The White Wolf's Son: The Albino Underground Read online

  Stredic told Elric that to the north lay the wealthier suburbs, whose inhabitants liked to complain about Londra but would only support an uprising if one was thrust upon them. Elric was not particularly interested, however, in rebellion, in spite of what he had told the lord protector. If some action of his helped overturn Mirenburg’s conquerors, he would not be distressed, but his only real interest was to rescue Oonagh and leave. If Yaroslaf Stredic chose to use this moment to organize resistance, so much the better. Confusion would help him get her clear. It had cost him much exhausting sorcery to find her, and it would not be long before he began to run out of the much needed serum he had purchased from an apothecary in Brookgate, for a large amount of gold, shortly before embarking upon this expedition.

  “We’ll initiate an intensive search,” he informed his companion. “And we’ll help lead it ourselves. The first man to find her will be well rewarded, if not in money, then in whatever else he decides. But we do not have limitless time. Soon the real Sir Edwold must wake from his trance and begin to remember at least a little of who he is, while Lord Olin could return with specific orders from Londra—orders which might not suit our plans.”

  Yaroslaf Stredic saw the sense of this. He meant to take advantage of every hour his strange new ally had bought him. He was interested in the factories. He knew that the quietly angry slave workers were his most likely recruits. He could also recruit the pilots and many of the auxiliaries to his cause. His planned rebellion would have men to fly the machines and mechanics to maintain them. He coveted the ordnance as much as he wanted to free the workers. It had been these war engines that had achieved Granbretan’s conquests, not the unquestioned ferocity of her commanders, or their lust for land and resources.

  The same day that Lord Olin left for Londra, Elric of Melniboné, disguised by the vulpine helm stolen from the real Edwold Krier, demanded a marshaling of the city’s entire garrison in the sprawling Square of the Salt Traders. In ringing tones he informed the men of their duty.

  “A great plot is being hatched beyond the mountains. Some of the intriguers are already here, amongst us. These terrorists and rebels will do all they can to distract us from the nobility of our crusade. They hate us for the very security and freedom we enjoy. They live for strife, while we serve the forces of serenity. They are evil creatures who must be rooted out and destroyed. But we must not kill them. Any suspects must be taken to the dungeons of the Oranesians, the St. Maria and St. Maria, and interrogated by my handpicked investigators. They will soon give us the information we seek. Meanwhile, be alert for the child of whom I spoke. She must not be harmed. She must be brought to me at once, no matter what the time or what else is told to you.”

  “And what of the youth, my lord?” one captain wished to know.

  “Youth?”

  “The Germanians wish us to seek and capture a youth as well. They were clear on the matter. If any harm befalls him, or should he escape, those responsible will be publicly tortured and killed.”

  “The Germanians?” He had yet to meet these other newcomers. “It seems they exceed their orders, Captain. But if an albino youth is found, you must let me know and bring him to me. Under no circumstances is he to be given up to them. They exceed their authority!”

  On dismissal the guards broke up into small groups, talking among themselves. Their tone was puzzled, even slightly confused. But they had a feeling in their blood that great events were in preparation and that they would be involved in some historic moment.

  Watching this from their apartments in the nearby Martyr’s Tower, the two “Germanians,” Gaynor von Minct and Klosterheim, glowered in rage. What right had this provincial upstart to countermand their orders when, only an hour before, they had been congratulating themselves on the powerful help they had so easily secured with documents obtained by the expenditure of a few shillings in the forger’s art and the aid of certain powerful plotters in Londra? The girl and the youth had been as good as in their hands! Once the children were in the prison of St. Maria and St. Maria (the feared Oranesians), it would have been relatively easy to get them out and carry them off to their ultimate destination. Now this fool had thwarted them!

  “It seems we chose a poor moment for our little charade,” announced Gaynor, pouring a beaker of fresh wine.

  And Herr Klosterheim, nodding slowly, permitted himself a small grimace.

