The Cthulhu Encryption (21 page)

“You think Breisz already has the gold?”

“Probably. I certainly suspect that he has the manuscripts. Given Père France’s evaluation of the man, I assume that he’d be just as inclined to hoard gold as he is to hoard books. Do you evaluate him any differently?”

“No,” Saint-German admitted. “I’d only met him twice before last night, although some of the older Society members have had dealings with him before my…return. Everyone agrees that he’s a miser, though. I suppose that if he did have the cross….”

“If he does,” Dupin opined, “you won’t find him an easy man to rob.”

“Rob!” Saint-Germain protested. “I never had any such intention. I thought he didn’t know…that the treasure was hidden by Levasseur, and would belong to anyone who can find it. That’s what Levasseur told me….” He broke off there.

“I think you might be misremembering, Comte,” Dupin suggested, dryly. “Your memories of the eighteenth century have always been a trifle hazy, have they not?”

Saint-Germain wasn’t about to answer that. “You’re trying to trick me,” he said, resolutely. “You’re trying to persuade me to give up and go home—but you must know that there’s no possibility of that. I intend to see this through…and if Breisz really does have the gold, I’ll redouble my attempts to bring him into the bosom of the Society.”

“If he had wanted to join,” Dupin said, “he would probably have done so at its inception, as one of the founders.”

“You really think he’s that old?” Saint-Germain said, warily.

“You don’t?” Dupin countered, provocatively.

Dupin had finished his soup now, and the two of them were staring at one another, matching their mesmeric authority as well as their wits.

It was Saint-Germain who capitulated. “I gave you the medallion,” he said, “and nearly lost my life doing so. You aren’t prepared to give it back, it seems, so I really do think that you owe me better treatment than this. I’d like to join your party, if I may.”

“I can hardly stop you following the diligence,” Dupin said. “If you want to keep company with it, you’re at liberty to do so.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Saint-Germain said. “I want to be party to what you know.”

“I don’t
know
anything at all,” Dupin told him, tiredly. “Either that, or far too much. I really do believe, though, that Levasseur’s treasure, if any of it still exists, is irrelevant. The point is that at least one, and probably more, of his former acquaintances and rivals tried to make what they probably thought of as a pact with the Devil, in order to further or protect their ends…the Devil, in this instance, being Cthulhu the dread dreamer, the terror of the seas: the most dangerous and treacherous ally imaginable. I don’t suppose for a moment that any such pact could really be made, but I do think that attempting to make contact with, and issuing invitations to, creatures of that sort can have dire consequences. It seems to me, in view of recent visitations, that the consequences of any particular contacts that were made in the 1720s have still to be fully worked out.
That
’s the important matter at stake here, not the question of whether any gold coins still lie buried in some Breton bog.”

Saint-Germain still seemed skeptical, but he was clearly wavering in the face of Dupin’s persuasiveness. “I’m not afraid of shoggoths,” he said defiantly.

“That isn’t important,” Dupin said. “Whatever the human actors in the drama wanted—or still want, if some of them really are still alive—is irrelevant to anyone but them and a few greedy gold-hunters. If the ultimate result of their in-fighting, however, is that Cthulhu gains any more purchase on human dreams and madness than it already has….let alone the possibility, however remote it might be, that it could actually succeed in becoming decrypted, the consequences will be dire. That’s the situation as I see it—and I hope it’s payment enough for the surrender of the medallion you believe, probably falsely, to be your property.”

Saint-Germain’s brow was furrowed in concentration. “I believe you,” he said, finally. “I can see the situation a little more clearly now. I think. You and I
are
on the same side, you know—against Cthulhu, at any rate. I’d love to have a long conversation with you some time about exactly what you know about the Great Old Ones. You really ought to join the Society first though—all of that’s strictly Inner Circle stuff, shielded by every layer of secrecy we have. Do you suppose Breisz has that sort of information too?”

“Far too much of it, I fear,” Dupin opined.

“He’s made a pact, you mean?”

“I mean that he’s fully possessed by that form of madness,” Dupin replied.

“Let’s not argue about terminology. He has power—what I’d call magic power?”

“Apparently.”

