Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (28 page)

The left hand was around Al’ghul’s neck before Heraclix could even think.

“No!” the giant yelled. “I won’t let you do this!” Al’ghul thought his life had, indeed, ended at that moment. But he didn’t realize that Heraclix wasn’t talking to the boy, but to his own hand. The golem poured all of his energy into controlling the hand, willing
it to release the boy. Al’ghul, thankful to be alive, massaged his own neck and gasped in shallow breaths. “Though I have every reason to kill you,” Heraclix said decisively, “you are young and impressionable. I understand what it means to love deeply and the lengths to which one will go to secure the one you love. It might be too late for my own redemption, but for you, so young, there is still time to learn patience, the true measure of love. Come,” Heraclix said, grabbing the boy by the scruff of his shirt. “Which direction?”

Al’ghul pointed. Heraclix walked with the boy in tow.

“Wait!” Al’ghul protested. “The horses.”

Heraclix immediately saw the wisdom of what the boy was hinting. The pair unhitched the horses from the wagon. Al’ghul took some blankets out of the wagon and put them on the horses as makeshift saddles. After quickly rigging up the bits, the pair were off.

“Where are we?” Heraclix asked as they wound through the streets.

“Edirne,” the boy croaked.

“What did Mehmet plan to do here?”

“I don’t know what he wants here. We were headed to Istanbul. He had arranged to sell you to a group of mystics.”

“The Shadow Divan,” Heraclix said, the memory coming unbidden. “You spoke a part of their creed back in Sofia. I take it you learned it from Mehmet?”

“I did, I suppose,” the boy said. “Though I was only parroting what Mehmet had taught me.”

“Careful where you parrot, and to whom,” Heraclix said. “How well can you ride a horse?”

“As well as anyone.”

“Then ride fast!”

The pair galloped out through the southeast gate, toward Istanbul, nearly knocking the city guard off their feet as they passed.

“We will meet the Divan,” Heraclix shouted above the rushing wind, “on our own terms! Mehmet won’t like the results, I think.”

Al’ghul smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks.

C
HAPTER
18

F
rau Kretzer goes through a door. Steam and the smell of baked bread pour out as she walks into the kitchen. Pomp has a hard time finding a perch that isn’t uncomfortably hot, and she sits as far from the steaming pots as she can so that her view is unobstructed by anything but the sweat in her eyes.

The maid pulls up a stool and lights a meerschaum pipe, exhaling her exhaustion in a puff of tobacco smoke.

“Still don’t like him, do you?” an old man’s voice crackles from another doorway, startling the maid.

“Must you always be lurking?” she says.

The old man’s soft chuckle turns to a coughing laugh. “Not always,” he says, “I’m sure I won’t be here much longer to lurk around anything but the cemetery and your memories.”

“What makes you so sure?” Frau Kretzer asks.

“I’ve seen the end from the beginning. The graf is back and healthy, mentally and physically. I worked for years trying to keep this house together, teaching the young Lady Adelaide how to take care of family affairs. I feared that she would never learn, so I put all my efforts into running this house efficiently. Then, when the graf came back, I felt it leave me.”

“It?”

“The desire and energy to be in charge. I’m an old man. I’m ready for my final rest. But I cannot rest. I will work myself to death and be satisfied.”

“You can’t leave without my permission,” Frau Kretzer jokes, though a certain soft sadness has entered her voice. “Besides, I still don’t know the full story behind how the graf came back, and he is a closed book.”

“Very well, but the story won’t make sense unless I first tell you about the boy who grew to be a man, of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

“In some ways, young Viktor Edelweir was quite mature. For instance, he was a likable boy, easy to engage in conversation—the sort of person who makes you feel important when he asks a question of you, no matter how trivial. In other ways, he was overtaken by whims and fancies far into adulthood.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the sort that made his chosen avocation a trap.”

Frau Kretzer’s face contorts in confusion.

“Let me explain,” the old man continues. “The boy, emerging into manhood, learned to read. He was quite gifted in reading and language. Of course, he knew German, a great deal of Magyar, even some Russian. But his real love was Arabic. I remember him spending hours by the fire in winter reading Arabic poetry and philosophical texts. I’m sure that, in his mind, the snow-covered hills became sand dunes; the evergreen trees, palms; and the family horses, camels.”

“A dreamer, then?” Frau Kretzer asked.

“A dreamer, but one whose reality moved in accord with his dreams. This fancy had a powerful influence on him. So much so that he dared cross the border into Ottoman territory, claiming to be an emissary of good will, which he was, in his own foolhardy way. Now the Turkish guards suspected that he was a spy. And they weren’t about to give him access to their empire, else they find their heads on a pole over their own guard tower. At least that was their resolve until he spoke. He recited a poem about a man’s love for his camel with such passion and candor that the Turks became interested in him. Being such a gregarious young man and so knowledgeable about Ottoman culture and philosophy—not to mention Arabic literature—he soon had their favor, and they let him enter, though he was, no doubt, watched closely, given the
tensions that existed back then between the Ottomans and our Holy Roman Empire.”

“Still exist,” Frau Kretzer says.

“Not to the same extent. Things were much more likely to ignite into open war at that point than they are now.”

“So, continue,” she says.

“So Viktor Edelweir disappeared into the Turkish lands. At about that time, his cousin, Lady Adelaide, was born.”

“Our Lady Adelaide?”

