The Empire of Time (45 page)

There’s a strong buzz of talk, then a trumpet blows and all there stand, looking towards the two great doors at the far end of the Hall.

They march in like a cohort of ancient legionaries, four abreast behind the Grand Master, awkward, mechanical-looking creatures in pale blue full-length cloaks trimmed with purple, each of them identical to the Guildsman I saw at the club. Yet though they are huge by comparison to ordinary men, beside these
Adel
they seem diminutive. As they march to their places, I notice a kind of mocking superiority in the eyes of the
Adel
, as if the
Adel
know they don’t have to march four abreast to intimidate their enemies.

We wait as the Grand Master bows before the King, then wait a moment longer, the silence strained, as the Guild Knights take their places. Then and only then, does the King sit again, relaxing, turning to me with a smile, even as the Hall fills with talk and laughter once more.

‘Our friend Adelbert does love to make an entrance …’

Adelbert is the Grand Master, and that sentence sets the tone, for from there on the King confides in me, letting me know just what he thinks of whom, and why.

‘You see those five,’ he says, raising his voice as he points out a group of
Adel
seated to our right, close by the maidens. They look to be of an age with him – brothers, not sons. ‘They look full of themselves, don’t they, Lucius? But they’re lucky to be alive. I had them neutered. Made sure those sons-of-bitches wouldn’t
breed
.’

I raise an eyebrow and he explains.

‘They tried to kill me.’ He smiles, then raises his goblet to them in a toast. ‘I
could
have had them killed, only they are my
brothers
, after all.’

It’s impossible not to see the bitterness in their eyes, the festering hatred, and I wonder how Manfred can live with this and still be sane. No wonder Burckel called this a hornets’ nest.

He looks to me again, even as the first dish is served. A rich meat broth, with fresh-baked bread.

‘Your king, Lucius, is he as
small
as you?’

‘Our president …’

‘Forgive me, your
president
. Is he …?’ And he gestures to me with an amused smile, as if I ought to know what a pathetic specimen I seem. And maybe it’s so, but I don’t feel intimidated by him. I know that his kind are a genetic dead end. The Future, however it turns out, is not going to be ruled by these
Adel
.

I smile pleasantly. ‘He’s a small man, yes, and thin, too. But very clever. And
tough
. You don’t know how tough such a
small
man can be.’

‘Oh, I can guess, Lucius.’ And, taking a spoon the size of a ladle, he begins to eat his broth, tearing at a loaf that’s as large as a roasting pig.

I’m surprised at the way he launches into his food, for you would have thought there would be a taster, considering how much his own family want him dead, yet he seems to take no precautions against poisoning.

Or maybe I’m just missing something.

Between mouthfuls, he continues our conversation. ‘You’ve met Hagen, I understand. A nasty little brute, isn’t he? But typical of my children. Ingrates all. And none too bright, either, despite their genes. At least, not as bright as they
need
to be. As for their mothers, my wives …’

He gestures to his right, where, at the end of our table, a group of women have been sitting all this while in total silence, not eating, their sour expressions an indication of just how little they want to be there.

‘Grasping bitches, the lot of them! Not a pinch of kindness in any of them, even the youngest! They think only of their sons and who will rule when I am dead. But what do you expect when you have to fuck your own family?’

I don’t know what to say. His candour throws me. I stare, then shake my head, as if I’m dreaming, but Manfred seems not to worry whether I answer him or not. He merely wants to talk, to berate those about him.

‘They say it’s our destiny. That the future belongs to the better race. Well, so it is, Lucius. We
are
the future. But getting there …’ He laughs bitterly. This is a different king from the one I met earlier in the day, and it makes me wonder what has happened to make him so.

‘Take this war we’re having with the Russians. This “race war”, or
Rassenkampf
, as my ministers love to call it. What’s that all about? How in Thor’s name did we get ourselves embroiled in that? Is that too part of our genetic destiny? Must we obliterate all of our rivals to succeed? Because if that’s so …’

‘Meister …’

Tief interrupts, sensing, perhaps, that the King is about to overstep the mark.

‘Yes, Tief,’ he says, turning towards him, a weary sigh escaping him. ‘What is it?’

