"Yes," said Jasper, "the same direction Frer Mortise traveled. But that's not what bothers me."
"What does?" asked Timaeus.
Jasper sighed. "Something has changed. Something has happened to Broderick. I sense him still, but the character of the sensation has changed."
"Changed how?" asked Sidney.
"I'm not sure," said Jasper. "But it feels like something has happened."
"Like what?" demanded Sidney.
"My dear, if I knew, would I not say?" said Jasper irritably. "Maybe he's found religion. Maybe he's been magically transformed into a newt. Maybe he's—how should I know? The sensation is different, that is all. We'll just have to go and see."
Sidney went to sleep fretting over the morrow—but, surprisingly, slept like a log. Exhaustion will do that to you, she muzzily supposed as she dropped off.
III
Pablo von Kremnitz crept down the dusty passage, the glowing opal on his finger his only light. One side of the narrow corridor was brick, the other lath and plaster, the footing uncertain on unboarded joists. The Maiorkest was riddled with such passages, with secret doors and accessways, with spy-holes and traps. His Epee was out, probing uncertainly at the dimness before him.
Not far away, a thin line of light shone across the corridor, visible by the motes of dust that passed through the beam. It came from a spy-hole, drilled through the wall, a hole permitting surveillance of one of the Maiorkest's many chambers. Von Kremnitz had passed many such holes; he went to this one, as he had to others, and pressed an eye to it. Here, between the walls, it was difficult to get one's bearings; he hoped the sight of the room beyond the hole might tell him where he was. He should be near the Dandolo Room, if the gods were with him and he had not made a wrong turning, but—
Yes, excellent! Through the hole, he caught a glimpse of an armchair and, beyond it, a stained-glass window, bright with afternoon light. Only three rooms in the Maiorkest had stained-glass windows, and the Dandolo Room, where the Lord Mayor made his office, was one of them.
His hand ran over the wall, searching for the control of a secret door. If this was indeed the Dandolo Room, there should be one nearby. He felt rough wood, bulbous protrusions where wet plaster had oozed through the laths before solidifying, layers of dust—
There was a clatter. Von Kremnitz froze. The plaster was old, and decayed; he had knocked some of it loose, sending it rattling down the wall and into the space between the joists. Cursing under his breath, von Kremnitz peered through the peephole again, hoping he had not alerted anyone within the room.
A voice, heavy with drink, came muffled to his ears. "Cockroaches in the walls," it said; the speaker must be talking fairly loudly. "They told me there were cockroaches in the walls, in the Maiorkest; an intelligent man might reason that where there are cockroaches, there may be assassins. Come forth, blackguard. These old fingers may not be as dextrous with a blade as once they were, but I shall endeavor to give a good account of myself."
At last, von Kremnitz's fingers found the brass fitting that controlled the secret door, but he hesitated to work it now. Coming to a decision, he sheathed his epée before pulling the lever and pushing back the section of wall on its hinges.
Von Kremnitz took two steps within the Dandolo Room and knelt on the rich Nokhena carpet within. Head down, he said, "My lord, I come not to slay but to rescue you."
"What have we here?" that thick voice said, no longer muffled by the thickness of the walls. "I believe I detect the odor of the provincial. I have no need of rescue, lad; at least, there is nothing from which I can be rescued."
Von Kremnitz dared a look upward; the Lord Mayor stood before him, a snifter of brandy in one hand and a rapier in the other. The rapier drooped, no longer at guard, but not sheathed either. Hamish Siebert was much as von Kremnitz had imagined him, from glimpses afar, from engravings: a jowly man, with something of the air of a basset hound and an expression of, somehow, mixed jollity and combativeness. Von Kremnitz had not expected to find him half sloshed; the redness in his cheeks was surely neither embarrassment, nor an excess of sun, nor the consequence of vigorous exercise.
