Cabal: Johannes Cabal, the Detective Part 2

Antrobus stepped up to the balcony rail and paused. And paused. The moment grew to impolite and impolitic length. The dignitaries in the line shot glances at one another. The crowd began to mutter, a distant susurration of uncertainty. Marechal's expression never changed, but he made sure that the captain of the guards down in the square would be able to see his signal to shoot into the crowd if necessary. Then things would need to be done, and done quickly. Still, it would take only a moment to shoot Cabal through the middle of his supercilious face and blow recondite grey matter over the walls. He'd intended to do it anyway, but it would be so much more satisfying seasoned with revenge. Then he forgot about the pale pleasures of cheap brutality as the emperor raised his hands and the crowd fell silent once more.

"People of Mirkarvia ..." He spoke in a pleasing baritone that carried easily across the square. "Friends ..." He said it with such sincerity that commoners who had long referred to him as "lard a.r.s.e," "flobber features," "cancer borne on the backs of the proletariat," and other things less kind, suddenly felt unfamiliar but not unpleasant p.r.i.c.klings of admiration for their emperor. They hung on his every word. This was going to be important. "I come before you today to share a vision I have of the future. Not just the future of our own great and n.o.ble country but also that of our neighbours ..."

It was powerful stuff, and those of a romantic, nationalistic nature in particular were borne along by it. Karstetz was all that and stupid to boot. He rose from the table and walked slowly towards the fluttering curtains as if drawn by siren song. He stopped and listened, transfixed. Cabal watched him as a scientist watches a beetle on a tombstone. After a few seconds, it was plain that Karstetz had forgotten all about him. Quietly, Cabal climbed to his feet, picked up his bag and cane, and walked softly, staying on the thick carpet, in the direction of the door.

On the balcony, Marechal glowed inwardly. This was exquisite, far better than even his fondest hopes. The crowd were eating this with an even more avaricious appet.i.te than the one they'd used to demolish several tons of state-owned sausage. The rumours of the emperor's death could now be skilfully twisted into the people "knowing" about the emperor's fragile health. Yet he'd heroically torn himself from his deathbed to deliver this, his last and greatest gift to his people, his wish for the future. This wasn't going to be some grubby little land-grabbing campaign. It was going to be a crusade.

"The disputed lands are ours," roared the emperor. "Historically ours. Rightfully ours. They shall be ours again!" In the crowd's collective consciousness, their neighbours turned from trading partners and allies into a bunch of thieving Gypsies, ripe for extermination.

Marechal smiled and looked at the others in the line-the generals, the marshals, the admirals of the Aerofleet, and the commodore of the tiny Gallaco Sea Fleet. They were entranced, enraptured. War was in the air, and it smelled good.

Then he noticed Karstetz standing behind the curtains, his attention entirely given over to the wrong subject. Cabal was nowhere to be seen. Marechal felt suddenly cold. So Cabal had escaped, so what? Marechal remembered a sack of cat hair and Cabal's strange sense of humour, his loathing of war in general, and Marechal's ambitions in particular. His suspicions deepened.

Karstetz didn't respond to Marechal's attempts to attract his attention while not distracting the crowd. He didn't feel the intense gaze, see the sharp flicks of the head, hear the snapped fingers. He had ears only for the emperor's speech. "Make no mistake," Antrobus was saying, "these fair-weather friends, with their deceitful ways and their foul plans, are our enemies!" The crowd roared. "Our mortal foe!" They screamed for blood. "Our prey!" They gave voice to a full-throated howl of fury. It went half-throated when, belatedly, they realised what he'd said.

Marechal flicked his attention from Karstetz to Antrobus. Prey? He'd never written that. "We shall hunt them! Kill them! Eat them!" cried Antrobus in a pa.s.sion. "They are our meat! We shall tear the flesh from their bones with our bare teeth and devour them!" Marechal realised with horror that the emperor was drooling, dark saliva bubbling from his lips. Down in the square, the people were looking suspiciously at their sausages.

"Ach, du lieber Gott," he whispered. Then to Karstetz he barked, "Lieutenant! Get him!"

"Wha'?" Karstetz looked around as if waking. "What? Who?"

"The emperor, you dolt! Get him inside before it's too late!"

"Brains!" The emperor was shrieking now. "If we eat their brains, we have their strength, their very souls. Brains!" The strength of his voice was going, quickly turning to a shambling imbecilic tone. "Human brains ... must eat ... brains ..."

