Read A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist Online
Authors: Ron Miller
A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist (6 page)
From the parapet she can overlook the vast park surrounding the institute. A gleamingly white road winds through it, like a ribbon tying up a package wrapped in green paper. There is a large lake in the rear, encircled by gardens, in which even more groups and individuals are at work. Among them is a gang of navvies working at winches, hoisting a black object the size of a railway coach from the water. Whatever it is rises slowly: a fat, spindle-shaped thing.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“A submersible boat,” replies the professor. “I only know because its inventor has been working on it for a year, and I have to sign his appropriations . . . and you can see the results for yourself.”
“A submersible boat could be a wonderful invention.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure,” he replies in a patronizing tone.
“Are you getting your fill of wonders, as I promised?” asks the baron.
“All except one, the one you promised me.”
“Oh, you mean that thing you saw in the sky?”
“Don’t be obtuse!”
“Do you think,” says the baron, turning to the professor, “that we might examine an aerostat? The princess has a special interest in them.”
“What’s an aerostat?” she asks.
“I don’t see why not,” the doctor answers, “though it’s some distance from here, just beyond that copse. If the princess would really find that interesting?” he adds doubtfully.
“Of course she would!” the baron answers for her.
“Ah, well,” sighs the professor.
It takes less than fifteen minutes to regain the ground level of the institute and another fifteen to walk to the far side of the small woods. It is a pleasant stroll along a path shaded by the fragrant trees. It leads them to a large, unusually shaped building. Made entirely of wood, it looks very much like half a barrel laid on its side. It is perhaps fifty or sixty feet in height and twice that in breadth and length. One semicircular façade faces a broad, flat, open area, something like a playing field. Along one side of this is a mountain of fat metallic cylinders, hundreds of them, all interconnected with rubber pipes.
At the far end of the field a group of men are busy with what looked like a brown canvas dome. This seems curiously unstable, bobbing and swaying lazily like a ship at its moorings.
As they approach the big building, a pair of enormous doors are sliding open, revealing a cavernous interior. Bronwyn shades her eyes from the sun, and can see that there is something nearly filling the vast, dark space. Something huge, grey and bulky. There is some peculiar quality about the shape that gives Bronwyn the unsettling feeling that she is looking at something
alive
. The great thing hung there like a captive whale, aloof and full of thought.
There had been little to give away the true scale of either the building or its contents until they drew close enough to see the men who busied themselves in the shadows beneath the looming curve of the whale-like thing.
“Princess!” says Thud, suddenly. “What’s that?”
“What?” she replies, turning to see what had surprised her friend. Where the brown canvas dome had been there is now a huge sphere, exactly like the one she had seen the day before, except that this one is as big as a house. It is hovering without any apparent support fifteen or twenty feet above the earth. She then notices that it is being restrained by dozens of ropes; the big globe is swaying gently to and fro, as though anxious to get away.
“All right,” she says, confronting the baron. “What
is
that?”
“That’s an aerostat,” he replies.
“That tells me a lot.”
“It’s very simple. That enormous bag is filled with a gas that is less dense than an equal volume of air. Being lighter than the air around it, it goes up. It’s so light, in fact, that it has enough lift left over to carry things along. See that little basket beneath it?”
There is indeed a small, wicker basket, like a large picnic hamper, that she had overlooked. It is attached to the globe by an arrangement of ropes. In the basket are three men.
“When the aerostat is released, it will rise, carrying that basket and the men with it.”
“Look!” she cries. The handlers had released their captive and as silently as a cloud or a passing thought, the great sphere is drifting away from the earth. It is the most uncanny thing she has ever seen. It quickly climbs past the treetops surrounding the field, its passengers already tiny figures, waving gaily to the gesticulating ground crew.
“Oh, Thud!” she whispers, inexplicable tears welling behind her eyelids.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he replies.
“Oh,
yes
!”
“Hello!” comes a voice from behind them. “May I help you? Oh! Good morning, Professor Wittenoom!”
Bronwyn turns to see the professor shaking hands with a man of medium height, stockily built . . . his muscular figure belying his bristling grey hair and beard . . . with eyes like beads of lapis behind his gold-rimmed glasses. The professor introduces his guests and Bronwyn learns that the grey-bearded man is General Noorvik, who is the engineer in charge of the institute’s aeronautical research.
“Would you care to inspect the
Albatross?”
he asks.
“How’s it coming along?” replies Wittenoom, who seems to be on far friendlier terms with the general than any of his scientist colleagues. Does aerostatics have something to do with palæocochlæology? Bronwyn wonders.
“Fine! Fine! We should be ready for a test flight in a week or so. We’ve just inflated the envelope for the first time. Come on in and see!”
