Genevieve 03 - Beasts in Velvet

by Jack Yeovil

  It was cold in the alley and there was water running somewhere. A chill crept through her. She turned and saw the glitter of water pouring from an aperture in a wall. It didn't smell clean.

  There was someone else in the alley. She couldn't make out who or what, but she had the impression of a long cloak. A tall figure, most likely a man. Leaning against the back wall, washing something in the stream. At last, a prospect. She hoped the watchmen were out of earshot.

  Margi smiled and pouted. She had practised the expression, to cover up her bad teeth. Under her shawl, she slipped the blade from its sheath.

  'Hello, my love,' she said, her voice silly and fluttering like Marlene's, 'lonely this evening, are we?' The figure turned. She could not see a face.

  'Come now, come to little Margi, and we'll take care of you'

  She unlaced her blouse and stepped into the light, hoping her skin would look all right. No one would want her if they got close enough to see her. But by then, it would be too late. The prospect would be just where she wanted.

  'Come on, my love,' she cooed, her blade behind her. She beckoned with her left hand. 'This'll be a night you'll never forget.'

  The figure moved. She heard the rustle of thick material. Fine clothes. She had hooked herself a rich man. Was it her imagination, or did she hear gold crowns rattling in a full purse? This could set her up for a month. She could almost taste the weirdroot in her mouth, feel the dreams blossoming in her skull.

  She hung her head to one side and licked her lips. She pulled her blouse away from her shoulder and let her fingers caress her breast, play with her hair. She was like a fisherman, hooking a record-breaking catch.

  The figure was close now. She could see a pale face.

  She brought out her blade. You could get too old for whoring, but you were never too old to rob a drunk.

  She could hear heavy breathing. Obviously, the prospect was interested.

  'Come to Margi'

  The shadow-shape was close enough. She imagined a tall man and fit him into the outline she could see, considering where the best spot would be for a first strike. She stabbed out with her blade, aiming for the throat apple.

  A hand closed on her wrist, incredibly strong, and she felt her bones grinding, then breaking. Her blade fell and clattered on the cobbles. She opened her throat to scream, sucking in a lungful of cold night air. Another hand, rough-palmed, clamped her mouth, shutting off her cry. She saw bright eyes, aflame, and knew her life was over.

  The Beast pulled her into the dark alley and opened her up

  PART ONE

  MURDER

  I

  Baron Johann von Mecklenberg, the Elector of Sudenland, was a good servant to his Emperor, Karl-Franz of the House of the Second Wilhelm. He could not refuse his master a thing, not even an archery lesson for Karl-Franz's son, Luitpold.

  'Higher, Luitpold,' Johann told the youth. 'Keep the quarrel and the sight in line.'

  The straw targets were set up in the courtyard by the palace stables, and all horses and men had been cleared out of the sometimes erratic path of the future Emperor's bolts. The heir would have preferred to practise in the great ballroom×the only place inside the palace which had the distance to make target practice a real challenge×but an inventory of the priceless paintings, hangings and antiques in the possible line of fire had convinced the Emperor that it would not be a good idea to grant his son that particular wish.

  'There,' said Luitpold as he released the crossbow string. There was a satisfying twang. The quarrel brushed the outermost edge of the target and embedded itself with a thud in the wood of a stable door. A horse in the next stall whinnied.

  Johann did not laugh, remembering his own shortcomings as a boy. His ineptitude in archery had caused a lot more trouble than merely frightening a horse.

  Luitpold shrugged and slipped another bolt into the groove.

  'My hands shake, Uncle Johann.'

  It was true. It had been true for three years, since the heir had been knocked down by the traitor Oswald von Konigswald during the one and only performance of the original text of Detlef Sierck's Drachenfels. No one who had been in that audience came out of the theatre in the Fortress of Drachenfels the person they had been before. Some of them, for instance, had been carried out under a sheet.

  Johann was perhaps an exception. For him, life had had its horrors as long as he could remember. Even before Drachenfels, he had become used to struggling with the creatures in the darkness. Most people chose to ignore those things at the edge of their vision. Johann knew that such wilful blindness simply allowed the dark to close in. His years of wandering might be over, but that did not mean the threat was ended. The warpstone was still working its wretched magic on the hearts, minds and bodies of all the races of the world.