"There, there, old fella," said Karstetz, appearing beside him. "Let's get you indoors and into your coffin, shall we? Have a lovely state funeral. That'll be nice, won't it?"

"Brains," said Antrobus unheeding, the drool dripping into a dark stain on his robes. "Must eat ... brains ..." He finally noticed Karstetz and decided to start with a light snack.

The crowd gasped and gagged, and some of them fainted as their Imperial Majesty fell upon a surprised cavalry officer. Karstetz may have started to scream before Antrobus smashed his head open on the marble balcony rail, threw him to the floor, and began to feed. It was so hard to tell amidst all the other screams.

Marechal's mind worked quickly. He needed a ploy, and he needed it now. The French gambit, it had to be. "We are betrayed!" he shouted, and signalled to the captain of the guards. Sporadically at first and then with increasing discipline, rifle fire started to pour into the crowd. Marechal signalled three volleys and ran into the room. The door at the far end burst open and guardsmen rushed in. "Get that thing in here," he bellowed at them.

"The emperor?" asked the sergeant at their head.

"Emperor? That's not our emperor! We are betrayed! Drag it in here and kill it!"

He left them grappling with the foul thing that screeched and whooped at them. The situation was still controllable. The ma.s.sacre in the square could easily be put at the door of enemy agents. The sudden panic he had caused would drive those last few moments into a strange world of uncertain memory. Had the emperor really turned into a monstrous cannibal before their eyes? Of course not. He'd been attacked by ... by ... a traitor! Karstetz had attacked the emperor. A life-and-death struggle-the heroic efforts of the emperor killing his own a.s.sa.s.sin even as he breathed his last. Yes, yes! It could work!

It was a shame about Karstetz, though. He'd owed Marechal money.

He ran through the palace unheeding of the precise course he was taking, uncertain even what he was looking for. He swung two doors open and found himself in the great banquet hall of the palace. It was one of the more medieval parts of the place, a long table running down its centre, a balcony running around from the end of the great staircase on the northern wall, a minstrels' gallery. At the far end, unsuccessfully trying the doors there, it also had Johannes Cabal.

Marechal smiled bitterly, closed the doors behind him, and loosened his revolver in its holster. This was what his subconscious mind had been up to, hunting this man, this hated man. Sometimes he got a great sense of job satisfaction.

Cabal had heard the sound and already turned to face him. He drew his pocket watch and studied the face. "Have the emperor's dietary mores changed already?" he asked in a tone of polite enquiry. "Test batch 295 always was unreliable."

"You knew this would happen?" Now the Count Marechal could relax a little. What was occurring outside could wait for a few minutes. He had time to pause a moment, take stock, kill Cabal.

"Two ninety-five yields remarkable results. Right up to the moment the subject becomes a maniacal cannibal. I had hoped for a few more minutes' grace, though. Any casualties?"

"Lieutenant Karstetz."

"No loss there, then."

"None at all." Marechal drew his gun. "What am I to do with you, Herr Cabal?"

"It would seem that you've already made up your mind on that point." Johannes Cabal placed his bag and cane on the end of the long banquet table, took off his jacket, folded it, and put it down, too. Then he unb.u.t.toned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.

Marechal watched him with curiosity. "You seem to be taking this very well."

"Not at all," replied Cabal. He picked up the cane, twisted the head, and drew three feet of razor-sharp steel from it. Before Marechal's bemused eyes, he placed the cane body on top of his jacket, presented himself to Marechal as a fencer, and saluted him with the sword cane.

Marechal laughed. "You simply cannot be serious, Cabal! Are you challenging me?"

"I appreciate that it is customary to slap you with a glove or some such, but I think you would shoot me long before I got near you." He studied his stance and corrected the position of his feet slightly. "You must forgive me, I'm rather rusty."

"Don't be a fool and think I'm a fool. Why should I waste any more time with you?" He levelled the gun. "You don't deserve a chance."

Cabal flicked the tip of his sword through the four quarters. "Sixte. Quarte. Septime. Octave. It's got nothing to do with chances, Count. At least not from your perspective. You're a petty little man. You could just shoot me. Indeed, the probability is that you will just shoot me. And you will spit upon my corpse and walk away. And in a week or so the situation outside these walls will probably have deteriorated to the point where controlling your unimpressed civilians will be taking up much of your time. You will curse my name and wish me dead a dozen more times. But, in truth, you will not have killed me even once. That, Count, will gall you more than you can bear."

