New Venice 02 - Luminous Chaos

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  Brentford was immediately distracted from the weird headpiece. “You mean I’m supposed to go there by Psychomotive?”

  Brentford, decidedly, was going from surprise to surprise. The Psychomotive was an incredibly sophisticated, expensive, and risky means of transportation that had been almost totally abandoned twenty years earlier, but Peterswarden talked about it as if it were a child’s sled.

  The new Regent-Doge smiled unpleasantly.

  “It is true that we keep them for great occasions, but I doubt there is a greater one than our first embassy abroad. I have just been in touch with the Drome-Director of the Arctic Committee for City Access on that matter, and he informs me that it is the fastest and safest way, for the first part of the trip at least, whatever the weather might be. It is still too early in the year for a ship to break the ice, and an airship would be too conspicuous.”

  “So this means I can’t take many people with me.”

  While Brentford’s inner poletician was disturbed by his assignment, the engineer in him was moving full stride into the challenge, planning, measuring, calculating.

  “Six, plus you and the pilot, from what I have heard. As there is no time to lose, we have spared you the trouble of making a list. We chose the best experts in their fields—people whose talents we are sure you will appreciate having on hand. Here they are.”

  Brentford felt wary as the list was passed down the row of senators towards him, from one trembling hand to another.

  “This has been voted on too, I suppose?” he asked, trying to brace himself before unfolding it.

  “Of course. We are a very efficient democracy, Mr. Orsini. You deserve our greatest gratitude for that.”

  III

  A Farewell Ceremony

  Located at the tip of a foggy spit of black rock, Nouvelle-Ys was not the most welcoming part of the city. Except for the bright, half-timbered boutiques of the Rue Dahut, it was a small enclosed area of narrow canals and austere grey houses. Its inhabitants were mostly Terre-Neuvas who had drifted here after the demise of the “French shore” of Newfoundland and of the St. Pierre colony: tough and taciturn people who lived by whaling and sometimes by smuggling alcohol and did not mingle easily with the rest of the city. It wasn’t unusual that when a stranger entered one of the public houses, the other customers switched not even to French but to their native Breton and Basque. But to Gabriel d’Allier, who was himself half a Frenchman (the lower half, he suspected) and whose peculiar lifestyle demanded a strictly disciplined secrecy, this isolation was rather welcome. Especially on the nights when he planned to take the Twins “going Haroun” as discreetly as he could, so as to better acquaint them with the city they were destined to rule.

  Located along the d’Argent canal, the Maison Malgven was a favourite staple on these nocturnal expeditions. A warm, candle-lit, fuzzy place hung with fishnets and harpoons, it hid behind casement windows of thick yellow bubble glass. One could have a snug driftwood booth to oneself and by far the best buckwheat crêpes in the city. It had been the natural choice for this last evening together.

  They had been waiting for Brentford for an hour or so when he finally slumped in to the sound of a rusty bell, a snow-sprinkled allegory of despair and every inch the harbinger of bad news.

  “Sorry for being so late,” he apologized as he joined them at their table.

  “We thought you had chickened out of our little tearjerking party,” said Gabriel.

  “Quite the contrary. What were you crying about, so that I can join you?”

  He wanted to wait a little before he broke the news that he and Gabriel would have to abandon the Twins altogether. He could sense, more than he could see, Lieutenant Lemminkainen, their personal bodyguard, half-hidden in the shadow in a nearby box: at least, thank God, this dependable man wasn’t on the list. But for the rest, the Dauphin-Doges would have to take care of themselves in the most hostile surroundings. And although they were well-mannered enough to hide their fear, it showed through their nervousness and eagerness to talk.

  “We were discussing our new Prime Preceptor, Ms. Frekker,” said Geraldine, as the Fort Gradlon foghorn blew in the distance. “We met her today after the ceremony, and on the whole we found her a remarkably unpleasant person.”

  “And it appears that Valkyrie is really her middle name,” added Reginald. “Regina Valkyrie Frekker.”

