Imperium Lupi Page 20

  Trying to free himself by burning his silk bonds on the campfire, Charlie couldn’t simultaneously play music with his legs. Released of the hero’s charms the spider ran after Charlie, but he hurriedly played on just in time, making the spider dance away across the screen. Charlie had to stop again to further burn his bonds away. The spider, at large, went after him a second time, only to be stopped yet again by the hypnotising music. The charade continued in ever-faster portions with the audience laughing all the way until, at last, Charlie burst out of his silken bonds, held a claw up to the spider’s eight-eyed face and indicated the confused fellow to turn round. He did so. Satisfied, Charlie kicked the spider up his bulbous behind to the sound of a loud drum beat, sending him head-first into the pot and rolling down the nearest hill. The shining imperium pearl rolled out of the villain’s pocket – spiders had pockets apparently – and Charlie picked it up, polished it off and hopped off into the grey sunset, though not before leaning on the encroaching vignette and proffering a cheeky wink to the audience.

  Many clapped and cheered, Rosalina amongst them.

  The next feature followed swiftly, the title of which jumped onto the screen with a bit of an incongruous jitter.

  ‘OUR HYENA FRIENDS’

  “Puh!” Uther scoffed, turning a few heads.

  The screen faded into a sunny scrubland, which panned across to a camp, with tents, a smouldering campfire and carts lashed to mighty horned beetles.

  After the establishing shot, the camera moved in and cut to a tribe of traditionally-dressed hyenas; the males standing about in knee-length sarongs of dazzling designs, spears in paw, bodies painted. Then to a mother in a shawl, with a braided mane and cubs about her. Then to old one stooped, over a fire.

  “Hyenas, beasts of the wilds, hunters, vagabonds,” said the narrator, in perfect Lupan; one imagined a dapper wolf or cat at the microphone though it could as easily be a puny mouse endowed with a profound voice. “Noble some call them, savages say others,” the narrator went on. “Either way our hyena friends remain tragically outside the circle of Lupan citizenship. The Matriarchs, the mothers of the tribes who command the respect of all hyenas, continue to hold back their own people in suffering and squalor.” The narrator chuckled patronisingly, “They say we are destroying the world! That we Lupans anger the gods; the Sun and the Wind and especially Mother Erde, by digging up her riches and plundering the wilds. Such outmoded superstitions stifle the hyenas, dooming their race to destitution and misery.”

  Shots of downtrodden hyena cubs and old folk followed, many clothed in mere shreds of tattered fabric, huddled around campfires and tents.

  The camera cut away to a row of shiny wooden buildings; a town so young the trees were mere saplings, with houses, a saloon, a park and even a motor car, all brand-new. New, yet Linus couldn’t help but notice the car looked old-fashioned, perhaps ten years old, what with its crank-shaft down front. Nobody made those anymore.

  “However, by the power of education and good old-fashioned charity,” the narrator said, “we Lupans persevere in bringing our naïve hyena brothers into the fold of civility, to give them a better life, a life of convenience and cleanliness powered by nature’s great gift – imperium.”

  To a perfect classroom, with rows of young hyenas at their desks, clean and tidy, diligently doing their sums.

  The narrator exalted the gifts of education bestowed upon them by wolfen charity as the teacher, not a hyena but a prim-looking wolfess in spectacles, pointed out the times table. The film was scratched and it jittered alarmingly, as if it had seen better days. Moreover the teacher’s clothing looked dated. Who wore blazers with lapels that size anymore, or glasses that large? Perhaps she was just frumpy.

  The camera cut to a particularly cute trio of hyena cubs sitting together at a table.

  “These little ‘warriors’ can all spell their names and count to ten already, thanks to Lupan charity,” the narrator patronised.

  A large and again rather dated microphone was held before the most self-assured and handsome-looking cub of the hyena trio. “Now then, little Nurka, can you count to ten for the beasts watching back in Lupa?”

  Nurka, who looked no older than six or seven, obliged quickly in his rough little hyena voice, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

  “Very good, Nurka! And what about your friend, Madou?”

  To the next hyena, smaller, shier but steady, “One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… and ten, sir.”