The princess follows the others into the voluminous shadow. Her eyes adjust to the darkness and as they did they reveal, like a latent photograph developing, the swelling grey shape she had seen earlier. It is an enormously fat spindle, as large as the hull of a boat, three or four times larger than the aerostat, fish-shaped, as sleek as a tuna. As she approaches, its curve expands over her head, as a planet must appear to a descending meteorite. Beneath, and attached to the undersurface of the envelope, is what at first appears to be a miniature railroad passenger car. Outriggers to either side of this support large fans or propellers with broad, paddle-like blades.
“And what does her Highness think of the airship
Albatross?”
the jovial general asks the princess.
“It’s just wonderful,” she replies; then the tears she had been trying so hard to restrain burst forth.
“Princess! What’s the matter?” cries the baron, instantly concerned.
“Can we go?”
“You want to leave?”
“Yes. General. Professor Wittenoom. Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind. Believe me when I tell you that I can’t express what this day has meant to me. Baron, please, take me back to the palace.”
“Of course,” he says, puzzled and worried, but the princess says nothing to allay his concern, neither then nor on the way back to the palace. As they return, Bronwyn refuses to look out the coach’s windows, instead keeping her head low, staring at her clasped hands.
Waiting for them when they reenter the palace is one of the king’s ministers.
“Ah!” he cries. “It’s fortunate that your Highness has returned so early!”
“And why is that?” replies the princess.
“Someone has arrived from Blavek.”
“Who? Surely not my brother?”
“No, he sent a representative.”
“A representative? Who?”
“An envoy plenipotentiary named Lord Bugarach.”
“Bugarach? I remember an ambassador named Bugarach, but that was an awfully long time ago. He must be a very old man by now.”
“Lord Bugarach appears to be quite young.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“His Majesty has arranged for a reception in Lord Bugarach’s honor and he expects your Highness to be there.”
“Oh, Musrum! A reception? When?”
“Tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SURPRISED PARTIES
“Oh Baron! I can’t wear this!” cries Bronwyn, in distraught embarrassment.
“You look lovely, my dear,” soothes Milnikov, thinking that he had not based his reputation on making such extreme understatements. Far from being merely lovely, the thought continues, the princess is unexpectedly disturbing.
“I feel
naked
,” she complains.
“Not at all,” lies the baron, who actually could not have agreed with the princess more. The dress that is causing Bronwyn so much anxiety is of a luminous black velvet that makes her shimmer as sleekly as a wet otter. Flaring from hips to heels, the extent to which it covers the remaining part of her body, to the princess’s great distress, is not as much as she would have liked.
“You can see the tops of my bosom,” she argues, keeping her arms demurely and firmly crossed over that contested area, though not more than four or five inches separate either of her collarbones from the heart-shaped top of the dress.
“Only a very little bit, not nearly enough to be upset about.”
“You’re a man; you
would
think that.”
“Come now! Don’t hunch over like that; stand up straight! You’re a very attractive young woman: you should be proud of that!”
“There aren’t even any petticoats!”
“There aren’t supposed to be, I daresay. There’s no room for them.”
“What are people going to think?”
“What do you imagine they’re going to think? You’re not back in Blavek; this is Toth! By the standards observed here, that’s a very conservative dress.”
“It’s on a very conservative princess.”
“The men are going to fall over themselves vying for an introduction, and all the women are going to hate you!”
“You have no idea how much that comforts me.” Bronwyn’s grimace barely resembles a smile. “I know you think I’m just being silly, but I can’t help it. I know the dress is beautiful, but what about
me?
I don’t look too funny? You think I look all right? Truly?” She reluctantly dropped her hands to her sides, stood up straight and turned slowly for the baron’s inspection.
By Musrum and all the lesser gods,
he thinks, stroking the ends of his pointed moustaches
, I’m old enough to be her father, so perish the thoughts I’m having! Well, not that haven’t satisfied such yearnings before, and when the age difference is even greater . . . but this is the
Princess Bronwyn
, for Musrum’s sake!
The black velvet is a perfect counterfoil for the princess’s pale skin, which is not the sickly pallor of the sunless, but is naturally a tint resembling fresh cream with a single drop of blood stirred into it. Her shoulders are as smooth and level as a beach, her neck long and cylindrical; her ambergris hair spilling around and over both, like hot coals consuming ivory. She wears no jewelry save a single, simple emerald pendant that punctuates the vertical shadow between her breasts. Long black gloves come halfway up her upper arms, level with the top of the bodice. With her high-heeled shoes, she is as tall as the baron; a slender black column topped with onyx, like a caryatid made of obsidian and rose quartz.
“I do think it’s time to go,” says the baron, in a subdued tone.
“If anyone laughs or says
anything
, I’ll never forgive you.”
