Johannes Cabal the Detective

in the shadows. An educated voice. Cabal sighed inwardly — this was probably going to become political, and politics and politicians bored him immeasurably. “No more than usual,” he replied. “I gather I am to be released?”

“You gather incorrectly,” said the newcomer, stepping into the light. He was in his late thirties, slim, moustachioed, and beautifully turned out in the uniform of a captain of the Imperial Hussars, the jacket over his shoulders, the busby tucked under his arm. His bearing and the order hanging at his throat loudly proclaimed “landed aristocracy.” He walked to the table upon which Cabal’s old clothes lay, swept them to the floor, and perched on the corner. He produced a cigarette case, took one for himself, and then offered the case to Cabal. “Do you smoke, Herr Cabal?”

“Only to be antisocial,” replied Cabal, making no move.

The hussar smiled, put the case away, and lit his own cigarette. “Do you know who I am?” Cabal shrugged noncommittally. “I am Count Marechal of the Emperor’s own bodyguard. Yes?” Cabal had raised a finger of query.

“Perhaps it’s just me being a stickler for nomenclature, but doesn’t the title of ‘emperor’ presuppose some sort of empire? I wasn’t aware that Mirkarvia has ever gained so much as an inch of land from its neighbours, excepting that business with the faulty theodolite a few years ago. And that you had to give back.”

“I thought you an educated man, Herr Cabal. You’ve never heard of the Mirkarvian Empire and the Erzich Dynasty? You disappoint me.”

“Of course I’ve heard of them, but that was all centuries ago. You can hardly harken back to some medieval golden age as if it happened yesterday.” He looked at the count and reconsidered. “Or perhaps you can. My mistake.”

The count twisted his head as if working a crick out of his neck. “Do you believe in history repeating itself? That what has passed will come again? I do. Names and faces will change, but their roles will be the same. Wars will be fought with new weapons and new tactics, but for the same goals and objectives.”

Cabal thought it was nonsense but could see that it might be a very comforting theory to cling to for a third- rate backwater with dust on its laurels. Bearing in mind that if this interview didn’t go just so he might well not live much longer, and bearing in mind, too, what a great nuisance that would be, he instead said, “I’m not a historian. I can make no comment.”

“But you disagree. No matter.” Something in the way he said it made Cabal think that it was a comment frequently on the count’s lips, and that a lot of the people who didn’t matter ended up floating out of town facedown. With an effort, he made a stab at diplomacy.

“You know my profession. I have to think in the long term. There may be something in what you say. In my own researches, I’ve noticed repetitive patterns developing down the centuries. But my interest is not history. I’ve never had the desire to analyse these patterns.”

“Patterns? Patterns.” The count mused for a moment. “Yes, I like that. Patterns forming through time. Destiny, as manifest as geometry. As irrefutable as pi. Yes!” His eyes gleamed oddly as he grinned and started pacing up and down, drawing fiercely on his cigarette. “Yes!”

Cabal started to have a bad feeling about the count. In his experience, military aristocrats fell into two classes. The great majority were in the army because they liked the uniforms, were unpleasant to their batmen, spent fortunes on moustache wax, and did it all to appeal to the sort of woman who is envious of a cavalryman’s horse. A tiny minority, however, were in uniform because they had plans, military plans. And a minority of this minority actually had the wits to do something about it, too. Whatever else Count Marechal was — mad, for instance — he was also intelligent. Thus, despite his characteristic impatience with the rest of humanity, he let Marechal pursue his train of thought to its conclusion, or at least until he ran out of cigarettes.

Marechal threw the fag end to the floor and crushed it out beneath the heel of his gleaming boot, taking its successor from the case even as he did so.

I’m at the mercy of a demented chain-smoker, thought Cabal. Oh, happy day. “Mirkarvia has plans, Herr Cabal. Great plans. The Mirkarvian Empire is not just a footnote of history. It is a blueprint for the future.”

Cabal remembered what little he could about the excesses of the Mirkarvian Empire and thought this was a future only Mirkarvians could enjoy.

“In ten days’ time the emperor, Antrobus II, will make an announcement to the people in Victory Square from the balcony of the palace. He will tell them that the time for living in the shadow of our neighbours is over, that foreign spies and agents will no longer be tolerated within our borders, that our climb back towards greatness starts now. At the same time, the secret police will move against known spies and their sympathisers. Their corruption of this country’s spirit will cease immediately, and patriot shall work with patriot to ensure that — Am I boring you?”

Cabal finished yawning. “My apologies. My sleep was disturbed. So, you wish to turn your country into a police state and eliminate any dissent. You’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

“You disapprove.”

“I don’t care. People are cattle. Do as you will, it’s your country. I’m just wondering where I fit into your plans.”

“You’re focussed. I like that. I respect clear thinkers. These dissident factions have poisoned the people’s minds. We must act quickly or it will be too late.”

“A revolution.”

“A rebellion. Civil war. Which is, of course, what our enemies want. I … we cannot permit that to happen. The emperor’s announcement will nip these rebellious movements in the bud. The police actions will remove the possibility of their reoccurrence. Then we can get on with making destiny manifest. But there is a small problem.”

Ah, thought Cabal. Now we come to the crux of it.

Count Marechal looked at the ceiling for a moment, frowning slightly as he tried to couch his next words as best he could. Finally, he said, “The emperor is as dead as a doornail.”

“For how long?” asked Cabal bluntly. There seemed little point in being coy, now it was plain what they wanted him to do.

“Three hours. He has been unwell for some time. We suspected the worst but hoped for the best. To no avail.” His upper lip twitched savagely. “The stupid old bastard. He only had to last long enough to make the speech, and then he could have died right then. It would have become a crusade on the instant. ‘We must fulfil the emperor’s dying wish!’ Yes, that would have been grand. And that” — he looked meaningfully at Cabal — “is the way it is going to be. The emperor will make his speech. Then he will die. In that order. Mirkarvia’s future depends upon it. As does yours.”

“Can’t you just declare, ‘The emperor is dead, long live the emperor’? Don’t you have a spare for emergencies?”

“The emperor’s son is eight years old, and none too bright. His Imperial Majesty dropped him on his head at an early age, and it shows. It would be necessary to declare a regent — ”

“Who would be you, no doubt?”

“Who would be me, yes, but by the time such things were in hand we would be up to our necks in revolting peasants. The speech has to go ahead as planned.”

Cabal straightened his jacket. “I shall need my bag with all its contents. That includes the Principia Necromantica.”

“The book you tried to steal? The university greybeards won’t like it.”

“They don’t need to. Tell them they’ll have to make sacrifices for the greater glory of Mirkarvia. If they don’t like it, offer to have some of your secret policemen come calling to explain patriotism in detail.”

The count smiled wryly. “You should have been a politician.”

“I shall ignore that comment. I shall need a laboratory, and I shall need it now.”

“Naturally. Assistants?”

“I work alone. If you insist on having a spy present to report on my actions, he can sit quietly in the corner and stay out of my way. I give you your emperor doing a reasonable impersonation of a living person and you give me my freedom. That is the deal.”

“Very nearly. I’m afraid there is one item I cannot let you have. That handgun of yours, for obvious reasons.