The White Wolf's Son: The Albino Underground Page 14

  Olin Desleur occasionally missed his wild West Thirding, where he had grown up in the picturesque town of Beury. He was used to hills which shone like copper in the autumn sun, and limestone pavements that formed natural causeways, glinting silver against the summer green. He loved the mingling of snow with the smell of spring at solstice. One day he intended to retire there, to his promised estates, with nothing but a few favorite boys for company.

  “And perhaps a little girl or two,” he murmured aloud as he looked up from his cheese, “to add variety.”

  But he would have to earn the privilege first, and that meant keeping the peace in Mirenburg and the province of which it was the capital. A backwater, maybe, but a fairly strategic backwater. They were now producing the majority of the Empire’s most advanced war machines.

  A sound, half-heard, drew his attention away from his morning meal. From where he sat on a high balcony of what had once been the prince’s palace, he could see the city’s gates opened for the morning traffic. People and vehicles of all kinds came and went through those gates. His was a rich little fiefdom, he thought with some satisfaction. He watched it all, relishing all the marvelous and quaint sights, from the great steam-powered battle engines of the Empire to the peasants’ donkeys. But this morning his eyes were attracted to a party just passing through the gates, the early sunshine glancing off their armor and masks.

  Meliadus? was his first thought, voiced to no one. But while the banner was that of the Order of the Wolf, the entourage was far too small. The secondary flags announced the little group as belonging to his provincial governor, Sir Edwold Krier, a man for whom he had little respect but who was far too well connected to be ignored. After all, they were at St. Remus’s together. Members of the same club, to this day. Immediately he was on his feet, calling for his ceremonial armor, his helm of state.

  As he prepared to greet his countryman, a guard in the mask of his Wolverine Order brought him news that two emissaries had arrived that night by ornithopter and had landed in the east field, having flown all the way from Londra. The emissaries carried letters from the capital. Two Germanians, apparently, in the employ of Baron Meliadus. They were to be treated as honored guests.

  The protector gave orders that the emissaries be entertained in the guest hall while he went first to greet Sir Edwold Krier and bid him welcome. Protocol gave more or less equal status to both parties. His fellow countryman had best be dealt with first, however, since it was likely he was here on some business of the province. It was unusual for him to come to the capital on personal business. He assumed, since Meliadus’s kinsman had sent no message, there must be some urgency. Or could there be something the matter with the heliograph? The Dark Empire was as proud of her communications systems as she was of her battle vessels. Had some heliographer been drinking at his vanes, or a post or two blown up by terrorists? His captain of engineers would be reporting to him on the matter, no doubt.

  Thus, with his own entourage and guards, the Lord Protector of Mirenburg was waiting when the wolf masks came into the courtyard of the great castle, and Sir Edwold Krier’s Wäldish servant helped his master from his saddle, taking his banner and following at a respectful distance as he clanked up the steps to give the salute.

  “Good morning, Sir Edwold. We are honored to receive you at the capital. Your business, we take it, is of great importance to the Empire.”

  “Of greatest importance, my lord. You are gracious to receive me thus at such short notice.”

  “I take it the heliograph is down again for some reason?”

  “Sadly, yes, my lord. Three attempts we made to repair it, and even put a new man in. Then the attacks spread to other stations. My warriors are stretched thin, Lord Olin Desleur. But the rest I must discuss with you in private.”

  “So you shall. Have you breakfasted?”

  Sir Edwold said he had eaten at dawn before breaking camp. Once they were together in Lord Olin Desleur’s wonderful library, its windows looking out into the gardens of the palace with its ornamental lake and fountains, the spines of the books, dark reds, blues and greens, reflecting the predominant colors of his flowers outside, Olin Desleur’s tone turned from one of public courtesy to one of private confidence. He personally shut the door and asked Sir Edwold what was the urgency of such an untimely visit when he, Lord Olin, was needed to entertain visiting dignitaries with letters from Quay Savoy in Londra.

