Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (33 page)

In the middle of the roof a cylindrical wooden tower had been erected. Stairs wound around the outside to the top, where Heraclix followed the Raven. Even halfway up, they could look out over the treetops to every horizon, their view unobstructed by building or minaret. Heraclix thought that this must be one of the highest points in Istanbul. They could see for miles. Finally, Heraclix could see the ocean. They continued their ascent to the top as the sunlight melted into the distant mountains and the dark sea. Night fell quickly.

“We are almost there,” the Raven said. “I think you will like what you see.”

The stairs opened up onto the top of the cylinder. The perimeter of the circular platform was a veritable tangle of telescopes, each of different shapes, sizes, and types. There might have been a hundred of them protruding from the edges of the platform like a crown of thorns.

Heraclix looked through a nondescript refractor pointed at the southern sky. He set his sights on Aldebaran, jumped back from the sight, and turned the telescope back on the star to confirm what he saw.

There the star burned red. He could see the ball of fire, flames licking out into space. Among the flames he thought he saw figures, creatures, among the flame. He went to a bigger telescope and trained it on the same star. This time the magnification allowed him to easily see a group of serpent-tailed, bearded flame salamanders stoking the fires of the crimson star. They poked and prodded with spears and pitchforks, delighting when a jet of red flame shot upwards from the surface to dance in space for a while before dissipating in the void. Above each of the creatures’ heads a burning sigil glowed.

“Those symbols above their heads,” Heraclix said excitedly. “Those must be their individual names, their true names.”

The Raven chuckled. “You are starting to remember, my friend.”

“Remember what?” Heraclix said, swinging the telescope to another star where a ring of angels crowned with gold halos sang a chorus that intensified the bright white light of the star’s surface as they increased their volume. He could hear their unearthly voices as long as he concentrated on looking through the telescope.

“We have much to talk about,” said the Raven. “But before we do, look to the west.”

Heraclix swung the telescope earthward, scanning the land as he did so. He could see the magic that crossed through his field of vision in the form of glowing mystical symbols that manifested themselves wherever a bit of the otherworldly shone. Fresh graves and battlefields were particularly bright; some mosques and churches gave forth a sign or two, some did not. In the distance, a regular trickle of smaller glowing symbols wafted up from the bends and turns of the Danube. The world was full of leaks into and from the world of spirits, fountainheads of magic, all unseen by most mortal eyes.

Then he saw, somehow, over the horizon, Prague, then Vienna, as if the distance between them and Istanbul had been squeezed out of space like an accordion. Prague was a steady glow, impossible to ignore for the sheer number of magical indicators that
floated above it. But Vienna! Vienna was a different story entirely. Vienna throbbed with magic! If he had not known the significance of the magic aura and what it indicated, he would swear the entire city was on fire!

“Come,” said the Raven. “You have seen enough. It’s time we talked a bit more openly.”

C
HAPTER
22

T
he air is alive with shouts, hurled objects, and a fairy exposed. A poor man might think his wishes were being fulfilled, caught in the shower of silver cufflinks, fresh fruit, and diamond brooches that arc toward the ceiling and back to the floor in glittering parabolas. Pomp doesn’t feel so blessed. She is frightened and confused. With one last disappointed glance at Von Graeb, she flies, flees down the corridor and out into the open air, dodging the jewelry and shoes, as well as the occasional piece of cobblestone, that is being thrown at her.

Finally, after passing through the maelstrom of gems and metal, she finds a small, hidden pond and proceeds to wash the wig powder off. A frog takes enough interest in her to try to eat her, but she stabs the pollywog in the nose with a stick until it lets go and hops away. The attack is a blessing in disguise, she discovers, as the frog’s sticky tongue takes much of the wig powder with it.

Still, it’s hard to be optimistic. She thought, no, she was certain that Von Graeb was a good man. But the evidence was in his hand, a wig powder puff that he must have pounded to send up the cloud that enveloped and revealed her to the crowd. But would a good man do this? Why? Something isn’t adding up. Besides, Pomp isn’t very good at adding—at least not in her head. She is good at collecting, though, and this is what she will do: collect more information. She is clean enough now. She will find out why Von Graeb exposed her to the crowd.

Pomp shakes herself dry, then flies back to the palace where several fights have broken out over disagreements about who threw what at whom and why. She can easily trace where she had been by following the trail of glittering litter and disgruntled guests back into the hall where it all began. It has been some time now since she left, bathed, thought, and returned, yet she finds Von Graeb meandering, still holding the wig powder puff. He looks down at the object in his hand, then up at the air, then down and up and down and up again. He looks perplexed, trying to solve a mystery that is nestled deep within his brain. Finally, he sets the powder puff down on the floor, looks at it contemplatively, then walks away.

Pomp follows.

Von Graeb waves off a pair of imperial guards acting as would-be escorts. The officer weaves his way through the still-perplexed guests, whose anger has subsided into confused speculation as to what they saw or whether they had seen anything at all. “A mass hallucination,” says one man; “something in the wine,” another. The three philosophers Pomp had earlier antagonized are now arguing more vociferously than ever.

Von Graeb ignores them all, making his way toward the exit with a step full of grim determination. His brow is furrowed in thought.

He leaves the palatial grounds, spurning several offers for carriage rides. “I must walk and think,” he says to one group who seems particularly familiar with him.

“Oh, he’s in one of those moods,” one of them says—a young lady. “I don’t particularly like him when he’s sulking.”

The words fade away behind him as he walks along darkening cobblestone streets. Pomp follows as he wanders aimlessly, taking alleys and walking through dusky gardens and parks as the sun sets. The lamplighters are making their rounds. Pomp is thoroughly confused about direction when she sees him finally turn the door handle on a small yet elegant Baroque villa surrounded by fields of flowers that close in the night.

