The Lightstep (21 page)

An hour later Uhnen's face was white. He had won just one
game to Father's five. His fingers shook slightly as he added up
the score. At a gulden a point, that made . . .

In the room beyond the double doors a muffled chatter arose.
A chair was pushed back. Someone in there laughed – a high,
giggling sound.

'Father,' Maria said, putting her hand under his arm. 'They are
coming out. We must be ready to lead them into dinner.'

Father rose laboriously to his feet. Karl rose too. 'This has been
– most instructive,' he said, with a rueful look at the score. 'I fear
I must give you a note in hand for this, sir. But I shall gladly bring
it tomorrow . . .'

'You may bring it to me,' murmured Maria. She did not feel
triumphant. If anything she felt a little ashamed. But she had her
drawing-room victory. Now the orders would indeed be given,
the servants would scurry, the wheels of a carriage would roll,
because the Uhnen family would bear the costs of her trip to the
Rhine.

Karl leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. 'I shall do that
gladly. And perhaps when I come, I may be permitted some time
to speak with you alone?'

There was an earnest look in his eyes. Her heart sank.

'That may depend upon what you wish to say,' she said, so
softly that he could barely have heard her.

He hesitated. 'I must speak as my heart dictates,' he said.

'And so must I. But I can offer you no change.'

His jaw tightened. Abruptly he looked at his shoes.

Father had already forgotten the game. His eyes were roving
the room. He was seeing it all again as new – the ladies, the
lights, the footmen, the sudden crowd of brightly-clad gentlemen
now debouching through the double doors into the room,
chattering and tittering at their own wit. He looked lost, lost in
his own house.

'Are we going down, boy?' he asked suddenly, speaking from
the corner of his mouth. 'Are we going down?'

'I – I pray not, sir,' said Karl, and his voice was hoarse.

'Pray then,' growled Father. 'Pray.' He fixed his eyes on the
carpet. 'Damn if I didn't see her last night, all in her long gown
and the head of a dog where her face should have been . . .'

Karl too was looking at the carpet, and in the candlelight his
eye shimmered with moisture. And Maria cursed herself bitterly.

For she knew she had given him hope, and then she had cheated
him. She felt that she could weep too – for him, for herself, and
above all for Father and for the brief glow that had lit his mind
and was gone.

'Aux amies, citoyens,
' said Wéry boldly, as he marched into his
office.

Asmus, the new clerk, looked up from the one desk they had
to share.

'Guerre aux chateaux!'
he replied.

'Paix aux chaumières'
trumpeted Wéry, and flung his coat into
a corner.

'Et sois mon frère, ou je te tue,'
said Asmus wryly, gathering his
papers and rising from his place. 'I like that one especially, citizen.'

'Thank you, citizen,' said Wéry. He picked his hussar's cap off
a dusty shelf and balanced it on his head. Ponderously he took his
seat. 'Now, Asmus, I am uniformed, at my desk, in my barracks. I
am an officer of the Prince and of the Empire once more. And
so?'

'For God and Emperor,
sir!'
'The Divine Order! And shall we yield the Rhineland?'

'The integrity of the German body must be maintained!' cried
Asmus, raising a defiant fist to the ceiling.

'Exactly. We may shout for revolution, but we fight for
integrity and order. That is our contradiction. And underlying our
contradiction is the deeper truth, from which all things spring.
And it is?'

'You said it was "Fuck the French", sir.'

Wéry's brow furrowed. 'I thought we decided that was too
broad. Was it not to be "A Plague on Paris" or "Damn the
Directory"?'

'You said, sir, that "Damn the Directory" was insufficiently
poetic.'

'You are right. I did,' Wéry sighed. 'Even to be a poet, one has
to lie a little.'

Asmus was a young man, with long, brown hair so thin that
the white of his scalp showed through it. He was capable, spoke
some French and had a dry sense of humour that made working
with him a pleasure. He had not seemed to mind being taken for
days at a time from his prestigious and presumably lucrative work
in the First Minister's offices. Best of all, he could think. He had
opinions on philosophy, politics and the personalities of Erzberg,
and was more than ready to share them.

It was he, for example, who had finally explained to Wéry that
the Countess Wilhelmina Pancak-Schönberg (whom everyone
called simply 'the Countess') was not only the Prince-Bishop's
mistress but also his aunt. Wéry had been wondering why his
fellow officers would joke freely in his hearing about the
Countess's fondness for young women but would fall quickly
silent if he referred to her relations with the Prince. Now at last
he understood. Incest as well as fornication! It was too much for
Erzberg to admit to the outsider.

Wéry had warmed to Asmus from that moment. He had
warmed further when he found that Asmus was willing to take
part in some of the joke-rituals that Albrecht von Adelsheim had
invented, such as the 'Slogans of Contradiction', in which the
participants shouted the rallying-cries of opposite sides with
increasing fervour. Altogether he was far more valuable than any
promotion. The only sadness was that he might soon be withdrawn
because Wéry had, after all, so little for him to do.

