The Golden Portifor - 10. Chapter 10

To Serge, the great hall seemed fuller and noisier than usual that Wednesday night for dinner, though there were only three extra places. But there was more and louder conversation, particularly between his father and Colonel Dudley, with an Austrian major travelling with the latter making his contributions in a parade ground voice. Lieutenant Barkozy was more interested in talking with the boys at table, and seemed to have a way with them. Boromeo was more animated than Serge had ever seen him, hanging on the lieutenant’s words. When the women and children withdrew, the talk was about the men’s joint experiences in Hungary.

The conversation took an interesting turn finally for Serge when the colonel and his Austrian friend began reminiscing about the battle of Berg Harsány, where both had been present.

Dudley puffed at his pipe. ‘A day like none other. Of course it was fought near the plain of Mohács, but nobody wanted to call it by that name for omen’s sake. So it is from the Mount of Hersan that it was named. Whatever you might have heard, the Turks had had the better of us that summer, sticking to their fortified camps on the Drava and refusing to be drawn. Suleiman Pasha, the grand vizier, was in command and up almost till the last he seemed likely to achieve his aim, which was to wear down the Imperial army and dishearten us from further inroads into Hungary. And it must have seemed to him that he had reached his goal when Charles of Lorraine realised after a fortnight of feints and bombardment that we had no hopes of forcing the river and so ordered a withdrawal.

‘I was a captain with Prince Eugene’s dragoons that great day, the twelfth of August. We had been in retreat for several days when we got tangled up in forested land en route to Siklós. The vizier thought he had us trapped, and even imagined that we were already in rout. What was more, he did indeed have the advantage of numbers over us to give him confidence. But Duke Charles could see that the Turks’ impudence was becoming over-confident, so he drew up for battle, with our left wing on a forested hill called Hersan and commanded by the Elector Max. His repulse of the Ottoman sipahis shook the vizier and restored his caution, so he ordered his men to dig in and his artillery to open up on us. Alas for him that his pashas were by then too keen on fighting and ignored his orders, throwing their army into disarray.

‘I was in the centre as the janissaries began marching on us across the open country, but the land was broken and their disorder was soon made much worse by the batteries Duke Charles had concentrated ready for a counterattack. Well, Rabutin and Prince Eugene were ordered to do just that, and our horse and dragoons rode them down like rabbits. It was a fearful rout. I was in the van at the head of my company but no one could outpace the prince, riding with the banner of the imperial eagle in his hand. He leapt the Turkish trenches and we all poured after him. He himself threw down the vizier’s crescent standard outside his abandoned tent and put our eagle in its place. Six hundred of our men fell, gentlemen, and they say over ten thousand of theirs. The booty was enormous. My share discharged all my debts and bought me a majority.’

Serge was curious. ‘Is that when you entered the prince’s staff, sir?’

‘Not long afterwards. He was awarded the honour of carrying the news to the emperor in Vienna, where he was promoted lieutenant general, at the age of twenty-four no less. He was back with the army within the week, and he had the kindness to appoint me to his household. “My dear Dudley,” he said to me, “life had dealt us both less of a hand than our lineage would deserve.” A colonelcy followed and I have a promise that the position of Generalwachtmeister in his army will soon be mine, for after all it’s a job I’m already doing. Unfortunately for all of us, the campaign in Italy is going nowhere and is slowing everything down.’

Graf Sergius had been following the campaign in the newssheets. ‘Things go badly in Lombardy I see,’ he observed.

‘Badly for Savoy at least,’ the colonel replied. ‘Duke Victor Amadeus is an uncertain ally, vain and treacherous; only in his personal bravery does he resemble his cousin, Prince Eugene. I hear from Venice that he is already entertaining French envoys in Turin treating for an armistice. I will be joining the prince in the field with new levies from Austria in March, in hopes that we can carry the war into France before the duke changes sides.’

This was news to Serge. ‘Oh sir! Prince Henry will be most disappointed at your departure. He speaks so highly of your work with his new regiments.’

‘Very kind of you to say so, Sergius. But I am the Emperor’s man, or rather Prince Eugene’s, and though this stay in Ruritania has been both profitable and enjoyable, I must return to the standard, especially as I expect to receive my own command in Lombardy for next year’s campaign.’

