The White Wolf's Son (20 page)

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 Asiacommunista 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?”

“I have heard nothing at all, my lord.”

“You had visitors from Germania, eh?”

“Indeed, sire. Sent by the Quay Savoy. With letters bearing your own seal. But I thought you had given orders for no mention
of that to be made here …”

“Fool, those were forgeries!” The voice was like a snake’s sudden hiss of warning. “We suspect traitors at court and have
been following them. They, too, I’d guess, seek the Runestaff. Did you not have their luggage and clothing secretly searched?
Were they not drugged and their bodies inspected? Have you all become such sentimentalists in Mirenburg, my lord, that you
pamper these naked savages as if they were a favorite dog?”

“Great King, the scrolls bore the Quay Savoy’s unbroken seals of office!”

“Even so, Lord Olin.”

“I beseech your forgiveness, my lord.” Lord Olin still lay visor-down upon the flagstones. He could not abase himself any
further without breaking his own bones, or so it seemed.

“We would suggest, Lord Olin, that when you return to Mirenburg, you be a little more rigorous in your dealings with barbarians
and such. You yourself have said how important the city is to our security and tranquility.”

“I will return at once and see to it, sire.”

“Not at once, Lord Olin.” There was a terrible kind of happiness boiling at the back of King Huon’s strangely reptilian eyes.
“You can only hope your deputy is more suspicious than you are! I want you to confer with Baron Brun of Dunninstrit, and before
that with Baron Bous-Junge of Osfoud. They will ask you specific questions. Granbretan will show her gratitude for your speedy
decision in bringing your news directly to us. Let us hope you are first strong enough to pay the price for your lapses of
intelligence.”

An onlooker would have sworn how at that moment Lord Olin merged with the flagstones. From his great
mask helm, there came what might have been a muffled weeping.

As the prehensile tongue flicked out, slowly the throne globe dimmed until only those awful eyes were visible. Then all was
swirling darkness and silence.

After some moments, when nothing had happened, Lord. Olin rose. There was something incongruous in the snarling wolverine
head which topped that slumped and defeated body as it got to its feet and walked unsteadily down the long hall towards the
distant doors. Through them he was directed to another antechamber and another, conscious of the eye of every courtier upon
him. Finally he stood in a chamber fashioned of obsidian warped to resemble human figures and symbolic creatures from Granbretan’s
most distant past.

A servant in the mask and livery of the Order of the Snake signaled to him. With a deep bow the servant led the way to the
newly installed moving pavement, which carried them rapidly through miles of palace and many levels of offices until they
reached Baron Bous-Junge’s apartments, which had an unsavory reputation even in Londra. From inside came screams of such a
timbre and pitch that even Granbretan’s most jaded courtiers, used to the variety of shrieks and groans achieved through uniquely
extracted pain, found them exciting.

On shaking legs, with dry mouth and stinging eyes, Lord Olin dared not pause. He must appear to go willingly to whatever fate
Lord Huon had decreed, for if he did not, he would suffer a worse punishment. If he took his punishment as was expected, he
might yet live to fulfill his ambitions of a peaceful retirement.

The smell coming from the baron’s quarters, a mixture of alluring scents and the most disagreeable stinks, was
enough to ensure that most men and women gave the place a wide berth. The main concentration of gases emanated from a low,
squat doorway through which the servant led him.

Baron Bous-Junge, leaving his bench, his tubes and retorts, greeted Lord Olin warmly. The cobra mask nodded on Bous-Junge’s
shoulders, and he moved as if the weight of all his ceremony slowed him down.