“My dear Princess, there may be a lot of different reactions to you, but I guarantee that laughter will not be one of them!”
“You’d better hope you’re right.”
The ballroom is full when the baron and the princess arrive, and at the sight of so many people, Bronwyn balks. She hangs back, but the baron’s strong arm, to which she is clinging, prevents any actual retreat. The fact that virtually every other woman in the vast room is in a state of either greater opulence or greater undress, or both, fails to reassure her. At least she has the small comfort that, because of the baron’s advice, she is, at least,
accurately
if not decently dressed.
Bronwyn is certainly no stranger to balls and receptions, but now, here, for the first time in her life, she feels uncomfortably and self-consciously out of place.
King Felix, surprisingly, is there, his squat body filling his clothing like an assortment of bulbous odds and ends thrown in a sack. Close to his side is one of his ubiquitous, sour-looking physicians, carrying a portable respirator that resembled a not entirely successful hybrid of bagpipe, bellows and samovar. The king immediately spies the tall, long-eyed girl and her escort. Hurrying carefully to her side, he pauses for a moment to catch his breath, the doctor hovering anxiously behind.
“
Heeeee, heeeee, heeeee
,” he says, straining to fill his inadequate lungs. “I’m so glad to see you, my dear!”
“Are you sure you should be up, Uncle?”
“Oh, don’t worry, a small party won’t kill me.
Heeeee, heeeeee.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Have you met our guest of honor?”
“No, we just arrived. Are you really sure I should be here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you really think we ought to let my brother know where I am?”
“He’s bound to find out anyway, sooner or later.”
“Maybe later would be better.”
“No, no. This man is here for some purpose. Your brother and Lord Roelt must suspect something.
Heeeeeeee.
Seeing you ought to force the issue, we hope. Whatever the issue might be.”
“Well, we’ll see. Where is this envoy?”
“Let me see.
Heeee, heeee, heeeeeee.
Oh, there he is. Come, I’ll introduce you. You too, Baron.
Heeee.”
“Wait a minute, Uncle. Let me do this my way.”
Music has started, a small orchestra playing the sweeping
Dark Forest Waltz.
The number of people in the ballroom seem to halve as couples merge almost automatically to rotate to the romantic tune like the mechanical figures on a music box. Bronwyn turns to her companion.
“Baron?”
“My dear,” he says, not missing his cue, “would you care to do me the honor?”
“I’d be delighted.”
And before the king can wheeze another protest, the baron and the princess have swirled onto the floor. Her concentration refocussed onto a smaller scale, Bronwyn feels her confidence returning .
“What’re you planning to do?” the baron asks.
“I was just getting tired of doing nothing. I wanted to take things a bit more into my own hands. You’ll see.”
“Wasn’t I right, then?”
“Right about what?”
“You haven’t noticed?”
“What’re you talking about?”
The baron chuckled. “You’re very charming!”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“You’re sweet because you really don’t see what’s going on. Every man in the room has had his eyes on you and you haven’t even noticed!”
“That’s not true!”
“You mean you
have
noticed?”
“No, I mean that they haven’t been looking at me!”
“How would you know if you haven’t looked?”
“I don’t have to. I
know
they wouldn’t notice me.”
“You really think that?”
“Of course!”
“That’s why I says that you’re charming.”
The music stops briefly while the musicians shuffle their scores. The last note is still wanly vibrating in the air when a polite voice speaks over her shoulder. “Pardon me, your Highness: may I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
There are three men, she sees, each with the anxious look of puppies expecting almost anything. Two are more hopeful than the third as the latter has been the one to speak and is the one to whom Bronwyn owes an answer.
“Of course,” she replies. The music resumes with the
Tulebug Waltz,
one of her favorites, and she swirls away leaving a slightly bewildered baron.
Her fortunate partner is handsome and charming, but in spite of his ardent protests she devotes the next two dances to his previously disappointed friends, even though at each opportunity they seem to gain more competition. By the time the orchestra is completing the final strains of the fourth number (the eternally-popular
Waltz of the Dwarves)
Bronwyn has found herself surrounded by perhaps as many as a dozen eager men, both young and old. Eager as they are, they defer to a newcomer, parting for him like pack ice before the keel of an icebreaker. This gentleman makes Bronwyn think of a steel blade sheathed in a full-dress scabbard. His snowy white shirtfront is crossed by the scarlet sash of the diplomatic corps, the ornate medallion of an ambassador plenipotentiary pinned to the middle. He is tall, as tall as Professor Wittenoom, but his thinness is sharp and spring-like, unlike the professor’s disjointed marionette-like quality. His face continues the princess’s cutlery metaphor. It falls just short of handsomeness for seeming so dangerous: everything about it is hard, tempered and sharpened to a cutting edge.