‘You will be missed sir,’ Serge’s father pronounced. ‘Not just for the sake of your father, who was a friend to this family. You’ll always find a welcome at Tarlenheim.’

***

On the morning of the Friday hunt Serge dressed himself in his shabby riding gear. The day was grey and overcast, with mist filling the river valley below the house. Serge had never much enjoyed hunts in the past, and didn’t expect to enjoy this one. But his father and uncle were full of it.

‘The first time we’ve attempted this since well before the old man died,’ his father said. ‘I’ve had all the guns repaired and cleaned. Boromeo, you take this blunderbuss. I used it when I was your age. It won’t knock you over when you pull the trigger. And don’t pull the damned trigger till I tell you, got that?’

‘Yes sir,’ the boy said meekly. He seemed no more enthusiastic than Serge.

‘You take this pair, Sergius. They’re decent firelocks your grandfather had shortened. Your man from Olmusch is able to reload efficiently? Good. He can stand behind you. We’re short of hunt servants for obvious reasons. Those we have, have been out the past two days rounding up the bucks and confining them to the paddocks. Now boys, let’s go out and examine the arrangements.’

They trudged out to the great park and found that gentry from across the province were already gathering. It occurred to Serge that he was witnessing one of his uncle’s first efforts to restore some of the Tarlenheim prestige in Ober Husbrau that had been lost over the past two decades. It was a relatively cheap way too, in that the woods of the Tarlenheim demesne were well stocked with red and fallow deer, and they had the land to offer good sport. A table had been set up behind the stands, with wine casks and beer barrels standing ready to offer refreshment to the thirsty hunters. A solitary red coat moving amongst the other servants showed where even little Karl Wollherz had been conscripted to serve.

A line of nets was strung along one side of a ride. On the opposite side a dozen barricaded shooting stands had been constructed under the trees. The Graf Ruprecht was in amongst the guests, being greeted respectfully as ‘Excellency’ and ‘Herr Graf’ by the local squirearchy. Serge was quite impressed by his father’s ability at glad-handing. His uncle was a less convivial sort.

Serge launched himself into the crowd of lesser nobility and did his best to support his father, for the sake of the family. Fortunately there were quite a few younger males present from amongst the gentry. He soon found himself the centre of a group of youths in their late teens, whose insecurity in this gathering probably matched or exceeded his own. So they rallied around him as a friendly Tarlenheim face of their own age. They seemed to know who he was, even if he hadn’t been in Husbrauener society since he was a child. They also knew of his position at the royal court and Serge found he had an eager and fascinated audience for his tales of the Hofburg and Marmorpalast. His modest little jokes were met with rather more appreciation than he thought they deserved, with several of the provincial youths definitely toadying to him. He made a mental note to tell his uncle of the degree of deference still on offer to the family. It might reassure him.

Serge invited a couple of the boys who hadn’t toadied to join him in his stand. After a long wait Jan Lisku sidled up behind Serge and informed him that the first deer would be loosed soon. A hunting horn blew and with the frantic barking of greyhounds a trap opened. Several does burst out and leaped forward along the ride with no choice but to run in front of the stands, the baying of hounds behind them urging them onwards. Shots went off along the line of stands as the deer passed them by. All of them had fallen before they reached Serge’s stand. The next trap was set half way up the run, and this time Serge and his companions got off fair shots. One of the boys with him – a nice lad called Franz Petr von Elfenburg – took a deer fairly in the shoulder. The marshal of the hunt chalked it up to their stand.

So it went on for a good two hours. By Serge’s count over 140 animals were slaughtered, not one of them to his shots, for which he was a little grateful. But his two companions accounted for three between them. They had the carcasses marked and would take them home to their family larder for use at Christmas.

‘Thank you for the day’s sport, my lord,’ Franz Petr said, raising his hat. His colleague and good friend, Wilhelm Anders, did the same.

‘I’ve enjoyed your company, gentlemen,’ Serge answered. ‘If either or both of you ever come to Strelsau, I’ll be happy to see you at Engelngasse in the Altstadt, the Sign of the Angel.’

The boys exchanged glances. ‘As it happens, my lord, we’re both matriculating into the Rudolf University in the Trinity term,’ said Franz Petr. ‘We have to complete six terms.’

‘We need friends and a source of charity in Strelsau, my lord, as poor students,’ his friend quickly added, affecting a laughably piteous expression.

