When the coffee was ready, she poured it into the pewter cups and handed one to Etzel. “To our glorious success!” she announced, offering her cup to be clinked.
“To our success!” cried Etzel gladly. “May it please God.”
“May it please God,” echoed Mina softly, almost to herself. And something in her stirred at the thought.
Together they sampled the freshly brewed coffee, and though Englebert wrinkled his nose and puckered his lips at his first taste of the steaming black, slightly oily liquid, Wilhelmina declared it a complete triumph. “I would happily pay a guldiner or two for this!” she proclaimed.
“It is very bitter,” observed Etzel doubtfully.
“Bitter is better,” Mina assured him. “Bitter wants sweet to complete it, and we will have sweet cakes and pastries to serve with the drink.”
“Ja,” agreed Etzel. “Something köstlich.”
“Exactly.” Charmed by the occasion, she leaned close and planted a ripe kiss on the rotund baker’s pink cheek. “For luck,” she said, laughing at his round-eyed surprise.
Next morning, they were both busy from before sunrise, preparing the equipment and utensils. When all was ready, Mina sent Etzel out to secure the services of an Ausrufer to alert everyone in the square that a new establishment had opened in their midst, bringing an exciting and exotic beverage to the city. She also applied her keen marketing mind to the problem of overcoming the natural reluctance of a very conservative population to try their singular product. This she did by preparing a tray of cups and a pitcher and sending Etzel out to give away free samples. Each person willing to try their brew was given a small wooden token good for another cup in the shop itself.
This proved to be a shrewd success and steered a steady stream of customers into the coffeehouse. A few of their first patrons had heard of this new drink and were more than willing to try it and buy a second, and even a third cup at Mina’s introductory rate of five Groschen a cup. Seven trays of samples went out that day, and thirty-three customers found their way through the door. By close of business, Mina had sold forty-seven cups of coffee, and all of the honey buns she had made.
“We did it!” she cried as a very weary Etzel closed the shutters and bolted the door. “We sold everything—all the coffee and all the pastries.”
“How much did we make?” he asked, sinking into an empty chair.
“By my best estimate,” she replied, “we almost broke even.”
His face puckered in thought, but he could not make any sense of the term. “What is this even breaking?”
“It means we almost reached the point where our profits equalled our expenses.”
“Oh, ja! Of course.” He was intimately familiar with the concept; he had just never heard it called by that term before. His face fell. “Then we failed to make any money.”
“Well, strictly speaking, yes,” Wilhelmina replied. “That’s true. But we didn’t set out to make a profit today.”
“No?” Worry wrinkled Etzel’s smooth brow.
The mystified expression on his face so touched her that she put a hand to his head and smoothed back his soft blond hair. “No, mien Schatz,” she said. “Not today. And not tomorrow, either. I intend to give away as much or more than we sell—for the first three days only. That way we can be sure that the word will spread and bring enough customers to the shop.”
He nodded. “This is a strange way to begin a business,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But there has never been a business like this in Prague. Think of that!”
She then busied herself cleaning up the kitchen and washing the cups, getting the shop ready for the next day’s trade. They ate a light supper and, before going to bed, Mina set another batch of dough to rise for the sweet buns. She went to sleep that night wondering if cinnamon was in any way obtainable in the city.
The next day’s trading was the same as the one before—only a little busier, with more people crowding into the shop. The tables filled up from midmorning to midafternoon, and Mina exhausted herself running from the stove to the grinder to the tables to care for her patrons. After so many days of inactivity, it felt good to see the little shop full of people, and she distinctly enjoyed watching her customers take their first experimental sip of this new and unknown liquor. Etzel did his stolid duty ferrying free cups of coffee out to the square to give away to townspeople, and directing the curious to the shop for more.
They ended the day tired, but delighted with the result: fifteen Groschen to the good.