  Luitpold fired again. He hit the target this time, but his bolt was stuck askew in the outermost ring.

  There was applause from above and Johann looked up. On the balcony, Karl-Franz stood, his voluminous sleeves flapping as he clapped for his son. Luitpold reddened and shook his head.

  'It was useless, father,' he shouted. 'Useless.'

  The Emperor smiled. A thin man with a mass of curly gold-grey hair stood by Karl-Franz, his monk's hood down around his shoulders, his hands in his sleeves. It was Mikael Hasselstein, the Emperor's confessor. A lector of the Cult of Sigmar, Hasselstein was rumoured to be a likely candidate to fill the post of Grand Theogonist once old Yorri finally got through with the business of dying. Johann worshipped at the Cathedral of Sigmar whenever he could, but he could never bring himself to like men like Hasselstein. Clerics should perhaps not be courtiers. Now, Hasselstein stood by his Emperor, his face unreadable, waiting to be called upon. No one could be all the time as cool-headed and even tempered as Mikael Hasselstein seemed to be. No one human. And Johann was hardly more impressed with his Emperor's other companion, the pockmarked and olive-skinned Mornan Tybalt, the Keeper of the Imperial Counting House, who was intent on replenishing the palace's coffers by levying an annual tax of two gold crowns on all able-bodied citizens of the Empire. The agitators were calling Tybalt's scheme 'the thumb tax,' and gamblers were already wagering on the percentage of citizens who would rather have their thumbs clipped than part with the crowns.

  'Johann, show me again,' Luitpold asked.

  Reluctantly, aware that he was being put on show, Johann took the crossbow. It was the best design Imperial coin could buy, inlaid with gold filigree along the stock. The sights of the weapon were so precise that it would take a fumblefingers of Luitpold's stature to miss.

  Without appearing to look at the sight or the target, Johann released the quarrel. The target was marked with a series of concentric red and blue circles. Instead of a bullseye, it had a tiny red heart in its centre. Johann's bolt split the heart. A tear of red paint dripped from the wound in the straw.

  In his mind, Johann heard the echoing cries of all those he had had to kill during his ten years of wandering. His ten years on the trail of Cicatrice the Chaos champion and his followers, the altered monstrosities that called themselves Chaos Knights and his own brother, Wolf. When he had set out, with his family retainer Vukotich at his side, he had been as bad a bowman as Luitpold. But he had learned. When you shoot at straw targets, it is easy to be lazy, to settle for less and wait for the next turn. When you face bestial creatures in battle, you shoot true or you do not live to draw a bowstring again. Johann would never be as elegant in battle as a court-educated warrior, but he was still alive. Too many of the people he had known along his route were not. Vukotich, for one.

  Luitpold whistled. 'Good shot,' he said.

  The Emperor said nothing, but nodded at Johann and, with Hasselstein and Tybalt at his side, walked on, vanishing from the balcony into one of the palace's many conference rooms. Karl-Franz had a lot to worry about these days, Johann knew. But then again, everyone had a lot to worry about.

  Johann held up the crossbow to his eyeline, checking the si
ght. He felt the wooden stock against his cheek. Back in the forests of Sudenland, he had learned archery with a longbow. He remembered the tight string against his face, the shaking arrowhead resting on his thumb. When he had fired at a target, they called him Deadeye. But whenever an animal had been in front of him, he had ended up nicking his knuckle and firing wild. Strange to think that, all those years ago, he had had an unjumpable fence in his mind. He had been unable to kill. Now, sometimes, he wished he had never been cured of that particular failing.

  One skewed shot and he had lost ten years. At sixteen, he had been too compassionate to kill a deer, and had fired wild, piercing his brother's shoulder. That one mistake had meant Wolf had to be sent home while Johann and Vukotich remained in the forests to finish the hunt, and when Cicatrice and his Chaos Knights rode by intent on ravaging the von Mecklenberg estates, Wolf had been stolen away. Vukotich and Johann had followed Cicatrice across the face of the Known World, learning more and more of the mysteries, the horrors, that were hidden from most. In the frozen wastes of the north, on a battlefield where the monsters of the night fought forever, it had come to an end and Johann had found himself confronting young Wolf, grown into a beastman himself, twisted by a hatred that still writhed in his old wound. Vukotich had sacrificed himself and, by a miracle that Johann still gave daily thanks for, Wolf had been restored to him, a boy again, given another chance. The power of innocent blood had saved his brother and that had been the end of the wandering for Johann.