  Sir Edwold told him what he knew of the planned uprising.

  Olin Desleur turned his back to his books and stared out over the lake. “How did this information come to you, Sir Edwold?”

  “I had a visitor a few days ago. An odd fellow, belonging to a race I never encountered before. He was set upon by brigands to the north of us and, while in their power, had heard that a force of men was being raised to attack first our outlying defenses and then Mirenburg herself. It seemed to me that it was my duty to tell you of the danger and perhaps go on to Londra by the speediest route to beg Meliadus for more troops.”

  Lord Olin gave this some thought. First he had to consider the tranquility of the province and how best to maintain it. If he failed in these duties he would be humiliated, recalled to Londra, dismissed from his order, even tortured and killed. If, however, he allowed Sir Edwold to take the news to Londra, he would not be able to present his case, and Sir Edwold could depict him in an unfavorable light if he so chose. He was in a quandary.

  “What became of your informant?”

  “By now, Lord Protector, he has probably died of his wounds. But I had every reason to believe he spoke truth. There have been rumors of a rebellion in the province for some while, as you will of course know.”

  “Quite so.” Lord Olin had not heard a single rumor, but it would not do to reveal this to Sir Edwold.

  “Is there an ornithopter ready, my lord? I believe I should go at once to tell the king-emperor of our need for more troops here.”

  “Best that I carry the news. They will listen to me more readily.”

  “But would they not wish to hear the news firsthand—?”

  “It will carry more authority if I give it.”

  “If you say so, my lord.” The wolf mask bowed in agreement and some disappointment. “I thought perhaps that your responsibilities here …”

  “You will have to carry that burden, Sir Edwold, while I warn Londra. I’ll make you deputy protector in my absence.”

  “You do me great honor, my lord.” There was still a hint of disappointment in Sir Edwold’s voice.

  “It will be your duty to gather intelligence and send spies abroad, to watch for any danger.”

  “Of course, Lord Protector.”

  Now Lord Olin Desleur recalled the two Germanians who awaited an audience in the antechamber. Politely he took his leave of the governor and hurried through the banner-draped galleries to the room where the two men waited. Normally he would have received them in his great hall, but he needed to know as privately as possible if their visit concerned the potential rebellion. He must have as few available ears listening as possible.

  He soon looked with barely concealed disgust upon the naked face of one of the emissaries. The other creature at least had had the grace to mask.

  The better-mannered of the pair was huge, heavy and broad-shouldered, much like Baron Meliadus in physique. He wore simple traveling clothes, his homespun britches tucked into riding boots of plain leather. His empty scabbard showed that he had left his sword with the guards. His cloak was pushed back over his shoulders. He carried a broad-brimmed “Bremen” hat in his hand, and his face was covered by a plain mesh mask.

  The man’s companion was slighter in build and had deep-set black eyes in a gaunt, skull-like face which, to be fair, might have been mistaken for a mask. He was dressed all in black and also carried a broad-brimmed hat. He looked more like the big man’s clerk than his squire, thought Lord Olin. They rose and bowed to him as he entered the room, averting his eyes from the bare-faced man and
addressing the other.

  “Forgive us, Lord Protector. We are Germanians serving the Protector of München and are searching for an individual who offers the Empire great harm. We have been commissioned to seek her out and capture her. There is some understanding that she has sought help in Mirenburg and might be found living amongst your workers in the manufacturing district.”

  “Unlikely,” mused Lord Olin, his busy hands behind his back. He felt just a little less confident about the situation. “Those workers are handpicked. Each of them has more than one reason to be loyal to the Empire. We depend upon them. The Empire’s most crucial work is done here in Mirenburg. Our very latest machines are being built and tested here. The fastest omithopters, the most effective battlecraft. I have made this province the armory of the Empire! We cannot, therefore, afford to let a single sweeper on the factory floor be in any way disloyal.”

