Cloud Castles Read online

  Definitely it had a tinge of the Spiral about it, this place, a lingering, haunting timelessness of long shadows and late afternoons, Indian summers of the world. And yet if so, it had something else that was strange to the Spiral – a settled, stable look, a hint of order and purpose I’d rarely if ever encountered on those random shores of time, scattered with the flotsam of history and the jetsam of men’s minds. I had to know more. I turned for the angle of the hillside, away from the fields. If I could only find somewhere unobtrusive to land …

  It rose up to me behind a minor mountain spur, a level shelf of lush upland meadow that positively demanded cows with bells. But the green grass was uncropped, and rippled like water as the downblast of the rotors struck it. I landed with only the faintest bump, and let the motor growl down to nothing, till there was just the whistle of the slowing rotors. Then that too died away, and I was left listening to the rustle of the grass I’d flattened lifting in a more natural wind.

  I undid belt and helmet, slid back the cockpit door and swung myself down into the grass. It was almost waist high, intensely green, slightly damp; the stalks I had crushed scented the light breeze. After the choking city the freshness of the air was unbelievable; you wanted to expand your lungs just to keep on taking it in. Across the meadow ran a mountain stream, leaping and splashing over boulders and stone outcrops. Suddenly I felt intolerably thirsty, and ran down to it. I was cynical enough to know that the freshest mountain stream may well have a dead sheep in it round the next bend; but not this one, somehow, not this one. I could almost see its source, up there among the faceted cliffs; now there would be some climbing! But not on my own. I ducked down, dipped a hand in the stream and yelped: it was icy, it must be melt water from high above, kept cool beneath the rock. But when I sipped at it carefully, so as not to chill my stomach, it tasted amazing, with a faint mineral tang that made a fool of everything in a pressurized bottle. Refreshed, I stood up and looked about. About a hundred yards down the stream passed under an old stone bridge, and beyond that a faint track ran downhill, half obscured by the waving grasses. Making sure the ‘copter keys were still clipped firmly to my belt, I strolled down that way, with I didn’t know what on my mind. The bridge was old and crumbling, but still solid underfoot, and from its hunched back I had a clear view down the slope and into the heart of the valley.

  The city shone there still, behind its massy walls, through a slight haze, but the taste the wind brought me was of sweet wood smoke, nothing more. I could see something of its buildings; the massed roof-tops looked like the old quarters of places like Nice or Nuremberg, or smaller towns in Austria and Czechoslovakia, winding rows of houses that tumbled and spilled down the slight slope to the river in cheerful disarray, red roofs and high gables sticking up at all sorts of angles. But here and there were walls wholly alien to that background, the black-veined whiteness of true half-timbering, the squat stucco of a Mediterranean tradition, the warm square-cut stone elegance of Scotland – incoherent, out of place, and yet somehow immensely right, adding up to a total effect that was indescribable but powerful. This was how a town ought to look. High above it, like a crowning achievement, rose the towers of the cathedral, almost level with me; and above them, higher yet, the spires, so high that a man in them could look down upon the hillside where I stood.

  The more I saw, the more it intrigued me, one of the most beautiful places I’d ever encountered, on or off the Spiral, one of the most timeless. Yet there was bustle in the streets, clear even from here; and on the approach roads there were carts, farm carts by the look of them, plodding purposefully towards the walls. I crossed the stream, found the path and strode briskly downhill towards the nearest road. After a while, somehow, I was running.

  It was all downhill, of course, and by the time I reached the first road I was barely out of breath; all the same, that surprised me. I felt on top form, and the brisk walk then only set me up further. The road was empty, but it came to a crossroads, and there, as I puzzled over a signpost with a weathered inscription in old-fashioned Gothic fraktur, I heard a genial hail of, ‘Grüss Gott!’ The standard Bavarian greeting, so at least I knew where I was. It came from an approaching train of carts, from the old man driving the leader’s sturdy black-and-tan oxen, and the men and women riding on the carts behind, or strolling alongside, echoed it.