  He gave the crossbow back to Luitpold.

  'Again,' he said. 'Try to keep your shoulders loose and your hands still.'

  The youth grinned and wrestled another bolt into the groove, cocking the string with a grunt.

  'Careful,' Johann said, 'or you'll put a bolt through your foot.'

  The heir brought the crossbow up and fired. The shot went wild, the quarrel breaking against the flagstones. Luitpold shrugged. A door behind them opened and Johann turned his head.

  'Enough,' Johann said. 'It's nearly time for your fencing lesson.'

  Luitpold gently leaned the crossbow against the back of a chair and turned round to greet the newcomer.

  'Viscount Leos,' he said, 'welcome.'

  Leos von Liebewitz saluted and clicked the heels of his polished boots. Most famous duellists were distinguished by their scars. Johann, with more experience of ungentlemanly scraps than polite contests, was covered with them. But Leos, who had fought countless times, had a face as unlined and soft as a girl's. That, Johann knew, was the mark of a master swordsman. Leos switched his green cloak over one shoulder, disclosing his sheathed sword. The young nobleman had watery blue eyes and cropped gold hair that made all the ladies of the court go weak, but he never seemed to return their interest. Clothilde, grand daughter of the Elector of Averheim, had very ostentatiously made romantic overtures to him very soon after her startling transformation from spotty, spoiled brat to ravishing, spoiled young woman and was now suffering from a severely broken heart. Johann supposed that the young viscount's sister, the notorious beauty Countess Emmanuelle von Liebewitz, had enough devotion to the amorous arts for any one family.

  Leos smiled sweetly. 'Highness,' he said, nodding. 'Baron von Mecklenberg. How is our pupil coming along?'

  Johann didn't say anything.

  'Fearfully bad,' Luitpold admitted. 'I seem to have more thumbs than are strictly required by law. I shall have to pay extra tax.'

  'A sharp mind will serve you better than a sharp sword, highness,' said Leos.

  'That's easy to say when you're the best swordsman in the Empire,' snapped Luitpold.

  Leos frowned. 'My teacher, Valancourt, at the Academy in Nuln, is better. And that fellow they sing songs about, Konrad. And a dozen others. Maybe even the baron here.'

  Johann shrugged. He certainly did not intend to get dragged into an exhibition match with deadly Leos.

  'I'm rusty, viscount. And old.'

  'Nonsense.' Leos drew his sword with one clean, fluid movement. The thin blade danced in the air.

  'Would you care to make a few passes?'

  The swordpoint darted by Johann's ears, whipping through the air. Luitpold was delighted and clapped encouragement.

  'I'm sorry,' Johann said. 'Not today. The future Emperor is impatient to receive the benefit of your learning.'

  The viscount's arm moved, too fast for Johann's eye, and his sword was sheathed again.

  'A pity.'

  An attendant was already clearing away the straw targets and archery impedimenta. A trolley had been wheeled into the courtyard. A fine array of swords lay on the upper tier, while masks and padded jackets were bundled below.

  Luitpold was eager to get into his gear. He tried to strap himself into his protective jacket and got the wrong buckles attached. The attendant had to undo the Prince and start all over again. Johann was reminded of Wolf, the old Wolf of their childhood, not the strange young-old boy he had brought back from the Chaos Wastes. His brother was three years younger than him, twenty-nine, and yet he had lost ten years to Cicatrice and seemed no older than his late teens. His body had been restored and his soul purged of all the horrors of his years with the Chaos Knights, but the ghost of the memory was still with him. Johann could still not stop worrying about Wolf.

  Luitpold made a mock ferocious face as he pulled his mask down and cut up the air with his foil.

  'Take that, hellspawn algebra teacher,' he shouted, thrusting forwards and twisting his blade in the air. 'This, for your calculus and this for your dusty abacus!'