  The search of the factory district began the next morning. Soldiers of the Wolverine, Dog and Lynx clans went from tenement to tenement rounding up every girl who remotely fitted Oonagh’s description, yet she could not be found. Mothers wailed and fathers groaned as their children were ripped from their arms and inspected. Cupboards were smashed open, and anything hidden in them not a girl-child was discarded, ignored. Floorboards were lifted, lofts were combed and basements disrupted. Overseen by their grim leaders, the soldiers were unsubtle in their methods. Of course, the guards did not dare to harm any of the girls. They had been warned how they would die if a drop of Oonagh’s blood was spilled. At the end of five days, however, they were unable to bring the deputy protector any news.

  Meanwhile the frustrated Germanians conducted their own secret searches and failed to be granted an audience with Sir Edwold, who seemed singularly reluctant to see them. They were beginning to feel suspicious of this deputy commander.

  Only when Gaynor, unable to restrain himself, demanded that a soldier hand over some poor, shivering blond-headed girl to him, did Sir Edwold’s captain-of-the-day challenge him and, in exasperation, put both Germanians under guard. Elric, concerned they might recognize him by his voice, was forced to confront them as they marched arrogantly into the interrogation chamber, surrounded by a detachment of city soldiery and brandishing their documents.

  Elric disguised his voice as best he could. He sat well back in his great chair, observing them through the eye slits of his mask, his gloved, beringed hands tapping on the arms as if in impatience.

  “What’s this? Treachery?” he growled.

  Hearing him, Gaynor frowned for a moment, and Elric feared he would be discovered. Then von Minct spoke levelly, a note of interrogation coloring his demands.

  “My lord Protector, we carry letters from the Quay Savoy, which serves the emperor directly in all matters of homeland and overseas security. In these letters you are requested”—he spoke with growing emphasis— “nay, commanded—to give us all aid we request in this matter. The children whom your soldiers seek are the same as those we came to find. They are crucial to our imperial security, yet your men seem positively to be hampering us. I would remind you, sir, that you challenge the emperor himself!”

  “Commanded?” Elric feigned anger. He was fairly certain that the documents could not be genuine. Why would Huon or his diplomatic police send these two, who had no credentials as far as he knew? “Commanded?” He made as if to give orders to his men. He was acting out a dangerous charade, countering a similar attempt by von Minct and Klosterheim, who might also be playacting.

  Klosterheim, always more of a natural diplomat, stepped between them. “I assure you, my lord, that we acknowledge your station and responsibilities. We have no intention—”

  “Show me those documents!” Elric saw a glint of surprise in Klosterheim’s deep-set eyes. Had the Puritan recognized him? Discovery at this stage would be extremely inconvenient …

  “They are in our apartments, my lord.”

  “Very well! Take these men to the St. Maria and St. Maria,” Elric ordered. “And search their rooms for these documents. Our emperor would be seriously angered if we did not show due caution in this matter. Then bring the documents to me and I will inspect them!”

  Gaynor von Minct bellowed a refusal, but Klosterheim quickly calmed him, turning to Elric. “We have no quarrel in this matter, my lord Protector. You will see that the documents are genuine. We both seek to protect the security of the Empire …”

  “Let us hope so, Herr Klosterheim.” Again Elric noted a flash
of suspicion in the Puritan’s eyes as he half-recognized the albino’s voice. He fell back silently into his chair while the guards marched the men away. He had gained a little time for himself, but he could not be sure how much longer he could maintain this untypical masquerade.

  Now Lord Olin neared Londra. He flew in one of the new, faster ornithopters, fashioned in the likeness of a great dragon, its green, red, blue and black metallic wings clashing, powered by compact, sophisticated steam turbines spreading grey smoke in the vehicle’s wake. The pilot, of the Order of the Crow, circled the great machine over Kroiden Field, as much to display it as to find a landing space. From there a massive steam tram, running on bright steel rails, took Lord Olin to the capital. Londra, with her brooding basalt buildings fashioned in the likenesses of beasts and grotesque men, was where the fiercely belligerent Baron Meliadus, King Huon’s chancellor, awaited him.