  I tossed the greeting back, adding that it was fine weather and were they going to town? They understood my German all right, and though they obviously knew I was a foreigner, by the care they took to speak clearly, they seemed to accept me quite naturally. I carefully didn’t ask too many questions; they didn’t ask me any at all. At other junctions we met other carts, some laden with crates and barrels as ours were, others full of what seemed to be grain sacks, and one with sides of beef. I was startled when one driver hailed us with a profuse babble of Italian, even more so when some young men driving sheep across another crossroads, away from the city, greeted us in broad yokel burrs – in English. The carters evidently understood, but they replied in what sounded like every language under the sun. I even thought I heard Romany.

  I was still chewing that one over when the road led us around a small copse of trees. Suddenly the town wall lay across the slope in front of us, irregular bastions of honey-coloured stone running at odd angles to accommodate the lie of the land, punctuated at intervals by all kinds of eccentric turrets, towers and pinnacles. The effect was pleasing, slightly comical, like one of those Victorian architectural follies; it took a second look to register just how formidable a proposition that wall would be, even for artillery. And the cathedral, or whatever it was in the centre, wasn’t funny at all; it was overwhelming. The road was leading us down to a tall gate, a high-crowned Gothic arch; it stood wide open, but on either side of the road there were men, armed men. Others looked down from the walls above.

  It was a bit hard to take them seriously, too. Their uniforms were just too bright, dark blue or scarlet dolmen jackets festooned with piping, tight white breeches, light blue sashes and high boots; their shako caps crowned longish hair and drooping moustaches. Their only arms were long swords at their sides and tall halberds, spear-tipped poleaxes – altogether the sort of display you only see nowadays in cheesy ceremonials. And they could hardly look more relaxed, lounging against the gate pillars, smoking stubby cigars and joking with the passing carters; but as I drew nearer I could see their eyes, clear and bright, flickering across everyone who passed. And I remembered that uniforms like that lingered because they’d been worn in longer, fiercer wars than any we’d had today. Wars that raged the length and breadth of Europe for decades, centuries, even; wars that had shaped Europe and its culture, for worse and better, the brightness as well as the savagery, Goethe and Hitler, Shakespeare and Vlad the Impaler. These men were like the wall; they were serious, all right.

  I wondered what they’d make of me, in my modern casuals and suede jacket. Without making it too obtrusive I hopped up between two carts, talking animatedly to their drivers as we trundled under the shadow of the arch. Wood drummed suddenly under our wheels, and high walls blotted out the light. There was an inner gate, with a drawbridge which could be slid back, leaving any intruder trapped beneath fire from above, and all of it in good repair. I bit my lip, wondering suddenly why I’d become so determined to get this close; there was nothing engaging about these businesslike defences. And yet even the gates were covered in ornamental ironwork, the drawbridge in elegant carving; and there was a sense of lofty power about the whole fortification, a pride in what it represented. Then the note of our wheels changed again; we were coming through the inner gate, and into the cobbled streets of the city.

  I looked around me, amazed and delighted. It was everything I’d seen from the meadow, and more. There were gardens and trees everywhere, broad airy streets and winding alleys that teased the eye, open squares that rested it. It was the kind of look town planners only manage in their drawings, but it didn’t look planned at all. My curiosit
y grew even fiercer; I slipped down from the cart and let the procession flow past me. That wasn’t the most sensible thing I could have done. We were through the gates, but still in eyeshot; and when I heard the curt challenge I knew exactly who it was meant for. I hadn’t fooled the guards at all. Those lynx eyes had spotted me, wondered, decided to see how I behaved, and at the first suspicious move—

  ‘Halt! Wer da?’

  I stood, irresolute, looking this way and that, as a pair of guards came trotting towards me, halberds lowered. Behind them a burly man in black with gold epaulettes jumped up, stared, half choked on his cigar and shouted, ‘Er! Aus dem Bergenpfad! Der Reiter, der Zauberer’s Kerl! Ergreifen Sie mir Dieser!’

