The Lightstep (15 page)

The colonels had dispersed by the time Wéry returned to the
commandant's house. So he took his leave of Knuds and
departed from the citadel on foot. He walked slowly down the
looping road from the citadel to the bridges. His boots roused
little dry dust-clouds for the wind to fling in eddies and disperse
over the hillside. His thoughts flew with them, and alighted
nowhere.

Politics!

The nasty, little, petty-minded politics of Erzberg: Gianovi
against Balcke; Canon Rother against the army; little boys in their
sandcastles. Little boys with knives.
Balcke is finished.
That was a
swift judgement. That was exactly what might be expected from
someone who had not been with the army in those last days! And
if there were few competent officers in the army of Erzberg, there
would be one less when Balcke was gone. Wéry would be sorry.
Balcke had been the first to take him seriously.

Bergesrode would not be sorry. He was one of the Ingolstadt
set, and the Ingolstadt set hated Balcke, just as they hated Gianovi
and anyone they suspected of swaying the Prince towards reform
of Erzberg's ancient customs and institutions. The Prince kept
Bergesrode in his office as a balance to his other advisers. So the
lethal bickering penetrated right to the heart of the Prince's
government. Squabbling makes you smaller. And paranoia makes
you smaller still.
Come ready to talk about the Illuminati.
Hah.
Rubbish. The obsession of a sick and backward-looking
church . . .

Squabbling, and paranoia, and impossible demands. Find
Illuminati in the city. Bring us the plans of Hoche. Stay out of
French-held territory. (But yes, he must find a safe courier to and
from the Rhine. Somehow, he must.)

And your ideas.

Because the French would come. Now or later, whether they
evicted d'Erles or not, one day the French would come. There
could be no real peace with such an enemy. His pulses beat with
the thought of it.

Ideas, ideas. His idea was to fight. To oppose the French with
a will that exceeded even their own. But Bergesrode knew that.
The question he was asking was: how?

Defence had to have depth. When one line was breached,
there must be another behind it, and another behind that, so that
no attack could gain momentum. A serious fortress should be
surrounded with lines of outworks and redoubts. But Erzberg
could not be made into a fortress. That would take months, and
vast sums of money. The French would be alert to it at once. They
could be outside the walls in days.

So what could be done?

Build further lines within the walls? Pitch the fight inside the
city?

He paused on the Old Bridge, looking out across the quays.
The riverside was crowded. His eye rested on the folk loading
barges, wheeling barrows, passing in the street. Glances were
thrown in his direction, and a few frowns, but there were no
hisses for a hussar officer this morning. They did not know about
Balcke and Hersheim, yet. Nor did they know that this particular
hussar was pondering a murderous fight for the city. It should be
written on his face, like a mark of Cain.
Fighting street by street
while the city burns, the women are dragged from the cellars and the
children hoisted on bayonets.
Yes, all that. All that would happen, here
on these chattering wharves in the breezy air. Once you have
made the attackers fight their way in, they will show you no
mercy.

And this was the voice of the enemy. It had been voiced in
good faith – supposing Gianovi was capable of good faith – but
it was the enemy nonetheless.
Look at them, pity them. And for their
sakes, do not oppose me.
It was distraction. It was lies. The enemy
offered every excuse for weakness. But truth was only truth if you
were prepared to die for it.

And, he thought, it could be done.

They could fight for these streets. Look at the Coffee House
Stocke, there. Or at this merchant's house, four-square at the end
of the Old Bridge. Beneath its elaborate friezes of vines and fat
cherubs, these were good stone Avails. Put loopholes in them, put
oak shutters on those broad windows, and it would be a small
fortress. No one could cross the river this way until it was taken.

Look at the Saint Christopher Chapel. A cannon in its doorway
could sweep the length of the wharves . . .

It needed determination. Not fear. Fear was the corruption
that had consumed the Republic: fear of émigrés, fear of the mob,
fear of the Powers and fear of each other. No cause of
his
must
go that way To do this – not just to contemplate it, but to carry
it all the way through – Erzberg's leaders would be tested to the
very limits of their will.