“And he’ll use it against us if he doesn’t get whatever it is he wants?”

“He’s already using it
on
us, in order that we’ll bring him what he wants, now that we’ve happened upon it…Ysolde, that is. What I don’t know is what will happen if and when we reach the mysterious Underworld. Ysolde is eager to return, but she’s not operating in circumstances of her own choosing, and perhaps not according to her own will. My friend thinks she’s in search of revenge for sexual abuse suffered as a child, but I strongly suspect that there’s some vital element of the scheme of which we’re still unaware, and haven’t even hypothesized as yet.”

“There always is, alas,” Saint-Germain muttered. “Well, I’m glad that you caught me up—and glad, too, that you’ve decided to play fair. If Breisz does have the cross…not to mention any spare coins and gems that might still be with it…but there’s still a possibility, is there not, that at least some of the treasure is buried, awaiting a discoverer?”

“There is,” Dupin agreed, with a sigh. “And if that’s all that interests you, Monsieur le Comte, I wish you the best of luck in finding it. I must ask you to excuse us now, though. The diligence will make an early departure in the morning. You may follow it or not, as you please.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

INTO THE WOODS

The diligence did indeed make an early start, and none of our party required hurrying along in order to get aboard, although one or two of our fellow-passengers had to be encouraged. They, apparently, thought that their journey so far had been a trifle nightmarish, and some of them had had bad dreams—probably occasioned by nothing more serious than keeping company with Madame Lacuzon inside the coach. Neither of the gentlemen who had seats inside volunteered to change places with Dupin or myself, though. However intimidating the proximity of an apparent witch might be, it is insufficient to make any sane man elect to ride on top of a fast coach in chilly weather.

There was no sign of Saint-Germain, but Dupin only had to ask a brief question of the innkeeper to ascertain that he was not sleeping late. He had made an even earlier start, and would certainly reach Rennes ahead of us—but he would surely have to wait for us there, if he hoped to exploit what Ysolde Leonys apparently knew about Oberon Breisz’s whereabouts. Doubtless he would do what he could to locate Breisz without our assistance, but I did not think it likely that he would succeed.

“Have you obtained any more information from Mademoiselle Leonys?” I asked Dupin, once we were perched on the
impériale
.

“None,” was the curt answer Dupin supplied. Apparently, rejuvenation did not give rise to unlimited endurance; Ysolde had fallen into profound unconsciousness as soon as she had eaten her supper, and had woken up in the same deep somnambulistic condition, completely self-enclosed. She was, apparently, saving her meager reserves of energy for her return to the Underworld…or, to be strictly accurate, to the physical equivalent of the Underworld of her dreams, in which she had once been a queen for a year and a day.

“So you have no idea whether our journey will conclude in the city of Rennes?” I said to Dupin.

“I’m sure that it will not,” he said. “She has already told us that there was a further stage to the journey she made when she first came to France. We will be heading further west, I imagine. We shall need to hire a coach, and at least two spare horses.”

“Let’s hope that Saint-Germain is waiting for us, then,” I murmured. “He might consent to share the expense.”

If he perceived the reproach, he ignored it. “It will be best if Chapelain travels in the coach with the two women,” he said, “but you and I ought to ride, to lighten its load. It might be wise if we were each to lead a spare horse. I don’t propose to ride all night, but we might as well go as far as we can before we pause.”

It occurred to me that I had never seen him astride a horse, but he was obviously not intimidated by the idea.

“I hope that your book collection comes to no harm in Paris while the dragon that normally guards it in your absence is with us,” I said, a trifle maliciously. “If it takes us three days to get to our destination, we shall probably be away for an entire week.”

He looked at me a little sharply, but all he said was: “Madame Lacuzon has made arrangements for her replacement. My fellow tenants will not be lacking a concierge, nor my books a guardian.”

“We might all feel a little foolish,” I observed, “if it turns out that Breisz is still in Paris, rather than on the road ahead of us.”

“That might be the better alternative,” he said. “Assuming that Mademoiselle Leonys can find this mysterious Underworld, I would not be averse to investigating it at my leisure, undisturbed.”

