The White Wolf's Son (33 page)

We were soon joined by a guard of mounted soldiers in the livery and masks of what I guessed to be the Order of the Dog. They
were heavily armed, though I wasn’t likely to escape, since the door I had come in by seemed to be the only way out, unless
you were the size of a mouse.

Ahead of me was a riot of statuary the size of the Empire State Building, all of it populated, judging by the windows and
doors and the tiny figures I could see leaning over balconies or crossing walkways. It was very impressive because it dwarfed
the tallest of the other buildings and dominated the city with its various towers, ziggurats and domes in a crazy profusion
of quartz, obsidian,
marble and ebony. This could only be King Huon’s palace. When the carriage drew up inside a covered courtyard lit by naked
flambeaux I saw mantis masks of rank upon rank of warriors, carrying the banners and insignia of the “king-emperor.” I recognized
them from trophies which Prince Yaroslaf displayed in his own palace. But on living men, the armor and masks truly resembled
the carapaces of insects.

Huge as the courtyard was, I still had a strong sense of claustrophobia. One of the leaders stepped forward. I watched the
door open from where I sat inside, and there he was, just as he had been in the camera obscura, only, if anything, a bit larger.
He reached in and signaled me to come to him. As soon as I stood beside him, he picked me up and took me out to a four-wheeled
sedan chair, pushed and pulled by slaves. He put me into this, then joined the entire legion, who surrounded me to march us
through King Huon’s palace. We finally came to a set of doors, very tall and studded with jewels, bas-relief, painted panels,
all depicting what seemed to be the mythical history of Granbretan and stories of her more recent conquests. The guards divided,
each section pushing on one of the doors, which moved gradually open, revealing an even more fantastic scene inside.

It was a hall you could have placed a small city in, with room to spare. From the distant heights of the vaulted ceilings
hung great woven sheets embroidered with all kinds of brilliant and grotesque devices. Judging by the proliferation of animals
on many of them, I guessed they were the banners of Granbretan’s leading clans, interspersed with the insignia of the conquered
lands.

Their backs against the richly decorated walls, hissing, murmuring soldiers and courtiers intermingled, showing
a strong interest in me. I pretended I couldn’t see them. I wasn’t there to entertain them but to offer my defiance.

It must have taken half an hour to move all the way to the end of the hall. There in midair hung a large globe, rather like
a Christmas tree decoration, its insides swirling with murky colors shot through with sparks of gold, silver and emerald.
I saw the faintest suggestion of eyes staring out at me. The coldest, hardest, nastiest pair of eyes I had ever seen, they
contained the malice and greed of ten thousand years.

We reached the steps below the globe. As one, the mantis guards flung themselves facedown with a deafening crash. I looked
around and saw that everyone was in the same prone position. I sat there, refusing to join in, watching as the contents of
the globe gradually eddied and swirled, became agitated, began to form a shape. At first I thought these people were more
insect-like even than the guards, because what I saw was a sort of egg, and within the egg was an incredibly wizened and wrinkled
homunculus, the owner of those terrible eyes, who curled a long, prehensile tongue from its disgusting, toothless mouth and
touched something within the globe.

A voice, startlingly beautiful and sweet, came from the floating creature within the globe.

“Good morning, child. Few of your kind are as honored as you. Are you aware who I am?”

“You’re King Huon,” I said. I had nothing to lose by being polite to this disgusting thing. “And you used to think you could
conquer the world.”

A vast susurration and clucking arose behind me. The sound was immediately silenced, presumably by a gesture from Huon’s captain.
Almost in amusement he said,
“You seem aware of your importance to us, little creature. Or are you mad, like so many of those we make captive?”

“It could be both,” I said. “I know I’m some sort of bait for a trap you’re setting, and I know you’re going to try to win
back the power you’ve lost.”

Now there was nothing but silence in that incredible throne room.

Courtiers waited to see how the king would react.

An unpleasant, beautiful chuckle came from the throne globe. “You are our route to the Runestaff. You understand, at least,
that you have no more personal worth than a grub on a fisherman’s hook. Or do you hope to deceive Huon, who sees and knows
everything?”

