The Empire of Time (44 page)

‘And the female?’

There’s the slightest quaver in my voice, but not enough to betray the reason for my interest.

‘I’m not sure. Gudrun, probably. They’re twins, you see. Her and her sister, Fricka. Manfred’s nieces.’

‘Ah …’

But then Tief returns, his open, smiling countenance refreshing after such sneers, such lofty arrogance.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘but I’m afraid it isn’t possible to see the Guild quarters just now. The Grand Master has called a special session of the Council and it would not do to intrude upon them. Tomorrow, perhaps?’

‘Of course,’ I say, far more interested by this development – expected as it is – than Tief knows. ‘Tomorrow, then …’

But I know now that it has begun. Just as in the history books. Only I shall be there this time.

Our quarters turn out to be a single monstrous bedroom, strewn with awnings that keep those above from spying on us. Alone there, sprawled out on a double bed large enough to house a dozen of my kind, I ask Heusinger to brief me on the internal politics of the court.

‘What you have to ask yourself,’ he says, ‘is what each faction wants. They all want war, of course – unrelenting, perpetual war – but how that war is fought and who controls it, such details are at the heart of their disagreements.’

He pauses to pour me a cup of wine, then continues.

‘The King, naturally, wants things kept as they are. Peace would be disastrous for him. The army is his chief support, and he needs to keep his generals happy. But equally an escalation of the war could prove just as dangerous, in that it would mean giving too much power to those fighting the war on his behalf – power that would, of necessity, be removed from
his
hands. No, what Manfred wants is stability – no one rocking any boats and the status quo maintained indefinitely.’

‘And the Guild?’

Heusinger shrugs. ‘It’s hard to read. The Grand Master keeps his cards very close to his chest. There’s no “official” Guild policy, but it would seem that the Guild wants precisely what the King wants. You’d think from that that they’d be his staunchest allies in council, only the days when the Grand Master had influence over the King are long past. Manfred acts without consulting them these days, and that infuriates them. More than anything, they’d like to see a new king, one they might
control
.’

It seems a harsh analysis, and if the Guild are listening – which they undoubtedly are – they’ll not take kindly to it. But we are not here to make friends. We’re not even here to forge the alliance we are supposedly seeking; we’re here to disable the power source, and we must survive in this snake-pit until we can discover where it is and make our move.

‘Do the Guild speak with one voice?’

Again Heusinger shrugs. ‘Once more, it’s hard to tell. If there are disagreements among them, they’re kept well hidden. But it wouldn’t surprise me. They’re not as machine-like as they look. Bio-mechanisms they may be, robots they’re not.’

‘Which brings us to the King’s close family.’ Heusinger laughs, then sips his wine. ‘I say close, but only in the genetic sense. There’s more hatred among this parcel of relatives than in a roomful of cats on heat. The King’s brothers and his sons might be envied for what they have – for a lifestyle matched only by the gods – yet they see themselves as prisoners here in the fortress. They feel impotent,
powerless
, much more so than the Guild. Like the Guild, they
want
power, but the only way they could gain it would be to kill the King.’

‘They’ve tried, I take it?’

Heusinger nods. ‘That difficulty aside, their main problem is in agreeing on a replacement. Killing Manfred would be only the start of their difficulties. With the present king dead there would be coups and counter-coups and – who knows? – maybe even civil war. There are at least four separate “pretenders” to the throne and their hatred of each other outshines their hatred of the King.’

‘I see. So in essence there are three factions …’

Heusinger laughs and shakes his head. ‘If only it were that simple, Lucius. No, beyond the internal politics of the court, there’s a much greater problem, that of the
Undrehungar
, the revolutionary parties, especially the
Unbeachtet
. They may not have a voice in the King’s council, but their existence cannot be ignored. They’re a real thorn in Manfred’s side. The Security forces try their hardest to deal with them – to
eradicate
them – but like the famed hydra, cut off one head and another quickly grows. No, Lucius, the Empire is in turmoil; it festers with discontent. And that’s where our friends the Russians come into the picture, for though they cannot hope to win the war, they can still dream of undermining things here. Their agents …’

Heusinger stops and smiles, imagining what the listeners are making of this, then continues. ‘Well, put it this way … I am told that there are places in the city where half the population speak German with a Russian accent.’