"My lord," he said, "I am a leftenant of your Foot Guard. While on private business, I learned of a conspiracy against your life, against the, the Hamsterian state. Believing my own superiors compromised, I—"
"Let's see," said Siebert. "The Guelphards? The Smalkaldians? Fenian's little group? The Mattmark separatists? The Accommodationists? Or the Hauliers' Guild?"
"The—the gens von Krautz, my lord."
"Oh, yes, Julio von Krautz, bit of an ass, that man. I shouldn't worry too much about him, if I were you, lad. Old Julio has all the political nous of a particularly unintelligent rabbit. I count eleven known conspiracies against my life, as of this morning, and I don't think we even bothered to include old Krautz, since he's got about as much chance of bringing. something off as Stantius the Third has of returning from the grave."
Blushing, von Kremnitz rose to his feet. "It seems I have been a fool," he said. "Forgive my temerity, my lord; I shall depart immediately."
"No, no, by no means," said Siebert. "Take a seat, my boy." He waved his snifter toward one of the armchairs and, with the motion, apparently realized anew the existence of its contents. He tilted it back, drained it, and madetoward the sideboard. "Join me, won't you? Brandy? Sherry? Or we have an excellent Moothlayan single-malt."
"My lord," said von Kremnitz. "I feel quite the idiot. Please permit me to retire shamefaced to my—"
"Oh, shut up," said Siebert. "Since you won't choose, you shall have the brandy. Here you go." He handed von Kremnitz a snifter practically brimful of the powerful liquor. Von Kremnitz took a gulp of the burning stuff, unsure what else to do.
"Are you any good with that blade of yours?" asked Siebert.
Von Kremnitz cleared his throat. "Yes," he said uncertainly.
" `Yes'?" said Siebert. "That's it? `Yes'? No boasting of your prowess, the many fine swordsmen you have bested? No falsely modest declarations of `some slight expertise'? Merely `Yes'?"
"What would you have, my lord?" asked von Kremnitz miserably. "I have been in the city mere weeks; I am accounted the finest swordsman in Meersteinmetz, but the finest swordsman in Meersteinmetz may be a mere fumbling provincial, by the standards of the city."
Siebert snorted. "How many weeks have you been here?"
"Three, my lord."
"And in that time, how many duels have you fought?" "Sixteen, my lord."
Siebert, in the process of sipping his brandy, snorted, then coughed for long moments, trying to clear his nose of the liquor. "Sixteen? Ye gods, you must wear your honor on your sleeve."
"I shall not see the name of my lord, my city, nor my regiment insulted," von Kremnitz said stiffly.
Siebert laughed long and loud. "I see," he said at last, wiping eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Sixteen duels are explained. I imagine it's difficult to walk down the street without hearing someone condemning that wild-eyed radical, the Lord Mayor. If you wish to avoid further contests at arms, I advise you to remain in your barracks. Or frequent the dives of the proletariat; I may be well liked there. Tell me; of the sixteen, what was the disposition?"
"I slew two men; six were sufficiently wounded as to require medical attention. The remaining eight were satisfied with first blood."
"They were satisfied with first blood? I see no healing wounds upon you."
"I beg your pardon, my lord. I was satisfied with first blood, when they withdrew their vile slanders."
"I see," said Siebert thoughtfully. "I believe I may have use for a young man of your abilities and, um, steadfast loyalty."
Von Kremnitz sat up straighter in his chair. "My lord," he said. "I shall do what I may."
"Excellent," said Siebert. "There are few men of whom I can rely; another is always welcome."
"My lord!" protested von Kremnitz. "Surely the men of your regiment, the ministers of state—"
"
Surely," said Siebert mockingly. "Let us have less modesty about the abilities of swordsmen from the provinces, and rather more about their appreciation of political realities. Hamsterburg is a sewer; I am appointed to muck it out; and the rats do not appreciate the attention."