  “Good, Madou. And now you Themba, show the nice audience what you’ve learned.”

  The largest cub blew a raspberry, arms folding defiantly.

  “He’s got spirit, that one,” the narrator chuckled, as did many in the audience.

  The trio all beamed perfect smiles, showing off their impressive hyena dentition.

  Down below, Lorna melted at the sight. “Aww, ain’t they adorable?” she said to Uther.

  “Give ‘em ten years and they’ll be killers,” he growled.

  “You heard the film; they’re being ‘civilised’.”

  “Civilised?” Uther snarled. “So was the one that blew Rufus up this morning! One of us, he was, a hyena prince ‘en all, ‘civilised’ in a Howler Academy. Rufus was his friend, thumping trained him, even saved him from a sewer centipede, Ivan says. So what does the filthy, rotten, son of a maggot do? Turns round and throws a bomb in Rufe’s lap. That’s gratitude for yer!”

  Lorna raised a gloved paw to urge Uther to keep his voice down. Beasts looked at them and whispered, but soon settled again.

  Linus had watched the spectacle with little surprise; not many wolves had time for hyenas. Still, the re-education and integration programmes would do their work as with many a people before. By the next generation, the hyenas would be just another facet of the Lupan Republic and indistinguishable from the next civilised beast.

  With the propaganda out the way, news from the past week was up next. Linus read the papers and was up to date with events. Sure enough the news wasn’t news to him; there was a mention of a new imperium mine opening, with shots of lifts and veins of imperium; then an art museum exhibition being unveiled by some big-shot pig in a suit; and finally, and most interestingly, a bank robbery over in the Eisbrand territory that had escalated into a hostage situation. The Politzi had called in a Howler who had dealt out summary justice; discounting the robbers there were no casualties.

  “We spoke to the wolf of the hour as he left the scene of the crime,” said the speedy narrator.

  On-screen, a big Howler in a light grey surcoat – probably blue but there was no telling when everything was a shade of grey – was accosted by a reporter as he left a marbled building and strode to a parked monobike.

  “Beg your pardon, Howler, but what’s your name?” asked a bold rabbit correspondent, pushing a metallic microphone at the Howler’s grille-clad snout.

  “My name?” the Howler growled, the hilt of a big imperium sword shining at his back. “What for?”

  “You’re a hero, sir,” the rabbit insisted. “Say something to the good folks of Lupa, won’t you?”

  With a glance left and right, the Howler looked right into the camera with his striking eyes that were clearly of two different shades and said, “Be good, citizens.”

  Jumping on his monobike, he sped away, cloak fluttering.

  “Tristan,” Uther cackled, “you smooth-talking fleabag.”

  “You know him?” a surprised Lorna asked.

  “Yeah. He’s Ivan’s cousin. He’s all right.”

  Lorna hiked her blonde brow. “Fleabag passes as a compliment between Howlers these days, huh?”

  “It’s a term of endearment, Lorna.”

  Up next was a mention of a diplomatic visit to Felicia by representatives of the Den Fathers – every pack had their own Den Father, but they would never deign to travel across the Teich to Felicia themselves, of course, only their ambassadors were sent to sha
ke paws and smile for the cameras.

  A last piece of news was tacked on the end; Linus could see where it had been hurriedly inserted into the reel, for the film jittered for a split-second and some tape whizzed by.

  The piece began with beasts in a park, mothers pushing prams and young ones of many races playing on the swings.

  “A wonder of the imperium age has come to Lupa,” said a different, much livelier narrator, “To see it all you have to do is… look up!”

  The beasts in the park did indeed ‘look up’ and the camera cut to a great silvery lozenge with four fins and whirring propellers hovering over Lupa, like a giant fish.

  A dirigible!

  After shots of the airship from below came amazing views of Lupa from above, from the balloon’s gondola no doubt. The chaotic tangle of streets and buildings that were Lupa passed by far below. Chimney stacks belched smoke and vapour, carriages and buses navigated the roads like toys, and mighty imperium trains were reduced to scale models of the sort found in a grandfather’s cellar. Gardens were but the size of postage stamps and even a sprawling Howler Den, with its towers and walkways, appeared no more than an elaborate chocolate cake.