“Saint-German doubtless feels the same,” I said. “If it comprises the cellars of a house, though, there are likely to be servants in attendance. On the other hand, Brittany is full of ruined châteaux and megalithic monuments, so we can at least hope for a more romantic alternative.”

“I’d prefer a well-kept wine-cellar,” he said, pragmatically. “Subterranean spaces that seem romantic attain that status in being ominous and dangerous. Whatever was done to Mademoiselle Leonys as a child to bind the Cthulhu encryption into her flesh was almost certainly done in the remoter caverns of Karla. The larger chambers have been used as a Buddhist Temple for centuries, but—like many a modern temple—the Buddhists almost certainly took possession of an arena that had previously played host to other cults.”

“No one knows who constructed the megalithic structures of Brittany,” I remarked—I had been to the region before, on holiday—“but it certainly wasn’t the Bretons. They didn’t arrive until the Romans left. Before the Romans, there were only the barbarian tribes of Armorica. The monuments are said to be thousands of years older than that.”

“Indeed,” Dupin agreed.

“It’s possible, of course,” I continued, “that there were civilizations of a sort long before our history commenced, and that the legend of the drowned city of Ys dates from remote times rather than having been imported by the Bretons. Léonais, on the other hand, and all the legends associated with it, was certainly imported by the Bretons—the short-lived province was named for one of their dialects, which might have originated in Scotland.”

“The history of tribal migrations is less significant here than the transference of legends,” Dupin told me, warming to the conversation as his scholarly expertise was lured forth. “The forms in which we know them only date back to Norman times—it was the Normans who romanticized feudal behavioral codes as chivalric mythology, in the form that is typical of Medieval romance. Tristan de Léonais, as we know his story, was a Norman invention, as were Merlin, Lancelot and the other names cited by Mademoiselle Leonys—save for yours. The Oberon who befriended Huon of Bordeaux and made him heir to his kingdom, however, is a more enigmatic figure than the others: a dwarf and a powerful magician, able to read human thoughts and transport himself from place to place instantaneously. The man you saw in Saint-Sulpice was, I assume, of ordinary height?”

“Yes—but Shakespeare’s Oberon was not a dwarf. That image would be more familiar to an Englishman than the one from French romance…if Ysolde’s Oberon really is an Englishman.”

“True,” Dupin admitted. “All the more so, perhaps, since Mademoiselle Leonys evidently has English ancestry herself. Not that she is likely to have seen Shakespeare performed on stage before concocting her own long dream.”

“She is a magician herself now,” I observed. “At least, she has a magical object in her possession.”

“So it seems,” Dupin agreed, thoughtfully. “She has the ability to repel shoggoths…although that might only be necessary because her treacherous flesh, spoiled by disease, seems also to attract them. She obviously did not issue the invitation to Cthulhu herself—she is a victim in this, though probably not the kind of victim you suspect.”

“What do
you
suspect?” I demanded, resentfully.

He did not answer. He was still distracted, as he had been the day before, only giving me half his attention. A part of his mind was still working, obsessively, on the Cthulhu encryption. I could not help wondering whether that very fact might make him something of a magnet for dangerous hallucination. There is, after all, more than one way to issue an invitation, or open a breach where reality is worn thin.

After a long pause, however, the pedantic Dupin showed through again. “Bougainville was wrong, I think,” he opined, pensively, “to conclude that his South Sea islanders were
worshippers
of Cthulhu, who chanted the incomplete encryption as a kind of homage or glad anticipation of an apocalypse to come. Their primary motive, I think, was self-protection. The ritual repetition of the partial encryption is surely intended to reinforce the imprisonment, or at least the concealment, of the entity, and not to break the seals of encryption. It is a shield, of sorts, like the other spell, which wards off Cthulhu’s minions whenever they contrive to manifest themselves, however tangentially, in this universe The encryptions were not initially devised by humans, though; they have merely been handed down to us, awkwardly by necessity, as a kind of legacy—an angelic legacy, if you wish, to oppose Cthulhu’s demonic legacy. John Dee certainly thought of the matter in those terms, and encoded his
Claves
accordingly, presumably intending to keep the darker element of the power strictly between himself and Edward Kelley.”