She darts inside as he closes the door behind him.

Pomp is not exactly sure what she was expecting to find in Von Graeb’s apartment. Maybe she thought the place would betray
a love of war: busts of famous historical generals, suits of armor, crossed morning stars hanging on every wall. Or, possibly, some kind of love den with an overlarge canopied bed filled with heart-shaped pillows.

She finds neither of these. In fact, as Von Graeb lights a lantern, she discovers that the place is well kept but rather ordinary. The main room holds a pair of couches facing one another over a dark blue and green Persian carpet; a dining table on the other side of the room with enough chairs for Von Graeb and five guests; a rollaway writing desk closed, at the moment, with a quill, inkwell, candle-holder with candle, matches, wax, and a seal atop the desk’s back. A few large urns, from which small trees grow, line the wall next to the entrance door. The only unusual items are a saber mounted to the wall over the desk and a violin in a stand near one of the sofas. Two doors, both ajar, lead out of the room, one to what looks to be a small kitchen and the other to Von Graeb’s sleeping quarters.

To call it austere would be insulting. It is sparse, yes, but each piece of furniture is finely carved and filigreed, adding elegance to what would otherwise seem like an apartment far beneath the station of one such as Von Graeb.

He walks over to the desk, lights the candle, and rolls the desk open. He sets his fez down on a small pile of books and papers, reaches in, and retrieves something small—something that Pomp cannot yet see because of his obstructing hand. He walks to the wall facing the sitting area and opens a pair of curtains to reveal a large window. Just beyond the window is a white-painted lattice wrapped in vines. Moonlight pours through the open windows, casting mysterious shadows on the carpet.

He sets the candleholder down on the floor between the sofas then seats himself on the edge of one of the cushions. Leaning over toward the floor, his knees up in his chest, he shakes one hand back and forth, and Pomp realizes that he is about to throw a pair of dice.

She can hardly contain herself. There is something about dice that connects with her deep down inside. An instinct to chance. If she was human, she might have a gambling problem. But she isn’t and doesn’t, though she does wonder about Von Graeb, who
throws the dice across the rug and watches intently as they roll to a stop.

Seven.

Von Graeb smiles, picks up the dice, and rolls them again.

Eleven.

“Ha!” he says, triumphantly, picking up the dice and casting them again.

Two.

“Dog throw,” he says with great disappointment. He stands up above the dice, eying them warily: the pair of ones has spoiled his augury, clouded his soothsaying. He stoops back down, crouching low to look at them this way and that, trying to scry meaning from the way they lay.

He stands back up, folds his arms and turns his back on the dice. The moon casts milky shadows through the window on to his face.

“Not a good sign,” he says, shaking his head. “Not a good sign at all.”

He turns his head slightly, looking at the dice through the corner of his eye. “I should hope my luck changes,” he says, turning his head just a bit more to clearly see the dice.

One of the die flips, transforming the one to a six, making seven total.

He smiles knowingly.

“Fancy that!” he says. Pomp thinks he speaks in such a kindly voice. How could she have doubted him? “My luck has turned around again. Maybe things will be all right after all.”

In that moment Pomp realizes that it isn’t chance itself that she finds so intoxicating. It’s the ability to affect fate with such a simple thing as a nudge of the dice. She is no taller than a man’s forearm. Yet at the right time, under the right circumstances, she can steer kingdoms. She can change, what is it called?

The
future
!

“This bodes well,” Von Graeb says. “And I am glad to know that it is not just some old ghost that is helping me along.”

Pomp freezes in place. But Von Graeb isn’t looking at her. Not now. He scans the room, eyes darting from side-to-side as he slowly walks in a backward circle around the dice. He is searching but hasn’t yet seen Pomp.

“No, you are no spirit, but a sprite!”

“Eep!” says Pomp.

Von Graeb hears her, turns her direction, and takes a step forward. She stays where she is, knowing he can’t see her, though he is staring right at her. He kneels down on one knee and speaks very softly.

“Friend, I know you’re there. You need to know that I didn’t expose you at the emperor’s soiree. Someone else did, though I found the powder and brush that was used to do it. But I did see you. You are a funny fairy, no doubt about it.”

He chuckles, stands up, and turns his back on Pomp. She flies up in front of him, in his field of vision, but remains invisible.

“Yrzmowski, the winged hussar, is usually unflappable. Then again, so are most career soldiers . . . when their pants are on. Ha! Well done!”

“And Lady Kleist—any idiot would say she got what she deserved. Some idiots did say so. But other idiots took offense at her fall, mostly men whom she had teased to the point of distraction before . . . er . . . showering her husband with affection.”

He stops, turns. Pomp flies in front of his eyes. He doesn’t see her. She wants to show herself but feels she ought not to. Not yet. She has to wait for Heraclix. She can’t betray her friend because of her desire to reassure Von Graeb.

“You do know you made some enemies, don’t you?”

Pomp, unseen, acknowledges this with a shrug and a sideways nod.

“You might have made some very powerful enemies, indeed. To give you an idea of the crowd you were among, well, let’s say if a band of stray Cossacks were to attack our borders, the army wouldn’t know what to do. Or if a thief were to walk into the imperial treasury and clear it of gold, no one would be the wiser for a day or two. This is precisely
why
you created such a commotion. Those people don’t hate you. Well, maybe Yrzmowski does now. What they hate is the feeling of vulnerability that overtook them, the thought that in the heart of the Holy Roman Empire someone or—pardon me for saying so—
something
could sneak in so close to their symbol of stability and security, namely the emperor himself, so as to be a real threat. Your appearance there shook them to the core.”