‘It’ll be good to hear Husbrauener accents round the house, gentlemen. Consider this an open invitation.’

***

Karl had been busy delivering, collecting and carrying mugs of beer and glasses of wine for the hunting party with a couple of other boys. He’d been as fascinated by the puffs of smoke and bangs of the hunting guns as were his fellows, whom he’d told about the artillery salutes at Strelsau he had seen and heard.

Eventually the hunters left for the house, leaving the field to the servants and verderers to clear up. Wagons turned up to cart off the deer carcasses, which had been dressed on the field. Interested crows and ravens were already at work on what was left. Karl was given the job of tracking down any stray mugs and glasses left in the stands. He was a hard-working boy and intent on his job, so he was more or less the last to head back to the house. As he did, an odd noise drew his attention to the bushes to his left. A grinning face poking out from amongst the leaves met his gaze.

‘Jonas!’ he called, and ran over to join his friend. The creature’s brief affair with clothing was over, it seemed. He was naked again, but at least his brow was as bare as the rest of him. His little blue horns had not reappeared. ‘What’re you doing?’

The eldritch boy pursed his lips and blew through them. ‘Can’t do it.’

‘What?’

‘You know, that whistle noise boys make. I can’t do it.’

‘Come over here,’ Karl said, and led them deep into the trees to hop over a small, brown stream and sit on a green bank. ‘So, you put your lips like this and stick your tongue behind them, and ...’ He let out an accomplished and piercing whistle.

‘Oh! Fantastic. Let me try.’ A couple of attempts produced an approximation of a whistle.

‘It’s a start, Jonas. And if you don’t get it at first, you just keep trying till you do, as Master Jan always says. What’s brought you down from the castle?’

‘I don’t live in the castle. I just wanted to play with you, well that and see the hunt. There were people at the hunt who I need to get to know.’

‘Really? Which would they be?’

Jonas Niemand shook his head. ‘Can’t say. Not yet, anyway.’ Then he pondered, frowned, and had another go at whistling.

‘Getting there,’ he claimed; with little justification it had to be said.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s brought you here from Fairyland?’

‘Fairyland? That where you think I come from? It’ll do, I guess. I’ll tell you this much, Big-hearted Karl, one of my jobs is to save a boy from a death more horrible than any boy’s ever had to experience.’ He flashed a grin at seeing the apprehension on his human friend’s face. ‘It isn’t you, don’t worry. But there are some deeds too terrible to be allowed. And my job – one of my jobs – is to stop them happening in a way that doesn’t upset everything.’

‘It all sounds a bit frightening.’

‘Frightening? I know the word. But what does it mean?’

‘That’s when you know something horrible might happen, or is about to happen and you get scared.’

‘Do you get frightened?’

‘I used to, Jonas. Then my lord Sergius and Master Jan found me and now I feel safe, ‘cos they’ll never let me down or let anyone hurt me. Do you get scared?’

‘No. Because nothing and no one can ever hurt me ... as you’re about to see. Now whistle for me.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Just do it.’

So Karl obliged and gave it his best. After he finished there was a long and expectant pause, following which the bushes threshed and into their sight came a bigger boy. It was the younger brother of Karl’s master. He paused, startled, leaning on a stick he was carrying. Boromeo von Tarlenheim gave a long stare at the couple sitting by the stream, then adopted a strange, sneering expression.

‘Two little peasant boys playing, or about to,’ he said, with a peculiar emphasis. ‘You’re my brother’s page. But who’s the little slut you’ve found? Where’s he put his clothes?’

‘My lord! No, my lord!’ Karl protested.

‘Shut up, you boy. Or I’ll tell my brother what you do when he’s not looking. You need a good thrashing.’

Jonas in the meantime had got up, hopped lightly over the bubbling waters of the stream and sauntered over to Boromeo, looking perfectly composed. ‘You’re not going to do it,’ he said, looking the bigger boy in the eye.

Boromeo got red in the face. ‘I’ll do what I want. I’m a master and you’re a peasant.’

Jonas laughed. ‘Oh yeah? Just try it.’

The stick went up and then stopped in mid-air above Boromeo’s head before he could lash out with it. Boromeo bit his lip and went even redder, seeming unable to bring either the stick or his arm down.

