Read Online The Left-Handed God by I. J. Parker - Free Book Online

about von Loe’s home. He had been dazed and sick from the blow to his head. It was a wonder he remembered anything at all. In any case, it would have to wait until he was well.
    His first struggle to stand‌—‌an effort that brought back an almost forgotten physical agony‌—‌also opened a mental wound. He had to come to grips with his deformity, the misshapen and awkwardly bent leg that could not be hidden in stockings and tight knee breeches. He was a freak in a world that valued physical beauty.
    Though he was still doing his best to avoid communication with the living, he could not escape the dead so easily. They came to him at night and haunted his dreams of childhood. His father would look with his blue eyes at the boy Franz, who had drummed too hard and too long on his little drum, and say gravely, “Careful, son, or you may lose your head.” And little Franz, in his Christmas Day finery, would answer, “I’m not afraid, Papa,” and drum some more. Papa would shake his head and keep shaking it until it flew away, a white-haired cannonball, and Franz would stumble around, searching among the bodies of the dead for his father’s head. When he finally found it, his father’s head perched on the body of the Prussian captain, who attacked him with a bloody sword. He would wake up screaming and lie, drenched in sweat, wondering if he would have killed his father or if his father would have slain him.
    Not all the dreams were the same, of course. Sometimes his father wore a hussar’s uniform and rode a big black horse, and Franz would raise his bare hands and cry, “Don’t kill me! It’s me, Franzerl.” And sometimes, most dreadful of all, he fought and killed Prussian soldiers who changed into Carl, the drummer boy, before he could stop himself. Then, when he went to kneel beside the boy’s severed head to ask his forgiveness, he saw that he was looking down at his own face.
    Speculum Hominis.
    *
    The city of Mannheim was laid out in a neat grid within the heavy fortifications that guarded the confluence of the Rhein and Main rivers. The palace of the Electors of Kurpfalz dominated the city as the cultural hub of the principality and strove mightily to equal Versailles.
    This night, in a steady, drizzling rain, carriages and sedan chairs waited outside the Hoftheater adjoining the palace. They carried away those who had attended the latest production of Olimpie , M. Voltaire’s tragedy, written specifically for Their Most Serene Highnesses, Karl Theodor and Elisabeth Augusta.
    It was close to midnight. One man, in a dark cloak and gold-trimmed cocked hat, emerged from a side door of the Hoftheater and hurried past a waiting carriage when its door opened and a familiar voice summoned, “ Herein !”
    The man inside was a power at court, and the pedestrian was the assassin.
    The great man clearly did not relish the meeting. He looked as if he had bitten into a lemon and wished to get this over with as quickly as possible.
    “You botched it,” he informed the assassin coldly as soon as he had climbed in and closed the door. “The letter exists.”
    “That cannot be, my lord. I made certain. Captain‌—‌”
    “No names or titles!” snapped the other.
    “Your pardon, sir. I’m a good shot, and I made sure afterward. He was dead. I searched him. Then I searched his quarters. There was nothing.”
    “He was able to pass it to another before he died.”
    The assassin drew in his breath sharply. He had thought himself safe. Months had passed without news. He had assumed that the unknown Austrian officer had been killed and the letter destroyed on the battlefield. “I don’t understand. How can this be?”
    “Because of your slovenly work. And don’t doubt for a moment that your life is lost if you cannot correct the mistake.”
    The assassin did not doubt it and found that his knees were shaking. He said fervently, “You may count on me, sir. It’s a matter of pride and honor. I did not miss