And it needed arms, powder and shot. Level eyes and level
heads. Steady hands on the muskets. The defence would show no
mercy either. And when they came on, with their banners and
their bayonets –
Bang! Bang! Damn you, bang!
And the smoke
clearing and the bodies writhing on the cobbles. And they would
have learned, in Paris. They would have learned the price of
betrayal!

His fists shook. His jaw was clenched. And he stood there, lost
in his vision at the parapet of the Old Bridge, until his ear began
to pick up again the clatter of the people on the wharves. The
wind gusted, flapping his tunic, and his eye saw the brown swirl
of the river once more.

It could be done, he thought. That was what he would tell
Bergesrode at dawn tomorrow. It could be done if there was the
will. And if they came.

He left the bridge. Moving swiftly now, he began to make his
way upstream, skirting the narrow, gated street which was the
city's Jewish ghetto, into the northern districts of the city. As he
went he looked left and right, noting strong buildings, avenues of
fire, killing grounds. There were many, he found – so many ways
and places in which an attacker could be made to suffer.

Why in heaven's name did cities bother with walls at all?

It was in this frame of mind, intense and agitated, that he
reached the Saint Lucia barracks where the hussars were
quartered. He was moving so fast that he did not acknowledge
the sentry's salute. He barely heard what the man had said to him.
He had walked on five paces under the archway before his brain
caught up with his ears.

'What? What did you say?'

'There's callers for you, sir.'

'Callers?'

'Two gentlewomen, sir.'

Gentlewomen! What in heaven . . . ?

'For me? You are sure?'

'Asked for you by name, sir.'

It must have been business of some sort. Here in Erzberg, no
gentlewoman would call on an officer in his barracks for any
other reason. But he could not think what business one could
have with him, or indeed which, if any, of his scarce acquaintances
in the city it could possibly have been.

'Did they leave a card?'

'They're still here.'

Still here!

Gentlewomen waiting in a barracks? God above, what kind of
business could this be?

'Where are they?' he asked urgently.

'Don't exactly know, sir. Officers' quarters, I suppose.'

They were in the long room in the officers' block: two women
in brown habits with their skirts spread wide on the stained and
faded settees on which the bachelor officers would lounge
and drink wine in the evenings. One he recognized instantly – it
was Madame Poppenstahl, whom he had last seen in the little
waiting room at Adelsheim. The other wore a veil. A black dress
peeped out from under her habit. It was almost certainly one of
the Adelsheim women – the daughter, he guessed, from her
height. But with the veil and the dim light he could not be sure.

'And here he is,' cried Altmantz, looking up from an armchair.
'The lost sheep returns. Well, boy? Still got your commission, I
hope?'

'Fortunately, sir, yes,' gasped Wéry. 'Ladies, I am at your service.
And I regret – I bitterly regret – that you have had to wait for
me. If I had known, of course I would have been here at once.'

'It is no fault of yours, sir,' said Madame Poppenstahl, as he
bent over her hand. She turned, perhaps a little awkwardly, to his
superior officer. 'And Baron . . .'

The colonel raised an eyebrow. Women like Madame
Poppenstahl did not normally dismiss barons who had
condescended to wait upon them.

'Baron, you have been most kind,' said the woman behind the
veil. And it was indeed Maria von Adelsheim.

'Well,' said the Baron, gallantly levering himself to his feet.
'It – it has been a pleasure, but I have matters to attend to. I'll
leave him to your mercies.'

'Sir . . .' began Wéry.

'Think nothing of it, boy,' said Altmantz. 'Only tell me what it
was about afterwards if you can. I'm all agog.'

He left them, with the forced cheerfulness of a man who
knew he was not in control of events in his house, and therefore
behaved as if all events that occurred exactly suited him. The
sound of his boots clattered away on the wooden boards and
Wéry was alone with the two women.