‘The Grand Master wishes to speak to our guest. He asks if he might take a place at the high table.’

‘Ho ho!’ Manfred says, and rubs his massive hands together, as if delighted. ‘Tell him to approach. Oh, and set him a place
… there
… facing me. I’d like to see him struggle with the broth.’

My eyes clearly have a question in them, because he leans towards me and, in an exaggerated whisper says: ‘They don’t eat, Lucius, they
re-charge
.’

And he giggles. At least, as much as such a big man
can
giggle. It’s a rich, deep chortle that goes on and on and only stops as the Grand Master steps up on to the platform.

The Hall falls silent.

The King stands and puts out a hand, as if offering a place to a friend, but I can see how little friendship there is between the two men. The Grand Master bows, then, at the King’s gesture, sits, facing us. And as I look at him, I have my first surprise. Though he is mostly metal and wire, plastic and lubricant, there is someone in there. Two bright eyes sit back some way in that great mask-like piece of circuitry, like someone has been trapped inside.

Hydraulics hiss. Metal creaks. ‘Ambassador.’

The voice is smooth and deep, without a trace of machine-enhancement.

‘Grand Master,’ I reply, with a little bow, conscious that, for all his title claims, there is only one real ‘
master
’ in this Hall, and that’s the King.

His head moves slightly, like a tank turret, taking bearings on my face. ‘I understand that you wished to see the Guild apartments. I am most regretful that we could not grant you that today. But if you would be my guest? Tomorrow, at dawn?’

Though Tief has undoubtedly told the King of my request, the Grand Master’s courtesy clearly surprises Manfred, and he glances at me.

‘That would be most kind,’ I say, ‘unless, of course, the King has other plans for me.’

‘No, Lucius,’ he says. ‘You must go. I’m told it’s very Spartan there. But you’ll like their theatres, I’m sure … I’m told they have
plenty
of theatres …’

I look down, trying not to smile. Manfred doesn’t mean places of entertainment, he means
operating
theatres. For Guildsmen aren’t
born
Guildsmen, they’re
made
, transformed into the kind of complex bio-mechanism that sits before me only after hundreds of operations. Manfred might make a joke of it now, but it’s why, as a breed, they’re so well used to pain. So capable of transcending it.

The Grand Master waits a moment, as if expecting more, then speaks again, looking to me as he does.

‘Forgive me, Ambassador, but I’m curious. Why did your masters send so small a mission? There are, I understand, just two of you.’

I smile. ‘That’s so.’

‘Ah … yes … yet it would seem …’

‘
Inadequate?
’

Manfred, beside me, smiles. But I sense he too would like to know the reasoning, so I continue.

‘It’s a matter of simple expediency, Grand Master. A larger mission would have required a much bigger craft, and we do not have one. As you probably realise, we are rebuilding fast, yet our level of technology …’ And I shrug, as if my admission of our weakness is endearing, but the Grand Master looks far from amused.

‘There is another matter,’ he begins. ‘You say you have come from America, yet our agents report that you flew in from Africa. From the Tunisian coast, to be precise.’

‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘We have a base, in Dakhla, on the coast of the Western Sahara. One of several small outposts that facilitate trade.’

‘Ah. And you flew there first?’

‘And refuelled. It would not have done to have flown in over Germany with an empty tank. Who knows where we might have dropped out of the sky – and on to what …’

Manfred laughs, amused, but I am beginning to wonder what the point of these questions is. Don’t the Guild believe us? Have they
other
information about our mission?

‘You’ve heard why they’ve come?’ Manfred asks, looking directly at the Grand Master.

Again that turret of a head revolves, like it’s about to take aim. ‘No,
Meister
… though I believe we shall be discussing it.’

Manfred, however, is not so polite. ‘Oh, he
knows
, Lucius. Our friend Adelbert here has his spies everywhere. And so do we.
They
know what we are doing and
we
know everything about them … or
almost
everything.’

The Grand Master is staring at Manfred now, his head seemingly frozen in one position, as if some mechanism has locked.

