by Jack Yeovil
It was really much simpler when you did something you were told to. There were no motives to untangle and ponder. She was here because the Lector wanted her here. And, after yesterday's session with the leftovers of the victims, she was here because she wanted the Beast stopped.
Elsaesser dropped the apron on the bed and examined the jacket. It was obviously of a good cut. Trudi had had a rich boyfriend, or a light-fingered one with access to a tailor's shop.
'The League of Karl-Franz,' the officer said. 'Look.'
He tossed the jacket at her and she caught it. On the lapels was the Imperial seal, picked out in gold.
'The Leaguers all wear these things. I should have recognized it straight away.'
It was like holding an angry animal. The jacket struggled in her grip and she heard growling, spitting and snarling. Claws slashed, teeth were bared. There was snow underfoot and a trail of blood to follow. Yellow and red eyes shone and she realized they were her own, thrown back at her by the mirror.
'Trudi's boyfriend is a first-year, not fully inducted,' said Elsaesser. 'He'll be able to put on some extra braids if he passes his first exams.'
She dropped the garment.
'What's wrong?'
Rosanna could not stop shaking.
'Wolf,' she said.
Elsaesser was attentive, contrite. 'I'm sorry, I should never have just thrown the thing at you. I keep forgetting about your gift.'
'That's all right, it would have happened anyway. I can feel it in this whole room. It's strong, like a musk.'
'You should act more like a witch'
She hated that word, but was willing to put up with it from the well-meaning young officer.
'cover your clothes with symbols and emblems. Wave your hands and mutter hocus pocus.'
The gooseflesh under her sleeves subsided. Elsaesser stroked her hair, as if he were fifty years older rather than six years younger than her. He had none of the caution Mikael Hasselstein exhibited around her and that made her realize how few of the people she knew were willing casually to touch her in the way ordinary people did each other. She didn't even scry anything more from the officer, beyond a general attempt to soothe her after her nasty contact.
'I'm not a witch, or a sorceress. This isn't something I learned, it's something I was born with. It's like being double-jointed, or having a good singing voice.'
He was serious again. 'Is it Wolf?' he asked.
'I think so. Names are difficult, sometimes. There are odd things about him. He must be a student, but he feels older. He has been through a period of his life he barely remembers, but is constantly plagued by. He's not an altered, but he has undergone some some transformation'
Elsaesser was paying close attention.
Kunze, the landlord, had said that Trudi had a boyfriend who stayed with her sometimes. Aside from being a student and not short of the odd crown, he didn't know anything about the man. However, Kunze had described him as 'a hairy devil' even though, when pressed, he had admitted that the boy didn't wear a beard.
There was a knock at the door.
'Come in.'
A girl in an apron entered the room and curtsied. Rosanna felt the wave of fear coming off her. She had been crying.
'I'm Marte,' the girl said. 'Mr.Kunze said you wanted to see me.'
'You were Trudi's friend?' Elsaesser asked.
Marte said, 'We worked alternate shifts, officer. She was a good girl and filled in when I was sick. I'm sick a lot.'
Rosanna noticed that the girl was a little lame and her skin colour was not good.
'Did you know her boyfriend?' she asked.
Marte's face twisted and Rosanna tried hard not to flinch. The maid had just switched from passive fear to active fear.
'Him,' she said, loathing in her voice, 'he was a bad one. An animal. He was sweet as sugar one minute, then a vicious beast. I don't know why she stuck with him. I'd never let a man use me as he used her. We bathed together, every week, and she always had some new bruise or scratch that he'd given her.'
The yellow and red eyes burned in her mind.
'Do you know his name?'
Marte was more angry than scared now. 'Did he do it? I always said he was a bad one.'
'His name?'
'Merciful Shallya, was he was he the Beast?' Marte was on the point of fainting.
Elsaesser took her by the shoulders and held her up. 'What was his name?'
'Oh yes. His name. It was Wolf.
Elsaesser and Rosanna looked at each other.
