Johannes Cabal the Detective (6 page)

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
rassemblement
, 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 space.

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.

“Touché, 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! Nobody 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 nobody 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 flèche that Cabal had to dodge, followed immediately by a
passata 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
schläger
, 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 entrée into the world of combat ballet—that damn flèche 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, “Touché, 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 à corps
. Marechal called him a lowborn bastard 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 documents 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 documentation to bypass 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 assume 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 assured 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.”

“Yes, Gerhard Meissner—Docket Clerk First Class, Department of Administrative Coordination. I’m a loyal citizen!”

“Precisely, sir. That’s why I need your help. A first-class docket clerk? Excellent. I need a man of your calibre. There is a certain … situation developing here at the aeroport that concerns me greatly. By the time my colleagues arrive, it may well be too late. In short, Herr Meissner, I need your assistance.”

“Of course! Of course! I am at your disposal. How can I help?”

“This way, sir.” The secret agent directed Meissner to an empty and unlocked bay. “Just in here.”

Meissner blinked in the gloom. “Now what?”

“If you’d be so kind as to give me your papers,” said the agent, extending his hand.

“I … um … well, yes, I don’t see why not.” He handed over his passport, visa, and other documentation in a neat bundle.

The man rifled quickly through them. “I shall need your ticket as well.”

“My ticket? But why?”

“So that I can escape the country, of course,” said Johannes Cabal.

Meissner bridled. “What? But … you
are
from Count Marechal, aren’t you?”

“I come directly from the count,” replied Cabal. “In fact, I borrowed this from him.” He drew the count’s handgun and levelled it at Meissner. “Now, time is pressing. Your ticket, Herr Meissner.”

L
ater, in the departure lounge—heaving with people running from tales of massacre and riot in the capital city of Krenz—Cabal studied Meissner’s documents. They were of a height, both blond, both lean. The photograph wasn’t very good, either. If Meissner had tried looking like a person instead of a civil servant, there might have been more of a problem. As it was, Cabal had only to purse his lips and give the impression that everybody he spoke to was dung on legs and he wouldn’t have any difficulties. He practised his impersonation on several small children and, when he’d got it to such a pitch that any child under five burst into tears at the sight of him, he relaxed, satisfied.

He’d left the unfortunate Meissner tied up and gagged in the bay and hoped and trusted that he wouldn’t be found until the
Princess Hortense
was well on her way. In the last few months, he’d found himself prey to strange twinges that, after some research, he had discovered to be his conscience. This unwelcome quality took exception to many of the perfectly logical actions he had previously committed with the regularity of habit. In the present case, however, Cabal’s conscience had apparently taken account of Herr Meissner’s occupation as a civil servant and remained as quiet as a church mouse while Cabal stuffed a dirty rag in Meissner’s mouth and trussed him up with little concern for his comfort. Even a conscience knows its limits. There might have been a slight moral tremor when he injected Meissner with a variant of the same anti-deteriorant he had used on the emperor. It caused a deep comatose state for perhaps a week in four cases out of seven. The other three would be as dead as Sanskrit long before that week was out. It was a considered risk on Cabal’s part but, after all, he wasn’t the one who’d be dead if it didn’t work properly. These were odds he could live with.

As for the gun, he had regretfully dumped it in a drum of waste oil in a supply shed. He doubted that the customs and excise officials would recognise his sword cane for what it was and would hardly care if they did, Mirkarvia being Mirkarvia. He had found his switchblade tucked unmolested into the corner of his Gladstone and had transferred it to the roll of surgical instruments for safety. It and they would barely raise an eyebrow. A revolver, however, might excite comment. Especially one with the Marechal coat of arms inlaid in the butt. There was no easy way he could explain its presence, so he didn’t even intend to try, and the gun ended up under three feet of filthy waste. Besides, it had only one round in it.

He roused himself and went to the dispatch desk to check on the details of the flight, and also to make sure that his Mirkarvian accent was as convincing as he believed it to be. He was basing it on Marechal’s own aristocratic drawl, the effect he was reaching for being that of a third son to landed gentry having been dumped into civil service after his elder brothers got the plum jobs.

The woman there checked his ticket and, despite having dealt with Herr Meissner earlier, had managed to expunge the event from her mind in sufficient detail to accept one supercilious, tall, blond man for another. She also seemed entirely at ease with his accent, which was comforting. “The flight takes two days to reach Senza, sir, where there’s a pleasant evening stopover. You will arrive in Katamenia around noon the following day. I can’t be more accurate than that, I’m afraid; the meteorological bureau reports changeable headwinds.”

“Senza, you say?” Cabal stirred around in his memory for anything relating to the place. He seemed to recall some ugly border squall a few years ago.

“It’s quite safe, sir. The state of détente remains secure.”

Did it? Cabal wondered. He remembered something about export controls between Mirkarvia and its allies in Katamenia. He doubted that some “pleasant evening stopover” was their reason for touching down in Senzan territory. More like a fine-tooth-comb search by the local authorities to make sure no military aid was making it through their territory. As if he cared. Still, it was a handsome bit of serendipity; he didn’t really want to end up in the hands of the Katamenian secret police, who would, no doubt, send him straight back to their cousins in Krenz. In Senza, he could disappear into the shadows, sneak across a neutral border, and be home in time for tea, metaphorically speaking. Splendid, things were finally starting to look up.

He thanked the woman with civility but without warmth and moved on. A step away, he paused and asked, “Is it permissible for me to join the
Hortense
? The lounge bores me, and I would prefer to be settling in.”

She checked the time and the departures board and nodded pleasantly. Cabal almost forgot himself and smiled but managed to turn it into a frown of self-importance, nodded curtly, and headed for the field apron. The further away he was from the police agents that cluttered the concourse, the happier he would be.

L
ieutenant Hasso was Karstetz’s replacement, and was already demonstrating himself to have the charismatic flair of his predecessor. “So, this Cabal wallah beat you? And now he’s loose? Is that it?”

“He did
not
beat me,” grated Marechal in a patently dangerous voice that Hasso blithely failed to detect. The Count Marechal was rubbing feeling back into his recently freed hands, the pieces of bellpull rope that had bound him now lying severed on the floor.

“You
are
the finest swordsman in all Mirkarvia, aren’t you?” asked Hasso, trying to get his facts straight.

“Forget about swordsmanship. Cabal cheated.”

“Ahhh.”

Marechal looked at him furiously. “What do you mean, ‘Ahhh’?”

“Oh. You know.” Hasso shrugged. It was obvious he didn’t. “‘Ahh.’ As in … ‘Oho!’ I should think.”

“‘Oho’?”

“I should think.”

“Yes, you should.” Marechal decided there were more important things to do right that moment than murder new adjutants. “Is there any word of Cabal?”

“The chap who beat you?” Hasso finally caught the count’s look. “Or should I say,
didn’t
beat you,” he added hastily. He winked conspiratorially. “Ahhh. Oho!”

“Is there?” demanded the count.

“No. Nobody’s seen him. As soon as he beat … as soon as he’d finished here he just vanished into thin air. Some sort of magician, isn’t he? Izzy wizzy, wands and all that? Rabbits?”

“He’s a necromancer, you idiot, not a children’s entertainer. He can no more vanish in a puff of smoke than you can. Regrettably. Are all the ports being monitored? The borders? Mountain passes?”