To Rescue Tanelorn (22 page)

Now he rubbed his chin. “Aye,” he said, “Aye…” His great brows frowned deeply.

“New plains, new mountains, new seas—new populations, even—whole cities full of people fresh-sprung and yet with the memory of generations of ancestors behind them! All this can be done by
you,
Earl of Malador—for Queen Eloarde and Klant!”

He smiled faintly, his imagination fired at last. “Aye! If I can defeat such dangers here—then I can do the same out there! It will be the greatest adventure in history! My name will become a legend—Malador, Master of Chaos!”

She gave him a tender look, though she had half-cheated him.

He swung his sword up onto his shoulder. “I’ll try this, lady.”

She and he stood together at the window, watching the Chaos-stuff whispering and rolling for eternity before them. To her it had never been wholly familiar, for it changed all the time. Now its tossing colours were predominantly red and black. Tendrils of mauve and orange spiraled out of this and writhed away.

Weird shapes flitted about in it, their outlines never clear, never quite recognizable.

He said to her: “The Lords of Chaos rule this territory. What will they have to say?”

“They can say nothing, do little. Even they have to obey the Law of the Cosmic Balance which ordains that if man can stand against Chaos, then it shall be his to order and make Lawful. Thus the Earth grows, slowly.”

“How do I enter it?”

She took the opportunity to grasp his heavily muscled arm and point through the window. “See—there—a causeway leads down from this tower to the cliff.” She glanced at him sharply. “Do you see it?”

“Ah—yes—I had not, but now I do. Yes, a causeway.”

Standing behind him, she smiled a little to herself. “I will remove the barrier,” she said.

He straightened his helm on his head. “For Klant and Eloarde and only those do I embark upon this adventure.”

She moved towards the wall and raised the window. He did not look at her as he strode down the causeway into the multicoloured mist.

As she watched him disappear she smiled to herself. How easy it was to beguile the strongest man by pretending to go his way! He might add lands to his empire, but he might find their populations unwilling to accept Eloarde as their empress. In fact, if Aubec did his work well, then he would be creating more of a threat to Klant than ever Kaneloon had been.

Yet she admired him, she was attracted to him, perhaps, because he was not so accessible, a little more than she had been to that earlier hero who had claimed Aubec’s own land from Chaos barely two hundred years before. Oh, he had been a man! But he, like most before him, had needed no other persuasion than the promise of her body.

Earl Aubec’s weakness had lain in his strength, she thought. By now he had vanished into the heaving mists.

She felt a trifle sad that this time the execution of the task given her by the Lords of Law had not brought her the usual pleasure.

Yet perhaps, she thought, she felt a more subtle pleasure in his steadfastness and the means she had used to convince him.

For centuries had the Lords of Law entrusted her with Kaneloon and its secrets. But the progress was slow, for there were few heroes who could survive Kaneloon’s dangers—few who could defeat self-created perils.

Yet, she decided with a slight smile on her lips, the task had its various rewards. She moved into another chamber to prepare for the transition of the castle to the new edge of the world.

Thus were the seeds sown of the Age of the Young Kingdoms, the Age of Men, which was to produce the downfall of Melniboné.

PHASE 1

A J
ERRY
C
ORNELIUS
S
TORY

PHASE 1

(written 1965)

I
T WAS RAINING.

The house was in south-east London, in Blackheath. It stood back from the main road, looming out of its overgrown garden. The gravel drive was weedy, and the house needed painting. It had originally been painted a light mauve. Through the grimy ground-floor windows Jerry Cornelius could glimpse five people seated in the big front room. It was full of dark furniture and poorly lit, the fire giving more light than the standard lamp in one corner. The faces were all shadowed. On the mantelpiece stood a baroque figurine of Diana holding two candlesticks; there were two candles in each stick.

The garage door slammed, and Jerry made no effort to become any less visible, but the bulky, tweed-coated man didn’t notice him as he patted water from his heavy black beard, took off his hat, and opened the door. He wiped his feet and went inside. Jerry had recognized him as Mr. Smiles. Mr. Smiles owned the house.

After a moment Jerry went up to the door and took out his key ring. He found the right key and opened the door. He saw Mr. Smiles enter the front room.

The hallway smelled a little damp, in spite of the radiator burning close to the hat rack; and the walls, each painted a different colour (tangerine, red, black, and blue), were all cold as Jerry leaned on first one and then another.

Jerry was dressed in his usual black car coat, dark trousers, and high heels. His hair was wet and did not fall as softly as normal.

He folded his arms and settled down to wait.

“What’s the time? My watch has stopped.” Mr. Smiles entered the room, shaking rain off his Robin Hood hat and still patting at his beard. He walked to the fire and stood there, turning the hat round and round to dry it.

The five others said nothing. All seemed introspective, hardly aware of his arrival. Then one of them got up and approached Mr. Smiles. His name was Mr. Lucas. He had the decadent good looks of a Roman patrician. He was forty-five and a successful casino owner. Except for Mr. Smiles (who was forty-nine), he was the oldest.

“Twelve-forty, Mr. Smiles. He’s late.”