'Aristocracy, he was. He kept it quiet, but Trudi told me his brother was an elector'
Inside her mind, something vague was coming into clear, hard focus. Rosanna remembered the sketch she had made for Captain Kleindeinst and the face that had kept trying to impose itself over the one in Trudi's mind.
'His name was Wolf von Mecklenberg.'
III
The barge was empty. Wolf tried to remember coming aboard, but couldn't. The cabin door was splintered and he guessed that he had broken in.
He had slept in his clothes and woken up feeling grimy next to the skin.
He had gone out last night, with Trudi. There had been a thick fog. He remembered an argument.
But nothing else.
He wished Johann were here. Johann would know how to save him from the animal inside him. Johann had spent ten years tracking him, trying to rescue him from the Chaos knights.
Those had been bad years, but they were gone now. Gone forever.
He could remember some things. He could remember that day in the woods when he had got in the way of Johann's arrow.
His shoulder still hurt when it was damp, and sometimes bled. Now there was an ache between the bones, precisely where Johann's shaft had pierced.
That day, he had been snotty. He had been taunting his brother for his faint heart. As a boy, Johann had not been a natural killer. Wolf had been the huntsman in the family. He had lived for his time in the woods, loping along in the tracks of some stag or hog, his bow always ready. If it swam, flew, ran or burrowed, Wolf could kill it.
Now, he wished he had been more like Johann, instinctively turning away from murder.
His trophies were dusty and forgotten in some storeroom on the estate. And he wished he could get rid of his urge to kill.
It must have been easy for Cicatrice to work on him. The seed of Chaos had always been there, nestling in his heart, waiting to sprout. He had been a monster inside long before the warpstone had given him a body to match.
These last weeks had been foggy, if not in the city then in his mind. He remembered the feel of Trudi, the feel of her flesh
And he did not want to remember any more.
He must have been weird-juicing last night. Purple squiggles still came and went in the periphery of his vision. And then he must have been brawling. One of his teeth was loose and he had bled from cuts on his face. But not all the blood on his clothes was his own.
On the floor of the cabin he found a docker's hook, like the ones carried by the waterfront gang. It was blooded.
For some reason, he took it with him when he left.
Emerging onto the deck, he found that the barge was moored near the Three Toll Bridge, at one of the public quays.
He took three crowns from his pouch, to cover the damage, and left them by the wheelhouse, under a coil of rope so they wouldn't shine and attract attention.
The barge was on a loose mooring, to rise and fall with the river, and it was played out. The rope was stretched tight and the quay was ten feet away. There was nothing for it but to get wet.
He lowered himself into the icy waters, almost relishing the shock of the cold, and got a strong grip on the rope. The current pulled at his legs. There was a surface mist trailing off the water, joining the thick fog in the air.
He could barely see the dock.
He worked his way, hand over hand, feeling the rush of water washing him clean.
He hauled himself up an
d stood on the planks of the jetty. He tried to shake himself dry, like a dog, but his shirt and britches hung on him like ice slabs.
He wanted to go back to Trudi, but wasn't sure that was a good idea. He could not remember what their argument had been about, but it had been a bad one. He thought he had used his hands on her. Again. And that made him burn with shame.
Dripping, he walked off the docks, fumbling his way in the fog
There were ruffians fighting on the Street of a Hundred Taverns, but it was more serious than the usual Hooks-and-Fish or Students-and-Dockers clashes. Those did not usually leave many dead, but Dien Ch'ing could tell that at least five people had been killed in the fighting so far. It would be a good night for his lord.
Disdaining the ostentatious carriage that was his right as ambassador, he had chosen to go for a walk in the fog. At the palace, there were those who thought he must be mad, but the ways of foreign diplomats were not often questioned.
The duel this morning had given him quite an appetite.