  “Oh, it’s making me all dizzy,” Rosalina giggled, covering her eyes. “Tell me when it’s over, Mr. Linus.”

  Mr. Linus was silent, transfixed by the sight of the airship hovering low over a crowd of on-lookers. Twenty beasts or so grabbed the dangling lines and pulled the ethereal behemoth to a stop.

  There followed a close-up of a cat in a long white coat and goggles standing on a stage, waving to the crowds.

  “What?” Linus woofed, pointing, “Uther, that’s Monty!”

  “Eh?”

  “The pilot, look! That’s Montague Buttle!”

  “Hah! So it is!”

  Lorna looked between them and elbowed Uther, “What’s he hollering about?”

  “Long story,” Uther replied, putting aside his spent pot of crickets and licking his sticky fingers clean. “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  The newsreel cut to Montague Buttle waving silently into the camera, backed by bombastic orchestration. He kept pointing at the sky, perhaps conveying, ‘Look up! Haha!’

  As the orchestra reached a crescendo, the stylised logo of an airship with six feline whiskers on its nose cone faded in. The title Buttle Skyways was stamped into the surround.

  So, that’s what Penny had meant by ‘promotional venture’.

  At long last, the film that everyone had paid to see started to roll. The credits came first, displayed on a painted background of sinister naked tree branches festooned with web, backed by thunder and lighting and all things ‘orror.

  Suddenly an orchestra strike, and a huge, hairy spider darted across the screen, momentarily filling the theatre with eight-legged terror! It was recorded to film, but real enough, unlike Charlie Cricket’s acetate-based cartoon nemesis. Some of the audience jumped, even screamed – Rosalina loudest of all. The same spider scuttled in from the other side of the projected image to much the same reaction as before.

  “It got me again!” Lorna woofed, paw to chest and giggling. She looked to an unresponsive Uther and found he had his paws cupped over his eyes. “Uther, whatcha doing?”

  Wild-heart snorted and rubbed his eyes. “Eh, what? Oh, just tired, is all. Gonna sneak a nap, I think.”

  “Nap? What about the film?”

  “Puh! Whatever. Wake me when it’s over.”

  “Well you’re no fun.”

  Settling down under Lorna’s frowning glare, Uther peeked through his squinting eyelids just as a third spider slowly crept onto the celluloid from above, thin, hairy legs waving with calculated creepiness this time.

  Sod that.

  Uther opened an ember, shut his eyes and prayed to Ulf this wasn’t a three-hour epic.

  *

  Someone rapped on Janoah’s door.

  “Come in,” she said, swivelling her seat away from the night time lights of Lupa.

  Vladimir, cloaked but without helmet, his inquisitorial black and white face plain to see. The big wolf strode into Janoah’s warm, fire-lit office and set a cardboard sting tube down on her polished desk without any of Linus’s hesitation.

  “There,” he said. “It wasn’t easy, but I got some.”

  Janoah eyed the wax-coated tube, puffed on her ember, then bluntly informed Vladimir that, “The boy’s dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “He tried to run,” Janoah explained. “Stepped out into the road and was crushed by a lorry. Just as well, really, he’d only have been sent down.”

  “Sent down?” Vladimir spluttered.

  “For murder. He bashed a Politzi’s head in, apparently. One of Werner’s; Denny or something. I dunno.”

  Once the news had sunk in, Vladimir cocked his head to one side and rumbled, “So what you’re telling me is, you’ve reneged on your end of the bargain.”

  “It was never guaranteed.”

  “You said-”

  “I said,” Janoah interjected firmly, “that if the boy turned out to be useless, I’d find some other way to recompense you.” She dipped her chin and tempered her tone, “He’s dead, my dear Vladimir, and therefore couldn’t be more useless. Though, if you want his corpse, by all means pop down to the morgue and take it. Compost him, for all I care; I know how you love your horticulture.”

  Vladimir turned his head to one side.

  Janoah went on, “No need to sulk. He wasn’t anything special anyway, just a pretty face.”

  “Says who?”

  “Werner.”