  Leos laughed dutifully, fastidiously strapped on his chest-protector and pointedly did not bother with the mask. Luitpold capered, administering a death thrust to his imagined opponent. 'Lie there and bleed!' Johann could not help comparing the lively, unspoiled heir with the withdrawn, brooding Wolf.

  He had come to Altdorf not just to do his duty at the court, but to be close to Wolf. His brother was supposed to be studying at the University, catching up on his long-lost lessons. And Johann was worried by the reports he kept receiving from Wolfs tutors. Sometimes, the student would disappear for weeks on end. Frequently, his temper would snap and he would get into some ridiculous fight or other and, holding back at the last moment, would be roundly pummelled by an opponent he should have been able to beat without effort. Whenever Johann saw his brother's face bruised and drained of expression, he could not help but remember that other face he had seen on the battlefield. His brother had been a fang-snouted, red-eyed, luxuriously-maned giant. How deeply had that creature been embedded in Wolfs soul? And how clean had his slate been washed by the power of innocent blood? Which, after all the House of von Mecklenberg had been through, was the real Wolf?

  Leos was giving Luitpold a work-out now. Johann saw that the viscount was slowing himself, fencing as if wearing weighted boots and gloves. But he was still an elegant murder machine, prodding the prince's quilted torso with every strike, perfectly parrying the youth's counterthrusts. In a genuine duel, he would have cut the future Emperor into thin slices like a Bretonnian chef preparing a cold meat buffet.

  There were a lot of stories about the Countess Emmanuelle's many love affairs and her strange preferences in the boudoir, but they were never told where Viscount Leos might hear them. The exclusive graveyards of the Empire were full of well-born swordslingers who thought they were better with a blade than Leos von Liebewitz. The countess had a lot to answer for.

  The viscount was making Luitpold break into a sweat now and the heir wasn't disgracing himself. He was less clumsy with a foil than with a crossbow, and he had the strength. It was the strength of a runner, not a wrestler, but that was what he would need to be a swordsman. Once he learned the moves, Luitpold would be a fine duellist. Not that Karl-Franz would let him get anywhere near a serious fight while still alive and Emperor. Luitpold was enjoying the lesson, even clowning a little for Johann's benefit, but Leos was taking it all seriously. The future Emperor's thick jacket was marked with a hundred tiny te
ars and the stuffing was leaking.

  Watching Leos, Johann wondered about the viscount. During his lost years, Johann had fought many duels to the death, had survived many battles. He had bested men so grievously altered by the warp-stone that they resembled daemons. Fie had killed many. The blood of all the races of the Known World was on his hands. That had not been a courtly game, with seconds and stewards and rules of etiquette.

  He was sure that, if it came to it, if it ever got serious, he could take Leos von Liebewitz. But he was not looking forward to it. Not one bit.

  Behind the clash of steel on steel, Johann heard something else, a clamour outside the palace walls. Luitpold and the viscount did not notice and continued with their fake combat, Leos ticking off the heir's errors and praising his good moves.

  People were shouting. Johann's ears were good. They had had to be, in the forests and the wastes.

  Six halberdiers, stumbling as they buckled on their chestplates and helmets, rushed across the courtyard. Luitpold stood aside and Leos, hands on hips, frowned.

  'What's going on?' Johann asked.

  'The main gate,' huffed a young soldier, 'there's a mob there. Yefimovich is making a speech.'

  'Sigmar's Hammer,' spat Leos, 'that damned agitator!'

  The halberdiers ran off through the archway, heading for the palace gate. Luitpold turned to follow them.

  'Highness,' Johann said, sharply, 'stay here.'

  It was Luitpold's turn to frown. Anger sparked in his eyes, but died immediately.

  'Uncle Johann,' he complained, 'I×'

  'No, Luitpold. Your father would hang me in irons for the crows.'

  Leos was pulling off his padded jacket. Johann could see trouble coming to the boil.

  'Viscount,' he said, 'if you would remain here to protect the future Emperor. Just in case'

  Leos bridled, but a glance from Johann convinced him. He touched his sword to his nose and bowed his head for an instant. Thankfully, he was not one of those aristocrats×like Luitpold×who had been taught to question every order. The von Liebewitz household must have had a good, strict nanny in charge of the nursery.