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
Liebermann 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 attackbefore 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