'You had better make the most of him while you can,'
Fernhausen had said ruefully. 'Gianovi nearly had a fit when he
heard we were after the fellow. He may even try to raise it with
the Prince.' It had sounded, then, as if Asmus's recall might arrive
any day. But September had given way to October and still Asmus
came down to the barracks twice a week to take his place in
Wéry's office. Perhaps Gianovi's influence had declined. Indeed it
must have done if his notoriously busy staff could be depleted for
the sake of an intelligence officer who struggled to gather any
intelligence!

'How was the mission, sir?'

Wéry sighed again. 'Kranz is dead. French dragoons did it.'

'Oh!'

Asmus was shocked. His hand made a curious movement,
searching the air behind him. It was reaching for a chair for his
body to sink into. But there was no spare chair in the office,
which had only recently had to accommodate two men rather
than one.

'Because he worked for us, sir?'

'No knowing. Robbery, grudge, assassination – it could have
been any or all. The others are all right. Of course they are scared
now, which means they will be less likely than ever to stick their
necks out because we ask it.'

'I see.' Asmus thought for a moment more. 'And is there news?'

That was the question. That was what every man in Erzberg,
from the Prince downwards, wanted to know. And Erzberg would
pass quickly enough over the loss of a hired man, so long as there
was news. Wéry had done the same himself, in those moments
after he had seen the cold-hearted puff of pistol smoke across
the valley. It was just that he knew now what the news amounted
to.

'Not much. Comings and goings. If anything, there's been a
slight reduction in the strength at Wetzlar – another demi-brigade
posted back across the Rhine. They still have plenty of force if
they want to move. There's no sign of an increase in supplies, but
that doesn't mean anything because we know the French don't
believe in supplies when they are in a hurry. They will need more
artillery but otherwise they can come and get us when they
want.'

Asmus had drawn pen and paper to himself across the desk,
but his nib did not touch the sheet. He looked up, 'So – no
change?'

'Dress it up to make it look as though we've been busy. We
have
been busy, after all. But yes, that's the message.'

'Who is the source?'

Wéry hesitated. If he let it be known that he had been skulking
around Wetzlar himself, scratching on doors and whistling at
windows, there would be another difficult interview with
Bergesrode. Just the thought of it made him feel tired.

'For the purposes of the report, you say that Kranz told it to
me while he was dying in my arms.'

'You want me to say that he is dead?'

'Yes, of course.'

'If I do, the Treasury will cut his pay from our funds.'

Wéry groaned. (Erzberg, Erzberg! Lose a man but keep the
money. And pocket it if you can! But Asmus was right. That was
exactly how the palace functionaries thought.)

'He's dead in the Prince's service. Let him have a line of ink.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now, what's been happening here?'

Asmus shrugged. 'There have been more demands from the
French about the d'Erles party.'

'Telling us the émigrés have got to leave, and the walls must
be blown up, and if we don't do it ourselves they will come and
do it for us?'

'Exactly. I must say . . .' Asmus was fiddling with his pen in a
rare sign of agitation. 'I cannot understand why His Highness
does not just send d'Erles away! Can it really be that the Countess
is so fond of this wastrel?'

'That's up to His Highness,' said Wéry. 'If there's a fight, we
fight. That's all.'

'Yes, indeed. But . . .'

But Asmus was right. Whether out of love for his godchild,
devotion to his mistress or loathing for the Republic, the Prince
was playing a terrible gamble with his state.

'What does the Chapter say?'

Asmus glanced out of the window in the direction of the
cathedral. The light was going early today.

'They were to meet this evening,' he said. 'Very soon, now, I
imagine. Many of them are against him. Perhaps most. And there's
an extraordinary meeting of the Estates tomorrow.'

'Maybe they will haul His Highness back.'

'Maybe.'

Maybe, maybe. But they did not know. No one knew. Would
the French move now? Would they wait until spring? Would they
do nothing but threaten? Wéry was the only one who could tell
them. And at present he could not. His agents in Nassau were
frightened and resentful. All they wanted to do was hibernate.
That only left the Rhine, if anything useful could be gathered
there. And if the messages could get through.

'Did that passport go to the address I gave you?' he asked.

Asmus looked at him.

'Yes.'

'There was no trouble about it?'

'None yet, sir.'

'Good.'

If she kept her promise. How long? Perhaps a man was already
on his way to the Jürichs. Would there be something waiting for
him? Probably not, because they would not expect him. So they
would have to keep him there, or send one of their own when
they did have something. How long then? No knowing.

Damn it, again he did not
know!

'The War Commission has appointed the panel to investigate
Count Balcke-Horneswerden,' said Asmus.

