Saturday, August 03, 2002

 
Morning in Vienna

It was a cold day in Vienna. In the vast forest city, the boughs of trees arched through the autumn air, kissed with the light cover of frost from the receding night. The long, crisscrossing avenues of branches were empty – Vienna was still asleep. But braving the morning chill as he did every dawn, was “Twenty Knives” Johnson, an obscure gentlesquirrel of the Old School who always spoke in the light accent of the West whenever he could find a listener to mourn what he considered to be the loss of the olden ways.

“Twenty Knives” had been a regular inhabitant of the Viennese Forest for most of his life – yet hardly any living rodent had ever heard of him. He was, certainly, one of the last remnants of the Old School, that is, the Old School of Assassins, an order that once preceded the moral depravity of contemporaries like Quackers & Co. His manner betrayed what used to be a youthful bravura, now finely aged into a shining example of propriety. He might have been a criminal, but he was one who strolled with a straight back, pointed tail, and shrewd eyes.

However, Johnson was quite well known to those of the underground, where he was a notorious “distributor” – one who gave out jobs as he received them to lesser crews. Considered a cleanup man of the highest caliber, many royals received him privately in their chambers while calmly discussing assassinations and evidence plantings over glasses of chardonnay. He would then contact the proper associates, and the job would be finished in a timely manner. However, he did have one vice – unlike the willy-nilly, where’s-my-money insouciance of most assassins, he was one to play favorites.

Like many, he had a great admiration for the late Great Earl, Maximillius von Nuts, whom he felt was the patriarch of the last truly noble house in all of Austria-Hungary. Whereas in every other creeping corner of society, he saw decadence, decay, and the flaunting of the old forms, with the Earl, there was decadence (but with real taste), ruthlessness, and a strict moral code above it all that guided every decision he made for the Empire.

Johnson had told no one, but in the twilight days of Maximillius’ reign, the assassin offered to do several jobs pro bono, free of charge. Yet, the Earl would have none of it, barking with his old, raspy voice, “that any proper gentlesquirrel must make a proper living.” And the orders kept coming in until the very last day of the Earl’s life, when he asked the assassin to “remove” a certain Guinea du Loc informant who crept about the King’s Imperial court. Johnson called up a crew, went through with his task, and discovered to his profound shock that the Earl had not arisen for breakfast that morning. He was quite certain, you see, that it spelled the end of the Empire as it was.

Even still, Mr. Greytail, the Earl’s manservant, was there to receive “Twenty Knives” Johnson at the door with his last cheque, made out in full for the job. In the month that passed since then, no more notes were passed to him during his dinners by the waiter. Even the recent ascension of the Earl’s nephew, Wolfgang, hadn’t marked any change. The House of von Nuts had become conspicuously quiet.

But last night, as he was settling down at his favorite table with a warm slice of acorn pie, the waiter slipped a note under his napkin. Johnson thought he saw the young boy wink before disappearing back into the kitchen. Trying not to smile too openly, the old gentlesquirrel finished his food before calmly lifting the napkin to dab his grey lips. The note simply read: “In Vienna. Must meet. K.”

That would be Kurio, Greytail’s man. Johnson suppressed the urge to hit the table with a satisfied slap. They’re back. The von Nuts are back.

And so, old “Twenty Knives” was not startled when he felt someone sneak up alongside him. He merely said without turning, “Walk with me.”

Kurio gripped the cloak tighter about his shivering frame, unused as he was to the colder, northern climates. The journey to Vienna had taken him three days, in the course of which he was nearly captured twice, once having to spend nearly all of his pocket change in a bribe to keep his location secret from the Baron Guinea du Loc. But he was here, in the great Viennese Forest for his first time, hardly daring to take in the vistas from the famously blackened oaks. The capital was only one stop on what would be a “very, very, very long business trip” as he wrote his parents back in Italy, where they still retained their tree in the Roman groves.

“You are cold, boy.”

“Oh, I’m quite fine, sir, thanks.”

“Try tucking your tail inside your cloak. I find that it helps.”

Kurio did as he was told, and sure enough, the shivering stopped under the warm, downy cover of his bushy fur.

“So, to what honor do I receive this visit from the Earl’s representative?”

What a strange, well-mannered squirrel, Kurio wondered. “Have you heard of the incident at his Lordship’s reception?”

Johnson looked at Kurio for the first time, nodding once. “Yes. Wine, was it?”

“Yes. Mr. Greytail thinks it’s a diversion for a larger plot.”

“And indeed it is, dear boy. Indeed, it is.”

Kurio paused uncomfortably before continuing. “I’m to infiltrate the burrows of the pigs, to stay and await further orders in case things … well, you know. Get out of paw.”

The elderly criminal raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?” The direct assassination of such a high noble had been unheard of for centuries. “Does Greytail think that it’s going to get that bad?”