  Brentford had noticed her in the airship among Peterswarden’s close circle of courtiers, a steely-eyed, athletic woman with a braided crown of blond hair. He’d heard that she was the former Headmistress of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, a Christian boarding school for poor girls that boasted a long tradition of corporal punishment, as well as sufficient friends in high places to stifle the occasional scandal.

  “They may have thought you needed to be disciplined,” said Brentford with a mock-severe frown—an awkward attempt at clowning to disguise his concern.

  “I don’t see why you’d say that,” Gabriel remarked, quickly picking up the mood. “I’ve spared no spanking, have I?”

  The Twins laughed, and it was hard to tell whether they were blushing or glowing. Once again, Brentford was amazed by their easy complicity. It was surprising to see how the notoriously unsociable Gabriel had dedicated himself to Reginald and Geraldine, even beyond his not-so-secret role as Prince-Consort, as some had nicknamed him—that or, with typically tiresome New-Ven wit, the Prince-Consortionist. Exquisitely bred though they had been by their arcticocrat grandmother, and somehow endowed with all the memories of their closest ancestors, the Dauphin-Doges had received only a patchy education in the humanities. Although Gabriel’s so-called “serendipedia” methods were not always the most orthodox, he had painstakingly corrected and completed it, while adding his firsthand knowledge of the city’s backstage, so that—at least for wonders of nature who had grown up in a crystal castle on an imaginary island—the Twins were now relatively conversant with the real world, if New Venice could be called that. Of course, Brentford reflected, Peterswarden was aware of this privileged relationship. Cutting off the Twins from their mentor would leave them clueless and, if Brentford could judge Peterswarden’s intentions from his choice of a new preceptor, easier to intimidate.

  Still, he could not bring himself to tell them the truth. He vaguely heard Gabriel amusing the Twins with his upcoming audition to become Playwright-in-Partibus at the Circus of Carnal Knowledge, and his plans to smuggle them into the audience, underage as they were. Brentford found it hard to interrupt that reverie. It was only when he heard Reginald say, with an almost imperceptible trembling in his voice, “It’s a good thing for us to know you’ll be around,” that he suddenly launched himself into what felt like barely thawed water.

  “Except that we will not be, unfortunately.”

  A pained silence followed this outburst. Nice start as a diplomat, thought Brentford.

  “Are you trying to trick us into believing you have something interesting to tell us?” asked Gabriel.

  “No, but I am sure you have, Gabriel. Tell us how you liked your stay in Paris?”

  “That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead,” Gabriel answered, with a wink that turned to a wince. “Well, to speak frankly, it’s sort of hazy.”

  He had left four years ago and remained there for almost two years. Officially, he had studied French literature at the Sorbonne and officiously, or so Brentford had gathered, for it was the usual deal when you were granted a scholarship abroad, he had worked as a Polestar guide for the Polaris Guild, a city agency locally known as the Press Gang that examined, contacted, and sometimes recruited new citizens for New Venice. The city was not keen on expanding, for its resources were limited, but given its mediocre life expectancy and its low birth and high suicide rates, fresh blood was needed from time to time. All of which made Gabriel the perfect candidate for the New Venetian Embassy in Paris, and provided the best excuse to complete the isolation of the Dauphin-Doges. “How would you like to go back?�
� Brentford asked him, trying to hide his anxiety.

  Gabriel shrugged his shoulders.

  “I haven’t even thought about it. There’s little chance I’ll get another opportunity.”

  “You’re leaving in three days, as a matter of fact. By special order of the Regent-Doge and the Council of the Seven Sectors.”

  Reginald and Geraldine exchanged a panicked glance.

  “Can we come with you, Gabriel?” they chimed.

  “I’m going to Paris, then?” Gabriel asked. He was puzzled, but, Brentford noted with relief, at least his curiosity was piqued. “And can I ask you why?”

  “Because you wouldn’t leave a good friend in the lurch, would you?”

  “So you’re going, too?” asked Reginald. “Oh, please, take us with you!” Geraldine added.

  “I am afraid we cannot.” Brentford sighed, as, with perfect symmetry, the Twins’ faces twisted into a lopsided pout. Sensing tears were near, Gabriel tried to enliven the conversation a little.

