The Demi-Monde: Summer (26 page)

Satisfied, Kondratieff put down his pen, opened the cage, took out the bird and deftly sealed the message ring around its leg. Then with a silent prayer he tossed the pigeon into the night and watched it wing its way towards Rangoon.

‘I must admit to being surprised –
pleasantly
surprised – to have received your message, Nearchus,’ murmured Konstantin Petrovich Pobedonostsev, HimPerial Secretary to the Court of His Majesty Shaka Zulu and tutor to Crown Prince Xolandi, as
he toyed with the quail Nearchus’s chef had taken almost two days to prepare. As the man picked at his food, Nearchus was reminded of a scrawny chicken pecking away at its corn, just as Pobedonostsev’s whining, wheedling voice pecked away at his patience. But these antipathies he would keep well hidden: Pobedonostsev was a powerful and petulant man and, in Nearchus’s experience, powerful and petulant men were best placated rather than antagonised. Pobedonostsev was, after all, leader of the ultra-secret Brotherhood of a Purer SAE, the Blank supremacy party in NoirVille.

The man placed his fork down. ‘Yes, you have always been a loyal member of the Brotherhood, Nearchus, but the intelligence you have communicated regarding the Column of Loci presents us with great – with
HisToric
– opportunities.’

Time to double my price
, decided Nearchus. Loyalty to the Brotherhood was one thing, but business was business.

Pobedonostsev pushed his plate away, the quail only half consumed, then smiled at Nearchus which, contrarily, made him more repulsive than ever. He was thin to the point of gauntness, all sunken cheeks and narrow lips and eyes, his skeletal appearance emphasised by his baldness, by his tiny tortoiseshell glasses and by the excessively tight black uniform he was wearing. Nearchus couldn’t identify the uniform – probably it was that worn by members of the Elevated Order of Tight-Arses and Sycophants – but whichever it was, the uniform made Pobedonostsev look like a desiccated crow.

The crow spoke. ‘Indeed, the import of your revelations is such that I have taken the liberty of inviting His Holiness to this meeting.’ Here Pobedonostsev nodded towards Aleister Crowley, seated to his right.

At the sound of his name Crowley sat up a little straighter in his chair and squared his shoulders. It didn’t help: in the flesh he was a disappointment. The Supreme Head of the
Church of UnFunDaMentalism might be tall and imposing and – with his bright robes and outlandish jewellery – have a suitably exotic appearance, but there was an air of desperation about him. He looked to be a man under pressure, which was presumably why he had risked his neck to come to Cairo to speak with Nearchus in person. And this, in turn, indicated the importance the powers that be in the ForthRight attached to their understanding of Kondratieff’s plans.

Maybe triple the price?

‘Again, I am honoured,’ Nearchus charmed as he raised his glass in salute of both Crowley
and
his financial good fortune.

The three men quaffed their Solution and Nearchus took the opportunity to ponder on the amazing turn of events his meeting with Kondratieff had precipitated. As a senior member of the BrotherHood of a Purer SAE, he had known that the BrotherHood and the ForthRight had been edging – somewhat warily, it had to be admitted – towards an alliance, but he had never realised that matters had come so far. Of course, on fundamental matters of religious doctrine UnFunDaMentalists like Crowley and Blank supremacists like Pobedonostsev were in agreement – that woeMen were an inferior species; that UnderMentionables, notably nuJus and Shades, were fit only for extermination; and that the people chosen by ABBA to rule the Demi-Monde were the Blank races – but …

But still each side’s instinctive suspicion of the other had made a formal alliance difficult. Both sides were led by very ambitious men who believed that they, and they alone, had been called by ABBA to purify the Demi-Monde and to rule in His name. It had been the emergence of the Lady IMmanual that had made them more amenable to collaboration. Now it appeared that his uncovering of Kondratieff’s plot had finally persuaded the two sides to ignore their suspicions and unite against Doge IMmanual and Shaka Zulu.

Pobedonostsev placed his glass carefully back on the table and nodded encouragingly to Nearchus. ‘I would be grateful if you would summarise for His Holiness’s benefit the details of Kondratieff’s plans.’

‘As you wish, HimPerial Secretary. Kondratieff is intent on creating a replica of the Column of Loci and it is this replica that will soon be en route to the Temple of Lilith. The replica is, in fact, a bomb, which Kondratieff intends to detonate on Lammas Eve, destroying the Doge IMmanual—’

‘And all the other guests gathered there,’ interjected Pobedonostsev, ‘guests who will include Shaka Zulu and his court, and that upstart Duke William.’ The man could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice: he loathed Shades almost as much as he loathed woeMen.

‘Excellent,’ murmured Crowley. ‘That will be a fearsome blow struck in the cause of Aryan supremacy.’ A sip of his Solution. ‘And what, Nearchus, will be the fate of the
real
Column?’

‘Here Kondratieff was evasive, but, as his housekeeper was amenable to bribery, I was able to have sight of his confidential notebooks. I can tell you that the genuine Column will be taken to Terror Incognita where forces opposed to the ForthRight will seek to erect it on top of the Great Pyramid. For what reason I have no idea, but I do know he intends to approach Su Xiaoxiao and the SheTong to help him do this.’