'Have they?'

He had not told Asmus there was a link between the passport
and the investigation. Asmus must have guessed. But he had asked
no questions yet.

'They are Steinau-Zoll, the Canon Inquisitor, Canon Rother-Konisrat,
and the Knight von Uhnen.'

'Ho,' said Wéry thoughtfully.

So Balcke-Horneswerden was to be investigated by one clever
man from the Ingolstadt set, one clever man from the peace party
– its leader in fact – and the mercurial Uhnen, whose son might
be a hussar, but 'who could not safely be associated with any
faction. They would be armed with hindsight, knowing that the
action at Hersheim had been useless. There had been no need to
save the army, because peace had already dawned when Balcke
had ordered the attack. And if that Frenchman ever appeared
before them, Steinau and Rother at least would be happy to take
his word over Balcke's. That might be enough to tie the noose.

Wéry shifted uncomfortably. He did not like to think he
might be responsible for Balcke's dismissal. Balcke had helped
him in the past. There was no denying that. And if the French
came in force, Erzberg would need Balcke a thousand times over.

The sooner they got news of the French advance, the better
then! There would be no time for inquiries after that. And no
place for a French witness either! Damn it . . .

'Take the seat,' he grumbled. 'I'm getting changed.'

He retreated into his narrow bedroom, got rid of his mud spattered
civilian disguise, and pulled on his hussar's tunic and
trousers. His thoughts would not leave him alone.

The Chapter was meeting this evening. Perhaps it had already
begun. He tried to picture the Prince and the Canons – including
Canons Rother and Steinau – all speaking in those soft voices
of war. The Prince was relying on the reports Wéry had given
him.

There had been nothing new for weeks!
Back in the office the light was going fast. He stalked around
the room, ignoring Asmus, who was busy at the desk inventing
who-knew-what to justify both their salaries. On the wall the
white eyes of the dying Christ rolled grotesquely in the gloom.

He peered out of the window at the gathering evening, and
tried to decide whether the barracks should be another strong
point in his plan for the defence of the city. It had thick walls, and
a good open square where troops could be ordered or stores
piled. But it was overlooked by the onion-dome of the Saint
Lucia church. Any defence would have to hold the church as
well. And if the church was a strong point, why bother with the
barracks? Manpower would be limited, after all.

The less warning of attack, the less manpower there would be.

Damn it! He could not just sit here!

'I am going out,' he said. 'Get that report written up, will you?'

'Yes, sir,' said Asmus, still writing.

'And get yourself a lamp, for God's sake. It's nearly dark
already.'

'Yes, sir.'

It was indeed nearly dark, and the mist was coming off the river
in a thick, cold smoke that filled the lower streets. For all that,
there seemed to be more people about than was normal for the
hour. Men passed him, striding swiftly, hurrying to some house
or friend or gathering that he could not guess at. Others hung in
doorways or at street corners, murmuring to one another or
listening to someone holding forth by the light of a lantern. They
glanced at him as he strode by in the shadows like a rumour of
war. A man spoke to him. It was a question, but because of the
accent he did not catch it. He stared at the fellow, who stared
back at him, holding out a pamphlet. There were a stack of other
pamphlets under the man's arm. He saw the man realize that he
was an officer, start, and draw back even as he put out his hand
to take the sheet. Then the pamphleteer was scurrying away in
the mist, leaving him standing arm outstretched, fingers empty.

Five years before, in Brussels, in Paris, he had taken pamphlets
like that one eagerly He had even written some of them. Now
he was on the other side. He took off his plumed cap and
drew his coat around him as he went, hiding his uniform as far
as he could. And he walked among them, like a hidden enemy.

Enemy? No, not enemy. This was not revolution in the air. It
was fever. Fear. He caught the words
Prince
and
émigré
and
Chapter
again and again. People were pressing each other for news.
Anyone who could be imagined to know what was happening
inside the Chapter meeting was being called over, to exchange
rumour and counter-rumour. Wéry heard the phrase
the French
have demanded .
. . but whatever it was they were supposed to have
demanded was lost in the noise of someone coughing up fog. He
heard the word
siege
uttered like the hiss of a snake in a thicket.

He stopped in the little square of Saint Lucia and the church
loomed down at him, lightless and silent. It was broad-fronted,
with a high tower, small windows and walls of stoutly-built stone.
It stood corner-wise on to the street opposite. Cannon fire from
down there would be deflected by the angle of the walls. The
other streets onto the square were narrow and twisted. Any guns
firing up those would have to be positioned so close that the
crews would be at risk from sharpshooters in the spire. You could
post watchmen up there. You could loophole the walls. The place
could be a little redoubt, as long as men were determined to hold
it. And as long as they had powder and shot. When that ran out
the defenders would have to retreat or die like rats in a
trap.