persuaded the Lady IMmanual that she is in danger and that only he can help her escape the Ghetto. In reality he is intent on leading her to a trap set by the SS. Sergeant Wysochi was to have taken the Lady IMmanual into protective custody but that slippery rascal was too quick for us.’
‘Then we must send out search parties.’
This comment came from the newly promoted Captain Michalski, who was, much to Trixie’s disgust, the most fervently IMmanualistic of all of Trixie’s officers. This was a shame: she and Michalski might have been through some tough times together but unfortunately his religious conversion rendered him untrustworthy. When push came to shove, she wanted officers around her who knew only one commander: her. Michalski wouldn’t make it through to the morning, Wysochi would see to that.
‘We have no time, Captain Michalski, the breakout com -mences in less than thirty minutes. All our attention must be directed towards the preservation of the WFA as a fighting force.’ She looked sternly around the table. ‘We will concentrate our attack on Westgate. That’s where we’ll make our breakout. Once through there, we’ll head for the Anichkov Bridge, then over to the Coven. The Coven has confirmed that all WFA fighters will be given sanctuary in their Sector.’
‘If I might make an observation.’ Everyone in the room turned towards Baron Dashwood. ‘I have been thinking over the attack I made on the Reinhard Heydrich Railway Bridge…’
‘We have precious little time for idle discussions, Major.’
‘What I have to say will only take a moment, Colonel.’ There was a definite edge in her father’s voice and Trixie felt her hackles rise.
She hated it when he used that tone: she wasn’t a child any more. She was the senior officer here, not him. No one told her what to do any more. She took a deep breath, trying not to let her annoyance show. It had been a mistake to have put her father in command of a regiment: he presumed on his relationship with her too much. No other officer would have had the temerity to interrupt her like this.
‘Very well, Major, what is this observation of yours?’
‘I didn’t realise it at the time, but the train was heading in the wrong direction. It was travelling from Rodina to the Rookeries.’
‘So what?’
‘If the train was bringing munitions to support an attack on the Coven it should have been going the other way. I think Heydrich has hoodwinked us… has hoodwinked me, rather. Operation Barbarossa isn’t a plan to invade the Coven, it’s a plan to invade the Quartier Chaud. Heydrich must have known I was a Royalist all along: he was using me as part of his black propaganda campaign to confuse the Medis and Doge Catherine-Sophia. He didn’t want Venice getting wind of an impending attack so he’s been pretending that the Coven was his objective. All that nonsense in The Stormer about the ForthRight invading the Coven was just that: nonsense. Maybe that whole eavesdropping episode in the Manor was stage-managed. Maybe Beria knew that Dabrowski was a crypto.’
Trixie shook her head. ‘What difference does it make? So the ForthRight is making war on the Quartier Chaud rather than the Coven. The fact remains I’ve got seven thousand fighters who need to break out of the Ghetto and find sanctuary.’
‘Find sanctuary where?’
‘I told you. The Covenites have offered us-’
‘The Coven has signed a non-aggression pact with the ForthRight. I think we’re being led into a trap. That’s why our patrols have told us the SS are weakest towards Westgate. We’re being funnelled towards the Coven…’
‘Nonsense! Clement has made a tactical error, one that I am determined to exploit. Your supposition, Major, is based on the flimsiest of evidence, a single train going in the wrong direction. There might be a hundred reasons why that happened.’
‘But I am sure-’
‘Enough!’ Trixie spat out the word. ‘There is no more time for debate. You have your orders, Major Dashwood, I expect them to be carried out. Do you understand?’
For a moment their eyes locked. It was the Baron who lowered his gaze. ‘Yes, Colonel.’
Her hand still trembling with anger, Trixie raised her glass of Solution from the table. ‘Then all that remains, gentlemen, is to make a toast: to a free Warsaw and a free Demi-Monde. May the blessings of ABBA and of the Lady IMmanual be on you and your soldiers.’
Norma recognised the voice. It was Aleister Crowley, though the way his voice echoed and reverberated suggested they were standing in some sort of hall or cave.
‘I am so pleased, Daemon, that you could join us in our celebration of Freyja’s Night, to help us in the performing of the ritual that proclaims the coming of Spring.’
Norma’s blindfold was untied. Standing there, blinking in the gloom, she saw she was in a huge, pitch-dark cavern with burning tapers dotted around the wall for illumination. She shivered, but not through cold: the cavern was a terrifying place. It must, she decided, be made from Mantle-ite, which was why eerie green shadows skittered like spectres around the bare walls.
Norma had the impression that she had walked into the gullet of some huge serpent: the walls were decorated with murals of the most bestial kind, concocted from screaming reds and tormented yellows with huge snakes and dragons twirling and twisting in demented patterns. And as her eyes got used to the gloom, she saw that deeper into the cave the murals became increasingly frenzied, brighter and bolder colours depicting events from some forgotten mythology, the artwork primitive and savage, a primeval kaleidoscope.
It looked for all the world like a set from a horror movie, and the players were as loathsome as the set.
There were, as best she could judge, thirteen people gathered in the cavern and all of them – with the exception of Crowley – were dressed in deep purple robes with their faces hidden by quite hideous masks depicting various mythological animals. Well, she hoped they were mythological: the beasts that inhabited Terror Incognita were rumoured to be pretty monstrous.
Crowley took a step forward, allowing Norma to get a better look at him. In contrast to his adepts, the magician was unmasked and wore a long flowing robe coloured the darkest red and embroidered in gold with a myriad of runic symbols. Around his head was an inch-thick golden band with a gleaming red ruby at its centre.
‘Where am I?’ asked Norma, desperately trying to mask the quaver in her voice.
‘You are at ExterSteine, Daemon, perhaps the most magical of all places in the Demi-Monde. ExterSteine is a group of five tall pillars of Mantle-ite created when the Demi-Monde was young, before the Confinement. We are now atop Lilith’s Tower, the tallest of all the columns, where the Pre-Folk formed this cavern. It was here, or so mythology would have us believe, that Lilith performed her most vile and debased magic. But that was long ago: where you are standing, Daemon, is now UnFunDaMentalism’s holiest place.’
‘Why have you brought me here?’ She asked the question despite the fact that she had a pretty good idea already. Still, better to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.
‘Every Quarter’s Eve I gather my innermost circle of adepts here to give thanks to the Spirits for the changing seasons. In the UnFunDaMentalist calendar the most important Quarter Eve is this one, the one which celebrates the movement of our world from the barren cold of Winter to the lush fertility of Spring.’ He pointed to a shuttered hole high up in the roof of the cavern. ‘The rays of the rising sun will pour through that opening tomorrow morning to signal the death of Winter and the birth of Spring.’
Totally non compos fucking mentis.
Crowley began to prowl around the floor of the cavern, pontificating as he went. ‘But tonight we do more than merely celebrate Spring Eve. Tonight we will push back the very boundaries of magic. Tonight, Daemon, we will perform the Rite of Transference, a rite never attempted before. The Lady Aaliz Heydrich will take possession of your body in the Real World and for the first time, a Demi-Mondian will manifest themselves physically and not just spiritually in the Real World. Tonight, we in the ForthRight will take our first step along the path that will lead to the Unification of the Two Worlds and the triumph of UnFunDaMentalism throughout the Kosmos.’
A twenty-four-carat screwball.
‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I might pass.’
Crowley chuckled. ‘I am afraid that is not possible, Daemon; you have a leading role to play in the little drama we will be enacting tonight. Your cooperation is essential.’
‘Go screw yourself. I’m not cooperating while a prick like you tries to steal my body.’