  From Kroiden it was already possible to see signs of the capital, the dark green fog which swirled in the sky above the glassy towers reflecting the gloomy fires of Londra, where sorcery and science mingled uneasily, drawn from the half-forgotten arts of the Tragic Millennium, when madness and folly had combined to bring the whole Earth close to destruction.

  Now Londra’s natural philosophers, her alchemists and masters of learning, all wished to restore the lost arts and discover new ones. Night and day her manufactories poured out their unlikely creations, molded metal and constructions of wood and precious gems, fearsome vehicles, war engines, suits of armor, flame lances, all fashioned in grotesque, baroque shapes reflecting the inspired insanity of her masked aristocrats.

  Lord Olin, who was familiar with the capital and the court, who had never grown fully used to either, realized, with a pang of anger, how he regretted being posted so far from home. Would he ever know the peace of his native hills again? What was it that drove him to develop his addiction to cruelty, which he had never known before coming here to be trained in the realities of Dark Empire administration?

  He was already regretting his habit of intrigue, which had brought him here. He had no love for Baron Meliadus, for the man’s kinswoman, Lady Flana (also King Huon’s cousin), for Taragorm, Master of the Palace of Time, or for Taragorm’s scheming colleague Baron Bous-Junge of Osfoud, Commander of the Order of the Snake, and Londra’s chief scientist. He suspected them of treachery but had no proof. And though he would not breathe this to his own shadow, he was actually disgusted by ancient King Huon, who spoke with a stolen voice, who lived off stolen energy, a wizened homunculus maintaining himself in a sphere of life-giving liquid, his long, insectile tongue serving him as hands, his sole desire to preserve his own life, even if whole continents were sucked of their vitality for the purpose.

  Yet here he was again, thought Lord Olin, driven by some survival mechanism as warped as those he despised, behaving like any other fearful courtier and now, as it dawned on him how he was acting, hating himself for it.

  As the tall ceremonial tram, all black steel and ornamental chrome as befitted his station, bore him rapidly towards the city, Lord Olin seriously considered turning back. But there was no protocol which allowed it. No one would know how to obey him. The tram could not stop to be repositioned until it reached the Londra terminal known as Blare-Bragg-Bellow Station, where ceremonial guards no doubt waited to receive him. He was arriving in state, in all the honor and ceremony Granbretan could bestow upon her great nobles.

  The tram was driven by a man in the elaborate helm of the Order of the Ox, whose members traditionally took the levers of such transports. On either side, on upper and lower decks, on seats of brass and polished oak, sat an honor guard drawn from the Order of the Dog and his own client clan, the Order of the Wolverine. These men had always supplied the ceremonial soldiery protecting the great and the good of Granbretan. Their long-snouted masks gave the assurance of loyalty and resilient steadfastness. Red bronze and copper glittered on their armor—ten warriors, a drummer boy, three standard-bearers carrying the flags of their orders, the imperial banner of Granbretan and Lord Olin’s own quartered standard, showing his House, his order, his position and his honors.

  Seated across from Olin was one of King Huon’s own Seneschals, in green iron and the expressionless mask of the Order of the Mantis. To behave eccentrically now, thought Lord Olin, would be to sentence himself to death. He had no choice, if he wished to survive, but to continue into the city, to march through the great palace and the vast doors of King Huon’s throne room, and then to stride in full honor through a hall from which hung the flags of five hundred provinces, once sovereign nations, with guards drawn from all but the lowliest aristocratic families lining the long approach. There he must prostrate himself before the great throne globe, that huge sphere of amniotic fluids which hung overhead, and wait until it pleased King Huon to receive him.

  Sometimes even Baron Meliadus must wait thus for an hour or more before the king-emperor deigned to reveal himself, a yellowed embryo with a long, flicking tongue with which it operated the controls of its globe.

