The White Wolf's Son (23 page)

If Klosterheim was in this world, decided Elric, then there was every chance he had come here to look for Oonagh. It was very
likely that Klosterheim had escaped from the St. Maria and St. Maria and come directly here. It suggested the girl was not
yet in his power. At last Elric might discover why Klosterheim and von Minct pursued the child and why all the omens had been
so terrifying.

Elric decided to confront Klosterheim before there was any chance of losing him again. He rose slowly and
walked to where the gaunt man stood, paying for a Rottbier.

“Good morning, Herr Klosterheim.”

Klosterheim turned but did not seem surprised. “Good morning, Count. I had heard that you were here again. Have you retired
from—um—’showbiz’?”

“My family has some old associations with this city. Being a sentimentalist, I visit whenever I can. And you, Herr Klosterheim?
Are you here on some sort of evangelical business?”

Klosterheim seemed to enjoy this. “Of sorts, yes.”

“I believe I just missed you in Ingleton.” Elric said nothing of their mutual deceptions in that other Mirenburg.

“An unusual coincidence. As is this one.”

“You were looking for my daughter’s granddaughter, I understand.”

“We had some idea she could help us find an easy way into the Mittelmarch.”

“You have always succeeded before, Herr Klosterheim.”

“My capabilities are limited of late.” The gaunt man offered him a sour yet oddly humorous look.

“I hope you’ll let her parents know when you find her,” Elric said. “I spoke to them yesterday. They are naturally anxious.”

“Naturally.” The grey lips touched the ruby sheen of the Rottbier.

Elric could tell that Klosterheim, his gaunt features tensing, his dark eyes hard and bright in the depths of his skull, would
have been quite happy to kill him if there had been some means or excuse. But here the long-undead ex-priest was forced to
remain civil. He looked up in some anticipation, however, as a huge man entered
the bar and greeted him. It was Gaynor von Minct, of course.

This unregenerate Nazi had pursued Elric through his thousand-year dream since the eleventh century and was now grinning down
on him ferociously like a wild beast about to kill its prey. He scowled when Elric offered to buy him a drink. The tension
between the three men was so considerable that the barman went over and murmured significantly to the manager, who was serving
a customer at the far end of the bar. Elric saw the manager pick up his mobile phone and put it in his hip pocket, as if ready
to call the police.

Gaynor von Minct also noted this. “Perhaps we should talk elsewhere,” he said. “Would you care to meet later, Prince Elric?”

“Where would you suggest?” The albino was amused. He often felt this amusement when his sixth sense warned him of danger.

“How about the Mechanical Gardens? Do you know them? They are fascinating. There’s a little coffee place there, by the Steel
Fountain.”

“Would four o’clock suit you?” Elric hoped he could get some further clue from Gaynor. The man was arrogant enough to reveal
himself by accident.

“Four would be perfect.” Gaynor did not wish to be humiliated in public, so did not offer his hand, but he smiled that thin,
unpleasant smile of his as he turned back to speak to the glowering Klosterheim.

Mirenburg’s famous Mechanical Gardens were public enough to be safe. Making sure he was not followed, Elric returned to his
pension. Here he armed himself with an old black, battered Walther PPK .38 automatic. The two men would gladly kill him if
the opportunity arose.
He took his lunch at the Wienegatten and wrote the notes he would send to Mrs. Persson at her poste restante in Stockholm.
He had developed this habit since they had first met in the early part of the twentieth century, when they had become good
friends, possibly lovers, though Mrs. Persson was, as always, discreet about her liaisons.

The Mechanical Gardens had first begun operating in the 1920s, the creation of the Italian Futurist Fiorello De Bazzanno.
During the Communist period they continued to function, even if a little run-down. The futurist-deco style of the gardens
was reminiscent of a period when the machine inspired a distinctive aesthetic. The large park, on the far bank of the river,
covered a number of acres and was filled with mechanical men, trees, flowers and animals, some of them, like the gleaming
Tyrannosaurus rex,
truly monstrous. The park was dominated by an enormous, jovial grinning head made entirely of machine parts, with rolling
eyes nodding back and forth as if in approval. Everything moved by systems of cogs, levers, belts and wheels. Most used electricity,
though a few were still steam powered. There was a small funfair, with Ferris wheel, merry-go-round, “whip,” helter-skelter
and a few small roller coasters, though these were not the chief attraction. Everything was mechanical, including the old-fashioned
automat, the coffee shop and even the souvenir shop, where big robot “assistants” talked to customers by means of prerecorded
tapes and gave change after notes were inserted into their mouths.