The third day of the free samples turned out to be a roaring success. Almost from the moment they opened the doors, the customers started arriving—most were folks who had been lured through the doors on the first two days and came back for more, some of them bringing friends along to share Prague’s latest and quite possibly best innovation: fresh, hot coffee. Mina, despite anticipating a steady increase in trade, seriously underestimated the demand. The sweet buns sold out by midmorning, and the last of the roasted beans were gone well before closing time. When Etzel finally put up the shutters and locked the door, Mina picked up the cash box and shook it to hear the heavy clink of numerous coins.
She opened the box and peered inside to see nine Groschen, five Guldiners, and one whole Thaler. “Etzel, we are going to make a million Thalers,” she proclaimed, holding up the large silver coin. “And here is the first one!”
Etzel laughed. He had rarely heard anyone even breathe such a number aloud. “Then we will be the king and queen of Praha in our little Kaffeehaus.”
“Only one Kaffeehaus?” wondered Wilhelmina. “Why stop there? We are going to have at least six Kaffeehausen—and in München too. Better still—a baker’s dozen! Why not?”
“Why not?” echoed Englebert, gazing at her with something very like awe.
The next few days passed in a pleasant, albeit hectic blur of steam and sweat and long hours in the kitchen. Wilhelmina was used to the routine of a busy shop, and Englebert was no stranger to hard work. They knew one another’s strengths and preferences, and adapted accordingly. By the end of the week, they had strengthened an already formidable partnership—as well as a small but increasingly loyal clientele, of which their landlord Arnostovi was an enthusiastic and influential member. As a longtime property owner in the city, he had connections stretching both ways, high and low, throughout Prague society. It was he who began conducting his business affairs from the coffeehouse, bringing clients and potential partners in his various schemes to the shop to talk and negotiate over cups of black coffee and plates of pastry, cakes, and fruit breads, which Etzel excelled at producing.
Word spread like a contagion through the city.
Rumours abounded, drawing more and more people to the shop. The new brew was said to be an extremely effective stimulant, a brain tonic, a blood regulator, and an aid to digestion and curative for various stomach ailments. The bitter black liquor was even whispered to possess potent aphrodisiacal properties. All this hearsay was discussed in low tones over the steaming cups.
Mina, in a light and pleasant manner, encouraged all speculation as she went about serving the tables, chatting to her customers, learning their names and trades and personal tastes. She flitted about the room like an agreeable sprite, encouraging a hesitant first taste here, offering a free sample there, making sure everyone felt at ease and welcome in the cosy shop.
“We need more help,” Wilhelmina announced as Etzel locked the door one night.
“Ja,” he agreed, “this is just what I am thinking.”
“Also, we need more beans. We are almost out.”
Etzel frowned. “How much is left?”
“Two weeks—give or take a day or two.” She saw the frown deepen on his wide, good-natured face. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“This will not be so easy,” he said, reminding her how he had stumbled upon the beans by accident in the first place. “I think we must go to Venice, and that is very far away.”
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br /> “How far?”
He gave his round shoulders a heave. “A month—maybe two. I have never been there, so I cannot say.”
Mina’s eyebrows puckered with thought. “Obviously, we should have begun searching the moment we opened the shop. This requires a permanent solution,” she said, thinking aloud. “We need a steady supply. We must have a source.” She laid a finger to her lips and tapped lightly. “What we need is . . .”
“Arnostovi,” said Englebert. “He knows everyone. Maybe he knows someone who can get the Kaffee beans for us.”
“You are right,” affirmed Mina. “We shall ask him first thing tomorrow.”
The busy landlord was freshly installed at what had become his favourite table and the seat of his chair was not yet warm when Wilhelmina approached him with a gratis cup of coffee and a proposition. “How is trade?” asked the man of business.
“Better and better, Herr Arnostovi,” replied Mina, drawing up a chair herself, which caused the bushy Arnostovi eyebrows to raise in mild surprise. “In fact, business has been better than we anticipated. As you can imagine, this is not without its problems.”