‘Pretty unimpressive,’ Jonas observed, standing there at ease, hands on his hips. ‘You’ve learned some very bad habits, Boromeo von Tarlenheim. You’ve seen your father take the stick to any servant that irritates him. That’s not right. And it’s also not right what those boys in your school do to you.’

Boromeo gasped. ‘What? How do you know?’ He collapsed to the ground when he was let go by whatever invisible force had held him fast. He stared up bewildered at the eldritch boy looking down at him. Jonas planted a foot on his chest, and struggle as he might Boromeo couldn’t move from under him.

‘Why didn’t you tell your teachers? Why didn’t you tell your father?’ Jonas demanded.

‘I ... I can’t. It’s dirty. You don’t understand. They’ll blame me, say it’s my fault.’

Jonas’s gaze had become compassionate. ‘You should trust people more. Now here’s a boy you can trust: this is Karl Wollherz. Servant he may be, but he can help you. So instead of threatening him, why don’t you ask him what you should do. He’s full of great ideas is Karl. And he can whistle way better than me.’ He cast a brilliant smile back over his shoulder at Karl standing on the stream bank, then announced ‘Time to go.’

He went back to Karl’s side and gave him a hug, whispering in his ear as he held him close. ‘Call me by the name you gave me three times if ever you need my help, and I’ll come to you.’ Then he laughed and his breath was fresh in Karl’s nose. He sauntered off into the bushes and disappeared, not even leaving a leaf stirring on the bushes he had passed.

‘Who was that? What was that?’ Boromeo von Tarlenheim asked bewildered.

Karl went over and sat down by him. ‘Not sure if I can explain Jonas Niemand. But I think he may be an elf.’

‘But I don’t believe in elves!’

‘That doesn’t much matter to Jonas. But he’s good and he’s full of sense. He’s helped me so much. So maybe you should tell me what’s been going on at your school.’

***

Boromeo took a sheepish leave of Karl at the hall door. The older boy had lost all his arrogance as they walked slowly together back to the great house from the woods. He was even humble and anxious as they parted, though the sharp mind of Karl Wollherz noted that Boromeo could not quite bring himself to express thanks for his kindness and company. Mostly he kept recurring again and again to the tremendous fact that he had had an unmistakable encounter with the supernatural, and not only that but he’d shared it with another boy, who could confirm it really had happened. Karl was not however able to answer his questions, other than to affirm his understanding that Jonas Niemand was a good being.

‘An elf though? I thought they did mischief and turned milk, so the peasants say,’ Boromeo pondered.

‘Well, he looks like he might be an elf. He’s way more handsome than any boy I’ve ever seen, and he always looks clean and bright. And of course he has magical powers, which I think is a giveaway. He can talk to horses you know.’

‘Really! That I’d like to see.’

‘Horses know good people, and Brunhild and Jennet, our mares, they adore Jonas. Even Erebus, my lord’s big black stallion, licked and nuzzled him when I introduced them.’

Boromeo nodded wisely. ‘That’s certainly significant. But he knows everything, even secret things.’

‘I think maybe he reads minds. Or maybe he was watching you at Modenheim invisibly, as elves are known to do. He was certainly watching me in Strelsau before I met him. And of course distance means nothing to him. He can go from place to place instantly, just like that. One minute he’s there. The next he’s gone.’

‘But why you!’ Boromeo exclaimed awkwardly.

‘You mean, only a lord is important enough to talk to an elf?’ Karl rolled his eyes.

‘Well ... no. But you’re just a page, an ordinary kid, even for a peasant.’

‘Mind my feelings why don’t you. You’re the clever lord who goes to school, you work it out.’

‘Cheeky as well as ordinary.’

They had got nowhere with their speculations when they reached the hall door, other than that Karl would go to Jan Lisku and discuss the things that Jonas had revealed, and see what he had to suggest. So Karl trotted off to find the valet.

He found Jan folding their master’s freshly laundered shirts in his bedchamber. Jan looked over at the obviously excited child and raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you have fun out on the shoot?’ he asked. ‘We’ll be eating venison pies for a week after that slaughter.’

‘I liked the bangs as the guns went off,’ Karl admitted. ‘But Master Jan, I’ve learned something I’ve got to talk about with you.’

‘Oh? What would that be, little Karl?’

The boy took a deep breath. ‘It’s about our lord’s brother. I found him very ... er ... upset in the woods, hiding away. And he was so upset I had to ask him why. He told me he was very unhappy at his school and it was getting too much for him. The other boys bully him and do ... other things to him, but he can’t tell his father, who’d just laugh, or tell him to toughen up or just go away.’