With the old spires, domes, roofs and turrets of Mirenburg in the background, the art deco world of cogs, levers and engines
presented by the Mechanical Gardens had a quaintness of its own. Great cogs resembling faces flashed and grinned. Massive
hands constructed of rods
and pistons waved overhead. The watery sunlight reflected off steel, brass and tin, and a mechanical organ played Strauss
waltzes and polkas.

Most of the people in the park at that hour were couples who looked as if they had been coming there for years. At the Steel
Fountain, Elric got himself a cup of café au lait and a rum pastry, which he took to one of the green tables overlooking the
lawn which ran down to the river. Soon Klosterheim arrived. He wore a black trench coat and a wide black hat. His hands were
shoved deep in his pockets. Gaynor was next, his big body swathed in a herringbone raglan coat, a feathered Tyrolean hat on
his head. Underneath his coat was a suit of dark green tweed. The two men went to the automat and returned with coffee. Klosterheim’s
long, bony hand reached out for the bowl and began to place lumps of sugar in his cup. Von Minct sipped his unsweetened. “This
place seems changeless. I remember when I first came. It had just opened. Mussolini had completed the March on Rome, and the
king had asked him to become prime minister. Splendid days, full of optimism. How quickly the golden years go by! Are you
enjoying your pastry, Prince Elric?”

Elric placed his fine, long-fingered white hand on the lattice metal of the table. “You seemed to suggest you wanted to talk
about the missing girl,” he said.

“My dear Prince, you certainly like to get straight to the heart of the matter. I like that, sir.”

“I would guess you have not found her.” The crimson eyes narrowed beneath half-shut lids. “You think she’s somewhere here,
perhaps?”

“You are presuming a great deal, my lord Prince,” said Klosterheim. “What if we, too, have only the young
lady’s safety at heart? Given that she no doubt trusts you, we thought she might reveal herself to you, whereas …”

“Indeed?” Elric sat back in his chair. He fingered his chin. He still seemed amused. “So you hounded her through the Mittelmarch
in order to ensure her safety? And now you think I’ll be bait for your trap?”

“Hounded?” said Klosterheim. “That’s a strong word, sir!”

“I am here to warn you to give up your pursuit.”

Von Minct became suddenly alert. “You’re not exactly fair to us, Prince Elric.”

“Perhaps.” Elric saw no reason to give them any information. “So you expected to find her here? And planned to use me as a
lure to bring her out of hiding!”

“We were informed we might find her at Raspazian’s; that is all. But it was clear she had never been near the place. He said
the Fox had her.”

“He? Who informed you?”

“A fellow wearing black and yellow armor. He did not leave us his name.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“We were lost on the moonbeam roads. We are not entirely skilled in negotiating those roads in this universe, and he helped
us.”

Elric knew of the Warrior in Jet and Gold. Their paths had crossed once or twice, to their mutual benefit. Why would the Warrior
confide in Elric’s enemies?

“Did he propose exactly where she could be found?”

“He said to seek her on the wheel.” Klosterheim indicated the Ferris wheel. “Can you think what she might be doing there?
One or the other of us has watched the wheel most of the time.”

Elric was disbelieving. Von Minct and Klosterheim must
be lying to him. He said nothing. He had hoped to learn something from them. Doubtless they had hoped even more of him. Leaving
his cake uneaten, he finished his coffee and rose. “I’ll bid you good afternoon, gentlemen.”

They were nonplussed. They had expected to benefit from the meeting.