He honoured the purpose of Lord Tsien-Tsin and heard in his head the orchestra of the Fifteen Devils. He longed for the Pagoda, and to be far away from this barbarous and cold country. He remembered the sweet teas and fragrant blossoms of his homeland, and wondered humbly how soon it would be before his master chose to summon him back to Cathay to work towards the downfall of the presumptuous Monkey King. That monarch had reigned for too long over the greatness of the east, and it had always been the intention of Tsien-Tsin that he be brought low. Ch'ing had promised himself the position of executioner and imagined the scimitar describing a graceful arc towards the throat of the Monkey King and the look in his enemy's eyes as his befuddled head was expertly detached from his unworthy neck.
His pleasant thoughts were interrupted.
'You,' said a rough voice, 'Green velvet!'
There were three of them, each taller than he. They blocked his path. They were indistinct in the fog, illuminated by the fires behind them. He looked from outline to outline. Two men and a woman. They each held docker's hooks in their fists.
'Off your patch, aren't you?' said the one who had already spoken.
Ch'ing bowed. 'Might I humbly request that you let my meagre and contemptible self past. I have urgent business.'
They laughed at him and he sighed.
'We don't want your sort here,' said the woman.
'Palace scum!'
'Parasite!'
'Yellow dog.'
A hook sliced out of the fog at him. He clapped his hands over it, halting it an inch from his nose.
'Moves like a rabbit,' someone said.
He let the hook go and it was withdrawn.
He saw the dagger coming and tapped it away with his palm. It struck a wall.
The fog swirled around them as the three Hooks spread to surround him. The fire nearby was rising and Ch'ing realized that there was a carriage overturned in the street, burning steadily. He could see their stupid faces. They all had grotesquely large noses, skins the colour of a pig's belly and peculiar moon-round eyes, and the men were disgustingly bearded, with thick hair like growths of moss about their chins and necks. Typical unwashed barbarians.
He drew up his knee and spread his arms in the crane position.
'He's a loony' said the woman.
He hopped into the air and kicked where her voice had come from. She was out of the ring instantly, consciousness knocked out of her.
Ch'ing landed a little unsteadily on the cobbles, but quickly regained his balance.
'Did you see that?'
'What did you do to Hanni?'
'Slit-eyed swine!'
The two Hooks circled him and he turned, preventing either from getting behind him.
Finally, he became tired of the game.
For the one who had spoken first, he employed the Drunken Master technique, weaving unsteadily from side to side, then head-butting the Hook to the ground and stamping on his face, as if trying to put out a burning patch of lamp-oil. It was most comical.
For the other, he switched to the Sleeping Fist. Yawning loudly, he stifled himself with the back of one hand and leaned backwards, as if falling into a hammock. His outstretched elbow smashed into the Hook's ribcage, breaking a few bones. The man coughed and fell, and Ch'ing sliced his neck between his scything legs.
He left two dead and one sleeping. Sparing the woman was his concession to the mores of the Empire where, for some extraordinary reason, it was not considered polite to kill a female. Not, of course, that that stopped anyone. This Beast fellow, for instance
Standing over his fallen enemies, he heard someone clapping.
A creature scurried monkey-like out of the fog, its hands slapping together.
Ch'ing bowed. He recognized Respighi.
'My master sends his greetings, Celestial.'
'They are accepted with thanks.'
'He is busy elsewhere.
There was a sound from across the river. It was a large building gently bursting into flames. There were a lot of fires in the fog. In the distance, people were shouting.
'but has asked me to accompany you to the Matthias II. I am to represent his interests.'
Ch'ing spread his hands. 'We all have the same interest, Respighi. The greater glory of Lord Tsien-Tsin.'
'Tzeentch.'
'As you will. Names do not matter. We all eventually serve the same purpose.'
Respighi giggled.
IV
Having decided to accept de la Rougierre's invitation for the evening, Johann was now faced with the problem of making his attendance at the soiree not seem extraordinary. He had cultivated, he now realized, an unusual unsociability, regularly avoiding the balls and receptions that proliferated around the Imperial court. It was not that he hated these things so much, but that he had been away from the world of titles and etiquette for so long that he no longer had the desire to enter it. The latest dances, current fashions in hemlines and the petty schemings of rival court factions simply did not seem important, or even interesting, to him.