Surprised, Jan Lisku stood silent as the boy watched him anxiously. Eventually he asked, ‘Did he say anything else about what the other boys do to him?’

‘Well ... they make him suck their ... pintles sir, and they hide his clothes and beat him. He showed me his bruises.’

‘Oh! That’s no joke. Not at all.’

‘What can we do, sir?’

Jan let out his breath. ‘I must talk to our master and soon. Leave it with me, Karl. You did right to tell me.’

Karl was hugely relieved. ‘What will Lord Serge do, sir, do you think?’

‘I can tell you he won’t laugh it off or ignore it. You can be sure of that. He doesn’t get on with his little brother, which maybe is why he wouldn’t approach him. But he’s not a man to walk away from a problem, not our Lord Serge.’

***

Christmas Eve was a Sunday, which added to the jollity of the season, as that meant three continuous days of holiday for the people of Ruritania.

Serge roused young Karl Wollherz before he had a chance to wake himself and get busy about his duties. ‘Oh sir. Sorry. I should be up and about my tasks.’

‘No you shouldn’t, young Wollherz. It’s Christmas Eve. In this house it means that for this once servants are served by their masters and they don’t wear livery, but their own best clothes. Now get yourself up out of your blankets.’

‘Sir?’

‘Here’s the hot water and soap for a wash I’ve brought up from the kitchen. And you will observe I’m holding a towel. That’s it, splash it about your face. Now put your head down over the bowl, and I’ll wash your hair. How golden and curling it is now. It’s getting properly long at last. But it needs soaping. Hold still there. Good.’

The boy was a little embarrassed. ‘Oh sir, what do I wear? I have no clothes for today other than my workaday ones.’

‘Yes, Master Jan mentioned that fact. Here is a parcel for you to open.’

‘Oh, SIR!!’

‘Yes, a new suit we had made just for you at our tailor’s on Domstrasse for you to wear in your own time. I hope you like green with gilded buttons and a fine red waistcoat. Proper riding breeches and new riding boots from the cordwainer so you look your best when you ride out on your good friend Brunhild. Quite the young gentleman you’ll be and turn all the young ladies’ heads. And here’s a nice packet of barley sugar sticks. You can give one to Brunhild, but only one. Merry Christmas.’

Serge suddenly found himself with an armful of warm, damp-haired boy, hugging him round the neck. ‘There. I’m glad you’re pleased. Now get yourself into your finery and down to the parlour where the butler, the matron, the head cook, the lady countess and my mother will be serving a fine breakfast for all the below stairs servants.’

He crossed his arms and smiled as he watched the boy skip happily down the corridor, one sugary stick already jammed in his mouth. Karl did a silly little dance around Jan Lisku, who appeared at the stair head just as the boy reached it. ‘Look at me, sir! I’m a gentleman!’

Jan watched bemused as the boy clattered down the stairs, two at a time. He shook his head and headed for Serge. He raised an eyebrow. ‘May I have a word, sir?’

***

In the late morning Serge sought out the library, looking for somewhere quiet to sit and think. He was a little surprised to find Colonel Dudley there before him. The shutters had been pulled back and the colonel had the hearth laid and a fire blazing away.

‘Ah, young Sergius! This is fortunate.’ He indicated a tall pile of books on a side table. ‘I promised myself I’d look through your grandfather’s famed collection before I left. But many of the titles my father mentioned as being here have been removed.’

‘The hermetic ones, sir?’

‘Indeed. My late father and your grandfather between them must have had one of the biggest collections of such works in the West. I spent a lot of my idle teenage afternoons during school holidays in my father’s house by St James’s Park, just browsing his many books, and I found the improper ones the most fascinating, if impenetrable.’

‘Well then sir, if you could do that you must have had good tutors. Most such works are in Latin, where they do not veer into Greek and Hebrew, and even Arabic.’

The man gave a lop-sided smile. ‘My father was not much of a man for affection, other than to his current lady love. Mostly when I was a growing youth he lived in Hammersmith with his then mistress and my half-sister, while I had the run of his Whitehall house, where he kept his books. But he did not shirk his duty to his only son and I was educated at the famous school at Eton till his death, when the money dried up and the lodgings I inhabited were sold for a public house.’