  “Which is why we are here, Lord Olin,” intoned the maskless one. “Mirenburg, as you rightly say, is critical to the whole power of the Empire. Because of your efficiency and the need to locate a manufacturing zone near the center of the Empire rather than at the edge, this city is now the most important to the Empire save for Londra herself.”

  Lord Olin’s strut became at once less spontaneous and more emphatic as he crossed towards the window to look up the long drive which led from the ceremonial doors below him on the ground floor. “I think the peace of the Empire has come to depend upon us here in Mirenburg,” he said proudly. “And be assured, gentlemen, we shall continue to construct machines at the same rapid rate. Already ‘Made in Mirenburg’ is stamped on the barrels of our latest flame cannon, on the bellies of our mechanical rhinoceri and on the wing levers of our fastest, deadliest ornithopters. We also produce rapid-fire gas projectors and explosives.” This, he told himself, was what he had to lose if he failed to keep the king-emperor’s goodwill. His success here would give him an opportunity to rule an entire nation within the Empire, enabling him to build up enough power to secure his family from the most arbitrary of King Huon’s decisions. And then, he thought, there was his retirement. If he did especially well, some less fortunate aristocrat would be banished from his Lakeland estates, and those lands renamed as Lord Olin’s. Olin of Grasmere, he thought. That would be sweet, especially if he could choose which of his rivals to oust.

  “You think we are especially in danger here?” Lord Olin asked. “Because others will soon begin to realize what an important center of the Empire Mirenburg is?”

  “That is what is to be feared,” agreed the naked one. His companion growled something about “focus of attack” and “strategies of terrorism.”

  “Well, as it happens, I take to the air this very morning. I go to Londra to speak to the king-emperor and ask him for more troops. Your report will give substance to my own request.”

  “You have heard nothing of a child, then?”

  “Nothing. What is she? Some sort of oracle?”

  “Just a little girl,” said the masked one, “but of ancient blood. Could we ask you, my lord, to put soldiers at our disposal while you go to Londra? They will serve the double purpose of allowing us to continue our search for the traitors and discover the whereabouts of the child, as the king-emperor commissioned us to do. Meanwhile, we have other duties, as these papers will show.”

  The lord protector unrolled official scrolls and broke the seals off letters of introduction. The two Germanians were Gaynor von Minct and Johannes Klosterheim, loyal servants of the Empire. The crucial message from the Quay Savoy, headquarters of his nation’s secret service, suggested that some kind of cult had developed, apparently around the defeated Duke of Köln and his Kamargian allies. Those insurgents should have been destroyed when ornithopters dropped powerful bombs on Castle Brass in the final battle, when Meliadus had brought his troops against Hawkmoon. With a certain aid from the sorcerer-scientists of Granbretan, Meliadus had decisively defeated them, claiming all Europa, from Erin to Muskovia, from Scandia to Turkia, as the Empire’s.

  “This child holds a secret which could lead us to these rebels,” said the naked one called Klosterheim. “The girl,” added the masked Gaynor, “is related to a hero these people believe can defeat the Empire.”

  At this Lord Olin chuckled. While rebellions might occasionally disrupt the Empire’s tranquility, the idea of Granbretan knowing defeat was clearly ludicrous. They were the most powerful nation on earth. Nonetheless he took their warnings seriously. “I will inform my deputy and tell him to give you all possible help in tracing this child,” he promised. “I have pressing business which takes me to Londra. The child hides in the factory district, you say?”

  “So it’s thought, my lord.”

  “Well, do what you must. But do not slow down production. If you do, it will be you who will take responsibility before the king-emperor.”

  “We understand, my lord.”

  “No disruption. I will emphasize that to my deputy, Sir Edwold Krier. You will report directly to him. I will speak to King Huon about you. He will—”

  “This business is secret, my lord. It concerns the Quay Savoy.”