"A student of human nature, are you now?" The count drew back the hammer of the revolver. "You will die and I will be the one to kill you, make no mistake."

"No, Count. You won't have killed me. Several grains of lead will have killed me while you stayed snug and safe on the other side of a large hall. That gun will have killed me. You won't have the satisfaction. You're a soldier, Count; that I don't dispute. But I also believed you to be a warrior. There I was wrong. You're no more interested in the martial art of it than a conscripted peasant with a musket shoved into his hands."

"You cannot goad me, Cabal. I'm past that stage."

"A drunken grognard of the levy."

"It would be a shame to lose your dignity in your final seconds."

"An artillery officer."

Marechal's skull tightened with rage. "What did you just call me?"

"An artillery officer. Safe behind the lines." Cabal lowered his sword and gestured at the gun. "A mechanic."

Marechal knew that it was sheer foolishness to throw away a great advantage for a slightly smaller one. Madness. But there are only so many slurs a cavalryman can countenance. When Cabal died, when his face took on that delicious expression of mortal surprise, Marechal wanted it to be because there was a sabre through his heart. More than anything, Marechal wanted to feel Cabal's ribs grating on the edges of his blade as he twisted it in the hated necromancer's chest. That would be a thought to keep him warm in the difficult times that were surely ahead. His rage settled and became cold and hard. With economical movements, he opened his revolver and ejected the cartridges. They bounced sharply, sending echoes around the hall. Then he threw the gun to one side. The next sound was the hiss of his sabre leaving its scabbard.

"What have you got there, Cabal? A foil? A rapier? A sword for boys. This"-his sabre whirled in a vicious figure of eight-"is a man's weapon." His free hand fisted on his hip, he advanced. "En garde."

Cabal's blade flicked up to quarte. "I'm always on guard, Marechal, one way or the other." He watched the count advance for a moment more before adding, "You're sure you're up to this? I fenced for very nearly a year in my youth. I was considered quite competent."

"Don't patronise me, Cabal."

"It's just that I wonder how much technique a man can learn, cutting down unarmed yokels from horseback?"

Marechal stopped just before the blades crossed. "This isn't one of those effeminate fencing sabres the Italians came up with. It is a real weapon and it really kills, and it shall be my very real pleasure to hack you into pieces with it, Cabal."

Before Cabal had a chance to reply, Marechal launched into a progressive attack. Cabal fell back immediately under the ferocity of the advance. Marechal was a strong man, stronger than Cabal, and the beats that rained down upon his rapier struck sparks and generated vibrations to his wrist that felt as if they might numb it, given enough time. If he lived that long.

Cabal considered his options. Marechal was no sporting fencer. He fought to kill. The strength of his attack was clearly intended to destroy Cabal quickly, and the physical power of the heavy horse sabre might do it, too. Fortunately, his sword cane was designed for practical combat, being far more forte than foible but without brittleness. Still, he was already running out of room into which he could retreat. He needed to make Marechal think again if he were to stop this dreadful hail of steel. A poor feint, followed by a quick step back to give him the room for a stop hit with ra.s.semblement, allowed him to pink the top of Marechal's wrist. Cabal used the moment of surprise to run past the head of the table and gain more s.p.a.ce.

The count didn't follow him at first, but paused to pull up his cuff and check his wrist. "First blood, Count Marechal?" called Cabal as he returned to his guard position.

"Touche, Herr Cabal. A scratch," he said, and Cabal could see that it was no understatement. "I can see that I've underestimated you again." He saluted and allowed the wry smile to evaporate from his face. "But now I have your measure."

"Really? Tell me, Count, how did you learn to fence? Correspondence course?"

Marechal said nothing, but moved to reengage, his face like thunder. This time, there was none of the brutal slashing that had accompanied the first attack. Cabal suspected that had as much to do with the count's regaining his strength as anything else. He would certainly employ it again should he spy an advantage in doing so.