‘That must have been distressing for you, sir.’

‘In a way, though at sixteen I was ready enough for the world, as I observe you are too, Sergius. But I was not left destitute. I still own the houses my father left me in Kensington, a very healthy district west of the most unhealthy city of London, and they produce rents. He also left me a bill of credit on the finances of the Palatinate and a letter of introduction to my cousin, the Elector. Though he refused to acknowledge the debt he owed my father, my cousin was nonetheless pleased to use his interest to gain me a commission in the Bavarian army, which cost him nothing of course. And so here I am, not too unhappy at the age of twenty-four, with a name in Vienna and Milan and on the verge of promotion to quartermaster-general of His Imperial Majesty’s army in Lombardy.’

The colonel took a sip from a wineglass he had brought with him. ‘Now Sergius, since you’re here, perhaps we can make some enquiries into the state of the library.’

‘What precisely are you looking for, colonel?’

‘There was a particular work of the count’s that my father mentioned to me more than once, he called it the count’s Secretoria. Have you found anything that looks like that?’

‘His “Book of Inner Mysteries”? Is that all he said?’

The colonel pursed his lips and frowned a moment. ‘Prince Rupert had few details to share, though I rather got the impression that he was both fascinated and a little disturbed by the contents.’

‘Was it a printed work, sir?’

‘A notebook of sorts, I imagine, which I think probably may not have been confided to print. They had to be cautious in the matters in which they were dabbling. They got into a scrape with the Holy Office in Rome because of some play-acting foolery by which they dazzled the prince’s salon: a statue of a naked man painted gold which by some trickery they somehow persuaded people could speak. What it said shocked several ladies present. Cardinal Barberini came to hear of it and had the pair examined. Prince Rupert’s Calvinist background did not much help their case. Fortunately for him, the Queen Mother of England was high in favour at the Holy See and visiting Rome at the time. She made interest with the cardinal protector of the English nation to get Rupert released from house arrest.’

‘I’ve seen no book of that sort, sir. It could be that it travelled with my grandfather if its contents were so sensitive. Have you asked my uncle whether it was amongst the personal effects left at Medeln?’

The colonel meditated a moment before pursuing his enquiries to Serge. ‘There was another name that those men knew it by, and it tells you something of the cheerful sort of blasphemy they delighted in. They called it the count’s “Portiforium Aureum”. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘Golden Portifor?’ Serge’s eyebrows raised. A portifor was a word and indeed an object he was familiar with. His friend Father Heer frequently travelled with one in his hand. A portifor was a clergyman’s travelling breviary, so he might read the hours of the office wherever he was. Serge imagined that Count Oskar’s idea of what a travelling book of devotions was would not match that of the Roman Church.

Serge’s brows knitted. There was something about the intensity of the colonel’s curiosity that sparked his caution. And Dudley was clearly observing his reactions. However, the Hofburg had taught Serge how to manage his face, and he put on a bland and pleasant expression. He gave a little laugh. ‘My grandfather would have been a bad influence on me had he ever lived to lead me astray.’

The colonel noticeably relaxed. ‘Oh, he was an interesting and entertaining man when he chose to be, and good company for a boy when he was in the mood. He was in London in the year ’78 and my father put him up in Spring Gardens, where I had several deep conversations with him, as well as being appointed as his guide and interpreter around the London bookshops: his spoken English was not good, while my French and German were already passable. So I rode with him down to Hampton Court where his old friend King Charles received him, and learning who I was His Majesty was kind enough to greet me as his cousin and presented me with a purse.

‘If Count Oskar was hoping for a return of the loans he’d made the king in his poverty, he was disappointed however. Indeed thinking back I rather suspect that the king bestowed the ten guineas on me as a sly jibe at the old man. I accompanied the count to the book dealers in St Paul’s Churchyard where he was searching out the remnants of Dr Dee’s library. Some of the books he bought are on the shelves here still I see.’

‘Well sir, I suggest that what we do is to go through the contents of these shelves and I will liberate the hermetic titles from the boxes where I imprisoned them. We’ll take them one by one and see if we cannot find some clue to satisfy your curiosity. It may take an hour or two.’

***

Serge contemplated with some puzzlement the copy of Stephen of Alexandria’s Chrysopoeia that their search had finally focussed on. Except it wasn’t entirely the Chrysopoeia, as it turned out.

