Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (30 page)

The soldiers muttered among themselves, conjecturing about the nature of the strangers’ formulaic speech.

“Silence!” the officer shouted at his men, who jumped back and immediately formed a line, standing at attention. Their smiles fled.

The pride that had pervaded the officer’s attitude slipped away into a guarded but curious respect.

“Wherein do you seek passage?” he said to Al’ghul.

The soldiers, holding stock still at attention, tried, unsuccessfully, to communicate with each other with only the movement of their eyes.

Al’ghul relaxed as he recalled Mehmet’s teachings. “We seek passage to the stronghold of the Shadow Divan.”

“The Shadow Divan,” the officer said. “You shall receive passage.”

The soldiers tried harder than ever to talk with their eyes, frantically moving them around and around, side to side, like blind lunatics.

“You! Dog!” the officer yelled at a man at the end of the line. “Fetch my horse!”

The soldier dutifully peeled away from his companions and ran, full sprint, through the city gate, plowing over a small group of civilians.

The officer, smiling at Heraclix and Al’ghul, spoke in softer, more friendly tones now. “Aye, you shall receive safe passage to the stronghold of the Shadow Divan, my brethren.”

Al’ghul smiled up at the giant, proud that he had recalled the words that Mehmet had taught him. Heraclix forced a smile, trying to reassure the boy that he had done well, while at the same time trying to stifle the fear arising within him. Not a fear of what was to come, but the fear of what the Shadow Divan might reveal about what once was and what he had once been. Mercifully, the soldier that had been ordered to retrieve the officer’s horse returned with the steed, interrupting the nascent chain of logic that was forming in Heraclix’s head. The golem put his thoughts aside and mounted his own horse. Confirmation of his suspicions would come soon enough, he thought.

The officer and Al’ghul mounted their horses. After a curt series of orders to his men, the officer set off, bidding the travelers to follow him toward the heart of the city.

C
HAPTER
20

P
omp flies through Vienna, searching for the imperial palace. Cathedral, church, cathedral, church; too many cathedrals and churches! And—the palace! There it is, no mistaking. Throngs are there, concentric circles of people growing richer and more widely recognizable (Pomp presumes) as she flies closer to the main entrance. The only exception is a pair of guards, dressed in the black uniforms and skull-emblazoned-fezzes that identify them as members of the imperial guard. Pomp doesn’t remember these two guards, though she is certain she has seen most, if not all, of the elite troops since she has met Heraclix. Regardless of who they are, Pomp is confident that they don’t enjoy (if that is the right word) the same social status as the civilians who ignore them. She invisibly bows to the guards and lifts her nose up at the frilly-cuffed
petty
nobles, then flies over their heads into the palace, dodging towering powdered wigs the whole way.

The choked hallway leads to a more spacious ballroom. At the head of this is an alcove. This alcove provides a shelter, of sorts, from the music and loud talking that bubbles up from the ballroom floor and its surrounding hallways. The centerpiece of the alcove, around which all else swirls, is a small, ornately carved desk. Sitting at the desk on an equally ornately carved chair, is a small man, elegantly dressed, with a steely look of determination in his eyes, as if he is forcing himself to remain focused. Pomp hasn’t yet decided if she thinks he is a good man or not, but he does catch
her interest. He is obviously a man of great importance—the only one seated in this mass of people. Maybe this is the emperor? But, if it weren’t for his clothes, he would look so . . . ordinary. And how could an emperor, the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, allow himself to yawn so openly in front of his subjects?

His ennui wouldn’t stand out so much were it not for the parade of eccentricity that circles around the man. Courtiers like exotic animals vie for the emperor’s attention either subtly or openly in a shameless dance for approval. But still he sits, bored, looking at the carnival yet seeing right through it, looking for something else, something apparently unobtainable here, despite the glittering spectacle.

The crowd is like a sea: in places roiling, in others calm. Pomp notes with great pleasure that each “wave” is different. She is drawn in by the strangeness of it all, like a child to a kaleidoscope.

The first to catch her attention is a brass-helmeted man, or is it a bird? Do men ever grow wings? And how are these wings attached to the man’s back through his crisp, pressed blue uniform? It’s comical how the . . . man, she must suppose it is . . . nearly knocks another guest over with every flamboyant gesture of his hands. Maybe he
does
think he is a bird, the way he flaps his arms around as he squawks words. The medals on his chest rattle and clink as he gesticulates, mimicking an imaginary sword fight. Pomp worries that he might absentmindedly draw the saber that hangs so dangerously from his belt and accidentally kill a guest as he tells his story. That is, if he doesn’t accidentally kill someone with the pair of wings jutting from his back first.

“Ah, the Prussian pride! Yes, I am all too familiar with it. A Prussian officer would rather die than submit, which might seem admirable to some, imprudent to others. I know of what I speak! It wasn’t many years ago. But I cannot give exact details as to dates and places, as I wish to prevent any embarrassment to the men who were my commanding officers at the time, though they are well-known hussars.”

The man has a strange accent. Of course! This bird man is one of the famed Polish hussars. How exciting! She has heard of them and their bravery, how they seem to fly while charging into battle on horseback, like angels of death. But she has never seen one in person, until now.

“It would not do well for my own command if my men were to find out the circumstances surrounding the incident, for I was, admittedly, on a bit of a side venture.”

He and his audience laugh. Pomp laughs too, not at the lame joke, but at the utter ridiculousness of the man. He is very tall and slender, with a hooked nose that only strengthens the impression, together with the wings on his back, of a vulture.