They traded attacks and parries for a few moments, the count clearly probing Cabal's defences. Although he didn't show it, Cabal was getting more worried with each clash of steel. His sword cane was outweighed by the sabre, his experience was outweighed by the count's, and his aggression was a pale shadow in comparison. He was defending, Marechal was getting all the information he needed for a telling attack, and there was always the chance of guards wandering in at any moment. Cabal needed a way out of this situation quickly, and he doubted that it would hinge on his skill on the piste. He needed to look at the whole picture and find an escape. For the moment, however, it eluded him, and then Marechal launched an attack and Cabal didn't have time to think about anything else.

It ended with a cutting blow that Cabal parried with difficulty, although he made it look easy-half the psychological game in fencing. He countered with a type of sabre riposte he'd seen the count make, from tierce to the head. Marechal parried it easily but made it look difficult-the other half of the psychological game.

Cabal had looked death in the face on numerous occasions, but he had always been careful to give himself some chance of survival. There were very few grounds for hope here, though.

"You look worried, Herr Cabal," said Marechal. "Something on your mind?"

"There is, since you ask. I was just thinking that this is all a dreadful waste of resources. I appreciate that you intended to kill me whether I succeeded or not, but that was politics. But think! n.o.body else knows about me. Wouldn't it make sense for you to supply me with a laboratory and I work for you? I'm sure I could be of use."

Marechal made no attempt to hide his sneer. "Are you begging for your life, Cabal?"

"Not at all. Just attempting to make something constructive of this debacle. By the same coin, if I were to kill you"-the count laughed contemptuously-"if I were to kill you, Count Marechal, this country would certainly fall to pieces. There's n.o.body around to take your place. Think on it."

The count reflected for a moment, their sword tips just touching. "I've thought about it. You've forgotten two important details. First, I'm not going to lose this duel. Second, I want you to die. Now."

Cabal considered. "I suppose I could see my way clear to begging for my life as long as you didn't insist on any outright grovelling?"

Marechal's blade supplied his answer. Cabal tried to break ground and disengage, but Marechal covered the distance with an impressive fleche that Cabal had to dodge, followed immediately by a pa.s.sata soto-known outside fencing circles as ducking-to avoid being decapitated.

This was an unwelcome development. Cabal had gained the impression that Marechal probably started duelling as a student, in the fashion of the Prussian schlager, a bizarre contest in which the combatants' main goal is to supply each other with scars about the face which impress the ladies no end. Apart from the armour the two parties are covered with in order to reduce all wounds to a cosmetic level, its only notable feature is that the duellists never move from the spot. The count's unexpected and unwelcome entree into the world of combat ballet-that d.a.m.n fleche must have carried him the best part of ten feet-was just one more thing that Cabal didn't want to have to deal with at this precise moment.

It was only when Marechal said, "Touche, Herr Cabal," and smiled malevolently, that Cabal realised he'd been hit. His shirt was ripped high on his left breast, the thrust having penetrated the cloth, scored his chest, exited beneath the shoulder, and done the same to his left upper arm. Against the white linen, there seemed to be a lot of blood.

Cabal looked straight at Marechal. "You wouldn't accept my offer, Marechal. Now let me tell you one thing you couldn't know. I won't let you kill me. There's more at stake than you could possibly imagine in your blinkered little world. I don't have time for your stupid games." All the fear was leaving him. The doubts and uncertainties that had blurred his vision were going now, and the world was coalescing into a beautifully clear picture of what needed to be done and why. All that was left was a single motivation that glowed within him like white fire. His soul, his poor mistreated soul, tended him and directed him. Marechal stopped being the only thing in the world and became a rather pathetic man with a silly moustache who believed his puerile plans for grabbing a few useless square inches on the map actually mattered. "I am leaving here. If you attempt to stop me, I shall kill you. Is that understood?"

Marechal's opinion of Cabal may have changed in that moment, but it certainly didn't improve. "You insolent cur!" he roared, and launched a terrifying attack, culminating with a mollinaro that could have cored a rhinoceros. They found themselves momentarily corps a corps. Marechal called him a lowborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d and backhanded him so hard that Cabal spun away and rolled onto the table.

Cabal blinked, saw Marechal appear above him, his sabre held high like a meat cleaver, and rolled to his left, dodging the blade that swept past him like a guillotine. He quickly climbed to his feet as Marechal pulled the sword from the ruined surface and, as they seemed to be extemporising and as the table gave him a substantial height advantage, he kicked the count in the face and broke his nose.

