Vienna Blood (48 page)

“In the ancient mysteries, allegorical journeys and tests were arranged for those who were to be admitted. Accordingly, we have retained these forms of the tradition. The journeys that you will undertake are representative of life. Masonry educates its youths by imprinting their lives through symbolic acts.”

Liebermann felt uneasy. Although nothing material had changed, he felt a disturbing prickling at the back of his neck—like the prescient discomfort that precedes turning around to discover that one is being stared at.

“Pay sharp attention,” intoned the junior warden, “and keep true in mind the admonitions that will be given to you on these journeys. Whoever travels in darkness to unfamiliar places, as you do, requires a conductor. Fortunate is he who finds in the darkness an honest friend as a skillful guide. Follow me, I will lead you safely.”

The gaunt Mason took the prince's left hand and walked him into the body of the temple. When they reached the three columns, the pair began a slow, stately circumnavigation of the carpet.

“The life of man moves in a circular fashion,” the guide continued. “But the eternal center of these circuits is the one God that Freemasons worship under the designation of the Great Architect of the World. Freemasons are worshippers of God, however different your conception of God may be.”

Since the brethren had sat down, Liebermann had been afforded a better view of the desks that flanked the venerable's throne. He scrutinized the seated figures. Then Kanner nudged him in the ribs to draw his attention back to the central drama. Clearly, something significant was about to happen.

The junior warden suddenly pulled the prince back a step. “Deprived of your eyesight,” he taunted, “you would fall into the abyss before your feet if the hand of a friend did not hold you back. The blindfold over your eyes is a representation of your ignorance, which does not know the dangers that threaten the paths of life.”

Liebermann returned his gaze to the desks.

One of the secretaries was not looking up.

His head was bowed and there was something odd about his position. He looked uncomfortable, awkward, angular. Liebermann realized why. The secretary's right arm was pulled back and his hand was gripping the hilt of his sabre.

Could it possibly be …

Liebermann's instinct was to act, but the formality of the initiation ceremony demanded caution, respect.

Olbricht? A Mason?

Liebermann felt bound, inhibited—unable to raise an alarm. What if he was wrong?

And yet …

The gaunt Mason was leading his royal ward up through the nave, toward the venerable's throne. They were drawing closer together. If it
was
Olbricht, then the venerable and the prince would very soon be in striking distance.

Sarastro and Tamino.

It must be him.

The suspect Mason raised his head a little, but the brim of his hat was wide, leaving most of his face in shadow. A candle flared—and for the briefest moment his mouth and chin were illuminated in sharp relief. Liebermann registered the wideness of the lips and the deep, distinctive creases.

“Bow yourself!” commanded the gaunt Mason. “Here is the seat for
one who has obtained our free election to have administered the laws of the craft.”

The prince lowered his head.

Liebermann could delay no longer. He leaped up and propelled his body forward, interposing himself between the prince and the secretariat.

“Olbricht!”

His interruption caused an immediate furor. There were gasps and cries of dismay. The gaunt Mason advanced after glancing at the venerable, who responded by raising a hand, urging moderation. Olbricht, though, was sprinting down the nave and heading for the bronze doors—his hat tracing a wide arc around the three pillars in his wake.

86

L
IEBERMANN RACED DOWN THE
avenue of shocked faces.

“Stop him!” cried the venerable over the ensuing uproar. “Brother Diethelm! Stop him!”

Liebermann registered the name.

Brother Diethelm?

It seemed that the venerable was referring to Olbricht rather than commanding someone called Diethelm to intervene.

Two Masons who seemed to be acting as a ceremonial guard at the entrance of the temple jumped forward, their arms outstretched. Olbricht lowered his head and charged through their feeble blockade, knocking both men sprawling across the floor. His escape took him between the great Corinthian pillars and into the darkness beyond.