“We camped very close to the Prussians, at the opposite end of the valley. I suppose we could have engaged them there, but I was keen to save my men the bother of having to fight in the cold of winter without an adequate supply of wine. Besides, there was little cover, and casualties would be high on both sides. So I sent a missive to another junior commander there, challenging him to a duel. Whoever lost would, of course, arrange a retreat, while the victor would take the valley. Both I and my Prussian opponent knew, contrary to the thoughts of our so-called superiors, that the valley was of little consequence. But I knew that he wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for a good duel. Besides, there was the matter of his sister and myself when I attended university at Leipzig, but that is another matter, entirely.”

Again the crowd and Pomp laugh for different reasons.

“So we arranged to secretly meet: myself and the Prussian, each with a second and a doctor. I chose the time and location: sunrise over the westernmost hill, and he chose the weapons: sabers. I was delighted with his choice.”

The hussar pats the hilt of his saber as if it is his favorite dog.

“Of course, he chose sabers over a thrusting weapon because of the sheer lethality of it. Prussians would rather die dueling than suffer the shame of a mere wounding.” He shakes his head, then looks off into the distance, remembering. “It was a ferocious fight. He was an excellent swordsman, but I prevailed, scoring him across the left cheek. His doctor bandaged the wound, and I thought we had settled the matter when he again demanded satisfaction. So I satisfied him with another score across the opposite cheek. This was attended to by his doctor, but the stubborn Prussian wanted more. Of course, he was already fatigued from the two wounds, not to mention being distracted by the bulky bandages under his eyes. Yet he persisted. So I did, too, obliging
his desires for another wound. I opened a gash across his forehead that would show in the mirror till his dying day, once the blood was washed out of his eyes. This merely elicited a laugh from him and the comment ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to kill me to finish this,’ after which he set on me again, knocking his own doctor to the ground. He swung blindly, blood pouring into his eyes. It was ludicrous! He almost hit his own second! The companion had to put up his own sword to avoid being hit by his own man! The Prussian, thinking he had found me, swung wildly, arcing circles in the Hungarian manner. He almost succeeded in hitting everyone but me! It was silly, pitiful, really. But I am a gracious foe. I had no desire to fulfill his death wish, so I, rather inconveniently for him, stabbed through his sword arm. His second, who was also the man’s sergeant, interceded on his now-unconscious superior’s behalf, saying he would honor the agreement and withdraw his troops.”

The crowd laughs and applauds. Pomp wonders at their collective grim sense of humor. Should nobles joke about such serious matters? It is, she admits, difficult not to laugh at such an outrageous man as the Hussar.

Pomp turns to see Viktor engaged in a conversation with an old man whose face hasn’t shed its crust in a long, long time. A scowl seems to be permanently engraved on his face. Graf Von Edelweir seems warm and friendly in comparison.

“You see,” says Viktor, whose skull-emblazoned-fez rests on one arm, the other hand busied with a glass of wine. “There is little, topographically speaking, that would keep Prussia from stabbing through your state toward Vienna, which will be its main target.”

“Saxony is small, but not weak,” the scowling one says with hardly a movement of his taut facial muscles.

“No one doubts the bravery of Saxony’s armies. Your men have been tried and battlefield tested. But there are only so many of you. It’s only a matter of time before a mobilized Prussian army outflanks you. We have no desire to upstage your valiant men. We sense that your needs and our needs are mutual. We only wish to help.”

The man snorts, scoffing, then smiles. It’s the first time Pomp has seen him smile. It isn’t a pleasant smile.

“Of course it benefits you to ally with us. We would be your first line of defense.”

“
Defense
,” Viktor says, “is most
definitely not
our interest.”

The man’s wicked smile grows even wider. His shoulders relax. He cocks his head back and looks intently into the graf’s eyes.

“Now you’ve got my attention.”

Pomp’s attention shifts elsewhere, to a shifty-looking woman on the outskirts of conversation.

She is dark-haired, unhealthily thin, and not particularly attractive despite the abundance of makeup she uses to cover her sickly appearance: large red lips stand out in contrast against her thin, pale, skeletal face. She wears a burgundy dress that would have been the height of trendy fashion two decades ago and shows too much, unless the onlooker prefers to see the sternum bone between her breasts. She holds a metal stick to which is attached a pair of spectacles, which she uses as a sort of masque, though the clear lenses do nothing to hide her peeping eyes.

Pomp alights atop the woman’s hair. The woman pauses when she feels the added weight, then continues stalking. She goes from group to group, vacillating between attempts to interject herself into the conversation and recoiling from the groups who are having them. The reactions to her hesitant intrusions and withdrawals are all the same: after a brief interruption on the part of those conversing, the subject changes, or the speakers shift their bodies to present their backs to the intruder. At this point, the woman backs out with a sneer, then quickly regains her smile as she spies another destination nearby.

Pomp watches this strange behavior, until, at last, she is so bored with the woman’s actions and the conversants’ predictable reactions that she abandons the glasses and alights on the wig of an old man engaged in a conversation with two other elderly men. They are all three intently listening to one another, as if taking mental notes for later study or reference.

The first, a man of medium build with a face that, while not thin, seems to vertically stretch, speaks in a high voice that sounds far younger than his wrinkled skin and gray hairs indicate.

“Ghosts,” he says to the other two, “are clearly the spirits of the departed. The scriptures are clear on the matter, and if you take any
time to interview those who have recently lost a family member, they will tell you that, in their hearts, they know this to be true.”

“I must disagree,” says another, a man so short that he borders on dwarfism. “First of all, the scriptures are themselves ghosts of a bygone era. And the emotional testimonies of those whose spiritual encounter hinges upon the loss of a loved one are the product of grief-stricken delusion, despite their sentimental sincerity.”