  “Are you taking me on a honeymoon at last?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it looks more like winter sports to me. Officially, they have had dreadfully cold conditions there and they need experts to shovel them out of the avalanche. Or so said a dying explorer whom they sent to ask us for help. You’ll be the interpreter, I gather, and pretty much whatever else you want.”

  Gabriel remained silent for a moment, trying to make sense of the news.

  “And unofficially? Something tells me there’s a stone in this snowball.”

  “And a rather big, pointy one, yes. It’s Peterswarden’s way of telling me that this town ain’t big enough for the both of us. And to be frank, we haven’t much of a choice. There’s a law that sends you to prison when you refuse appointment to an embassy.”

  “I know,” said Reginald. “It’s an old law of the Republic of Venice. They used to send former doges away, so that they wouldn’t be a threat to the new doges.” He had a passion for old Venetian history—just like Peterswarden, apparently.

  “Maybe nobody wanted to leave Venice at all, and they were obliged to pass a law,” said Geraldine thoughtfully, although she was more into Catherine the Great and Queen Christina of Sweden.

  “So, if I understand correctly, it took him about four hours to get rid of you,” Gabriel concluded.

  Brentford grimaced. As usual with Gabriel’s remarks, it was a suction-cup arrow; he felt this one stick right to his forehead.

  “To get rid of us all. Have a look at this list,” he said, handing his friend an official paper that by the look of it had recently been crumpled in a fit of rage.

  The list was written in the unmistakable local style:

  After a unanimous vote by the City Council of the Seven Sectors, The City of New Venice and the Northwasteland Commonwealth is honoured to be represented in Paris by the following delegation to the New Venetian Embassy:

  His Excellency Mr. Brentford Orsini, Envoy Extraordinary,

  Economy & Engineering Expert

  Mr. Gabriel Lancelot d’Allier, Chief Counselor for Culture and

  Communication

  Mr. Jean-Klein Lavis, M.D., High Commissioner for Health &

  Hygiene in Cold Climates

  Ms. Lilian “Lenton” Lake, Special Secretary for Suffrage & the

  Social Situation of the Sexes

  Mr. Alan Blankbate, Special Secretary for Sewage &

  Scavenging

  Mr. Thomas Paynes-Grey, Ensign-Explorer, Army

  Assistant-Attaché

  Mr. Tuluk, Envoy-Expert on Eskimo Economy

  “Well, it’s crystal clear, isn’t it?” said Gabriel, folding the paper and giving it back to Brentford.

  “Yes. All of the people who took part in last year’s coup. Except Jean-Klein Lavis, that is.”

  “But he is French. And he helped us two years ago in that Faber business. The Forty Friends have not forgotten, obviously.”

  “I suppose, if you don’t mind helping me getting everyone aboard and out of jail, that you could talk to him about this. And to Tuluk as well, whom you know better than I do. I’ll take care of Blankbate and Paynes-Grey myself.”

  “And then there’s Lilian.”

  “And then there’s Lilian, yes,” admitted Brentford.

  They looked at each other for a while and then spoke at the same time.

  “Well …”

  “But …”

  “Go ahead, Gabriel.”

  “No, please.”

  “Well, I have to take care of the the logistics. I’d better leave Lilian to you.”

  “But if she is to come with us, I suppose you’ll have to face her sooner or later.”

  It was a draw.

  “Okay, we’ll do it together,” Brentford said, and sighed.

  “When will you be back?” asked Reginald, who, Brenford noticed with sadness, had passed his arm around his sister’s shoulders as if to offer her the protection their friends were withdrawing from them. If these two needed to get closer than they already were, things were really looking grim.

  Brentford hesitated.

  “I don’t know. Not before next spring, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s almost a year,” said Geraldine, sounding sorry and reproachful.

  Brentford nodded. He could sense, nay, share, their apprehension. He dropped his last bomb, while he still had the nerve.

  “Ah, and another thing,” he said, turning towards Gabriel. “We are travelling by Psychomotive.”

  Gabriel gaped, thinking of all the ghastly stories he had heard.

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Reginald asked.

  “Our mother saw a pilot dissolve while driving one,” Geraldine added in a tone halfway between adult concern and childish boasting.