Liebermann ran faster, the soles of his shoes pounding the black and white tiles as he pursued his quarry. He was unable to stop himself in the vestibule and skidded to a painful collision with the central stone column of the stairwell. The impact left him breathless and brought him to a jarring halt. From below came the fading diminuendo of receding footsteps. A question, barely articulated, flashed into Liebermann's mind:
Why didn't he go up?
It was accompanied by a shiver of unease. He dismissed this odd presentiment and hurled himself into a stumbling descent, his top hat flying from his head in the process. He thundered down the stairs, made dizzy by the tight curves of the spiral. Down, down—deeper and deeper into the earth until the stone
wedges vanished and momentum carried him forward, through an open door.

Suddenly he found himself in the middle of a library.

There was no other exit through which Olbricht might have made an escape. Bookshelves lined the walls on either side. Directly ahead was a painted escutcheon, showing the sun and moon personified by the superimposition of sinister faces. Liebermann swung around, just in time to see Olbricht slam the door and turn a key.

The two men froze as if they had both come into the purview of a petrifying Gorgon.

Liebermann swallowed. A sequence of images flashed into his mind, each one jolted into consciousness by a ruthless magnesium light. Mutilated flesh, lakes of blood, exposed viscera—the corpse of Ra'ad, laid out on the table like some sacrificial offering to a perverse and cruel god.

Liebermann swallowed again. But this time there was no saliva in his mouth. He had become desiccated by terror, a chill, sickly, enervating terror that sucked the marrow from his bones and made his legs untrustworthy.

Someone was thumping a clenched fist against the door.

Three strikes.

Pause.

Four strikes.

Then a muffled voice: “Open up, open up!”

Olbricht was preternaturally still—just as he had been in the sewers when, from his elevated vantage point, he had calmly studied his pursuers. He seemed oblivious to the noise outside.

Quite suddenly he raised his right hand, creating an angle with his extended forefinger and thumb. For a brief moment he closed one eye and assumed the traditional stance of a portraitist mentally “framing” his subject.

“Herr Olbricht …” The name escaped from Liebermann's lips like an involuntary sigh. But nothing followed. What could he say to such a creature? What appeal could he make? Begging Olbricht to be rational, merciful, or prudent would be as pointless as reciting a Goethe poem to him.

The thumping at the door had become an incessant drumming, like heavy rainfall.

“Open up!” The muffled voice had been joined by others.

Olbricht's right hand dropped to his weapon's hilt. There was a harsh ringing metallic scrape, and a moment later he was holding his sabre above his head.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Olbricht sliced the air with a showy display of swordsmanship. After a ferocious burst of activity he tossed his sabre into the air, where it seemed to remain suspended, in defiance of gravity. The revolving blade flashed flecks of lamplight around the room until Olbricht reclaimed it with a swift snatching action. Although such bravura might represent little more than burlesque villainy, empty fanfaronade, Liebermann instinctively understood that this was not the case. He was in the presence of a confident, assertive swordsman.

The artist strode forward.

With great reluctance, Liebermann drew his own sabre, wishing as he did so that he had been very much more attentive during Signore Barbasetti's fencing lessons. Why had he spent so much of that precious time thinking about pastries instead of technique?

Liebermann braced himself for a wild, slashing attack. But he was surprised by Olbricht's approach, which was slow, cautious, and measured. Their swords drew closer together but did not touch. Instead, the blades made minute movements—tiny provocations and withdrawals. It seemed that contact was denied by an invisible field of repelling force. Eventually the mysterious prohibition was broken,
and they crossed swords for the first time with a gentle tap that produced a soft ringing sound.

Olbricht tested his opponent with a feint, which Liebermann replied to calmly, maintaining a considerable distance. The young doctor was mindful of Olbricht's posture. There was something about the buoyancy of his body—and a certain generalized tension—that suggested a readiness to spring.

The thumping on the door stopped and a voice called out, “Open the door or we'll break it down.”

Olbricht was completely unperturbed by the threat. He edged forward—choosing, like most accomplished swordsmen, to study his opponent's eyes rather than the position of his opponent's blade.