Colonel Dudley was delighted at their find. ‘There are dozens of such alchemical works from the past two centuries: Augurellus, Hirschenberg, Valentin, Drechsler, Albineus, Le Doux and so on. Your grandfather had them all, down to the Englishman, Dickinson, whose De Chrysopoeia was published in the very year the count died. They all propose ways that elements can be altered and naturally gold is the chief aim of their transmutations. Which is no doubt why he unobtrusively placed with the others this supposed copy of the ancestor of them all, Stephen the Egyptian’s Chrysopoeia. It’s not a work I’ve used, Greek not being my best language. What do you make of it Sergius?’

Serge examined the title page. ‘At the press of Johann Christof Walther at Heidelberg 1670,’ he read. ‘It’s an academic press and a limited edition, and judging by the title page it was printed for my grandfather himself. Not only that but it seems the old man personally supervised the printing: Editio ab Askario Praenobili et Erudito Comite Ruritanensi Exstructa. That would explain the ... er ... eccentricity.’

The colonel nodded. ‘It’s quite clever really. A casual browser along the shelves would see it was a Greek printing of a basic text and most likely pass it by. And if they tried to penetrate it they’d see little to puzzle them till they got to Book VIII.’

‘At a guess, I’d say that the eighth book was not one Stephen actually wrote, but Oskar’s little addition. The alphabet is Greek, but the language is Rothenian for the most part.’

The colonel grunted. ‘It might as well be in Sanskrit for all I would have known. The language of King Rudolf’s army is German, and the language of the court is French. I’ve heard Rothenian spoken in the streets and lanes of course, but not yet by any man of quality.’

Serge chuckled. ‘You’ve not visited Glottenburg, sir. It’s a point of pride that Rothenian is spoken at the ducal court. It distinguishes the duchy as the true Rothenia where the descendants of Tassilo in the direct line still rule, not the usurping Elphbergs. But I learned it from my nurse here in Husbrau, and in Olmusch you barely hear German.

‘But as for the content of that chapter, it purports to be a legendary history of Rothenia, though it cites sources and prophecies I’ve never heard of. And I would be willing to believe it may be a fruit of the researches that are detailed in the work you’re looking for. Here, at the end, you’d easily have read this passage, since the language is your own native tongue. He writes in English on some apocalyptic speculations about an end time, and almost the very last thing he writes here is in Latin: vide inter secretoria, a reference to some book of deeper secrets he possesses. Your Golden Portifor perhaps. But whatever and wherever that may be, it does not seem to be here.’

***

Serge stayed on in the library after the colonel had departed, gleefully clutching Count Oskar’s adulterated edition of the Chrysopoeia. As a further distraction he picked up the last letters the post had brought him. With some anticipation and a half smile playing around his lips, he broke the seal of the letter addressed in the florid hand of Willi von Strelsau: Au très noble Monsieur Serge de Tarlenheim-Olmusch, Le château de Tarlenheim en la province d’Husbrau Supérieure.

‘Mon cher Phoebe,’ it began, ‘don’t come back. Stay safe in your fortress in Outer Ruritania. You’ll not recognise the place if you do. A horrible thing has happened. Our great lord Zeus has issued a Commandment from on high. All in his household are obliged to adorn their heads with vile periwigs! Horrible. I blame Ulrica. She took it into her head that people slight Zeus for his youth, and so a white periwig appeared on his head at yesterday’s lever. So needless to say Lord Almaric let it be known that all the Bedchamber must follow suit and itch and scratch along with the prince. Even me! Admittedly hair is not my strong point and I got myself a natural wig in my natural colour, which many of my mignons say is an improvement, though that’s not saying much. But even so! Zeus has his beautiful strawberry locks shorn under his haystack. I retrieved a tress from his barber, and I’ve had it enshrined in crystal for eternity to worship as a relic. But you, dear Phoebus, your golden head MUST NOT fall to the shears. I would die. So don’t come back.’

Avec mes plus tendres bisous. Ton Willi.

A smile played around Serge’s lips. A little wrench in his heart told him he was unmistakably missing his friend and bed-companion. He checked his internal calendar. Seven more weeks in Husbrau and then back to Strelsau, Engelngasse and the Marmorpalast, where life was surprisingly simpler and he did not have the problem of his brother to try to put right.