Elric left them talking to each other in low voices. As he walked out of the Mechanical Gardens he felt disappointed. Had
he failed to note an important clue to the child’s whereabouts? He glanced back and was surprised to see Klosterheim and von
Minct paying their money and pushing through the Ferris wheel turnstile. Did they expect to find Oonagh in one of the compartments,
after having waited fruitlessly for so long? Should he follow?

No. They were as thoroughly desperate as he. Yet he waited and watched them. Eventually they came out through the exit. They
had no one with them.

Elric, summoning some of his old witch-sight, did his best to read the air around the giant wheel. It was agitated, possibly
populated. He thought he saw other shapes, perhaps even outlines of other cities. Looking around, he could tell that only
the great wheel had an unusual quality. He knew it must have some function in this puzzle. But was he going to become as obsessed
as his enemies and spend weeks watching the thing?

The park closed at five, and uniformed men on bicycles blew whistles to herd customers out. It would open again in the evening,
with the added attraction of a cinema show in what had been the park’s original kine-theater.

Elric returned to his pension. He had an unconscious sense of what was happening to Oonagh and why Klosterheim and von Minct
were here. Nothing was
clear, but his instincts told him that there was something wrong. Something that wouldn’t save Oonagh, however, because that
pair would act on whatever erroneous idea they had. She was still in mortal danger. The problem remained how to find her and
get her to safety. That was going to be a difficult task, he admitted, smiling to himself as he changed for dinner. He tied
his bow tie, adjusted it at his throat, straightened his sleeves a little and was again the dandy who had once graced the
boulevards of Mirenburg and Paris in the Belle Epoque. He had been acquainted with half the great poets and painters of the
day. All the artists wanted to paint his portrait, but he had allowed only Sargent the privilege. The painting now hung in
a certain apartment in London’s Sporting Club Square and had never been exhibited. It had been reproduced once in the
Tatler
for July 18, 1902, in a general photograph of the artist’s studio. It showed a man no older than Elric seemed now, adorned
almost exactly as he was, in superbly cut evening dress.

In this costume he had once gone upon the town. But he had not always been found at the parties of the rich and powerful nor
in the boulevard cafés for which Mirenburg was famous in that era before war had disrupted her pursuit of pleasure. Sometimes
he might have been glimpsed in the cobbled alleys of the Deep City, or even climbing up the narrow gap between buildings to
make his way easily and with great familiarity across the rooftops.

But those days were over, Elric reflected with a little self-mockery. Tonight he would dine conventionally enough, at Lessor’s
in the Heironymousgasse.

And then, he thought, he might make a visit after hours to the Mechanical Gardens.

He dreamed. This time he led an army against a powerful enemy. All the beasts of Granbretan were massed against him, but in
his mirrored helm he rallied his troops to attack. And he was Corum
—
alien Corum of the Vadhagh
—
riding against the foul Fhoi Myore, the Cold Folk from limbo … And he was Erekosë
—
poor Erekosë
—
leading the Eldren to victory over his own human people
…
and he was Urlik Skarsol, Prince of the Southern Ice, crying out in despair at his fate, which was to bear the Black Sword,
to defend or to destroy the Cosmic Balance. Oh, where was Tanelorn, sweet Tanelorn? Had he not been there at least once? Did
he not recall a sense of absolute peace of mind, of wholeness of spirit, of the happiness which only those who have suffered
profoundly may feel?

“Too long have I borne my burden
—
too long have I paid the price of Erekosë’s great crime …” It was his voice which spoke, but it was not his lips which formed
the words
—
they were other lips, unhuman lips
…
“I must have rest; I must have rest
…”

And now there came a face, a face of ineffable evil, but it was not a confident face
—
a dark face. Was it desperate? Was it his face? Was this his face, too?

Ah, I suffer!

This way and that, the familiar armies marched. Familiar swords rose and fell. Familiar faces screamed and perished, and blood
flowed from body after body
—
a familiar flowing …

Tanelorn? Have I not earned the peace of Tanelorn?

Not yet, Champion. Not yet …

It is unjust that I alone should suffer so!

You do not suffer alone. Mankind suffers with you.

It is unjust!

Then make justice!

I cannot. I am only a man.

You are the Champion. You are the Eternal Champion.

I am only a human being. A man. A woman
…