  That was enough for me. The rider, the sorcerer’s man from the mountain path. An officer, he must have been aboard that airship and, of course, it must have come from here – and I was a lunatic to have ever blundered in. If I could only explain – but I didn’t fancy doing it in the hands of armed soldiers. That way everything sounds thin; and up there on the path they’d have shot me on sight. Would they even stop to listen here? I skidded around on the cobbles and bolted, right through my new friends and their carts and beyond, down the wide street that must surely lead towards the river and the heart of the town. Where else could I go? The gate would be barred, the alleyways a nightmare they’d know much better than I did. There was no way out, no way but deeper in.

  ‘Du da! Halt, oder ich schiesse!’

  They were bluffing. They’d better be, or they didn’t give a damn about hitting other people in this crowded street, children maybe. Somehow that didn’t square with the look of this place, and when no shots followed I wasn’t just glad for myself. One or two men moved out as if to stop me, but I was fast enough to dodge them; my trainers seemed to get a better grip on the cobbles than their boots. I ran and ran, but I thought as well; there was method in my madness now. That enormous building, that was where I was heading. If it was some kind of church or cathedral I might find sanctuary there, or at least get a chance to put my story to a priest first after I’d had a few minutes to collect my wits. Right now I couldn’t spare any.

  I was fit enough, but a fast mile or two weaving over cobbles is no joke, even when it’s downhill. With my ears roaring and my temples bulging I risked a look back. There were those bloody sentries, still thumping after me, though we were all going so slowly we might just as well have been walking. If I’d only had a moment I could have tried summoning my sword, the one remotely magical trick I’d ever picked up on the Spiral, and that by accident. But I hadn’t, and a sword would mean killing, almost inevitably; that would only get me into deeper trouble. I thought of ducking round a convenient corner and tripping or kicking my pursuers as they followed, only they might be wise to that one and then where would I be? Better if I could find a bench or some dustbins or something to tip in their path, but there were no benches in reach, nothing larger than a window-box, and for all its nineteeth-century look this was the tidiest city I’d ever seen. There was horse-dung on the main street, but not a lot, and the side-streets were immaculate. Maybe that was why all those gardens were so fertile. Nothing to do but keep going, anyway, and I was running out of slope. Where the hell was that cathedral? I forced myself to look up – and stopped dead in my tracks with utter astonishment.

  It was there, all right. It was everywhere, or so it seemed; even the distant mountain wall was less overwhelming. If it had been solid it would have been brutal, its shadow a sunless burden on the houses it fell across; but the stonework was so airy that it cast strange dappled patterns across roof and wall, a shifting lattice of light. I was almost level with its base now; a little way below me the street opened out into a wide space above the river, and from there a bridge, broad and level as an Autobahn, thrust out to the island it stood on. The sight of it spurred me on, and only just in time. Gaping had lost me my lead, the clumping boots were almost at my back. But I’d had a second to draw breath, and that pulled me ahead again; I had the heels of them, if nobody else stopped me. There didn’t seem to be any guards at this end of the bridge; the other – I’d just have to take my chances. Down into the square – a brief glimpse of other buildings, taller and nobler than the houses I’d passed through, buildings fit for palaces and parliaments and seats of learning – and then I was weaving among astonished-looking walkers to reach the bridge. Like the road it had no pavement, but its cobbles felt every bit as solid underfoot. It was only when I snatched another glance back, and saw the high bluff it came from and the cliffs falling away to the river, that I realized I was some two hundred feet in the air.

  Ahead of me was the island, the same height, and the foot of the cathedral walls – or was it a cathedral? The closer I got, the odder it looked; yet it had towers, spires, yes, and stained glass. What else could it be? Even the island setting was a bit like a gigantic version of Notre Dame, only there was a touch of the fortress about it which made me uneasy. The riverside cliffs were raw rock; those of the island were sheathed in smooth stone, broken only by the occasional tree-lined shelf and the broad stairways that ran between them. People walked there, or sat, as if they were just parks or pleasure gardens; but they would be marvellous fortifications. I ducked and ran between the passers-by on the bridge, and they stared at me but, like almost everyone else, they made no move to stop me. Could that mean the guards weren’t popular? It didn’t feel like that, either. The looks I intercepted were surprised, but neither hostile nor sympathetic; I didn’t see any judgement in them at all, only interest, even a rather distant kindness among older people.

