Then the balance of the Lazarans Frankenstein had fed came to fruition. Their phosphorous grenades went off inside and, to the outward eye, they behaved just like mad Lazaran mutineers might do.
What more evidence was required? Fiery writing in the sky? Some soldiers piled into the Lazarans and they, under attack within and without, fought back. The crowded room became a twisting, snarling, dogfight that promised duration and high drama. Meanwhile, some Lazarans even fought their way out of the room into the corridor and Palace beyond. Dismay at the development sounded from there, followed by more musketry and war-cries. All in all, Frankenstein and friends were glad to get out of it. They headed for the stairs.
‘These two are with me!’ he said, physically clutching both Ada and Foxglove to him. That got funny looks but no contradiction. Somehow, the act of clasping them close made a shot or stab less likely: if only because it might harm him too.
They gained the stairs and rushed aloft, stepping over the faceless Frenchman and, soon after, a Lazaran peppered by pellets. Another flight after that there appeared a veritable barricade of dead and dying, entwined as they’d fallen; Lazaran and recently-live finally united in the same state.
Unconstrained by need to finish off the not-quite-gone, they started to pull away from Old Guard company. A further flight onwards and the trio were ‘alone’ when they met another clot of ex-combatants. Gingerly, they picked their way over the cooling or already chill barrier.
Even in such circumstances Ada had delusions of control.
‘Why are we going up?’ she snapped. ‘Surely we should get out!’
Julius barely had breath to spare but her command urges needed to be smothered.
‘Believe me, madam, upwards is onwards at present, I assure you!’
With barely a sour pulled face or pause in pace, she accepted and carried on. That Foxglove didn’t hesitate at all must have helped her decision.
His mind was on more practical matters. Foxglove stared at Julius’ revolver with transparent envy. It looked just the thing to protect his mistress with. Whereas all he currently had was a one-shot weapon, albeit tipped with cold steel.
‘May I enquire,’ gasped the servant as he ran, ‘where sir got that from?’
It seemed just too sordid, not to mention boring, to tell the truth and say ‘stolen from the armoury.’
‘From a dead man,’ Julius lied: although it was also sort of true. A low-grade Lazaran caretaker had been on duty there that night, making matters simple: Versailles’ arsenal was both abundant and free with its favours. An offshoot of its brute-force-solves-everything mentality perhaps.
Fortunately, Foxglove was conditioned into quietism. As with his country’s economic arrangements, once inequality was explained to him by a cultured voice he meekly accepted things as they stood. Foxglove made do with his musket.
Judging by the number of dead and dying from both factions littering the stairs there must have been a sizeable contingent up top, able and willing to put up stout resistance. Frankenstein had been right in surmising he would never have got through under his own steam, no matter how golden-tongued and plausible his excuse. Short of using artillery it really had needed nothing less than a Lazaran revolt to clear the way. The minimum conservative effort to achieve his ends—which was quite a thought when you considered it.
But now that way was clear. At the very top of the stairs they found only dead men. At Julius’ insistence, they waited for some Old Guard to catch up (as cover). Then all advanced.
The landing gave on to a guardroom. Those in it worried about nothing any more. Either their heads were off or their bodies full of lethal amounts of metal.
Beyond that there were (formerly) impressive double-doors—formerly because frenzied hands had wrenched them asunder. Now they hung drunkenly ajar; mute explanation of the carpentry sounds heard before.
The party passed through, stepping over strewn bodies and bits of bodies. Julius graciously let the Old Guard go first. It was, after all, possible that more visitors might not be welcome here; particularly after the last lot. A warm—as in fiery—reception might be waiting.
They stepped into peace and sunshine. A roof garden, or leastways an expanse of lawn, stood open to the air, surrounded by high walls. The glare temporarily blinded them until eyes adjusted and clarity returned. Even then the evidence of those eyes was hard to accept.
The fighting on the roof was over. Just a few Lazarans still flopped about in the last stages of phosphorous death.
Aside from that silence reigned. Which was strange considering that they stood before a field full of children. Or near-children.
PART THREE: LIFE MORE ABUNDANT
“I am come that they might have life: life more abundant.” John. Ch. 10, v. 10.
A FESTIVAL
TO COMMEMORATE THE GLORIOUS
ANNIVERSARY
OF THE SECOND REVOLUTION
& FOUNDING OF THE PEOPLES’ CONVENTION
SHALL BE HELD AT
MIDDAY, THE 23rd OF VENDÉMAIRE
IN EACH CITY DEPARTMENT, TOWN & VILLAGE OF ABOVE 100 CITIZENS. CITIZENS OF SMALLER VILLES SHALL MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE NEAREST EVENT.
ATTENDANCE IS OBLIGATORY.
PROOF OF PARTICIPATION IS OBLIGATORY.
GOOD CITIZENSHIP CERTIFICATES WILL BE PROVIDED BY REVOLUTIONARY MARSHALS.
CERTIFICATES MUST BE DISPLAYED ON ALL DWELLINGS FOR ONE WEEK SUBSEQUENT, UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH.
LONG LIVE THE SECOND REVOLUTION!
Chapter 1: STARING IN THE SISTINE
Lady Lovelace stood in the Sistine Chapel staring up. She was rapt: lost: she had been so for hours. Another of the limited blessings of Lazaran ‘life’ were necks that could no longer crick.
Frankenstein glimpsed a flash of gold through Ada’s upturned hair. Upgrading of her tinplate cap was just one of the nice-though-not-necessary projects she’d employed to kill time whilst stalking him in France. Twenty-four carat, apparently. She remained curiously half-brazen, half-embarrassed about it; sometimes blatantly going bonnet-less, as now, to tease the nosey.
Julius felt he might as well join the voyeurs and seek that sight out, for he’d had drunk his fill (and more) of high art within five minutes of arriving. There was only so much of ugly, muscular, saints and meaty madonnas a man could take without repulsion. Even Ada’s covert crown was a relief from them and their excessive antics.
Foxglove seemed of like mind and looked upon Lady Lovelace only. Between them her two Philistine friends were leaving Ada to it—what ever it was she was up to.
It had been her idea (cum command) to visit the Vatican in any case: an order characteristically unexplained. Julius humoured her in that and, soon art-exhausted, took the opportunity for a casual nose round his childhood home. From time to time he popped back to check there was no trouble but always found her exactly as before.