The tongue flicked again, and the curtain to the right opened to reveal the shape of a man pinned against a board. His skin
hung in strips from his body, which resembled the pictures you see in an anatomy book. Only his face, still masked, was not
a bloody map. From within the wolverine helm came a whimpering groan.

Gloating, greedy, full of a glee I found more horrible than anything else, King Huon whispered, “Here is one of our favorite
subjects, who came to warn us of your revolt. His name is Lord Olin Desleur. This is his reward.”

The curtain closed. “We are less kind to our enemies,” he said.

My stomach turned over. I couldn’t erase that image from my mind. I tried to control my breathing and contain the sense of
horror I felt, the pity I had for the crucified man.

King Huon remained amused. “I gather you have met your brother, young Jack D’Acre, only recently. We await his arrival with
interest. Yes, yes, our servants have found him. Do not fear, my dear. You will be reunited with him
soon. And when that event takes place, we shall be conquering far more than a single continent or even a single world. When
that happens, my dear, sweet child, the entire multiverse will be ours.”

I was completely baffled. This was the last thing I’d expected.

“Who on earth is Jack D’Acre?” I asked.

K
ING
H
UON DID
not reply. His insect tongue flicked out to touch what I supposed was a control panel. The globe grew murky, as if it filled
with dirty blood, and then he was gone. They wheeled me out of the throne hall again. This time, when we reached the first
anteroom, we turned in a different direction, into unfamiliar passages and halls.

Could I really have a brother I didn’t know about? A dark secret of my mum’s? Impossible. Mum just wasn’t that mysterious.
She and Dad had met at university and become sweethearts; then they’d separated for a bit because my dad got a Mellon Fellowship
to study at Yale, and she’d had a few boyfriends, as he’d had girlfriends, but they always said they were made for each other,
they got on so well. And who was Mr. D’Acre, anyway? Not
my
brother! Jack had to have another dad.

Needless to say, the masked guards wouldn’t respond to any of my questions. Though I put a brave face on it, I was beginning
to have a distinct sense of dread. Something especially nasty was being planned. Luckily, my imagination couldn’t summon up
the dimmest picture of what was in store. Even the sight of that poor, dying Sir Olin Desleur aroused pity and horror in me,
rather than fear.

Did I secretly hope that somehow the armies of Europe would come pouring over the Silver Bridge to rescue me? Even though
they were winning, it wasn’t unlikely their famous hero Hawkmoon would arrive in time to save me, and it would be a very long
while before Granbretan itself fell. They would fight to the death to defend their capital. There was every chance, in fact,
that Granbretan was already planning a counterattack. I suspected I might be involved in that plan. Was I a hostage, maybe?

The odd little four-wheeled carriage rolled and bumped its way through a series of tunnels. They were low, dank and smelling
very strongly of perfume, which didn’t cover the stink of mold. It reminded me of those really strongly scented candles you
could buy in tourist places. In fact, the flambeaux and other sources of light had largely been replaced by big, fat scarlet
candles, guttering in their holders as a hot breeze blew through the tunnels. The walls here were painted with faded hieroglyphics
rather than being carved or molded, and I was again reminded of Egypt, the only other culture I knew which had so many beast-headed
men and immortals in its mythology. Yet how could a mythology like that ever have come to Britain? In a way, the masks and
obsession with personal privacy made some sort of ghastly sense, but nothing else did. Dark, internalized, repressed and aggressive,
these people reminded me more of twentieth-century Nazis than twenty-first-century Brits. For a moment I thought of football
rowdies, wearing team colors, decorating their faces, supporting teams with names like Wolves or Lions. But I still found
it difficult to believe I was in London. Maybe England had been conquered by aliens, and my own people killed!

At last my transport stopped, and I lurched forward in my seat. Through the window I saw we were outside a door made of lumps
of sparkling granite and slate. It creaked and whistled as it opened very slowly to admit the carriage. The mantis guards
stood to attention while guards in other masks, resembling the hoods and heads of rearing cobras, took over. The naked slaves
strained to drag the chair through the door as it thumped shut behind us.

