Genevieve 03 - Beasts in Velvet

by Jack Yeovil

  And Mikael was being tedious beyond words. Lector of Sigmar or not, he would have to join Dany and the others in the doghouse.

  Of course, she could always pass him on to Leos. She would like that, even if Mikael would be disgusted.

  No, with this one, that would be too big a risk.

  'Yelle,' he whispered to her, loudly. 'Yelle, answer me'

  She pretended to be interested in the show.

  Yes, Mikael was on the Out List.

  * * * * *

  Wolf clapped his hands over his ears×his hook scraping his scalp×but could not shut out the pictures in his head.

  It was the red-headed girl. She was doing it.

  The tall, wide-shouldered man's knife shone.

  He sensed, saw, Trudi dying. In his mind, he was murderer and victim. It was too much to bear.

  Trudi!

  He choked back a howl. He was a man, not an animal.

  The blood gushed and the flesh tore. It was extended, painful and played over and over again. It was slow and fast at the same time, like a weirdroot rush.

  With an effort, he broke away from the girl and fled.

  He could hear them coming after him, but he ran on strong, swift legs. He thought he could outdistance the pursuers.

  He was quarry and huntsman in one.

  Luitpold had never seen anything like Milizia. He did not believe, even in his most secret dreams, that there were actually women like her.

  In the palace libraries, there were various locked volumes devoted to the arts of amorousness, and he had been a skilled lockpick since his childhood. He had always assumed that the illustrations were exaggerated. Certainly, none of the women he had had contact with could have hoped to fill out their fantastic frames. Not even the Countess Emmanuelle, who had briefly taken a slightly creepy interest in him×because of what he would be rather than who he was. But Milizia was a woodcut come to life. And, with each scarf, more of her was disclosed.

  Luitpold's mouth had gone dry.

  He crossed his legs to prevent embarrassment.

  When he was Emperor, he thought, he could have anything he wanted. He tried to keep a straight face.

  A servant girl, almost as generously proportioned as Milizia, brought him some more wine and he smiled at her like an idiot.

  A duel to the death in the morning and now Milizia. In his secret diary, he would mark this down as a Five Star Day.

  Ulrike was heavier dead than she had been alive. Luckily, he had had the cloak to wrap her in.

  He walked slowly through the crowds, as if shattered by the shock, the corpse in his hands. He let her hair trail on the ground and had exposed her pale face, with the red hole in the forehead, to the air.

  As the people realized who it was he held, they fell silent. One or two devout atheists made the sign of Sigmar or some other god. Hats came off heads and were held to breasts. More than one revolutionist fell into a fit of sobbing.

  At the entrance to the Street of Many Taverns, just across the way from the Old Emperor Bridge, he ran into Prince Kloszowski's brigade of student insurrectionists. They had just successfully broken through the positions of the Imperial Militia and were enthusiastically tossing soldiers into the river.

  Kloszowski saw Ulrike's face and was stopped dead.

  'I shall commit suicide,' he said, with feeling.

  Yefimovich held the corpse up, so everyone could see who it was.

  'No,' Kloszowski shouted, changing his mind, 'that would be too easy. I shall become a celibate and dedicate myself forever to the memory of the Angel of the Revolution!'

  Yefimovich laid her down and opened the cloak to disclose the extent of the mutilation. There were gasps of horror.

  'No,' said the Prince, 'that too is mere cowardice. I shall write an epic poem about her life. Through me, Ulrike shall live forever.'

  'What happened,' asked Brustellin, 'for Sigmar's sake, Yefimovich, what happened?'

  'It was the Beast,' he replied. 'He struck her down.'

  The crowd hissed. 'The Beast, the Beast, the Beast!' Yefimovich could feel the emotions running through the mass of people, grief, horror, anger, hatred.

  'Death to the Beast!' someone shouted.

  'Yes,' cried Yefimovich, 'death to the Beast!'

  He snatched at the bloody green velvet and held it up.

  'I didn't see his face,' he said, 'but he wore this!'

  Everyone knew what that meant.

  The mob would comb the city for aristocrats, courtiers, palace servants, diplomats. Even anyone who wore green. Then, there would be a glorious bloodbath. A revolution.

  'Death to the green velvet,' he shouted.

  and tomorrow, when the Emperor's people woke up, there would be reprisals. The city would be ruined by the upheaval, the great made low and the meagre raised on high.

  'Death to the green velvet, death to the Beast!'

  They lifted him up, taking up and amplifying his shouts. He heard the word 'death' over and over, coming as one voice from the mob's thousand mouths.

  The crowd walked over Ulrike and marched up the Street of a Hundred Taverns.

  Yefimovich offered up this, his concrete prayer to Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, and knew that the Chaos Power was pleased with him.

  * * * * *

  XI

  Milizia threw in every move she knew and let the music ripple through her. She might be big, but she had a lot of muscle control. She knew exactly what she was doing with her body.

  Etienne was a conquest already, so she let him alone, targeting others.

  As usual, stepping out into the light, she immediately picked the prospects. Young men were best, especially if they were quiet, withdrawn, a little embarrassed. Those were the ones who turned to fire most rapidly, who reached most easily into their pouches and came up with the coin.