  This morning, however, Lord Olin did not need patience. The globe came to life almost immediately. The mellifluous voice of a god spoke to him.

  “Well, my Lord Viscount, what news of Mirenburg, that productive jewel in our skull of state?”

  “I am honored, great King, to oversee such a massive achievement. I am here to assure you, as always, of my life and loyalty. Before you beats a devoted heart concerned only with your well-being and the well-being of our great nation, which are one and the same. I came because my underlings brought me rumors of something which has the potential to threaten the tranquility of your realm. I would not bother you, sire, of course, had not you ordered me to report directly to you and not to the noble Baron Meliadus, Your Majesty’s greatest and most faithful steward …”

  “Baron Meliadus is not at court. He pursues certain errands on my behalf. You can save some of your flummery, Lord Olin.”

  “Thank you, great King-Emperor.”

  “You have proven yourself a conscientious servant, Lord Olin, and I have no reason to believe you would waste our time …?”

  “I would rather kill myself, great King.”

  “So you had best make haste and tell me why you need more soldiers, for no doubt that is why you are here.”

  “A planned rebellion, sire. For all I know, it will not occur. The rebels might lose their resolve; we might arrest their leaders; their numbers might dwindle; the moon might not be in the correct corner of the quadrant; their wives might—”

  “Yes, yes, Viscount Olin. We are aware of all the factors involved. But it surprises us that the province should offer defiance. Are we not generous to it, compared to our dealings with Germania or Transylvania, for instance?”

  “Very generous, great King. Wäldenstein is a model province, supplying us with many of the raw materials we need, as well as sturdy workers. That is why Mirenburg was chosen to be the site of our most advanced manufactories. Her inhabitants enjoy privileged tax status close to that of our own people here in Londra. In the past five years she has returned splendid harvests, and other revenues have been raised through the sale and trade of her women, who are famously fair and strong, and of her glassware and her china. Her kulaks know rare contentment and would seem the last to offer us trouble. Yet my provincial governor warns me a rebellion is already begun, that a larger uprising against our benign authority could take place at any moment, with armies coming from the East, perhaps from Asiacommunista. Our heliographs have been attacked and destroyed. I have my spies abroad, of course. However, I thought it wise to report this directly to Your Majesty, to beg for more soldiers and war engines that we might snuff out this rebellion before it can inflame more of our territories. Examples must be made.”

  The arrogant, glittering eyes stared intently down at Lord Olin. “Examples, yes. Wäldenstein is so placed as to be central to our future defense plans. We would not want our armies tied down there while forces from A
siacommunista attack some weaker flank.”

  “Your Majesty’s knowledge of strategy is, as always, acute.”

  “This is not the only disruption to our realm at present. Indeed, we begin to suspect a concerted plan. Baron Meliadus investigates this possibility elsewhere. And others of Granbretan’s finest turn their complex minds to such a problem. How did your man grow aware of this plot?”

  “A visitor, great King-Emperor, who was waylaid in Romania. The bandits let slip they would soon be helping in some uprising against us.”

  “We shall consider your request for troops, Lord Olin, but we must remind you that it is your duty to protect our manufactories at all costs. Even the most minor of failures will carry severe penalties.”

  “I understand, sire. Mirenburg has become a key city in the defense of the Empire …”

  “Indeed she has. You are a born manager, Lord Olin. You must tell your king-emperor all your news. What have you heard, for instance, of the Silverskin?”

  “The name is unfamiliar to me, great King-Emperor.”

  “Aha. And what, perhaps, of the Runestaff?”

  “The Runestaff, my lord. I—I thought our lord protector had care of it.”

  “The thing’s not what we thought it was. We held a gorgeous fake. Few are familiar with the actual artifact. We hallow it, respect it, even pray to it and swear oaths upon it, yet who truly knows its real function or even its preferred shape? Some do not believe it takes the form of a staff at all. Instead, it resembles a beautiful, golden cup or a block of dark green stone, a giant emerald, some say. So, Lord Olin? Any news of it?”