“Good problems,” observed the landlord. “I always prefer this kind of problem over the other kind.”
“Indeed,” agreed Mina lightly. “Yet, problems must be solved nonetheless. For example, the beans we use to make the Kaffee are beginning to run low. Naturally, we must have more if we are to continue bringing our fashionable and highly successful new product to Praha.”
“Naturally,” confirmed Arnostovi cautiously. A master of many meetings like this, he recognized a preamble to a proposal when he heard one. “Pray, continue.”
“We would like to know if you know of any traders calling at Venice,” Mina told him. “That is the best place to get our supplies.”
Herr Arnostovi took a sip of his hot coffee and thought before answering. “Venice is very far away, Fräulein Wilhelmina. The only way is by sea, of course.”
“If you say so,” replied Mina.
“Alas, I know of no one who makes such journeys at the moment.”
“Oh.” Mina felt her hopes plummet. “I see.”
“However,” added Arnostovi, “I am not a man without some resources. It has been in my mind to acquire a participation in a merchant ship. If I were to do this, a journey to Venice for purposes of trade could be arranged.”
Mina bit her lip. She could feel the pinch coming. “Yes?”
“Of course,” proceeded the man of business, “I would require a substantial financial incentive to undertake such a venture.”
“I would have it no other way,” Wilhelmina assured him. “Providing, of course, that the necessary supplies reached us in a timely manner. We must have supplies soon.”
“How soon, Fräulein?”
“Two weeks,” Mina told him, “more or less.”
“That is not much time for such a journey.”
“No,” Mina allowed, “but there it is.”
“Then let us come to terms,” said the landlord, as the plan crystallised in his mind. “I will engage the ship at my own expense and obtain the supplies—not one time only, but in the future also as need requires. In return for this service, you will make me a partner in this Kaffee business of yours.”
“You want to be a partner?” Mina was already counting the cost of this proposal.
“Fifty-fifty.” Arnostovi watched her, stroking his pointed beard. “Well? What do you say?”
“Seventy-five—twenty-five,” countered Mina.
“Sixty-forty.” Arnostovi took another sip of the hot, oily liquid.
“Sixty-five—thirty-five,” said Mina, “but if I am to pay for the beans, then I also share in the profits from the ship.”
“No.” Arnostovi shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Of course, I can always send Englebert to Venice instead,” Mina reminded him. “It would take longer, but . . .”
“Two percent share,” conceded the landlord with a sigh.
“Five,” countered Wilhelmina.
“Three,” said Arnostovi, “and that is all.”
“After deducting all expenses.”
“As you say.”
“Also,” continued Mina smoothly, “we will receive a reduction in rent on this shop, and first pick of your other properties as and when they become available.”
This caused the Arnostovi eyebrows to jump once more. “Another shop?”
Wilhelmina gave him a solemn nod.
“Very well,” conceded Arnostovi. “You shall have this shop for half of what you pay now—which is little enough, I might add.”
“Nevertheless.”
“You are a shrewd woman of business, Miss Wilhelmina,” the landlord said approvingly. “We have an agreement.” He put down his cup and extended his hand. “We shake on this,” he said. “From this day forward, we are in the shipping business together.”
CHAPTER 18
In Which Arthur Meets an Avenging Angel
The two dockland roughnecks on either side of Arthur Flinders-Petrie maintained a powerful grip on his arms, which were bent painfully behind him as he was frog-marched from the House of Peace Inn and propelled down along a noisome alleyway that led to a derelict yard. Earl Burleigh followed a short distance behind to discourage any curious onlookers from becoming involved in the proceedings.
The unresisting captive was dragged into the centre of the yard. Arthur gazed around, searching in vain for a means of escape. There was none. The deserted patch of waste ground was surrounded on three sides by the blind backs of the buildings fronting the dock—storehouses, boat sheds, fishing huts, dilapidated dwellings—and on the fourth by the alley entrance. “What do you want from me?” Arthur demanded, looking from one to the other of his captors.