We both laugh, but the thought of that troubles me. I think of Burckel and what they managed to do to him, and I wonder just how far, how
deeply
, the Russians have infiltrated our network here.

‘So to whom should we be most friendly? The King?’

‘He seems our greatest hope. But it wouldn’t harm to court the favour of the Guild. The Teuton Knights are far from being a spent force in this land. They are – or so I’m told – building a spacecraft.’

I can almost hear the indrawn breath, the sudden panic among the various listeners. For this is a secret, and Heusinger has dropped it into the mix as if it were well known. The Guild will want to know how we found out and who the traitor is in their midst. The King, for his part, will want to know why the Guild is building rocket ships without his knowledge.

‘I guess we should get ready,’ I say, as if nothing has been said. ‘You have the gifts for the King?’

There is a knock, not loud or hammering, but firm and sharp. Tief’s knock, if I’m not mistaken. I look to Heusinger and smile.

‘Come in.’

Tief pushes back the massive doors and enters. Was he listening? His face betrays nothing. ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, bowing low. ‘Forgive me for intruding, but there’s to be a ceremony – an offering to the gods – and the King …’ He smiles. ‘The King asks if you would like to witness it.’

‘It would be an honour,’ I say. And it’s true. Not only that, but it is some while since I gave thanks to Urd.

Tief waits while we prepare ourselves, then leads us out, across the platform and then down – floating on a piece of
Kunstlichestahl
no bigger than a desk top – on to a broad balcony that looks out over what seems a cross between an ancient chapel and a woodland glade, the one transposed inside the other. The walls are bare stone, with stained-glass windows in a medieval style, but there is also earth and rocks, pines and flowing streams, and at the centre of all a great ash tree, towering above the rest, its crown on a level with where we stand, above it all.

The World Tree, Ygdrasil.

Before it stands the King, and others so very like him that I assume they are his brothers and his sons. Those closest to him. Those that hate him most. Sensing me there, he turns, then gestures to me to come down. I glance at Tief, then descend by way of a small stone stairwell, walking out among those giants until I am at the King’s side.

He towers above me, wearing a cloak of midnight blue so dark it seems made of the night itself.

I stand to his right. To his left stands a boy – taller than I, yet a child – holding a basket of apples. But not any just apples. These are huge, gilded apples that glow from within, silver and gold, like they were grown on some magical tree.

Manfred reaches into the basket and plucks out one silver apple and one gold and, holding them high before him, offers them to the World Tree. His voice booms deeply in that silent, enclosed space, deeper than any human voice I’ve ever heard.

‘Urd, daughter of Mimer, who is mind and memory, Goddess of Fate, Queen of Life and Death, accept my offerings and, with your sisters Verdande and Skuld, guardians of the Past and Future, vouchsafe our destinies.’

The Tree shimmers, as if alive, and I see, high in its branches, a great bird, an eagle. Vedfolner, perhaps. It is a movement of the bird’s great wings that has made the Tree shimmer, yet the illusion that the gods responded is strong.

Two handmaidens, half Manfred’s size, dressed in virginal white, step out from the shadows to either side and, accepting his offerings, step across to the foot of the great trunk. They place them there, then step back, and as they do, so a fierce beam of light crackles in the air above, consuming the apples.

Manfred waits a moment, then, taking two more apples, holds them high and speaks again, his voice deep and resonant.

‘All-Father Odin, one-eyed God of War, grant us your love and protection. Wisest of gods, you who were at time’s first dawn, you of the nine and forty names who sees the fate of men and gods, watch over us and give us victory over our enemies.’

Again the handmaidens take the apples and place them by the World Tree, and again they are consumed by the blazing light.

For a third time, Manfred takes two apples and holds them high. His eyes shine now with belief, and his voice, when it sounds a third time, seems to resonate in my bones.

‘Freyja, Goddess of Fertility, whose handmaidens sit beneath the boughs of the great World Tree, grant us long life and happiness and many children. May your beauty be our inspiration always.’

From all sides there comes a deep murmur of agreement. All about me and above me, heads bow towards the great Tree. Again it shimmers.

