The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  Surely, I felt, our passion must soon be consummated. She could not mean to torture me much longer. ‘Sleep,’ she said. I returned to my languorous trance. We were fated to be lovers, destined for union, eternal harmony, whether we wished it or not…

  When next I woke it was at her finger’s pressure upon my lips. I heard the Chevalier’s voice in the darkness and felt the gondola swaying under me.

  ‘Look ahead! Look ahead!’ cried St Odhran. ‘Oh, look ahead, all of you!’ His grim humour was completely abolished by his wonderment. He was leaning out over the side while Klosterheim stood impassively beside him, black gloves on hands now, hands upon ropes, hat upon his fleshless head, cloak wrapped tight around him. ‘Oh, von Bek! Look, dear friend!’

  My Libussa helped me regain an uncertain footing and led me to stand between Klosterheim and the Chevalier. In silence, she pointed towards the north-east, through a wash of changing light and colour, towards a great, deep valley through which flowed a broad river. We were descending as we drew closer and I was filled with a curious frisson of recognition. Now I could see the outline of a wonderful city, glowing black and white in the light of stars whose formations were unfamiliar, whose size was larger; stars warmer and older than any I had seen. They had faint, but distinctive colours – cinnabar and vermilion, saffron and deep gold – and they illuminated the valley with their hazy radiance. The city seemed to combine every architectural style. She was Mirenburg, of course, but Mirenburg exaggerated, Mirenburg made still more beautiful, larger and inconceivably complicated. Baroque towers were of dark jade; old gabled houses were of worn obsidian and their exposed beams were of milk-white marble, forming a perfect negative to those in the Mirenburg I had known.

  The city was silent and still, yet every so often an eddy of subtle yellow light rippled across her rooftops; then it faded, like the valiant last flickerings of a candle. Its source was one or more of those distant, dying suns.

  ‘Duchess,’ St Odhran was restored to his habitual grace. ‘I apologise for my poor manners, and I thank you, no matter what your purpose, for bringing us to this astonishing city. ’Tis a kind of mirror, I know, to the one we’ve lately departed, but ’tis also an idea of what a perfect city could be. Blood, Madam, but ’tis the personification of every architect’s dream down the centuries; of every mason who ever took chisel to stone.’ He drew in his breath. It seemed to me that he was near weeping.

  Klosterheim made a flat interjection. ‘The City in the Autumn Stars,’ he said.

  ‘Where all our destinies shall be decided,’ said she.

  St Odhran looked enquiringly at her. She nodded. He lifted his hand to his valve and began gently to let out gas from the envelope.

  Scents rose up to us: spices, sweet-smelling trees, shrubs and night-perfumed flowers; coffee, delicate meats and vegetables; cheeses, cakes, pastries; sausages and preserves; aromatic oils, old parchment, leather, mildew, wine, sulphur, wood-smoke, dust, hot metal, sewage, lye, human juices: that combination (defeating all true analysis) which was the individual signature of every great city. Yet I had never smelled anything so exotic (not even Constantinople, nor yet Alexandria, nor any of those other cities which I passed on my way from Samarkand) as this Mirenburg. There was a little of them all in her; something of London’s boisterous eclecticism, of Rome’s unconcerned antiquity, of Prague’s ornament and Paris’s labyrinthine vitality, of Venice’s haughty stink and Dresden’s fragile granite. As a city she was the sum of mankind’s ages: Chaldea, Memphis, Jerusalem, Athens, Berlin, St Petersburg. She was timeless in her jet-black marble, her clear, white alabaster. Her geometry, her angles, planes and curves, formed a subtle language. This rhetoric of masonry and mortar described a multiplicity of stresses and tensions, of mutual dependency and irreconcilable contradictions, of deep-rooted permanence and constant change. She spoke, too, of sorrow, of agony, and of joyous celebration.

  Klosterheim turned his expressionless eyes to look at me. Clumsily he stretched his hand to show me the city, as he had once tried to show me a snowflake. His voice possessed no resonance. He merely repeated his statement, as if to a simpleton:

  ‘The City in the Autumn Stars.’

  Chapter Eleven

  In which we experience something rarer than we know. Prince Miroslav Mihailovitch Coromcko. Alchemical Recollections. Patience rewarded. Union without Harmony.