Mr. Smiles concentrated on drying his hat. “I’ve never known him not to do something he said he’d do, if that’s any comfort,” he said.

“Oh, it is,” said Miss Brunner.

Miss Brunner was sitting nearest to the fire. She was a sharp-faced, attractive young woman with the look of a predator. She sprawled back in her chair with her legs crossed. One foot tapped at the air.

Mr. Smiles turned towards her.

“He’ll come, Miss Brunner.” He gave her a glare. “He’ll come.” His tone was self-assuring.

Mr. Lucas glanced at his watch again.

Miss Brunner’s foot tapped more quickly. “Why are you so certain, Mr. Smiles?”

“I know him—at least, as well as anyone could. He’s reliable, Miss Brunner.”

Miss Brunner was a computer programmer of some experience and power. Seated closest to her was Dimitri, her slave, lover, and sometime unwilling pimp. She wore a straight fawn Courrèges suit and matching buttoned boots. He also wore a Courrèges suit of dark blue and brown tweed. Her hair was red and long, curving outward at the ends. It was nice red hair, but not on her. He was the son of Dimitri Oil, rich, with the fresh, ingenuous appearance of a boy. His disguise was complete.

Behind Miss Brunner and Dimitri, in shadow, sat Mr. Crookshank, the entertainers’ agent. Mr. Crookshank was very fat and tall. He had a heavy gold signet ring on the third finger of his right hand. It gave him the common touch. He wore a silk Ivy League suit.

In the corner, opposite Mr. Crookshank, nearer the fire, sat dark Mr. Powys, hunched in his perpetual neurotic stoop. Mr. Powys, who lived comfortably off the inheritance left him by his mine-owning great-uncle, sipped a glass of Bell’s cream whisky, staring at it as he sipped.

The fire did not heat the room sufficiently. Even Mr. Smiles, who was usually unaffected by cold, rubbed his hands together after he had taken off his coat. Mr. Smiles was a banker, main owner of the Smiles Bank, which had catered to the linen trade since 1832. The bank was not doing well, though Mr. Smiles couldn’t complain personally. Mr. Smiles poured himself a large glass of Teacher’s whisky and moved back to the fire.

None of them was well acquainted, except with Miss Brunner, who had introduced them all. They all knew Miss Brunner.

She uncrossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, smiling up unpleasantly at the bearded man. “It’s unusual to find such confidence these days.” She paused and looked round at the others. “I think…” She opened her handbag and began picking at its contents.

“What do you think?” Mr. Smiles spoke sharply. “When I first put this deal to you, Miss Brunner, you were uncertain about it. Now you’re impatient to get started. What do you think, then, Miss Brunner?”

“I think we shouldn’t include him in our plans. Let’s get going now, while he’s not expecting anything. He could be planning some kind of double-cross. We stand to lose too much by hanging about waiting for Cornelius. I don’t trust him, Mr. Smiles.”

“You don’t trust him because you haven’t met him and given him the Brunner Test, is that it?” Mr. Lucas kicked at a log sticking from the fire. “We couldn’t get into that house without Cornelius’s knowledge of those booby traps of his father’s. If Cornelius doesn’t come, then we’ll have to give up the whole idea.”

Miss Brunner’s sharp teeth showed as she smiled again. “You’re getting old and cautious, Mr. Lucas. And Mr. Smiles, by the sound of it, is getting soft as well. As far as I’m concerned, the risk is part of it.”

“You silly cow!” Dimitri was often rude to Miss Brunner in public, much as he loved to fear her. Public insults; private punishments. “We’re not all in it for the risks; we’re in it for what old Cornelius hid in his house. Without Jerry Cornelius, we’ll never get it. We need him. That’s the truth.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Jerry’s voice was sardonic as he entered the room rather theatrically and closed the door behind him.

Miss Brunner looked him over. He was very tall, and that pale face, framed by the hair, resembled the young Swinburne’s. His black eyes did not seem at all kindly. He seemed about twenty-seven and had been, so they said, a Jesuit. He had something of a Church intellectual’s decadent, ascetic appearance. He had possibilities, she thought.

Jerry dropped his head a trifle as he turned and gave Miss Brunner a slightly amused stare, half-chiding. She crossed her legs and began tapping. He walked gracefully towards Mr. Smiles and shook hands with a certain degree of pleasure.

Mr. Smiles sighed. “I’m glad you could make it, Mr. Cornelius. How soon can we start?”

Jerry shrugged. “As soon as you like. I need a day or so to do a few things.”

“Tomorrow?” Miss Brunner’s voice was pitched somewhat higher than usual.

“In three days.” Cornelius pursed his lips. “Sunday.”

Mr. Powys spoke from behind his glass. “Three days is too long, man. The longer we wait, the more chance there is of someone getting to know what we’re planning. Don’t forget that Simons and Harvey both backed out, and Harvey in particular isn’t well known for his tact and diplomacy.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Cornelius said with finality.

“What have you done?” Miss Brunner’s voice was still sharp.

“Nothing much. They’re taking a cruise on a tramp bound for New York. It’ll be a long trip, and they won’t mix with the crew.”