  “And since when was that corrupt hog any judge of a Howler’s potential?”

  “He knew this Bruno for ten years,” Janoah maintained. “He never saw any evidence of dodging or anything else. If he had he’d have reported it.”

  “Is that a fact?” Vladimir grunted.

  Shrugging, Janoah looked down at the file she had open on her desk. She took out the photo of Rufus sitting in the café’s bay window chatting to the strapping wolfen cook. “It was just a… silly infatuation,” she said, screwing the picture up and tossing it in the fire. “Anyway, if he had a corona it hardly matters now. We can’t induct the dead, Oromov.”

  Vladimir watched the photo shrivel and burn, along with any credit that may have come from adding such a splendid-looking wolf to Bloodfang’s ranks. There was no point crying about it.

  “I… hear Rufus is much improved,” he said, with a sniff.

  “Yes,” Janoah chirped. “I rather jumped the gun. He didn’t need any venom.”

  “Is that so?”

  “There’s life in those rotten bones yet.”

  Vladimir had to concede, “He’s an alpha male, despite all his indiscretions… if not because of them.”

  Janoah snorted, “Careful Vladimir, you’re dangerously close to complimenting him.”

  Vladimir tapped a finger on top of the sting, “Do you still want this or not?”

  Janoah looked down at it, then up at Vladimir. He was being strangely magnanimous, so Janoah played nice. “I suppose I can take it off your paws. Rufus may need it before long.”

  Vladimir smacked his lips. “Actually… I may have a use for it after all. No, I’ll keep it.”

  His sudden change of mind felt like teasing to Janoah, so she swiped back, “For yourself? You do look terrible.”

  Ignoring Janoah’s cheap jab, Vladimir tucked the sting away in his cloak pocket. “I will cover the cost of the venom, since it is mine now,” he assured her, stepping forth a little and leaning on the desk with one black and white paw, “However, I expect compensation after I stuck my neck out for you.”

  “Never fear,” Janoah replied at length, “I’ve a strong stomach.”

  Oromov weathered the blow. “Humph! You don’t fool me with your front, Janoah. You crave a Howler’s touch. You, one of the few still married to a fellow Howler, denied still…. How delectably ironic.” Slapping the desk with a paw, Vladimir tur
ned to leave, stipulating, “Come to my quarters, midnight tomorrow. You’ll enjoy yourself, I promise.”

  He walked to the door, silvery greaves rattling.

  “What about Noss?” Janoah asked after Vladimir, staying his paw on the door knob.

  “What of him?” he replied.

  “What’s Josef got out of him so far?”

  Vladimir took a deep breath, then said with a glance over his shoulder, “I’m surprised at you Janoah. Didn’t you hear?”

  “What?”

  “He died.”

  Janoah let out a tiny, incredulous gasp, “Noss?”

  “On the rack; he just… gave up.”

  On that disclosure Vladimir took his leave, abandoning Janoah to her thoughts.

  *

  The audience piled out the theatre doors into the night air, laughing and chatting, save Uther, who immediately peeled off to the right and broke out an ember. He took a nerve-calming puff as soon as possible, blowing orange-flavoured vapours to the wind.

  “Slow down, Uther!” Lorna laughed, exiting the theatre and joining him under the marquee. She glanced behind to check all was clear, then whispered, “Why didn’t you just say you’re scared of spiders?”

  Uther nearly fell over, “What? Who told you that? I’ll lamp ‘em the liars!”

  “Wild-heart, you had your peepers shut the whole time.”

  “I was sleeping!”

  Lorna dipped her chin and queried the proud Howler from under the brim of her fancy hat. “All through Rosa’s screamin’?”

  “All right, all right, so I hate ‘em!” Uther admitted. “Horrible, disgusting… ugh!”

  “You know they were just little ‘un’s made to look big-”

  “Little un’s are even worse than big un’s!”

  Lorna masked a snigger. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I was jumping all the way through that flick too.”

  “Yeah?” Uther said, relieved to hear it.

  “Who wasn’t? Linus aside; that cub’s not as soft as he looks. Must be his tough old Rostsonne blood, huh?”

  “Puh!”