  AT LAST OUR ship was landed. St Odhran and I tethered her just beyond the high, tapering walls of that quintessential Mirenburg. We approached the city, the four of us, just before dawn, as the light of old stars gave way to the sun. Smoke began to rise, plume upon plume, as Mirenburg’s fires were lit; a cock began his relentless morning gasconade. At the gate of massive, deep blue obsidian a single guard, his bucolic features stiff with sleep, yawned, buttoned the neck of his grey-and-yellow tunic and waved us through with a lazy salute. But St Odhran, worried lest our gold should be stolen, approached him, begging him to keep at least half an eye upon the balloon, still visible in the meadow where we had anchored her by rope to an oak tree. The man explained he was not on duty to quiz who came and went, but to be of use to any baffled stranger. He promised, however, to watch, though he frowned. ‘Shall it remain that shape, your excellency, or will it change? I’ve a natural wariness of all wizardry.’

  St Odhran opened his mouth to explain, then thought better of it. ‘There’s nothing to fear from our vessel.’ We were in the Mittelmarch, where our rationalism might not be entirely adequate.

  Klosterheim alone appeared to know his way. The city did not exactly mirror the one we’d left, though there were many familiarities in the configuration of outlines and streets. The architecture, generally on a larger scale, was more featureless, lacking the baroque flair one expected: it was more severe, more classical, more imitative of Greece.

  The streets were waking up as the four of us passed across an enormous plaza. At the centre a fountain shaped like a horse poured water into a large pool in which fish could be seen, dark reds and golds, dark blues and ochres, almost reflecting the colours of the near-vanished stars. From here four great avenues marched away into the distance, exactly on the Compass’s main points. Their pavements were reflective black marble, veined with grey. The flanking buildings were fashioned of milkstone, onyx and quartz; excessively grandiose in my opinion. They were reminiscent of the monumental coldness of St Petersburg, that city designed to suit a notion of what cities should be, rather than one which grew naturally from the changing needs of her inhabitants. But a minute out of the plaza and we were in cobbled backstreets full of fruit- and vegetable-barrows, vaulted alleys busy with ordinary people calling to one another. Their colloquial German would not have been out of place in Munich or Cologne.

  Up went windows and blinds, out sprang shutters and awnings; behind them were human heads blinking into the morning. Cats were recalled, dogs exercised, slops emptied, husbands awakened, children assembled, domestics rallied. Dignified tradesmen in suits of clothes a little out of date by common European fashion, but not incongruous to me, raised billycock hats to crinolined ladies and remarked on the heat of the day. ‘’Twill be a scorcher, Marm, by noon!’ All of which contributed to my sense of dreaming. It was usual in dreams to find such banalities in the midst of the fantastic. Looking up I saw a steeple some two hundred feet high, of mahogany-coloured stone, sharp against blue Summer sky – there was a statue almost as big: of a weeping child contemplating a broken plate which it held in a chubby hand. And over to my left was a tavern, five storeys of it, with balconies and a wild garden on its roof; a playhouse which could seat, perhaps, sixty people; a Mausoleum, striking in its pale blue polished granite, and then a street of tumbledown houses full of brawling, cheerful children: an alley winding up a hill. There was a little secluded square, mainly sandstone, with a coffee shop, a large elm tree and a well in the middle. Four or five plump middle-aged men sat at the outside tables, reading journals and chatting. They were served by a waiter who wore an animal
mask, shaggy and tawny, on his head, and walked as if on Pan-hoofs.

  We crossed a bridge over a canal to rival Venice’s. Green water, the colour of emeralds, gilded barges – and a man in shirtsleeves using a wooden pole to move a boat so intricately carved with Neptunes, mermaids, dolphins and the like it was hard to believe the cargo it carried: cabbages and onions. What seemed a twin to that boat was sunk some twenty yards back, prow pointing out of the water, moss growing on the exposed wood. A donkey came swimming past and stopped, treading water, to sniff the wreck before paddling to the towpath where he shook himself in a shaft of sunlight. Window upon window rose up, and washing dried on every balcony. Behind us now the donkey let out a bray, like a rusty door forced after a century of neglect. Cowled men came in single file towards us. As they went by they lifted their fingers in an unfamiliar sign, to which Klosterheim automatically responded. We turned a corner and at the end of the short street, whose grassy verges sloped up towards dark, scarlet cottages, was a huge bronze mask, similar to the Greek dramatic kind, with down-turned lips and an expression of tormented ferocity, serving no clear function.

