The White Wolf's Son (18 page)

Olin Desleur was reasonably content with what he was inclined to call his exile from the court of Londra, where ancient King
Huon, artificially kept alive in a globe of fluid, schemed further conquest with his favorite, Baron Meliadus of Kroiden,
Grand Master of the Wolf, conqueror
of the Kamarg. While Mirenburg could be boring, and he missed his native fells, there was a certain security in being absent
from the intrigues of the court.

At court one could die suddenly and in great humiliation merely for taking half a step in the wrong direction or being overheard
insulting the wrong person. With all Europe under the imperial flag, the courtiers took to complicated scheming, unwilling,
at least yet, to turn their warlike attention to Amarahk or Asiacommunista, whose alien inhabitants were said to be almost
as powerful as the Dark Empire and must surely be the next threat to be averted by striking them before the Empire itself
was struck. But for now no one considered it politic to begin much further expansion until the Empire was at peace or, at
least, thoroughly under Huon and Meliadus’s heels.

The Protector of Mirenburg found the province relatively easy to govern, for it was used to conquerors and had only known
brief intervals of independence when it had not had to accommodate them. A few exemplary executions, one or two public torturings
a week, and the population proved considerably more malleable than some of the other provinces which had fallen under his
protection in the course of a successful career. Köln, for example. Then there had been the Kamarg, which had proved so ungovernable
under its rebellious Countess Isolda, daughter of the Empire’s great enemy, Count Brass, that there had been nothing for it
but to deport the entire population to the Afrikaanish mines and install more agreeable Muscovites (always grateful for a
little warmth) in their place. The countess herself had come under the eye of the great Meliadus, who had made her a ward,
so it was rumored, of his cousin Flana, with whom he was said to keep an exceptionally perverse liaison.
But then it was rumored that Isolda of Brass had recently escaped and gone to join her lover with some miscellaneous bunch
of raggle-taggle insurgents. Some even believed that her father, though wounded, still lived.

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.