A grave nod.

“The manservant continues to serve his master well. My contacts have informed me that the Baron is making preparations. Preparations to declare open vendetta.” His yellowing eyes glared hard at Kurio. “Do you understand what I mean, boy?”

Kurio hugged his tail closer to his body while shaking his head.

“You must never forget that the family you serve is at war. Yes, that’s right, war. Ever since the fall of Salomun so many centuries ago, and the transfer of the Earlship to the House von Nuts, every succeeding Earl has struggled to keep his hold on Shrewberry Lane against an ever-growing horde of enemies. You think this was a recent development, do you?”

The red-haired squirrel blinked.

“No. ‘twasn’t. The Earlship is the Empire, and every pig since Salomun has been forever plotting to get it back. And sometimes, dear boy, they come close. You see, it is a sad irony that before they were reduced to a Barony, the Guinea du Locs were among the most noble of families in our great Empire. The bitterness of loss, of feeling that they were wronged, has made them into mortal enemies of your family.”

Kurio blinked once more.

“Boy! They have become evil!” Johnson frothed slightly. “All they know is hate, boy, and they will not stop until your Earl is dead, and your House destroyed. Your Greytail hasn’t told you the half of it. Did you know that every day, lives are traded in this perpetual tirade of push-and-pull? It’s been the way for ages – many powers wresting for this Earlship.” The old squirrel leaned in to whisper, “They even say that His Majesty’s ministers frown at the popularity of your House, and that they conspire in its downfall.”

They continued walking at a brisker pace. “Vendetta, Kurio. The Baron has planted an unspecified number of agents in Shrewberry Lane. When all the pieces are in place, he will follow the old forms and file an official notice of vendetta on your House. At that very same moment, the order will come for those murderers to strike. Your Earl will be dead, your House fallen, and then where will you be, boy? Hunted. A fugitive soldier of a vanquished family.”

Kurio closed his gaping mouth. “B-But, sir! How has this most treacherous fate been avoided in the past? Who are the agents?”

The old squirrel heaved a sigh. “It hasn’t. Because it’s never been allowed to get to this point before. You see, the Baron Giuseppe has been plotting his revenge not long since he emerged from that sow. While the Great Earl still lived, he dared not strike. Maximillius was … a rare breed. A noble like him comes once every generation at best. For as many plots as the pigs could conjure up, the Earl was always there with effortless counterplots. No, Giuseppe has waited. Because, and I say this with all the mortal humility I can muster, but any successor would appear timid and weak in the wake of Maximillius’ reign.”

“’The wise robber waits until the parcel is changing paws,’” Kurio quoted.

“And that banquet would’ve been the perfect cover to smuggle in those who intend ill deeds towards the Earl.”

For the first time since the poisoning incident, Kurio thought he could see a larger pattern emerging, and for a single instant, he saw the entire network of traitors laid out before him. But the foresight lost its continuity due to the sheer immensity of the plot, and Kurio was left trembling with the emotional detritus.

For “Twenty Knives” Johnson, Assassin of the Old School, practitioner and expert on the ancient forms, speaking his observations aloud carried with it the small seed of resolve. When he was done, he was entirely convinced: “The Baron must not succeed.” He stopped walking and looked down at the glistening bark beneath them. “Besides, I’d owe it to the old Earl.”

When Kurio did not speak, he continued, “I was once a conscript in the Imperial Legion back in the last Prussian invasion. Having lost my taste for bloodshed, I deserted my troop, and was later arrested and marked for death. The Earl, who just happened to be visiting my camp that day, inquired about my chained state, and then simply asked that I’d be released. No explanation.”

This was a thing that the young red-haired soldier understood. While the old, strange one was rescued from death, Kurio felt that he had been rescued from poverty, which for him meant a prolonged death. Many found themselves bound to the von Nuts through the debt of such random, kind acts.

“Boy. Go to the lair of the pigs. Give me three days. In three days I will have assembled a crew. Good rodents, all. Even a pig who hates the Guineas.” He unfolded a worn map from his pocket. “This tree, here. I will meet you right here in this clearing, at dawn, three days hence.”

“I will be there.”

“Away with you then, good soldier. Here’s the address of a safehouse where you can stay in the city … try not to be seen going in, all right?”

And then they parted ways at a fork in the road, and Kurio was left alone in the mid-morning chill. Tucking himself more snugly in his cloak, the squirrel made off to rendezvous with the next associate, when the sound of an approaching convoy gave him pause. Camouflaging himself against the bark, he watched the driver of the rickshaw slow to a trot before removing the vehicle from his overworked shoulders. Boldly emblazoned on the door of the cart was none other than the acorn-laden seal of the House of von Nuts. The driver went alongside and lowered the steps for the occupant.

The Count! In Vienna?

posted by Nicholas C. 11:51 AM