  We crossed two more streets displaying the same head and then we were on a quiet little lane with an arch at each end. All varieties of roses climbed around intermediate trellises and archways. There were pretty vines on the whitewashed walls, the terraces of houses were reddish brown, presumably of brick, their beams painted white or yellow, their gables decorated with fretwork fruits and flowers. Each house had a tiny, railed yard outside and in these grew all manner of blooms, sweetening the air. It could have been a village in New England. The bustle of the city was muted there. Klosterheim marched up to the third house on the left, pulled on a bell rope and stepped back until a maid opened the door and curtseyed. We followed him into a cool hallway, wider than I expected. There were several looking-glasses on the wall, a vase of chrysanthemums on a small, polished table. The servant took what outer clothing we could give her. She showed us into a drawing room, also reminiscent of a rural merchant’s, with some low chairs and an Oriental table. On the table were sherbet, water, glasses. It strongly brought to mind the quarters of some ascetic Mussulman. I half expected to see a hookah in the corner, the kind the Tatar sultans smoked, but there was only a stove of green enamel decorated with white flowers, a jar of country grasses on top of it.

  Klosterheim removed his hat and passed a finger round the inside band, gathering his own sweat and staring at it without enthusiasm. He had told us nothing of the person we visited and only the Duchess appeared to know a little more. We sat down in the chairs. ‘A pleasant room,’ observed St Odhran, to break our silence. ‘When were you in this city last, your grace?’

  ‘Some years since,’ she replied. ‘The travelling is not as easy as it might have seemed to you.’ She shrugged. ‘But at least once here I can remain a woman, without the irritation of mannish disguise.’

  A footman in wig and tails bent to pour us glasses of iced lemon water. ‘My master offers apologies. He is delayed downstairs.’ His accent was heavy and foreign, perhaps a Pomeranian’s. He had coarse, youthful features, a heavy brow and large hands. He seemed only recently from a farm, but his livery suited his muscular body and he was well trained. Libussa looked questioningly at Klosterheim and made a little gesture of impatience. Klosterheim patted the air with his fingers, as though he hoped to calm her. I crossed to the plain white wall on which a triptych ikon was displayed, two candles burning below. Evidently it was Byzantine, but of a design I did not recognise. On one side was a youth holding, left-handed, a golden goblet; on the other a maiden lifted a sword in her right hand. Both looked inward to the centre panel where the youth’s head was set upon the woman’s shoulders, cup and sword flourished in each hand as the subject rode astride a gigantic, wolflike beast with blazing golden eyes and scarlet fangs. In the background to this panel, either side, were shown two citadels on identical hills. One citadel was gold and the other black, and in the sky a red sun blazed beside a white. In the left panel the same red sun also shone and in the right the white was prominent. I was puzzled by the ikon. It struck a chord in me, though I could not recall the holy legend it must surely have represented. I was still studying it when a deep voice cried:

  ‘Forgive me for my tardiness, dear friends. Will you take some tea with me?’

  I turned to see a huge, fair-haired man, wearing a loose, embroidered shirt of the kind Ukrainians make. He had red silk trousers tucked into red leather boots, a bent-stemmed meerschaum in his left hand. His full beard was greying at the edges and his hair was long, flowing to his shoulders. His blue eyes, apparently frank and amiable, had the smallest touch of that same cold light which filled Klosterheim’s. It was the cadaverous ex-priest this man first approached, with ‘So you were successful. Thank you for your message, old friend.’ His voice dropped just a little, as if in sympathy. Then he was introduced to Libussa, St Odhran and myself. He made a deep bow over my Duchess’s hand. ‘Your grace. My house is greatly honoured. The meeting you desired has been called. My own experiments are ready for your approval.’

  His large, warm hand next grabbed mine. I was kissed on both cheeks. ‘I am glad you are here.’ He spoke as if I had been expected by him. He performed the same ritual with St Odhran, with: ‘I trust, Sir, you’ll explain the principles of aerial navigation to me while we dine.’

  ‘Charmed, Sir,’ said St Odhran. ‘Delighted, Sir. You’re a scientist yourself, then, Sir?’

  ‘Of sorts, Sir. I’m the despair of respectable society. My name, which Klosterheim’s forgotten, is Prince Miroslav Mihailovitch Coromcko.’

  ‘From South Russia, Sir?’ said I.

  ‘My cousin was Catherine’s Zaporizhian hetman. An honour he thought. The other Zaporizhians were divided on the subject!’ His laughter was spontaneous and open. ‘You know Russia, sir?’