And yet, it was now clear that he must be at the Bretonnian ambassador's soiree. He knew, with a certainly that was unusual, that this was not just an innocent social occasion. The scent of the Beast was in the air.
In the afternoon, he had encountered Leos von Liebewitz, who was in ominously good spirits, and discovered that the viscount and his sister were also on de la Rougierre's guest list. Leos had offered him a place in their carriage and he had accepted with practiced off-handedness.
Johann found it creepy that the undemonstrative, unemotional, humourless viscount was only able to be anything approaching friendly if he had spilled blood that day. Before leaving him, the youth had clapped Johann on the shoulder and shaken his hand. He fancied that Leos had kept up physical contact a moment or two longer than was necessary. There were stories told about the viscount, not to his face Stories about why he had rejected the undeniably appealing Clothilde of Averheim as a marriage prospect, or even as a sweetheart-of-the-month
De la Rougierre was away from the palace, making preparations, so Johann had to ask around to discover who else would be at the table. That meant paying his respects to the Countess Emmanuelle and listening to her for longer than he would have chosen to.
The countess was genuinely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but she was so self-absorbed as to qualify also as one of the most boring. He found her surrounded by a flurry of notably unattractive maidservants, endeavouring to make a choice between seven equally magnificent, overly decorated and borderline immodest gowns. She had been relying on the judgement of Mnoujkine, the guests' steward, to assist her and the man was notably relieved to have a superior to take over the duty from him. She asked Johann to give advice and he had to sit in her rooms while she darted behind a screen to struggle out of and into each in turn. Mnoujkine, with the tact of a born underling, withdrew to leave his betters unchaperoned.
All the while, she talked. Johann l
earned that the party was to be graced by the presence of future Emperor Luitpold. Mikael Hasselstein was due to make an appearance and Dien Ch'ing, the Cathayan ambassador, and Grand Prince Hergard von Tasseninck. Also, the Marquess Sidonie of Marienburg, which prompted Emmanuelle to remark that 'the Bretonnian would have to be careful with the seating arrangements since Leos killed her husband last year on a matter of honour.' Johann wished the countess would take the trouble to watch her brother butcher his opponents and then try to talk about matters of honour.
Three electors, the future Emperor and a Lector of the Cult of Sig-mar. If one was to assume that Luitpold could influence his father, and that Hasselstein was more or less charged with the powers the Grand Theogonist was neglecting to wield these days, then one would see that this small, exclusive gathering concentrated more political power in one room than had gathered since the last meeting of the Electoral College. The thing that puzzled Johann most was where the Celestial fitted in. What could be the common interest of Bretonnia and Cathay? Also, it was well-known that de la Rougierre had little actual power at the court of King Charles de la Tete d'Or, the ridiculous perfumed dwarf having been appointed to the ambassadorship as a cruel joke against Karl-Franz that no one had yet had the nerve to explain to the Emperor.
'Which do you prefer, baron?'
He paid attention. The countess was in her robe again, playing artfully with her lapels to show off her well-shaped bust.
'The green velvet,' he said, distractedly.
She seemed surprised and chewed a strand of her hair like a teenager. It was well known that the countess had been twenty-nine for some years now.
'Very well, the green velvet. A good choice. Traditional. You have an admirable eye, Johann.'
He shrugged, uncomfortable. He did not know where to put his hands and opted to leave them in his lap.
She gave her maids directions in a low, serious voice. The dress was to be cleaned, pressed, aired, perfumed and laid out. She listed the underwear and accessories that went with it, and handed one girl the key to her jewel-box, with instructions to fetch several bracelets, brooches and rings, and a specified tiara-and-necklace combination. Obviously, the life of the Countess-Elector of Nuln was one tough decision after another.