Liebermann made a half thrust—intending it to be a false attack— before following through with a
passata-sotto.
Olbricht stood firm. Then Liebermann found himself watching the monster's blade arcing past his stomach. He felt something catch. The tip of Olbricht's sabre had sliced through the material of his vest. Too astonished to respond swiftly, Liebermann was driven backward by a powerful lower thrust.

The door frame gave a sharp cracking sound. Unfortunately, like everything in Elysium it had a sturdy well-constructed appearance.

Liebermann essayed another thrust but Olbricht opposed him with a perfect counterparry, circling the young doctor's blade and casually turning it aside. The defense had been cleanly and precisely executed.

“Herr Olbricht,” said Liebermann, breathless with exertion, “the door will not hold for much longer.”

Olbricht's response was as to the point as his counterparry.

“I know.”

Liebermann tried to think of something else to say—something that might engage Olbricht in a few more precious seconds of conversation. It was just a matter of delaying him. But no words came. Liebermann's mind was a white sheet of fear: void, blank, intractable.

Olbricht's brow furrowed with concentration. He lunged, this time with extreme speed and violence, so quick that Liebermann only just managed to interpose his own sabre. Once again the sheer force of the attack pushed him backward.

A regular thudding sound declared that the Masons had adopted a systematic strategy for breaking down the door. Liebermann imagined them inefficiently pushing against the panels with their shoulders.

“Kick it! Kick it down, for pity's sake!” he shouted in desperation. “Kick it by the lock.”

Before he had finished the sentence, Olbricht was upon him and they were locked in combat. The confined space reverberated with the harsh clash of steel.

Parry, parry, parry.

The onslaught forced Liebermann into continuous retreat. He lost ground and Olbricht came forward. Again he lost ground—and Olbricht's attack became more frenzied.

Parry, parry, parry.

Liebermann sensed an object behind him—a desk, perhaps? Very soon he would be trapped. His mind was seized by an uncontrollable panic. Without thinking, he ran off to the side, exposing his back. It was utter stupidity. Suicide. He expected to feel the force of Olbricht's fatal lunge at any moment, the sabre penetrating his flesh and skewering his liver—but it never came. It was then that Liebermann realized the true nature of their conflict. Olbricht was simply playing with him, teasing out new registers of fear for his own deranged pleasure.

The young doctor's awkward escape ended as he tripped clumsily. He turned to face Olbricht and tried to discipline his panic.

He is only human, only human.

Liebermann repeated these words to himself like a litany.

Only human, only human.

The hysterical terror began to subside.

Lieberman thought of Signore Barbasetti. He remembered how his fencing master would often express displeasure by tapping his temple to emphasize a favorite injunction:
Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.

Again, their weapons connected.

Parry, thrust, parry, coupé, parry, thrust.

Liebermann was surprised to discover that he was able to hold off Olbricht's attack somewhat better than before. The artist's movements were not so swift. Perhaps he was becoming complacent. Or, even better, perhaps he was tiring.

Encouraged, Liebermann lunged. Olbricht deflected the attack but failed to resume his guard. The artist's chest was exposed. He could do it—he
would
do it! Liebermann raised his sabre but found that he was unable to deliver the fatal blow.

If only he had been more attentive in Barbasetti's lessons!

How often had the Italian demonstrated the very same maneuver? A line intentionally left open to invite an impetuous attack.

Liebermann held his breath. He was utterly paralyzed by the pricking sensation over his heart. With consummate skill, Olbricht had halted the blade at the point of penetration. Liebermann dared not move. If his own sabre so much as trembled, Olbricht would strike. Liebermann closed his eyes—and waited. The door frame groaned.

Even as he resigned himself to oblivion, Liebermann could not help making one final clinical observation.

He is feasting on my terror, savoring my despair. He cannot plunge the blade between my ribs until his sadistic appetites have been fully satisfied.

Liebermann opened his eyes. He did not wish to die a coward. He wanted to meet his end defiantly.