  ‘St Petersburg. Moscow, a little. And Siberia and Tatary are both familiar. But those regions of your land which lie in the Mittelmarch, are, I regret, completely unknown to me.’

  ‘Me, also, Sir. I’ve never been there. I’m not a native of this Realm, but crossed the border years ago in pursuit of my art, for alchemy is better practised here, or so I thought.’

  ‘And you never returned?’ asked St Odhran, already collecting information which might aid his early escape.

  ‘I’ve never been permitted, Sir.’ Miroslav Mihailovitch dropped his gaze and rounded on Klosterheim. He patted the puny chest and arms, making the thin man wince and withdraw without actually moving, like a cat. ‘Here’s the rogue who can rove at will, gay and easy as a bird.’ He winked at me, yet he plainly had real affection for Lucifer’s ex-captain. ‘I paid my passage but once. Klosterheim, unclaimed by Heaven or Hell, is perhaps the only one of us to whom both worlds are thoroughly familiar. But they shall be reunited soon, eh, Herr Johannes? Soon, if all our plans are fulfilled?’

  ‘What?’ said St Odhran in astonishment. ‘Is that what you all plan? To bring down the barriers? Shall the Mittelmarch melt into the mundane world? Shall Earth suddenly have twice her volume? What must befall the other spheres?’

  ‘All that’s accounted for,’ replied the Russian. ‘Indeed this blending of the two’s a mere conjuring trick compared to our ultimate goal.’

  ‘Is that so, Sir?’

  ‘Prince Miroslav,’ said Libussa lightly, and laughing, ‘you have known all the freedoms for so long you’re in danger of indiscretion here!’

  He subsided suddenly. ‘Forgive me, Sir,’ he said to St Odhran. He took a taper to his pipe from one of the Greek candles beneath the triptych. He puffed steadily for several minutes until the meerschaum was drawing to his satisfaction. ‘Well,’ he said easily, ‘old differences are settled now.’

  ‘They’ll not be fully reconciled,’ she said, ‘until the final unity’s established. Have you seen any more in your glass, Sir?’

  ‘Klosterheim told you, eh? My discovery was quite accidental while we reduced Sahara
n sand, sulphur and agatium to a molten elixir. As the liquid solidified it cracked the vessel containing it, spilling across my bench. Dee was with me then, as you know. He saw it all (and spent the remainder of his short life attempting to make his own). The substance formed a small pool and was almost immediately hard. It had become a kind of glass. The incantations had been those used in our prayer to the Future. In a distorted, murky scene I saw Dee. He was in England and being cruelly set upon by the commons, his house and library fired. I’ve since debated the morality of my decision to say nothing to him. But as it was, of course, the mirror had foretold the future. Events in my own life were accurately predicted – small, domestic matters. Yet the mirror’s an unreliable instrument and cannot always be trusted. ’Twas a happy accident. There’s no other like it and all my efforts to make one, or a better one, have failed.’

  ‘You have lived long, Sir,’ said I, ‘if you were a contemporary of Dee’s.’

  Prince Miroslav shook his head, smiling. ‘Tsar Fedor was my Emperor. The parvenu Romanoffs are too greedy and materialistic for my taste.’

  ‘Yet I understood you to say you have an older relative who served Catherine?’

  ‘He was not the snob that I am, Sir.’

  ‘Sedenko was your bastard,’ said Klosterheim, flatly as usual. This seemed to have meaning to Prince Miroslav. ‘Indeed he was. He’d have been legitimate were it left to me. But I was already hounded. He knew your ancestor, I believe – the Graf Ulrich.’

  Disguising my impatience I said: ‘I must tell you, Sir, I know nothing of my forebears, beyond understanding them to be worthy men and women who, if they had vices, leant towards over-education.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Prince Miroslav. ‘Klosterheim perceives the world as one of those children’s fretwork puzzles, each piece needing to be pressed carefully into place – the result, a clear and simple design. Eh, friend Johannes? Well, Sedenko rode into the Mittelmarch with your ancestor. He almost saw the Grail, I understand. I’m not much of a military man myself.’ He patted his belly. ‘Exercise ruins the figure and excites the arterial vapours. These vapours, exhausted through the pores of the skin, carry off half one’s creative resources. Besides, I sweat too much already, with my retorts and globes in that basement. You, Sir, are clearly of the military persuasion. The set of your shoulders alone would reveal your German birth. Yours is a nation, Sir, rich in great practitioners of that Art. But then, ’twas plain by the way you sat your horse…’ And he paused.