as the English cliffs of Dover, feathers of soft blue and gold inset, and all sprinkled with diamond jewel-lets (accomplished by her French coiffeur). Her forehead high, cheeks plump and rouge rosy, her skin glowing white as her hair, her neck adorned with emeralds and diamonds big as walnuts on a necklace looking as if it could purchase all the ocean's islands with enough left over to buy India. Her dress, the most magnificent eye-warmer of them all: a grand, eight feet of hoop, deep red and gold-trimmed. In the distance, she appeared like a big red rose turned upside down. A low, oval neckline bared her shoulders, bodice heavily-boned, and her elbow-length sleeves were covered with tiers of white lace flounces. All so perfect!
"Princess Von Anhalt?"
A male voice to her left. She turned from the vision of the Empress to see Willie, the nephew of Babette, one hand balancing a silver tray full of red wine glasses above his chin. Costumed in Bärenthoren Castle livery—blue short coat with gold trim and buttons—he appeared all very smart and shimmering. Freddie noticed his hair damp, a bit unruly as if combed in a hurry. His face was kind and fairly handsome, yet stern, his eyes deep brown and reflecting the trembling bits of candlelight.
"I only have a moment, Princess. I must get on with things, since chief butler Gleb is ... uh, watching all of us," he said. The words came uneasily, as if he were a bit nervous, though resolve shone in his countenance. Freddie sensed too that Willie liked her, a lot, perhaps even more than a lot, and her presence had a marked effect on him; but she felt not offended, rather pleased. The common practice of a European noblewoman was to take immediate and often raging offense at any show of attraction, no matter how subtle or imagined, if it came from a servant, or worse, from a serf. Beatings and even execution might follow.
Freddie spoke. "You were in the room when Babette saved me. Last night—"
"Beware of Temujin Gur," Willie said, cutting her off. "He is the author of apparitions."
"What?"
"He lies with illusion."
"Any particular one?"
Willie paused, breathed deeply, and said, "The machines that hunted you, barking your name, driving you towards death in the mountains."
Freddie was shocked. "You must have overheard me say that to Babette. Now this is none of your—"
"What you saw wasn't true. Your future is limitless," he said, his face full of such conviction that Freddie felt awed for a moment.
"You are telling me that Gur created those visions?"
"Yes. And ... never mind, I must take my leave, for now, but I want you to share a secret with me. My own real name is Zolo Bold, not Willie, and I know you will keep that a secret."
"You know I will?" Freddie's temper flashed. She was about to dismiss Willie, or Zolo, or whoever he claimed to be, but an unmistakable look of concern crossed his face, and she realized that he cared for her. But why? She did not know, though the fact served to calm her. "Alright, you have my word. Our secret, Mr. Bold."
He flashed Freddie a brief smile, turned and walked towards a nearby group of white-wigged noblemen who stood chatting. One of the noblemen, a Prussian baron with a thick gold chain about his neck and a face like an otter, saw Zolo coming and shouted at him with a gruff voice, "Hurry up you wretched little wogger!" Upon hearing this, the other noblemen turned their heads and jeered at Zolo.
Wogger? Those hateful bastards.
A word used to humiliate the servant class. An English term given to an ill-fated group of serfs who rebelled against their masters ten years ago in Russia, joining with Cossacks from the north, and raiding farms owned by nobility. They spread revolt until brutally put down by the Russian royal army. Thousands of serfs died before the cannon's mouth. More thousands executed, their families sold or imprisoned, or starved to death. It all reminded her of Rome's servile wars, the greatest of all led by a rogue gladiator named Spartacus. Many whispered that the woggers had formed a secret society, festering and growing in the roots of European shadow like mushrooms, collecting muskets and wogger swords and conspiring at more bloody uprisings.
As Queen of The Woggers, I would gladly lead the revolt.
Before she could sign up for the wogger war though, a loud kahwooooshhhhh sound interrupted her thoughts.
A big burst of steam, or?
Kahwooooshhhhh again. But from where? She heard Prince Christian's voice rise above the throng, booming over the hall, silencing all:
"Empress Elizabeth, nobles of Prussia and Russia!"
She turned to see him standing upon the stage, that big roving eye of light behind him, swiveling back and forth, burning him to a black shadow every few moments. He held a long cone of dark wood before his mouth and spoke into it, the cone magnifying his voice across the Great Hall:
"May I present to you ... THE WORLD STORMER OF ANHALT!"
Huh? The what? Kahwooooshhhhh once more, followed by the sounds of metal clanking, gears connecting, force applied and lurching forward into destiny. A thing huge, wonderful and horrifying at once went crannnk clank-toc, zzzzzzt. Freddie heard the milling crowd of nobles gasp in
awe.
Never have these stocking jackals acted so impressed!
Pushing through a cluster of noblewomen, she excused herself while angling her hoop skirt to edge in. They parted for her without notice, their attention directed on a lurching monstrosity, their mouths hanging dumbly open, eyes big as coffee cups. Crannnnk clank-toc, zzzzzzzt, kahwooooshhhh … crannnk clank-toc, zzzzzzt, kahwooooshhhh. Freddie imagined a mechanical death device turned loose by the woggers, now arrived to exact revenge.
At last, she made it to the front.
Her breath stopped.
An enormous machine, bigger than a Berlin carriage, and twice as high, passed like a frightening dream before her eyes. The chassis and housing were painted black and gold, its four gigantic spoke-wheels grinding against the tile floor, cracking it in places—and that's where the comparison to the carriage ended. The rest like nothing Freddie had ever seen. She knew of machines, of course, relatively simple devices that fire or water propelled or turned, but this was as far beyond these as a bird beyond a moth. Upon the platform, above the chassis, she glimpsed the inner workings: brass gears toothing into bigger brass gears, at least a dozen of them connected by rods to a revolving shaft running through the center like an oily black spine. In the rear of this beastly World Stormer of Anhalt a tall iron stack spouted sparks and smoke, and in front, tubes of copper and plates of glass intertwined in a great metal dish. Two huge brass globes protruded beyond the dish, hanging in space at the end of curved iron supports, producing a pincer effect while brilliant arcs of violent blue-white electricity shot between them and created a zzzzzzzt, followed by kahwooooshhhhh as big jets of steam gushed from the sides. The Stormer's steam and violence shoved the nobles back further, their faces in complete shock, their whole world suddenly become fragile and uncertain.
Beelzebub's beard! Where was father hiding this thing?
War of the World Makers Page 5
