Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (29 page)

“Though what?” she says.

Von Graeb grows thoughtful, carefully articulating words in his mind before letting them out of his mouth.

“The minister of defense, your cousin, is as capable a man as any. Since the untimely death of Graf Von Helmutter, Graf Edelweir has instilled a discipline in the imperial guard that I haven’t seen for some time. He is strict, but fair—an admirable combination of traits for one in his position. I have been a willing and loyal officer and have grown to trust his judgment . . .” he pauses, “. . . insofar as it regards leading the guard.”

“But . . .” she prompts him.

“But I think that his choice of emphasis should be carefully considered by the emperor.”

“Emphasis?”

“Graf Edelweir seems to be overly concerned with Prussia.”

“And you are not?”

“I am, truth be told. And the graf has reason to be, as well. But there are other threats, as well.”

“The Ottomans?”

“Yes.”

“But Viktor lived among them for years. He has said that we misunderstand them, that they are eager for peace.”

“In my experience, there are two reasons for peace overtures. First, to recover from war and, second, to prepare for it. They have already recovered from their most recent conflicts.”

Lady Adelaide thinks on his words.

“But,” he says, “we are not here to discuss war or peace, but wedding plans for you,” he breathes in sharply and straightens his back, trying to maintain decorum, “and Lord Edelweir.”

She smiles. “Yes. We shall have to have a dinner, of course, to officially announce the engagement.”

“Of course. And who shall be invited?”

“Well, my cousin is my only living family, though there are a dozen or so friends of my parents that should attend. And, of course, you. And Joseph.”

“Joseph?”

“The emperor.”

“Yes, I forget that you and he . . .”

“Are friends? Since my childhood, though he is much older than me. Still, we are related, if distantly. Kinship and friendship have bound us together for many years. Ah,” a look of worry crosses Lady Adelaide’s face. “Of course, he will need his entourage with him, won’t he?”

“Yes, ministers and their mistresses,” he says.

“Felix, you are a tease!” she laughs.

“But my thoughts on the logistics of it all are serious business. This will be a big affair.”

“And shouldn’t it be?”

“It should. But imagine, then, how the wedding—”

“That,” she interrupts, “is the bride’s family’s responsibility. And since I have control over my own estate, the wedding shall be as extravagant as I wish. Besides, I’m sure Joseph will want to contribute to the celebration as well.”

“First things first. I will compile a guest list. Perhaps you can work with your friend, the emperor, to arrange a location?”

“Consider it done,” she says.

“I dare not race you to the completion of your task. You would surely win.” He nods his head in a mock bow.

“Do stop making fun of me, Felix. Make a guest list instead.”

He turns away from her, toward the doorway, then stops suddenly.

Graf Viktor Von Edelweir stands in the doorway.

“Major,” the graf says sternly. Then, his countenance changing, he smiles warmly. “It is good to see you.”

“Thank you, mein herr,” Von Graeb’s voice is a mix of confidence and hesitation.

“I was just coming to confirm with Lady Adelaide that we were, indeed, preparing to make an official announcement. Forgive my eavesdropping, but it sounds like I’m right on time?”

“Yes, sir—you are indeed,” the major says with a smile.

“Well, then,” Viktor looks past Von Graeb’s shoulder toward his cousin. “Addy, how can I help facilitate things?”

“For now, we need to keep the engagement confidential,” she says.

“Of course,” Viktor says. “Who knows? You, the major here, and me, obviously . . .”

“And the emperor,” Lady Adelaide adds.

“Good. Four people whom I know can keep a confidence. And what of the date of the dinner?”

“We haven’t yet finalized the date,” Von Graeb says. “Negotiations have been stalled for the moment.”

They all laugh.

The words become a drone in Pomp’s ears, like the sound of her wings on a long journey. She is becoming bored of all the talking and, to tell the truth, questioning the judgment of the good Lady Adelaide who will, it seems, marry Viktor Edelweir. If anything, the Lady Adelaide should marry the good Major Von Graeb! There is something Pomp doesn’t like about Von Edelweir, though she can’t quite place her finger on it. It takes all she has to hold herself back from pulling a prank of some kind or another on Lady Adelaide and Graf Von Edelweir. She can hardly contain herself.

Bored, jealous. A bad combination. She decides it best to leave for a time and visit the emperor’s palace, if she can find it. What could be more exciting than seeing an emperor, after all?

C
HAPTER
19

W
orry spread through Heraclix’s veins. The young man, Al’ghul, could be baiting him into another trap. But Heraclix trusted, maybe naively, that the boy was truly repentant. He had to hope that there was some good left in his young heart. After all, Heraclix had found goodness in his own heart despite the things he knew, or suspected he knew, about his life before undeath. Maybe he should do as the boy had done when surrendering himself to the golem: submit himself to his well-deserved fate and suffer the natural consequences of wrongdoing. But another thought overrode the guilt of past misdeeds. If he merely submitted to Mowler and allowed the sorcerer to gain power unfettered, surely the world would suffer far more than whatever mayhem his own actions had engendered. No, in this instance the lesser, repentant evil would continue to fight against the greater, unrepentant one. This would require the forming of alliances with others who opposed Mowler or swaying those who did not. He feared that he couldn’t fight Mowler alone, and Pomp had been gone for some time now. This was Heraclix’s impetus for the present journey to Istanbul.