Even murkier passages, lit by dim red globes of some kind. I couldn’t work out what powered them. They displayed that bizarre
mixture of advanced science and backward medievalism which characterized Granbretan.

We were now in another hangarlike building. This one was crammed with a profusion of very odd-looking machines. Many of them
were monstrous, with snouts, dials, levers, wheels, cogs and engines whose purpose was totally unfamiliar to me. Some of the
machines glowed faintly; others pulsed with color through layers of thick dust. The place resembled a museum more than a working
factory. Perhaps these were some of the machines found since the end of the Tragic Millennium, and no one had discovered how
they were used. It wasn’t hard to arrive at that conclusion. My logic was that if they could use them, they would have used
them. I would have seen them on the streets. The ones which looked like weapons would have been used against Hawkmoon’s Continental
army.

I took a long look at the things as we rolled by. The metal was all in weird colors: electric blues, glowing reds, vibrant
greens. There was that smell you sometimes get from old wiring when it overheats. It was so strong, it stung my throat and
eyes. I started to cough.
The sound echoed through the vaulted ceilings high above and bounced off the metallic monsters on both sides of me.

The little vehicle stopped again. I peered out. A group of men stood in the shadows at the end of the hall. They wore cloaks
made of snakeskin, mottled, dry, stretching from head to foot. Deep cowls hid their heads, but I caught a glimpse of eyes
and the faint outline of the masks they wore, a dull sheen of dark metal.

A brusque command sent the slaves running from the place, and I was left, still sitting in the sedan chair, wondering what
was going to happen next.

The door opened. One of the cowled men reached out an old, skinny hand, covered in papery yellow skin, and signaled for me
to get out. I did. My knees were trembling. The cowled men then surrounded me, and I was led through several more doors until
we entered a laboratory of some kind, with benches, retorts, smoking test tubes, all of very unusual shapes. Miles of twisting
glass pipes ran with evil-colored liquid and issued thick, smelly steam.

Now we were in a much smaller room, and the door closed behind us again. One of the figures sat on the far side of a desk
and signed for me to sit down on a three-legged stool with thick padded arms.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” said the cowled one who had been taking the greatest interest in me. “I hope you are enjoying your
time as our guest.”

I made some sarcastic remark. He chuckled at this. “I am Baron Bous-Junge of Osfoud. No doubt you have heard of me. I am the
chief of Granbretan’s scientists.”

The first thought that came into my head was
Vivisection!
They were going to cut me up!

He came closer, dry cloak rustling, snake head peering, snake eyes glittering. “We shall have to make some tests, but you
seem very healthy. Are you a strong little girl?”

“Stronger than you think,” I told him. “And I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life.” Which wasn’t remotely true. I’d had
dozens of the usual complaints, from chicken pox to flu.

Again I heard a certain sort of amusement. “We were told you were a child with a mind of its own. Do you understand why our
great king-emperor was so tolerant of your rudeness, little girl?”

“Because you need me,” I said bluntly.

“Has anyone told you what you are needed for?”

“By the look of things here, I’d say you want some fresh ingredients for a stew. I haven’t seen past those masks you wear,
like cowards, to hide your faces, but I’m beginning to suspect you file your teeth.”

There was a moment’s silence. Maybe Baron BousJunge was collecting himself. Had what I said struck a chord with him?

“Do you know where you are?” he asked, and then answered his own question. “You are in my quarters. This is where we perform
some of our most useful experiments. Many are on living captives, from the youngest baby to the oldest man, and very, very
few survive, sadly. It is all in the name of science. They gladly contribute to the great sum of human knowledge, without
which we should never have risen above the animals.”

I almost laughed at that. “You seem bent on getting lower than the average animal,” I told him. “I mean, you’re dressing up
like them and behaving worse than them. Hasn’t anyone ever told you what idiots you look
in all that gear?” I sniffed. “I’m not surprised how bad you smell, either.”