  “Of course. Nothing public. There is much to be concerned about. In the last nine months we have increased our ornithopter and battle-engine production and trained operators for them. We have modified the Brazilian system, and our steam engines are now considerably more efficient. We have one of our Granbretanian scientists working on a powerful bomb. These factories are the most advanced in the world. We are also developing an aerial battle cruiser—a flying ironclad—together with new guns. These models will be fully steam powered and considerably more accurate at long range. Mirenburg’s factories have become the model for others which will spring up all over the Empire as our might spreads. Once our new ships take to the air, no rebel will dare defy us. And the rest of the world shall tremble at the appearance of our fleets in their skies.”

  “Perhaps the child is part of a plot to sabotage these factories, great lord,” suggested the gaunt Klosterheim.

  Lord Olin found the naked man’s opinion unwelcome and ignored it, addressing the other, Gaynor of München. “I have business to attend to. My deputy will give you the assistance you need.”

  And with that he swept from the room. There was much to prepare. It would, he decided, be politic not to be in Mirenburg when any rebellion occurred. His garrison would easily put it down, but it would prove his point and show that without his controlling hand, Mirenburg’s factories were in danger. Also, Sir Edwold could be blamed for any failures. Meanwhile he would be gathering a stronger force, bound to defeat the rebellion and thus gaining him credit for success.

  When he had gone, the two Germanians exchanged looks of triumph. Their story was believed. They had the run of the city as well as the governor’s assistance in hunting down the dreamthief’s little granddaughter, Oonagh von Bek. It would be, they were sure, but a matter of time before the girl and her elusive kinsman were within their power. Then they could perform the final bloody deed, which must be completed if the power they sought was to come into their hands. The child’s life was the key to control of the multiverse. To eternity.

  The two old allies, who had given up so much of themselves to avert the fate they so feared, were determined that whatever threatened their souls now should never threaten them again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ELRIC WAS AMUSED by Yaroslaf Stredic’s astonishment at the success of his plan. Sir Edwold Krier remained entranced in his own castle, his guards sent upon errands into the woods. He could wander where he liked but had been robbed of all his masks and most of his clothes, as well as his memory and his identity. And now Lord Olin had taken Elric’s bait. He had left by the latest and swiftest ornithopter, fresh from his own factories, for Londra. He had placed his supposed governor in control of the city. Elric had plenty of time to find his granddaughter without interference.

  “We’ll have every available guard looking for her,” said Elric. His
helmet off, his witch-coloring remained intact. He bit into a piece of fruit and looked out over the town. To the east was the smoke and sparks of great chimneys, showing the location of the manufacturing district. To the west rose the domes and sloping roofs of covered markets, where traders displayed their wares. To the north were the steeples of places of worship, where the people of Mirenburg were allowed to confer with any strange gods as long as King Huon the Immortal commanded a shrine dedicated to him and the priests praised him in their prayers. King Huon was not one to deny the conquered their comforting abstractions.

  The people of Mirenburg were not especially devout, but more people now attended the temples than before the conquest. So many spies were among the priests, priestesses and congregations that it was well known the temples were decidedly not places of secret sedition. The most radical hopeful could not have said that Mirenburg seethed. Indeed, superficially, Mirenburg was a city which, with the deaths and disappearances of its ancient families, had pragmatically accepted its return to provincial status under the Empire. Even the kulaks, the landed peasants of the rural communities, seemed to have accepted Londra’s rule with a certain philosophical air. Periodically their country was conquered. They judged their conquerors more on the levels of taxes they charged than any other criterion. Granbretan had, in fact, eased taxes a little in the past year. They were still high, of course, and the laws still strict, but a certain security prevailed within those parameters. As is true the world over, the average kulak preferred authoritarian stability to the responsibility of freedom. Even when they had the opportunity to vote, most of those farmers and villagers and tradesmen preferred bellicose displays of strength rather than representation and intelligence in their leaders. Not so the industrial workers, however, who shunned the temples and spoke cryptically among themselves, disguising their outrage and anger as a matter of honor.