"My lord—"
"Be quiet. You claim to be concerned at plots to my life; rest at ease. Why worry about the inevitable? I estimate my life span at eight months, at the outside. Oh, I try to keep on top of the various conspiracies—the Ministry of Internal Serenity has been suspiciously supportive, but I can't trust Minister Stantz even as far as I can throw him, which is probably a distance measurable only with calipers, as you'll appreciate if you ever meet the man. But there are just too many, you know. I'm seventy-two if I'ma day, I have periodic gout, I have no political following to speak of, and the Hundred Gentes elected me only as a placeholder, because they were too quarrelsome to settle on someone with any more political clout. I know I'm a dead man, and my only ambition is to gore as many oxen as I may before some lunatic settles my hash. To mix a metaphor. Drink your damned brandy, my boy."
"Yes, my lord," said von Kremnitz, who, round-eyed, had been neglecting his drink. He choked on another hasty mouthful.
"What is your name, by the way?" asked Siebert.
"Pablo von Kremnitz, my lord."
"Noble, eh?"
"Third son of a knight, my lord."
"Pity," said Siebert. "See here, you know the Graf von Grentz?"
"Socially? No, I—"
"Socially?" snorted Siebert. "My good man, I don't imagine you travel in such circles. You've heard of him, yes?"
"Of course, my lord; an Accommodationist, is he not?" "Yes, quite. Actually, Gerlad von Grentz virtually rules the Accommodationist party. I don't imagine he really thinks we can bargain with Arst-Kara-Morn, somehow keep the orcs from our gates with diplomacy; but neither the military nobilization nor the taxes it requires is particularly popular, and questioning the need for them is good political theater. Very bad policy, to be sure, but good politics, if you follow the distinction.
"He's up to some damn thing—well, that goes without saying, doesn't it? Everybody's up to something, in this lunatic city. Thankfully, Minister Stantz keeps pretty good tabs on what most people are up to, but neither he nor I have much of a take on von Grentz. You see, he's off in the provinces."
"My lord?"
"Doesn't seem so odd to a provincial? Hamsterburg is astorm, lad, half the town trying to kill me, the other half maneuvering to gain power after my death, some portion of them hoping to thwart, or benefit by, or modify the reforms I am imposing. Gerlad von Grentz is not a man to vacate the city at a vital political juncture; no, he should be here, pulling strings with as much abandon as any of them. Instead, he retires to his ancestral castle near some dusty little village called Weintroockle. Make a plonk of some kind out there, I understand."
"What has this to do with me, my lord?" asked von Kremnitz.
"Patience, lad. Word has reached my ear—by way of Stantz, incidentally, meaning I can't trust the information-that a pitched battle was fought near Weintroockle in the last fortnight, between von Grentz's household troops and—nobody seems to know. Von Grentz is up to something, you see; something is going on out there in Weintroockle, and I need to know what. You are a naïf; nobody knows who you are; you're a provincial, so nobody will take you seriously; and you seem quite capable with that blade of yours. Go to Weintroockle, poke around, come back. I'll give you a safe passage, for what it's worth-the gods only know how many Hamsterian citizens are likely to respect this Lord Mayor's laissezpasse—but use it only as a last resort. Will you do it?"
"My lord has only to command," said von Kremnitz, springing to his feet and to attention.
"Oh, don't be an idiot,", said Siebert. "You're probably walking into a deathtrap—-although, come to think of it, judging by the frequency with which you duel, walking into a deathtrap may improve your life expectancy. I shan't order you to do anything: It's quite one thing for me to throw my life away on whimsical quixotry, it's quite another for me to ask a young man, with years of sexual potency and any number of flagons of wine ahead of him, todo likewise. I'm asking you to go, but I positively refuse to order it; some scant salve for a much-decaying conscience."
"I shall depart on the instant," said von Kremnitz.
"Righto," said Siebert. He moved to his desk, picked up a quill, and scratched something onto a piece of parchment. "Off you go then."
"I shall not fail you, my lord," said von Kremnitz, kneeling to kiss Siebert's ring.