They were alone, in the room where up to a dozen young
unmarried men would sit of an evening, drinking and smoking
and roaring at one another. There was dust in the air, ashes in the
hearth, the smell of wood smoke and tobacco smoke and spilled
wine. On a sideboard stood a row of decanters, full, half-full and
near-empty. The furniture was shabby. Here and there the fabrics
were torn, as if by some undisciplined cat. But it was no cat that
had ripped the upholstery and picked at the carpet so. They were
the marks of spurs.

'By your leave, ladies,' he said, feeling embarrassed by their
surroundings, but also helpless. There was nowhere else in the
barracks to take these two unexpected visitors. He perched on
the edge of a settee that had been visibly deformed by
generations of drunken hussars sprawling there and tipping
bottles into their mouths.

He waited. Madame Poppenstahl was preparing to speak.
Wéry understood that she was to do the talking, and also that she
was not quite sure how to begin. He stole a glance at the woman
in the veil, but he saw there only poise and silence. The outline
of the face showed dimly behind the dark material.

What were they doing here?

'Once again,' he said, 'I truly regret that I was not here to
receive you.'

'It is no fault of yours, sir,' said Madame Poppenstahl. 'But it
was not possible for us, finding you away, to go and return
tomorrow. Therefore we were obliged to wait.'

'I see,' said Wéry, blankly.

'We wish,' said Madame Poppenstahl, 'to acquire a passport.'

'A passport!'

'For a foreign gentleman to remain a month within the city.
He will be travelling on private business and therefore it would
be best if he had papers from our own authorities.'

Madame Poppenstahl looked at him, as though hoping she
had said all that was necessary by way of explanation.

'But – but it is no part of my duties to issue passports,' said
Wéry baffled. 'You would have to apply to . . .' He hesitated.

There was a new decree, Bergesrode had said. He struggled to
remember the details. 'I believe . . . You now have to go to the
office of the Prince, or the First Minister.'

'Alas, sir. Enquiries have already been made on our behalf in
these quarters. We understand that it is impossible.'

Were they so innocent, these women?

'It should be perfectly possible. If the clerks in the palace have
said it is not, it will only be because they were waiting for a bribe.'

Madame Poppenstahl's hands shifted in her lap. 'Sir, Lady
Adelsheim has said most strictly that we should pay no bribes to
the palace officials.'

Wéry could imagine Lady Adelsheim's opinions of the officials
of Erzberg. For the most part, he shared them. He eased back a
little in his chair and thought what advice he might give.

'A family of the Adelsheims' standing . . . Perhaps you should
approach Gianovi himself?'

'Lady Adelsheim has said that we must not ask favours of
Gianovi under any circumstances.'

Really!

'Why not?'

'She will not have it, sir. She says . . . She has no liking for
him.'

He sensed her delicacy. The thing that would offend the
knightly families of Erzberg most about Gianovi was that he was
not one of them. He was a foreigner, ennobled by grace and not
by birth. He owed no loyalty to any faction within Erzberg other
than to the man who had employed him. And the same, at a much
lesser level, was true for Wéry. There was no doubt that Lady
Adelsheim would have her views on lowly and foreign-born
army officers as well. If she had thought that her emissaries might
approach him, she would have forbidden that too. But she had
not.

'Who is it you want a passport for?'

'A Major Jean-Marie Lanard.'

'An émigré, madame? I do not know him.'

'He is an officer of the Army of the French Republic'

'What!'

No wonder they had not been able to get what they wanted!

Madame Poppenstahl returned his look with a frail defiance.

'But what you ask is most difficult,' said Wéry slowly.

Difficult? It was madness! Allow a revolutionary officer back
into Erzberg? If there were even a possibility that the Prince
would resist Hoche's demands?

He could feel the eyes of the veiled girl on him. He did not
want to disappoint her. He very much did not want to. But really,
it was best to be honest.

'I should explain . . .' he said. 'There is great alarm in the
palace about the possibility that republican agitators may enter
the city. I doubt if anyone less than the Prince would willingly
sanction such a letter at this time.'

'We had understood, Captain, that you had become an aide to
the Prince.'