  This afternoon, the dwarf had given her quite a workout. She wondered if she was up to another session, with a more normally-sized lover. In the end, it was worthwhile. Each pfennig got her nearer to escaping from Gropius and the Flamingo Club.

  There were two good prospects.

  First, there was the young man sitting near the stage, barely restraining himself. She found that the music often took her near him and she took care to lean over and make her shoulders work hard. She let a scarf drip away from her big ridiculous tits and stroked herself. That always gave the customers a charge, the fools.

  The Number Two possibility was a little older and a lot quieter. Sitting back a way, his face was in darkness, but she got the impression of a softly handsome man. He was feigning total lack of interest, but she could see through that. He was so elaborately not looking at her, that she knew his interest was keen.

  The Front Seat Boy would be easier, but perhaps Number Two would be more rewarding. Once he was started, he might be a real swordsman.

  This was a strange commission, she thought. The Bretonnian dwarf and his Celestial friend were up to something. Everybody in this room wanted something and was working hard to get it. She was no different.

  She climbed the strong curtains and scissored her legs in the air. The big Norseman yelled his approval and the beautiful woman sitting in front of him looking angrier and angrier glanced death at her.

  She went back to the Front Seat Boy and gave him some more interesting views. She unpeeled a scarf from around her middle, allowing the paste gem in her belly-button to catch the light, and gently flicked out with it, brushing the boy's nose. He was startled, but laughed.

  Kneeling down, she looped the scarf around the boy's neck and worked away. His eyes were firmly fixed on her chest, and she noticed that he wore more jewelry than most ladies of the court. His face was familiar, but she did not know who he was.

  Two men in armour were marching towards them, seriously intent on protecting their charge from strangulation.

  She took back her scarf and stood up, working her hips from side to side.

  Suddenly, she knew where she had seen a face
like that before. In profile, it was somewhere very close to her heart. On one face of the Karl-Franz crown.

  That put the Front Seat Boy out of her dicing league. She was ambitious, but she knew her limitations.

  The future Emperor was disappointed, but his metal covered bodyguards obviously felt better.

  Maybe in a few years, she thought, he would give the household halberdiers the slip and search her out. Even Emperors are men, in the end.

  The flautist was in a frenzy now. Milizia had heard he was half-elf, or something. She moved faster, loosening the remaining scarves.

  Her chest was tired of jiggling and she had an ache in one ankle. But she danced on.

  Etienne was clapping in time to the music and the Norseman was singing along. At least half the audience was appreciative.

  She wondered about the Celestial. Miele at the Flamingo had been with a Cathayan once and claimed it was a fantastic experience. He had supposedly been the master of some mystic art or other and it turned out to have applications beyond the obvious.

  No, the Celestial was too wrapped up in his own schemes even to pay attention.

  That left Number Two.

  She vaulted off the stage, almost cartwheeling, and strode towards the Shy Swordsman.

  He would be hard to draw out, but she had never failed yet.

  'Milizia,' Miele had said, 'you could seduce the statue of Sigmar outside the Temple.'

  She poked out her tongue and licked her lips.

  Number Two shrank back into the darkness.

  Gently, gently

  She had worked up a sweat and it was rolling like oil down her body.

  It would be a struggle, but she would dance on

  Wolf ran, trying to escape, trying to escape the witch and the knifeman, but also to escape from the thing inside him.

  Trudi was dead. And the witch had shown him killing her.

  He was on the Street of a Hundred Taverns. A mob was surging down it, calling for blood.

  He was overwhelmed by the smell of fear, of anger.

  He was pushed against the wall of Bruno's Brewhouse by the press of people. His chest hurt where he had cut himself.

  He tried to struggle free and heard a scream, sharp and pained, close by his head.

  He realized he had dragged his hook up through a man's back.

  He tried to apologise, but could only gabble. He was practically sobbing.

  His hook came free and the man staggered off, blood flowing, apparently without noticing his wound.

  There was a green velvet carpet down by the Matthias II. The mob snatched it up and it was torn instantly to shreds.

  'Death to the green velvet.'

  Wolf didn't understand.

  He saw Yefimovich, the agitator, among the crowds, his arms waving.

  He staggered into the alley between the two inns, making his way towards the sound of flowing water.

  He was free of the crush.

  His hand went through an open window and, on an impulse, he pulled himself through into the darkness.

  There was darkness outside, but it was the dark in himself that made him terrified.

  De la Rougierre watched Milizia trying hard with young von Liebewitz and felt sorry for the silly girl. There was no way she could know she was wasting her time on him.

  Still, this was proving to be a most interesting and rewarding evening.

  'Out of our way' Harald said, 'let us through.'

  Rosanna supposed there were very few men in the Empire who could make themselves be listened to in a situation like this.

  The Street of a Hundred Taverns was a battleground again, but on a larger scale than before. The Hooks and the Fish were fighting side by side, following Yefimovich's revolutionaries. And the League of Karl-Franz was pitching in to back up the Knights Templar, the palace guard and what little was left of the watch.

  She realized that more people were being killed within her sight at this very moment than the Beast had managed throughout his rampage.