‘Su Xiaoxiao!’ Crowley sneered. ‘That troublemaker, though I doubt that after the invasion of the Coven by the ForthRight army either she or her ninja hooligans will be in any condition to assist Kondratieff in this endeavour. But we must be wary. Be aware, Nearchus, that the placing of the Column on the summit of the Great Pyramid is an occult act of enormous metaphysical significance, so much so that it is vital –
vital
– that it is performed only by those loyal to the True Religion, UnFunDaMentalism. Tell me, Nearchus, how will the real Column be taken to Terror Incognita?’

‘In a second pontoon currently being constructed in my shipyard. The plan is that Su Xiaoxiao will seize a steamship capable of towing the pontoon, sail it to the harbour on the Isle of Murano on the final day of Summer …’

‘Lammas Eve,’ observed Pobedonostsev somewhat unnecessarily.

‘… take the pontoon containing the real Column under tow and bring it to Terror Incognita.’

‘Where does Su Xiaoxiao believe she can find such a steamship?’

‘The plan is that she will steal it from the ForthRight.’

Crowley scratched his chin as he pondered what Nearchus had said. ‘This presents us with an opportunity to take the Column. When, in your opinion, would it be best to intercept the pontoon?’

‘It would be imprudent for the ForthRight Navy to attempt to take the Column whilst it is in Venice. If they were spotted by NoirVillian or Venetian shore batteries …’ Nearchus left the sentence unfinished; the power of the guns sited along the banks of the Nile was famous throughout the Demi-Monde. ‘My advice would be to allow Su Xiaoxiao to steal the steamship, take the real Column under tow and for the ForthRight Navy to intercept the pontoon when it is en route to Terror Incognita, ideally at the junction of the Nile and the Wheel, at a point beyond the range of the shore batteries.’

‘And that is just what we will do,’ announced Crowley, rewarding his decisiveness with a swig of Solution. ‘You have done well, Nearchus. This is an ABBA-sent opportunity to rid the Demi-Monde of two of the most formidable enemies of UnFunDaMentalism, Shaka Zulu and Doge IMmanual, and to ensure that the Column of Loci is in the possession of those who follow the True Religion.’

An enthusiastic nod from Pobedonostsev. ‘That is so, Your
Holiness. It will only remain to destroy the Crown Prince Xolandi, and the Shades in NoirVille will be leaderless and hence ripe for elimination. And once their fate has been settled, it will be the turn of the JAD and the nuJu scum squatting there to be scoured from the face of the Demi-Monde.’

‘The Final Solution will be in our grasp,’ Crowley smarmed.

‘The Final Solution,’ Pobedonostsev breathed as he raised his glass, and the other two men joined him in his toast. ‘To a wholly Blank world, where UnderMentionables have been exterminated and where woeMen are content in their ABBA-ordained role as subordinate helpmates to Men.’

By Trixie’s estimation, the ForthRight’s bombardment of Rangoon was far heavier and more intense than any she’d endured during the Siege of Warsaw. And it wasn’t just the quantity of the shells that fell in a never-ending stream on the poor sods skulking in the ruins of the city, the calibre of the guns was bigger too; if she wasn’t mistaken, the UnFunnies were using siege mortars. The shells were so heavy
that every time one fell near the concrete redoubt she was using as her command headquarters, the whole place shook and a trail of dust drifted down from the ceiling, thickening the dank atmosphere and coating everyone cowering there with a frosting of beige powder.

But Trixie’s biggest concern wasn’t with the shaking of the redoubt: to her stunned surprise, her hands had started shaking too.

After the weeks of bombardment she’d endured in Warsaw she’d thought she was immune to the terror of an artillery barrage, but it seemed not. She jumped every time she felt the vibrating impact of an explosion, and worse, thirty-odd days on since the first shell had landed, her nerves were shredded. Now all she felt like doing was curling up in a ball, closing her eyes, stuffing her fingers in her ears and pretending this wasn’t happening … wasn’t happening to her
again
.

Not that she could allow herself to show fear. She was a general and generals couldn’t display the same weaknesses as ordinary soldiers. But it
was
difficult: the shelling never relented, pummelling the city twenty-four hours a day. Clement had learnt from the debacle of the Warsaw Uprising and was obviously intent on holding his invasion back until both Rangoon and its defenders had been flattened.

And now that moment had come. Just a few minutes shy of dawn on the thirty-fifth day of the war, the bombardment had paused, indicating that the ForthRight attack was imminent and the UnFunnies were preparing to launch their invasion barges against Rangoon. In a few short hours the fate of the Coven would be settled. This was Trixie’s moment of truth.

She took a deep breath, trying to get control of herself. This was one of those times when she missed Wysochi the most; missed his strength, his courage and his certainty.

‘Status of the WarJunks?’ she snapped towards her Chief of Staff, pleased that her voice didn’t betray her fear.