“The same.”

“Twenty some years ago,” Frau Kretzer confirms.

“Twenty one, to be exact, though the number of years isn’t important. What is important is that both Lord and Lady Edelweir had desires to go find the man-child, to rescue him, but they were unable to undertake such a quest due to the fact that the Lord and Lady Adelaide had died under mysterious circumstances, leaving our Lady Adelaide in their care. And, though they had servants who might have raised the young lady, the Edelweirs couldn’t bear to leave her out of their direct charge until she was mature enough to run the place herself.”

“They must have been very protective,” Frau Kretzer says. “Yes! Ten years they waited, until the tensions between the two countries had abated a bit, and they could leave their niece in charge of the house servants. Oh, and there was the matter of the letter, as well.”

“The letter,” Frau Kretzer states, as if she already knows of the document.

“The only item remaining after the Lord and Lady were killed by a wandering band of rogue Serbs. The barely-legible, barely-intelligible missive: ‘Need money. Opium is killing me, keeping me alive. Owe debts to brothels and creditors. Please send money. With my love and regret, Viktor.’”

“Now why would someone write such a thing? Why admit all those things?” Frau Kretzer asks.

“Repentance? The need for frank admission that would allow forgiveness for a prodigal son? Perhaps a drugged plea for help? Or maybe Viktor didn’t write it at all. Maybe it was a ruse, a ransom demand for a dead hostage. Whatever it was, it drew the couple to their doom.”

“And here we are,” the maid says. “Viktor Edelweir has returned, and is set to marry his cousin, the Lady Adelaide.”

“And there you are,” a new voice says.

Pomp looks to the outside doorway and sees a stout man in a fine black wool coat. He is short and bald and fat and wears a pair of round-lensed spectacles. He looks like a smiling, scholarly bulldog.

“Lescher! You scalawag!” says Frau Kretzer. Pomp cannot tell if she is serious or just teasing.

“Frau Kretzer! Such language! It burns my little ears!” Lescher feigns pain, covering his ears with his fists.

“I’d tear those little ears from your head if they didn’t belong to your lord,” she says with force. Pomp is convinced that she isn’t merely teasing.

“. . . who will be arriving at any moment,” says Lescher.

“What?” says the old man.

“What, indeed,” Frau Kretzer says. “Are you asking us or telling us?”

“I am telling you,” he said, dipping his head condescendingly. “He is coming and will be here soon.”

“Well, at least one of our guests will brighten our day,” she says.

“Still stinging from the potato liquor incident, eh, Frau Kretzer?”

The stool screeches as she dismounts from it and stomps toward the doorway. The old man intercedes and is nearly bowled over by the maid, who obviously isn’t trying to get to Lescher to congratulate him on his cleverness.

“Ahem!” an exaggerated voice says from outside, a young voice projecting from behind Lescher.

All of the action suddenly stops.

Pomp knows she has heard this voice before.

“As I said,” says Lescher, “my lord.”

Von Graeb enters the kitchen, which now seems entirely too small and crowded. He glances disappointingly at each of the servants. His new uniform, matching Viktor’s black coats and skull-emblazoned fez, doesn’t detract from his handsomeness, though it does create an aura of dissonance between his dress and his personality.

“Pardon me for intruding,” he tips his hat to Frau Kretzer, gives a slight bow to the old man.

“Sir,” Frau Kretzer says demurely, “forgive an old maid for asking, but oughtn’t you to have come through the front door?”

Von Graeb reaches into a pouch and withdraws a pair of coins. Handing one to each of the house servants, he explains “I have business to attend to which requires a more anonymous entrance.”

The two servants smile their wrecked-tooth smiles, holding the coins up for Lescher to see. Lescher merely rolls his eyes.

Pomp’s attention, needless to say, has been gotten! She leaves the servants and follows Von Graeb through the inner door, into the parlor.

The soldier walks through the parlor slowly, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. A look of concern sets into his face. He stops at a stringed instrument stand that held a pair of violins, a viola, and a cello. He plucks each string of each instrument without removing them from the stand. The violins, plucked last, are badly out of tune. He winces at their awkward pizzicato. This seems to bring him out of his daze and he exits the parlor.

Pomp continues to follow him as he weaves his way through hallways, past large pillars, outdoors on a veranda, then back indoors again. It will take some time, Pomp thinks, before she will be familiar enough with this manor to negotiate its maze without having to guess at her location. She is now lost.

As Von Graeb knocks on a door, however, she seems to remember that she has been here before. This is confirmed as the door opens to reveal Lady Adelaide, backlit by a room full of enough lit candles to mimic the sunrise. The curtains are drawn to block out any light not generated by the candles, yet their flames are so numerous that they blaze like a forest fire. The lady’s shadow spills onto the floor and up Von Graeb’s torso, disappearing into the creases of his black uniform until it reappears to envelop him as he enters the doorway.

“The sun
is out
!” Von Graeb teases her.

“My cousin said that I should learn to concentrate better, to focus more.”

“Mmm?” Von Graeb forces a smile down, but his eyes betray him.

“You’re laughing at me!” she says, beginning to laugh herself.

“Not laughing, though amused, I’ll admit.”

“Don’t make fun of my cousin,” she says, pointing at Von Graeb’s chest.

“Oh, I should never do such a thing, though . . .”

“Though what?”

“Never mind. Nothing. Really.”