“May I have the honor of this dance?” he proposes in a voice as soft as the sound of a knife being carefully honed.
“Certainly, Lord Bugarach,” she replies. Well-timed by the experienced and observant conductor, the music begins again and, as the ambassador takes the princess in his arms, his hopeless competitors wilt like roses deprived of their sunlight.
“What a pleasant surprise to find you here, your Highness.”
“I suspect that it’s not half the surprise you pretend.”
“Oh, but it is, really. I don’t mean that I was surprised this evening; I’ve known since my arrival that you are here.”
“Payne Roelt sent you?”
“Of course not. I’m an ambassador plenipotentiary. I represent the crown. That is, your brother the king.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, please. Why did Roelt send you?”
“Why are
you
here?” he counters.
“You’re being ridiculously disingenuous. Do you think I’d still be alive if I’d remained in Tamlaght?”
“Of course. Lord Roelt means you no harm.”
“Oh, yes, he’s certainly demonstrated that!”
“He has what he wants. There’s no way you can harm him now; he realizes that.”
“Does he now?”
“Of course. He doesn’t consider you a threat any longer.”
“Then why are you here?”
“My reasons are just as stated: the king received the invitation to visit Londeac, but his health prevents him from traveling at the moment.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m afraid I’m not privy to the king’s personal medical affairs.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my brother that a brain wouldn’t cure.”
“I’m sure your Highness is being too hard on the king.”
“Am I?”
“Why, yes. He’s been very concerned about you ever since your disappearance. He’ll be relieved to learn that you are safe.”
“You plan to report to him immediately?”
“Oh, eventually, of course. But seeing your Highness has been merely a pleasant side issue, if you’ll forgive me for putting it that way. I still have a great deal of state business to do. I’m sure that it’ll take me many weeks to complete my mission. Is there any message your Highness would care to have me take back to the king?”
“You say that he’s ill?”
“Certainly. He’s very sick.”
“Well, you could ask him if he would please die.” The waltz ends and Bronwyn leaves the ambassador with no further conversation other than a polite thank-you for the dance. As far as she is concerned, she is ready to leave the reception. For appearance’s sake, however, she decides to allow herself one more waltz. Looking around for the baron, she sees that he is engrossed in entertaining a bevy of attractive, if gaudy, females. She had hoped to have the final dance with him, to insulate herself from the ardent horde she could see even now preparing to assault her, and to allow the both of them to make a surreptitious exit. Abandoned by her protector, she has no interest in dealing with the approaching zealots and turns to look for a retreat. At that moment she feels a deferential touch on her arm and hears the question, “Princess Bronwyn?”
She turns with an excuse already forming on her lips, from which it aborts, short of its full term, undeveloped, unused.
Gentleman
seems to her a wholly inadequate term,
man
also falls short, while
male
strives to capture some of the effect for which she is still ineffectually groping. He is tall, though only a few inches taller than the princess, about the same height as the baron, the wedge-shape of his torso accentuated by the cut-away jacket, his shoulders as broad and level as the horizon. His dress suit is as black as coal, the shirtfront an arctic expanse, his tie a perfect butterfly frozen on that glacier. The face above this? The man is so handsome that he seems faintly phosphorescent. Every feature is positive, almost aggressively so. His abundant hair is as black and glossy as licorice and falls in great sheaves to either side of a part that is as straight and pale as the track of a meteor at midnight. The forehead is broad and high, the brows thick and mobile, the nose juts between nostrils that flare like a pair of trumpets. The cheekbones are Udskayan in their prominence, the jaw square, the chin like the cornerstone of a hero’s monument. His complexion is a light olive, his eyes black within black, and glistening like tektites. They are slightly hooded, shaded by an awning of dense lashes. They are at the same time secretive and full of humor. His mouth is wide, with lips slightly more thin than too full, creased with amusement at the corners, tantalizingly unveiling a glimpse of square, porcelain-white teeth, and which, she suddenly realizes, are being used to speak to her.
“Pardon?” she says, stupidly.
“Would your Highness do me the honor of allowing me this dance?”
“Oh, well, I, yes, well, yes, of course! Yes!”
If the man is aware of the princess’s confusion, he shows no sign. He leads her onto the floor just as the
Strawberry Moon Waltz
began.
Bronwyn remembers little about that waltz, certainly nothing objective. She remembers the room circling around her, inhabitants and decorations blurred together into a colorful wheel, like a zodiac orbiting a binary sun. The man never spoke as they danced; neither did he move his gaze from her, looking at her with his secret, amused half-smile, his shy, bold eyes. Bronwyn did not speak, either, but more out of fear that she was hallucinating and that her voice would be like a firecracker detonated in a glassblower’s shop.