  I was coming to the bridgehead now, and there were no guards, none at all. Only a broad path covered with grey flagstones, rather than cobbles, and the steps to the cathedral. The doors were immense, as tall as the city gates and as ornate, covered with one single complex design, and they stood slightly ajar, so only half the design was visible – a stylized bird, a dove gripping something in its foot; the proverbial olive-branch, maybe. That suited me. I bounded up those high steps as if there was no tomorrow, and heard a very satisfying crash as the leading guard came a cropper behind me. The steps were longer than they looked, but I got to the door, stumbling dazed against the iron-bound wood, and more or less fell in. I ought to have been croaking ‘Sanctuary!’ or ‘Haro, à l’aide, mon prince!’ or something of the sort; in truth I hadn’t the wind. I hobbled down a dressed-stone corridor which must have been the length of a normal cathedral in itself, towards the bluish light of an arch at its far end. I wasn’t too clear about the routine in this sort of business, but there ought to be an altar or something here I could fall on. I needed to fall on something, and it had better not be the font.

  There were openings, railed off, that might have been side-chapels. There were plaques and decorations on the wall; they looked old, and I wasn’t stopping to decipher them. Unless … No other feet. No other sound, even. Where were my guards? I looked around again, expecting them to charge through the great dark doors. They didn’t. That fall hadn’t taken care of them both, had it? Suddenly one of them peered round the door. He jerked his head back instantly, guilty as a schoolboy. It looked very much as if they weren’t allowed to come in here. So much the better, there might even be a convenient back door.

  But when I came to that arch I halted, and for a moment I forgot all about my pursuers, my exhaustion, thirst, everything. That was the effect of the place beyond. It was like a church, but it wasn’t. It was vast. I’d been inside Hagia Sophia, but this was larger, and emptier, a great dark oval of a hall encircled by a narrow colonnade, beneath whose roof I stood. Down below, at floor level, it lay mostly in a blue-tinged gloom relieved only by the faint gleam of glazed wall tiles; but immense windows were set high in the wall, and through them the light came pouring, great slanting beams that crowned the drifting dust motes with haloes, some clear, some stained gorgeous hues. Imagine yourself a church mouse, a real one, peering out of its hole. That’s about how big I felt.<
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  It wasn’t only the sheer size of the place. The Soviets built big, the Kremlin Hall for example, but that just showed up the little men in it. This place felt as if it was built for something bigger than men; and as if that something was still here. It had the awesome, numinous quality I’d felt in many places, in Core and Spiral both – an Anglo-Saxon barrow, the palace at Mykonos, the Borobodur, the Great Pyramid. This, though, this was stronger. A dusty veil of quiet hung about it, yet it was only the stillness of rest, not emptiness; and even the rest was watchful. My eyes were constantly darting from shadow to shadow, drawn by the illusion of swift movement; but there was never anything.

  I couldn’t figure out what this place could be for. There certainly wasn’t any altar. There was no sign of seating, no trappings of any kind, not even the inscriptions you find in the barest mosques, hardly a sign of human use at all. Yet as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I did make out other doors beneath the colonnades in the far walls; that was promising. And there were patterns of some sort, higher up the walls; frescoes probably, dim patches of sombre colours steeped in shadow. The floor wasn’t so barren, either; it was a mosaic. I thought uneasily of Lutz’s room, but this looked purely decorative, a stylized sunburst or a compass rose that drew the eye in towards the heart of the hall. There, just out of one great shaft of light, there was something, after all – low and shapeless, but the only thing outstanding in the whole vast emptiness. I took a tentative step forward, and my footfall boomed away into the heights of the dome, echo, echo, echo …

  I choked my heart back down my throat, and trod more softly. There should have been clouds of dust; there weren’t. My office didn’t get this clean. The dust was in the atmosphere, tiny particles of time swirling, never allowed to rest. I ought to be heading for one of those far doors; I wasn’t. I was curious, and maybe the key to the mystery of this place lay there at its heart.