‘They love the
pretence
,’ Manfred says, an edge now to his voice. ‘They love to make people
think
they’re on my side, even while they’re spying and prying and building spaceships …’

‘
Meister!
’ the Grand Master protests. ‘We are not!’

‘Not? You mean, not spying on me? Not prying into my affairs?’

The Grand Master’s head unlocks, makes a fluid sideways motion. He seems about to say more, then decides against.

Manfred, though, does not leave it. ‘It will be destroyed, Grand Master. And you will give me proof that it has been destroyed. And as for its architects – you will hand them over to me, tomorrow, before midday.’

‘
Meister
, I …’

‘
Tomorrow!’

The Grand Master bows, then stands, waiting to be dismissed, and for a moment I begin to think that Manfred will keep him there, only even the King can only take things so far, and after a second or two’s delay, he waves his hand, dismissing him.

‘I’m sorry, Lucius,’ he says, as the Grand Master takes a seat below us. ‘I meant to keep that business until later … but he annoys me. He’s so humourless … so pompous and self-righteous. Yes, and such a hypocrite. They say he likes boys.
Young
boys …’

I glance at the King, surprised. Then again, these are people who have lived in each other’s pockets for a century and more. That’s time enough and more for nerves to fray and tempers be shredded. The only wonder is that they haven’t self-destructed before now.

These
Adel
have been bred with great wisdom, yet they’re also, in some crucial way, like children. Spoiled, petulant children. Even Manfred, now that I see it. Yes, even Manfred.

I’m about to be indiscreet – to ask Manfred about Gudrun – when the trumpet sounds again. I look across, and as the end doors open, I get a glimpse of a woman – an
Adel
, fully Manfred’s own size, cradling something in her arms. As she comes closer, so I make out what it is. A child – a baby, to be more precise – though no baby I have ever seen was quite so large, so obscenely overweight. Though a newborn, he must be four feet, maybe even five head to toe. And I know, without attempting it, that I’d as easily lift a horse and run a furlong with it on my back as lift and cuddle this child of Manfred’s.

Coming up on to the platform, the woman hands Manfred his child and he stands, the proud father, showing it to everyone, no trace of his earlier bitterness extended to this innocent. Yet as he hands it back, I note a flicker of sadness in his eyes, as if foreknowledge of the child’s inevitable corruption has darkened even this for him.

It’s at this point that I notice Gudrun stand and, with a word to those about her, leave hurriedly. I’ve noticed that she’s been distracted for some while, staring down into her untouched bowl and tugging almost compulsively at her braided hair, yet the way she leaves – without a sign, without a backward glance – makes me wonder just what’s been going through her mind.

She has been gone only seconds when there’s a huge explosion from somewhere below us. The platform shudders, and in the silence that follows, I turn to Manfred and see a strange, almost withdrawn expression in his eyes.

‘Tief,’ he says quietly. ‘Go find out what that is.’

As his chancellor hurries off, so Manfred sits there, picking absently at the half-eaten loaf, looking about him at his relatives, a kind of vacant yet predatory glare in his eyes.

Tief returns and, leaning in close, speaks softly to Manfred’s ear. For a moment there’s nothing, and then I notice how the King’s hands have clenched into fists; see, at the same moment, a strange, almost excruciating pain in his face.

Manfred stands, looking about him blindly, pain and rage at war in his face, tears coursing down his cheeks. And then he bellows at the watching
Adel
.

‘You cunts! You heartless fucking cunts!’

Eyes watch him warily from the body of the Hall. No one’s laughing. No one wants to draw attention to themselves. The King looks deadly in this mood. They know he’d as soon slit their throats as talk to them.

He gasps with pain, then looks to me. ‘Lucius. Come with me. You must see this.’

I don’t know why he asks me, but I follow hastily, running to keep up with his gigantic strides. Members of his special elite – his
Leibstandarte
– hurry to join us, forming a bodyguard about us as we hasten down a long curve of steps and out on to a kind of balcony.

It breaks off and floats out into the central space. There’s smoke below us, and a strong smell of burned plastic and roasted flesh. As we descend into it, I see that one of the lower platforms has been badly damaged, a large chunk of it blown away. It’s a sleeping chamber, and the place is a wreck, pieces of debris scattered everywhere.