It is the simplest of ceremonies, over in a moment, yet I find myself moved beyond all expectation. I am used to the forms and phrases, for this is
our
religion, yet rarely have I heard them uttered with such conviction, such
belief
, never have I felt so certain of the gods’ existence, and so, after a moment, I bow low, as if in Odin’s eye, and Manfred, seeing this, places one of his great hands upon my shoulders.

‘You have gods in your country, Lucius?’

‘We do, Meister. But none as powerful as these.’

And I mean it. For though I have believed in the gods since I was a child, rarely have I felt their living presence as I did today.

We walk on, across the soft dark soil, and through, beneath the boughs of the great World Tree, into a long, lamp-lit corridor and thence into the Hall. And once again I am surprised, for what surrounds me is no less than an ancient chieftain’s lodge, a huge, log-walled chamber with great shields and swords and axes on the walls, built in the ancient style. At the centre nine great trestle benches have been set up, eight in the main body of the Hall, in four rows of two, and one at the head, raised on a platform above the rest, as in olden days. There’s straw on the cold stone floor, and, as in centuries past, a great fire roars in a massive grate to one side. The scent of burning pine fills the Hall.

I have sat in halls like this – smaller, danker halls, admittedly – when Germania was but a scattering of tribes hated by Rome and unified by lust and aggression. I have sat and eaten thus with many an ancient king, even with the great Hermann of the Cherusci, known to Rome as Arminius, whose armies defeated three legions in the Teutoburg forest, back in ad 16, but this is the strangest gathering I’ve ever attended; for while those ancient kings sought to impress me with the ‘luxury’, the
modernity
of their lodges, these
Übermensch
approach things from the opposite direction. They play at this retrograde simplicity, as if it suits them to be plain, unadorned brutes. Barbarism is in their blood, like a drug, yet their brutality is a matter of
style
.

It’s a strange gathering in another respect, too, for rarely have I seen such a mixture of types of people – huge and tiny, gene-sculpted and bio-mechanical. The Guildsmen are conspicuously absent, and I note immediately that two of the benches at the centre sit empty. While the King goes among his people, shaking this man’s hand or speaking to another, I look about me, surprised to see so many
Naturlich
among the ranks of the
Adel.
Heusinger, at my side, is pointing out various ministers, explaining their role in things, when I notice Gudrun, seated to my right.

It’s barely an hour since I saw her last, yet she seems more beautiful than ever. Not only that, but when our eyes meet, she seems to start with surprise.

That moment’s startlement confuses me. What does it mean? Surely she can’t be interested in me? Yet to my surprise she stands and, coming across, smiles and gives me her hand. Her eyes are strange. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were filled with gratitude. But why should she be grateful?

She leans down and whispers. ‘Thank you, Otto.’

This time I’m shocked. Shocked that she knows my proper name. But I also haven’t a clue why she should be thanking me.

‘I’m sorry?’

But there’s no time to find out. Tief appears at my side and, hurrying me on, leads me across to the high table.

Everything here is manufactured to the scale of the
Adel
. Massive silver platters, bowl-sized cups, knives the size of swords, the forks like tridents. Even so, the King has made concessions to his guests, and though it makes us feel like infants at an adults’ table, we have been given special chairs, special bowls and plates and cutlery.

The King, indeed, has honoured us, placing us to his left at the high table, above many who are patently brothers and sons – princes all of this mighty race.

Many an eye is on Heusinger and me. Many a scowling face scans us haughtily and looks away, as if we are – quite literally –
beneath
their interest. Among them I notice Hagen, seated with several of his brothers on one of the tables below and to my left. His sneering smile seems to welcome me, though I know he wishes me nothing but ill. I look to Gudrun again, seated among a group of maidens to the right, Valkyrie all, their blonde hair braided for the feast, plate armour beneath their silken, flowing robes, like illustrations from some ancient book of myth. And as I look, so she meets my eyes again, then looks away, as if flustered. As if something has happened between us when I know for a fact that it hasn’t. And I wonder if this is some kind of game she’s playing, to wind up Hagen, maybe. To make that bastard jealous. Only Hagen isn’t conscious of it.