  Captain Kleindeinst shouldered his way through.

  Wolf still left a trail and she could still fix on it.

  The poor creature was mad with fear. This was not the predator she had imagined.

  They were very near where this had all started for her, the alley where they had found Margarethe Ruttmann.

  Helmut Elsaesser couldn't be less interested in Milizia. Even the Countess Emmanuelle didn't hold much attraction for him this evening.

  It was in the air, like ozone. A kind of excitement that was terrible and wonderful at the same time.

  The music gave him a headache.

  Inside, he felt feverish, but his face and hands were cold, almost shivering.

  Near the door, he could hear something of what was going on outside.

  A lot of people were shouting and there was great destruction.

  He should do something. But he was under orders to stay with the Baron Johann.

  Very well. He would follow the example of brave Sigmar and hold his position to the last.

  XII

  Professor Brustellin's heart was broken and so he had thrown himself into the conflict, determined to end his life and lie next to his beloved Ulrike. Without an Angel, the Revolution was doomed, but at least it could die heroically, setting an example. The flame he had lit would burn steadily for a long time. And the fuse would get steadily shorter. The Empire would explode in the end. It was a historical inevitability. Nothing ever stays the same.

  He had a hook in his hand and was fighting with the watch. He saw the face of Professor Scheydt, who had had him flogged and expelled, in every watchman he dragged down and ripped.

  He recognized some of his former students, fighting on both sides. The old faithful inkies were with the revolution, and the decadent League of Karl-Franz fought for the standard of the oppressors.

  He never felt the swordthrust that killed him.

  It was accidental, the Hook who struck the fatal blow being unused to the weapon he had taken from a fallen Templar. The man knew what he had done, but never told his comrades, simply taking to drink whenever the names of the martyr heroes of the revolution were recited.

  Scythed through the neck and trampled underfoot, Brustellin left behind a book that would inspire revolutions, in the Empire and in distant lands, for centuries after his death.

  Of course, that was little comfort to him.

  * * * * *

  What is this fool woman doing?

  Leos von Liebewitz was outraged. If he was being insulted, then the dwarf would pay for it.

  The ridiculous woman continued to flaunt herself.

  Leos was disgusted.

  Harald found the open window.

  'He went through here?'

  The server told him he was right.

  He stabbed into the darkness, then pulled himself through. His shoulders scraped.

  He flicked his tinderbox and found himself in a storeroom.

  'He's not here. Come in.'

  Rosanna squeezed and he helped her.

  The room was neglected and there were footprints in the dust.

  'An easy trail?'

  'Careful,' she said.

  'I know. A cornered Beast is dangerous.'

  They pushed through a door. There was music coming from somewhere.

  The Beast was straining inside the man-shell, aching for blood, for flesh. The music excited it.

  Its claws popped out.

  The front doors of the Matthias II gave way like boxwood.

  Yefimovich led the mob into the inn. It could not have been better. In the hallway, three very frightened footmen were clustered by an overburdened coat rack.

  There was a line of green velvet cloaks.

  The crowd screamed.

  What was this accursed interruption?

  De la Rougierre vowed that the landlord would suffer for allowing this to happen.

  Even Milizia was distracted enough to miss a few steps.

 
Johann stood up and signed to Elsaesser. His first duty was to protect the future Emperor.

  There must be a back way out of this place.

  He looked around. There were four visible doors, not counting any that might be behind the stage curtains.

  That might be the safest route, through the dressing rooms. There was bound to be a performers' entrance.

  The young officer stepped forwards, but tripped. There was a flood of people into the room. Countess Emmanuelle screamed. She hated being in a room with commoners.

  Elsaesser was struggling.

  'Highness,' Johann said, 'come with me.'

  Luitpold had been in a daze, but Johann pulled him out of it. Taking his hand, he dragged him up onto the stage. The heir's bodyguards saw what he was doing and tried to block the surge of the crowd with a few prods of their halberds.

  There was a backstage door.

  'Highness,' he said, 'through here'

  'But×'

  'No arguments. Do it. Now.'

  The future Emperor went before him.

  Johann had a sword in his hand. He would be turning into Leos von Liebewitz next.

  There was a great deal of shouting out in the banquet room. The word 'death' was being used a lot.

  Johann wrenched open the backstage door, not caring whether it was locked or not.

  Someone was behind the door.

  He pushed forwards, squeezing between Johann and Luitpold, as if running from his own mob of would-be executioners.

  Johann felt the old phantom knife in his heart.

  'Wolf!'

  His brother was startled by his own name and half-turned

  There were more people coming through the door.

  Harald Kleindeinst. Rosanna Ophuls.

  Johann had a bad feeling about this.

  Wolf he said. 'Wolf'

  Then he didn't have anything more to say.

  Wolf was frozen, not sure whether to turn to or away from him.

  Then, the curtain fell down and everything went dark.

  Yefimovich was carried away by revolutionist zeal.

  He didn't care if he killed for Tzeentch or for Social Justice, just so long as he killed.

  Fires were set around him and he strode through them.

  'Green velvet,' he cried, looking around the room.