The Count Marechal staggered back, rallied, and ran to the far end of the table, where he could mount it, using a chair as a step, without opposition. Cabal and Marechal faced each other along its length, blood on both of them. They paused: Cabal expressionless and cold; Marechal with teeth bared.

Now they knew each other. There would be no more talking. Marechal saluted, but this time it finished with a slash of the blade that left an almost tangible cut hanging in the air. Cabal saluted, and it was a staccato, precise thing. His sword tip travelled to precise points, his wrist moved through exact angles.

Then they fought.

Chapter 3.

IN WHICH NAMES ARE CALLED AND A FUGITIVE TAKES FLIGHT.

"Of course I have a reservation. A government reservation. Here is my authorisation."

Gerhard Meissner was a low-ranking member of the Mirkarvian civil service and, as is sometimes the case, he had hugely inflated ideas of his importance. If he didn't arrive in Katamenia on schedule with the incredibly important "Agricultural Land Remittance Discussion Papers (Third Draft)"-currently safely tucked away in his doc.u.ments folder-well, it hardly bore thinking about. Unable to have the latest draft of the papers, civilisation would be at a loss to discuss the remittance of agricultural lands. The result ... catastrophic. Thus, he had been issued with the necessary doc.u.mentation to bypa.s.s the lesser folk at Emperor Boniface VIII Aeroport customs and pick up his ticket. He examined it now and was pleased to discover that he had a berth aboard the Princess Hortense, a brand-spanking-new aeroship of the Mirkarvian civil aeroforce, MirkAir. "You're a lucky man, sir," said the woman at the counter. "The Hortense was only commissioned a week ago-this is her maiden flight."

Meissner sniffed. He wasn't lucky, he was a civil servant, and this was no more than was due to a corpuscle of the body politic. Instead, he asked, "Why are all these people milling around? It's like race day in here."

"Some trouble in the city, sir. People panic. It's only human."

A well-dressed man, sweating and frantic, pushed by Meissner, who glared at him fiercely. "Please!" said the man. "Have you got any more berths available? Any at all?"

"I'm sorry, sir. All places aboard the Princess Hortense were booked in advance."

"What?" The sweating man saw the ticket in Meissner's hand. "Please, sir. Would you be willing to sell that billet? My daughter ... There's rioting in the city. I simply want her to get to safe ..."

"Sell my ticket?" snapped Meissner. "The impertinence, sir! Even if I were at liberty to sell this ticket-which I am not, it being government property-I very much doubt that I should feel disposed to ..." But the man had more urgent matters to attend to than listening to how important Meissner was, and had already gone. Meissner pulled himself up to his full height, a little over six feet, and looked dignified, an expression lesser mortals could a.s.sume only with the aid of lemon juice and alum. The woman at the desk thought that he could almost have been attractive if it weren't for what his personality did to his face. He noticed her attention and she smiled, politely but without warmth. "When does the ship depart?" he demanded.

"In two hours, sir. If you'd care to check your luggage in now, you'll have some time to relax aboard before she lifts."

"Relax?" he snorted. "I shall work!"

Having emphasised his innate superiority to the herd, he walked away.

Meissner went to the handling building-a capacious hangar split into many small bays with padlocked gates-to check his luggage. On his way back out, he was accosted by a serious-looking man dressed in black and white. "Excuse me, sir," said the man. "Might I have a word?"

"If you're trying to buy my ticket, my good man, I must-"

The man looked around, leaned closer, and said, "State security, sir. It is a matter of some urgency. The well-being of Mirkarvia may be at stake."

Meissner blinked and swallowed. He hadn't lost that paperwork, he a.s.sured himself, he'd only misfiled it. It would turn up eventually. He'd been intending to look for it the very day he got back. It wasn't even important. Or, at least, it had seemed unimportant to him. Perhaps it was important to somebody. They wouldn't send security after him for that, would they? Would they? "You ... have identification?" he stammered, trying for time.

The man smiled grimly. "I'm with intelligence, sir. We don't tend to carry around papers that say we're spies. I do, however, have this." He showed Meissner a signet ring, worn face inwards. He turned it on his finger and showed Meissner the crest there.

"The crest of Count Marechal!" gasped Meissner, who had seen it on enough execution warrants to recognise it instantly.

"The same, sir. If you think you could keep your voice down?"

"Yes ... yes, of course, I'm very, very sorry."

"I understand that you're a government official, sir? I overheard you at the departures desk."