“How did you get them to go?” Mr. Lucas dropped his eyes as Cornelius turned.

“Well,” said Jerry, “there were one or two things they wanted. On condition that they took the trip, I fixed them up.”

“What things?” asked Mr. Crookshank with interest. Jerry ignored him.

“What have you to do that’s so important?” Miss Brunner enquired.

“I want to visit the house before our trip.”

“Why?”

“For my own reasons, Miss Brunner.”

Mr. Powys’s brooding Welsh face didn’t look up. “I’d like to know just why you’re helping us, mind you, Mr. Cornelius.”

“Would you understand if I told you that it was for revenge?”

“Revenge.” Mr. Powys shook his head rapidly. “Oh, yes. We all have these grudges from time to time, don’t we?”

“Then it’s revenge,” Jerry said lightly. “Now, Mr. Smiles has told you my conditions, I think. You must burn the house to the ground when you’ve got what you wanted, and you must leave my brother Francis and my sister Catherine unharmed. There is also an old servant, John. He must not be hurt in any way.”

“The rest of the staff?” Dimitri waved a questioning hand. It was an impolite gesture.

“Do whatever you like. You’ll be taking on some help, I understand?”

“About twenty men. Mr. Smiles has arranged them. He says they’ll be sufficient.” Mr. Lucas glanced at Mr. Smiles, who nodded.

“They should be,” Jerry said thoughtfully. “The house is well guarded, but naturally they won’t call the police. With our special equipment you ought to be all right. Don’t forget to burn the house.”

“Mr. Smiles has already reminded us of that, Mr. Cornelius,” said Dimitri. “As have you. We will do exactly as you say.”

Jerry turned up the wide collar of his coat. “Right. I’ll be off.”

“Take care, Mr. Cornelius,” said Miss Brunner smoothly as he went out.

“Oh, I will, I think,” he said.

The six people didn’t talk much after Cornelius had left. Only Miss Brunner moved to another chair. She seemed out of sorts.

Beat music filled the old Duesenberg as Jerry Cornelius drove towards the Kent coast—Zoot Money, The Who, the Moody Blues, The Beatles, Manfred Mann, and The Animals. Jerry played only the best on his built-in tape machine.

The volume was turned up to full blast. There were three speakers in various parts of the car, and it was impossible for Jerry to hear even the sound of the engine. In the spring clip near the steering wheel the contents of a glass danced to the thud of the bass. From time to time Cornelius would reach for the glass, take a sip, and fix it back in the clip. Once he put his hand inside the glove compartment and brought it out full of pills. He had not slept for the best part of a week, and the pills no longer stopped him from feeling edgy; but he crammed his mouth with them, just the same, washing them down. A little later he took out a half-bottle of Bell’s and refilled the glass.

The road ahead was wet, and rain still beat at the windscreen. The two pairs of wipers swished away in time with the music. Though the heater was on, he felt cold.

Just outside Dover he stopped at a filling station while he rolled himself a thin cigarette out of licorice paper and Old Holborn. He paid the man, lit his cigarette, and rode on in the general direction of the coast, turning off onto a side-road and eventually driving down the main street of the harbour village of Southquay, strains of guitars, organs, and high voices drifting in the car’s wake. The sea was black under the overcast sky. He drove slowly along the quayside, the car’s wheels bumping on cobbles. He switched off the tape machine.

There was a small hotel set back from the road. It was called The Yachtsman. Its sign showed a smiling man in yachting gear. Behind him was a view of the harbour as seen from the hotel. The sign moved a little in the wind. Jerry backed the Duesenberg into the hotel’s courtyard, left the keys in the ignition, and got out. He put his hands in the high pockets of his coat and stood stretching his legs by the car for a moment, looking over the black water at the moored boats. One of them was his launch, which he’d had converted from a modern lifeboat.

He glanced back at the hotel, noting that no lights had gone on and that no-one seemed to be stirring. He crossed to the waterside. A metal ladder led down into the sea. He climbed down a few rungs and then jumped from the ladder to the deck of his launch. Pausing for a moment to get his sea legs, he made straight for the well-kept bridge. He didn’t switch on the lights but, by finding the instruments by touch, got the motor warming up.

He went out on deck again and cast off.

Soon he was steering his way out of the harbour towards the open sea.

Only the man in the harbourmaster’s office saw him leave. Happily for Jerry, the man was quite as corrupt as the six people who had been at the house in Blackheath. He had, as they used to say, his price.

Steering a familiar course, Jerry headed the boat towards the coasts of Normandy, where his late father had built his fake Le Corbusier château. It was an ancient building, built well before the Second World War.

Once outside the three-mile limit, Jerry switched on the radio and got the latest station, Radio K-Nine (“the Station With Bite”). There was some funny stuff on; it sounded like a mixture of Greek and Persian music very badly played. It was probably by one of the new groups the publicity people were still trying in vain to push. They were completely non-musical themselves, so still found it a mystery that one group should be popular and another unpopular, were convinced that a new sound would start things moving for them again. All that was over—for the time being at least, thought Jerry. He changed stations until he got a reasonable one.