The answer came from Burleigh. “I’ve already told you, Arthur. I want to share in your discoveries. I want to learn your secrets.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he protested. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” replied Burleigh. “In any event, it doesn’t matter. Since you refuse to share, I have no alternative but to take it all for myself.”
“Let me go,” pleaded Arthur. “Hurting me will avail you nothing. I won’t tell you anything. Believe me, I will not be forced.”
“Oh, I do believe you,” answered Burleigh. “More’s the pity.” He nodded to his men.
The one on Arthur’s left reached behind him and produced a lumpy iron ball attached to a crude wooden handle, and the whole bound in boiled leather. In the same moment, the thug on the right drew a knife and gave Arthur a violent shove, sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled onto his knees and made to rise, but the cudgel came whistling through the air toward his head.
He jerked away.
The blow was haphazardly aimed and struck him a glancing blow on top of his shoulder. He gave a yelp and tried to pull free.
The cudgel whistled again and thudded into the back of his neck. A scarlet bloom erupted in his brain, and Arthur’s knees gave way and he slumped to the ground, writhing.
Burleigh moved to stand over him. “I tried reasoning with you, Arthur,” he said quietly. “We might have been friends.” He held out his hand, and the bully with the knife placed the blade in Burleigh’s palm.
“Please!” moaned Arthur through the roar of blood in his ears. He thrust out his hands to fend off the knife, but one of the brutes seized his wrists and yanked his arms over his head. “What are you going to do?”
Burleigh grabbed his shirt and slipped the tip of the knife through the fine fabric and gave a sharp upward stroke, narrowly missing his captive’s jaw. Two more rough slices and the shirtfront was cut away, baring Sir Arthur’s torso and revealing the swarm of curious tattoos inscribed there. Burleigh’s eyes narrowed with approval at the sight of his prize: dozens of small, finely etched glyphs of the most fantastic and cunning design, intricately picked out in indigo ink.
; Arthur saw the look and instantly realized what it meant. “No!” he yelled. “No! You can’t.”
“I assure you, sir, that I can,” countered Burleigh. “I’m the man with the knife.”
“Release me!” shouted Arthur, squirming in the grasp of his tormentors, who were now holding his limbs, stretching him out, and pinning him to the ground. Burleigh sketched a line along Arthur’s ribs with the tip of the knife. Blood began to trickle down his side. “You’re insane!”
“Not insane,” objected Burleigh calmly, drawing the knife up across the top of Sir Arthur’s chest along the collarbone. “Determined.”
“Agh!” screamed Arthur, trying to squirm free. “Help!”
“You will have to be quiet,” Burleigh told him. “And be still; I won’t have the map damaged.”
He gave a nod to the man at Arthur’s head, and the cudgel came down once more, with a thick and sickening crack. Arthur felt his slender hold on consciousness begin to slip. “It won’t do you any good,” Arthur murmured, black clouds of oblivion gathering before his eyes. “. . . You don’t know how to read it. . . .”
“I know a great deal more than you think,” replied Burleigh, with malice cold as the grave. The blade bit deep. “And I will simply learn the rest.”
Arthur screamed again and felt the icy sting of the blade slicing into his flesh.
His vision grew hazy and ethereal.
As if in a dream he saw the deadly club hover in the air above his head as Burleigh’s man took aim for the killing blow. It seemed to hang there for the longest moment. . . .
And then . . . Arthur could not be certain, for his mental acuity was occupied wholly with clinging to the last shreds of consciousness. But it seemed to him as if, inexplicably, the crude weapon jerked in the attacker’s hand and struck its wielder in the face with a force strong enough to shatter bone. The cudgel, which appeared to have taken on a life of its own, then whirled in the air, striking the second thug a wallop across the nose and continuing on its arc, narrowly missing Burleigh, who dodged aside just in time to avoid a blow that, had it connected with his temple, would have cracked his skull.
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