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 that Liebermann only just managed to interpose his own sabre. Once again the sheer force of the attack pushed him backward.
A regular thudding sound declared that the Masons had adopted a systematic strategy for breaking down the door. Liebermann imagined them inefficiently pushing against the panels with their shoulders.
“Kick it! Kick it down, for pity's sake!” he shouted in desperation. “Kick it by the lock.”
Before he had finished the sentence, Olbricht was upon him and they were locked in combat. The confined space reverberated with the harsh clash of steel.
Parry, parry, parry.
The onslaught forced Liebermann into continuous retreat. He lost ground and Olbricht came forward. Again he lost ground-and Olbricht's attack became more frenzied.
Parry, parry, parry.
Liebermann sensed an object behind him-a desk, perhaps? Very soon he would be trapped. His mind was seized by an uncontrollable panic. Without thinking, he ran off to the side, exposing his back. It was utter stupidity. Suicide. He expected to feel the force of Olbricht's fatal lunge at any moment, the sabre penetrating his flesh and skewering his liver-but it never came. It was then that Liebermann realized the true nature of their conflict. Olbricht was simply playing with him, teasing out new registers of fear for his own deranged pleasure.
The young doctor's awkward escape ended as he tripped clumsily. He turned to face Olbricht and tried to discipline his panic.
He is only human, only human.
Liebermann repeated these words to himself like a litany.
Only human, only human.
The hysterical terror began to subside.
Lieberman thought of Signore Barbasetti. He remembered how his fencing master would often express displeasure by tapping his temple to emphasize a favorite injunction: Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.
Again, their weapons connected.