  “Well, we won’t be driving it, at least …” said Brentford, for lack of a better answer.

  “And what if you don’t come back?” the Twins said in perfectly timed unison.

  There was a moment of silence, except for a buzz of ultrasonic unease. Brentford racked his brain for a way to reassure them. And himself.

  “You know what we’ll do? I’ve noticed you like pledges. We are going to take a pledge.”

  He got up and, after a few whispers in the dark, came back with Lieutenant Lemminkainen, who sat uneasily at their table, hunched like a shy giant, his taut cheekbones shining from chouchen, the local eau-de-vie, but his eyes glinting with attention.

  “Lieutenant,” Brentford said in a low voice, “we have something to ask you. We are, Mr. d’Allier and I, under an obligation to go abroad in the service of the Regent-Doge. Delicate as it is, it would be very reassuring to us, knowing you as we do, to be certain that whatever your orders might be you will always make the Dauphin-Doges’ freedom and safety your first concern. In exchange, you would have our word of honour that were any problems to arise, we would, Mr. d’Allier and I, defend you and bear full responsibility for your acts.”

  Lemminkainen looked at them all, very slowly.

  “Your Excellency,” he finally said, fumbling for his best English, “I know you do not mean to insult me, but I am not in the habit of letting others take responsibility for my actions. So, I will simply swear to protect the Dauphin-Doges from any threat, as is now my mission. In return, I will simply ask you to do anything in your power to come back as quicky as possible, in case we … need your help.”

  “I swear,” said Brentford, a lump in his throat. But he realized, a little too late, that the solemnity of all this had upset the Dauphin-Doges more than it had appeased their fear. He saw, with regret and sadness, their smiles twist back into pouts.

  “Don’t you cry,” said Gabriel to the Twins, “or I’ll call Frau Frekker.”

  But, as the foghorn blew in the distance again, he took them in his arms.

  To be continued …

  I

  The Wizard of Od

  The following nightfall, Brentford disembarked at the Njörn Marina in Niflheim, the northe
rnmost part of the city. Walking past the towering dome of the Gladsheim greenhouse, he reached a row of warehouses and took a left, towards a manor that—to its very gables—was a replica of Tycho Brahe’s Uraniborg castle, except it was made entirely of cast iron. As if he were in any danger of being mistaken, a copper plate in Gothic letters read, W. B. SSON, WIZARD, above a coat of arms showing a hammer and pliers. If Brentford wasn’t the right man, at least this was the right place.

  Above the plaque, a knocker that looked like a small, grotesque gnome’s head protruded from the door. Brentford had barely taken his hand from it when the plaque pivoted on itself and the bold antique script suddenly read ENTER; the door clanged open on its own.

  Electric lamps switched on automatically as Brentford went inside. Before he had time to react, the square of the tiled floor he stood upon began moving gently downward, and he soon found himself gliding along four iron rails that grated and shot sparks and smelled faintly of rust. At times, he thought he could hear a distant music, like whistles or a chime, but he could not be sure of it.

  Looking up, he could see the glare of the electric light dwindling in the distance. The dank darkness deepened around him, heavy and chilling like a soggy mantle. After what seemed like long minutes of nauseating descent, the platform eventually slowed and came to a stop with a little bump that made his heart hop in his ribcage. An open doorway pivoted in front of him, inviting him into a stonewalled room.

  The first thing he saw when he entered was the huge fire that roared in the hearth built into the opposite wall. The intermediate space, propped with iron girders and beams, was occupied by long trestle tables covered with books, alembics, crucibles, metal coils, and machines in various stages of construction or dismantling.

  Meanwhile, swollen waves of eerie sounds echoed around the stone walls, at times like the whistle of a departing steamer, at times like the hollow wails of Pan’s pipes. An old man dressed in a crimson smoking jacket, his white hair carefully combed, sat with his back to Brentford, playing an organ whose glass pipes throbbed with a leaping blue glow—it was a gas-powered pyrophone, if Brentford’s memory served, drawing its sound from the vibrations of two diverging flames. As the door clicked shut behind his visitor, the old man finally turned to him, revealing a swollen eyelid that gave his face a constant mischievous wink.