"Oh, bloody hell, enough of that," said Siebert. "Au revoir, bon voyage, the hopes of the city ride with you, and so forth and so on." He folded the parchment, tucked it in von Kremnitz's belt, and pointed the young man toward the secret door. As von Kremnitz crawled into the passage, he felt a resounding slap on his buttock.
Hamish Siebert, Lord Mayor of Hamsterburg, sat at the head of the table, leaning well back, his elbows, on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled before him. He waited patiently, a slight smile on his jowly face, as his ministers drifted in.
As always, the cabinet met in the Octagon Chamber, deep within the Maiorkest. Stone walls rose to high windows. Though it was spring, a fire roared in the great hearth; this pile of stones retained the chill of winter well into the hottest days of summer, and for now, it was still rather cold.
Siebert studied the portraits that ran around the perimeter of the room. They depicted mayors past, unsmiling men and women leaning outward from the walls, the frames angled down for better viewing, imposing a sense that these grim potentates regarded the doings of their successors with stern and censorious eyes.
He looked about the table. Yes, they were all here, all but one, studying each other discreetly, no warmth among them. In happier times, they might have passed the time with pleasantries; but in these strained circumstances, with half the city maneuvering for power, conversation was impossible.
Siebert envied the rulers of other states, who might choose their own advisors; his cabinet had been foisted on him by the Hundred Gentes, the great families that ruled Hamsterburg, that had elected him mayor in the mistaken belief that he would be a comfortable nonentity. The foreign minister was an Accommodationist, the minister of public works a Smalkaldian, the minister of the Arsenal of the Bleinmetz gens. Even that fool Julio von Krautz had his own little piece of the pie, the Department of Drains and Water Supply. In fact, the fat little turd was seated just to Siebert's left, looking as if he were sucking on lemons.
Every faction had its own little piece of the action, its own access to the public purse. That was precisely what Siebert hoped to end.
They were all here but Stantz. Siebert pursed his lips. Stantz's lateness might be a calculated insult, or perhaps merely a way of demonstrating his importance; they could not start without him. Rather, Siebert would not start without him; Stantz was virtually his only ally, however untrustworthy an ally he might be. It was hard to trust a man whose files contained evidence of innumerable indiscretions, whose spies were everywhere, who was known to the general public, in hushed whispers, as "The Spider." It was not a reference to his physiognomy.
Siebert frowned irritably and opened his mouth; there was a limit to the length of time he would willingly wait. At that very moment, however, the great doors creaked open at last.
"His Excellency, Guismundo Stantz, Minister of Internal Serenity," announced the footman.
Stantz stood between the two splayed doors, a cane in each hand. He needed two, to support his bulk. Attendantshad helped him this far, but now they stood respectfully back.
Painfully, advancing both canes before levering his body behind them, he progressed into the room. He moved with elephantine slowness. "Elephantine" was an apt word; he was three hundred, possibly four hundred pounds.
"I beg your pardon for my tardiness, my lord," said Stantz, in a curiously sweet voice for such a man. "I was delayed en route."
/> "Confound it, Minister," said Siebert. "We've important matters to discuss."
"Yes, my lord," said Stantz, in his melodic voice. He was halfway to his seat now.
Siebert sighed. "My Lord Privy Purse," he said, "commence, if you will."
Lord Mannheim went to the sideboard. A jeroboam of single-malt stood there: the Isle of Alban, the preferred tipple, so it was said, of Mayor Albertus, the Republic's founder. It was served from the same decanter at the inception of every cabinet meeting.
Mannheim went to each place in turn, pouring a careful two forgers into each tumbler. They would all drink from the same bottle. Just as every Hamsterian citizen drank from the wellspring of the city's life, just as each thrived or suffered with the state, so every minister drank from the same potation. If it was poisoned, they all would die. It had happened more than once in the history of the Republic.
One Quest, Hold the Dragons Page 18