They traveled east and south, hoping to beat Mehmet to the city. Al’ghul, knowing that he was slowing the pair down, allowed Heraclix to lead his horse as he slept in the saddle. He slept fitfully, frequently bumped awake by the steed’s uneven gait. He sometimes half-awoke to find the giant staring at him and wondered what this creature, who had seen death, saw in him—a youth of not much worth to anyone.

The air warmed as they crossed the plains between Edirne and Istanbul, thawing the latent shards of ice in Heraclix’s veins. They only occasionally crossed the roads between the two cities, preferring to stay in the countryside in order to avoid frequent contact with the main artery of information that could lead Mehmet to them. All the speed in the world wouldn’t help them if their nemesis determined their destination before their arrival.

They could smell Istanbul before they saw it. The aroma of spices and cooking fish was so strong that the odor reached them even before they could see the smoke rising from the city’s chimneys. Their eyes and noses continued to disagree when they saw smoke on the horizon but smelled salt water. Soon, they came close enough to the city to see a group of the Sultan’s soldiers loitering, bored, outside a guard post near the city gate. The sound of waves reached their ears, yet their skin felt hotter and hotter as they neared the Bosphorus Strait.

The soldiers were dressed in tan coats sewn with too many buttons. Those who kept their hats on wore red fezzes. Unlike their counterpoints in the Holy Roman Empire, their faces were unshaven, some wearing a full beard, others wearing a thin pointed mustache and chin beard only. There was no alcohol to be seen among them. It was apparent to Heraclix now that he had arrived in the heart of an entirely different empire, now, that of Mustafa, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire.

Still, empires apart, many actions and reactions remained the same. The soldiers, though they had willfully ignored dozens of people who passed their post, suddenly stiffened upon seeing the giant approach. They tugged each other’s sleeves, muttered amongst themselves, grabbed their weapons and cautiously approached Heraclix and his guide. The travelers dismounted, approaching the soldiers at their own level in an effort to appear non-threatening.
This might not work
, Heraclix thought.

Al’ghul gave out some kind of greeting and explanation. Though Heraclix wasn’t familiar with this dialect, he caught the words “strangers,” “welcome,” and “Padishah.”

“No need to cover for your friend,” one of the guards said. “He is obviously a foreigner.”

The speaker was very thin and not very tall, a handsome man, olive-skinned, with sharply defined cheekbones and a pointy chin that seemed even more elongated by a pencil-thin black goatee and mustache. The single medal on his chest, a brass crescent moon and star, was more adornment than the other men wore.

“And where do you hail from, friend?” The soldier asked in perfect High German. The intonation and language of the question signaled a doubled inquiry, Heraclix thought, seeking answers of both geography and intent.

“Friend,” Heraclix said.

The soldier walked closer. The group of guards followed behind more slowly.

“Again, where are you from?”

“I hardly know,” Heraclix said.

“You have known better times, haven’t you, traveler?” the soldier said, his face contorting with disgust.

“I must admit that I don’t know that for sure, either.”

“You must know where you just came from. Or is your amnesia complete?” the soldier asked in a decidedly accusatory tone.

“We came from Sofia,” Al’ghul said.

The soldier glared at the boy. “You will speak when spoken to, whelp!”

Al’ghul shrank back. The other soldiers whispered jokes between themselves. The man didn’t smile.

Heraclix could hear the clink of the man’s spurs as he circled the giant.
He must be a cavalry officer
, Heraclix thought.
But where is his horse?
He looked around, but saw no animal tethered to the hitching post outside the guard shack.

The officer continued to pace, circling Heraclix two, three, four times—silent, examining, thinking. Finally, he stopped at Heraclix’s left flank, just outside the giant’s field of vision, though the murderous blue eye strained to see beyond the edge of his head. He dare not turn his head or move suddenly. Al’ghul was vulnerable and surrounded by the remaining troops.

Heraclix heard a sniff as the officer breathed in before pronouncing what sounded like a verdict coming from a judge.

“You shall not enter! You are too large for our streets, your memory is failing, you could be criminally insane for all I know,
and your face will terrify our women. You must go back,” he paused momentarily, “to Edirne.”

Al’ghul gasped. Heraclix turned to face the officer, who was now smiling at his own apparently clever deduction.

“You cannot travel through the Sultan’s lands without word coming around. Leave the roads, if you like. Our eyes are everywhere.”

The soldiers nodded.

“I am afraid that we will need to keep an especially sharp eye on you,” the officer said. “Large as you are, you can’t simply go barreling in and out of our cities like you did in your flight from Edirne. No, we expect better manners here, more respect for the citizenry. I’m sorry, but we shall have to retain you.”

The soldiers were already closing in on the pair.

“But we have come as brethren in the shadow of death,” Al’ghul blurted.

The soldiers looked at one another with expressions of puzzlement, followed by shrugs.

The officer, however, turned to the boy and glared at him like one who has just been bested in a game of chess by a socially inferior opponent.

“Come again?” he said, cocking his head to hear the boy more clearly.

“We have come as brethren in the shadow of death . . .” the boy repeated.

“. . . seeking refuge in the kingdoms of light,” Heraclix finished the greeting. The words came to him reflexively, unbidden.