“I wonder who it is,” asked Sybilla.
“It’s a very nice horse,” replied Mary. “A merchant possibly traveling the pass? Although this is a little off the main road. It’s to the East of us, right?” She looked at the sun to gain her bearings.
Sybilla laughed gaily at her. “I have no sense of direction. Unless the sun is shining, I don’t know one direction from another. And even then, it’s a guess. I depend on the others to tell me the right way to go and concentrate on simply enjoying the journey. Like today. I told them to take me to the ski lodge, and we arrived. I don’t need to think about directions.”
Young Spotl piped up, ever helpful. “You are correct, mistress Mary. The main pass is less than a mile to the East.” He pointed off to his right. “There are a couple of paths to get to the main trail from here, although they are not well known. We use them for cattle and sheep.”
“Thank you, Matthias.”
They sat for a moment. The door to the hut opened, and the guard waved to them, signaling all clear. They tapped the horses in the ribs, and the animals leaned into the slope. Once they arrived, Mary hopped off, glad to be out of the saddle after an hour. Matthias took the horses around the side of the hut where the other animal was tethered, and grabbed the small feed bags from the saddles.
There was a set of logs laid into the dirt to form a sort of front porch, and the roof extended to cover it. The arched door was a little more ornate than what one would expect in a wilderness cabin, as it had a simple carved design that followed the peaked opening. It looked like it might have been re-purposed from somewhere else. As with most mountain cabins, there was no lock on the door, as it was here for anyone to use, particularly if you found yourself in dire straits. The mountains were dotted with such shelters. On the downslope side was a larger door for bringing a horse or other animals under roof.
Franz held the door open for them, and Sybilla entered first. Mary tried to enter last, but the troll firmly insisted she go first. She eased through, with the troll following closely, ducking his head. The door closed behind them.
There was a stone fireplace against the far wall, and in front of it stood a tall, angular man, wearing an elegant and well-appointed traveling cloak, a blade at his side. He held a large hat with three feathers, and his beard and mustache were neatly clipped and tended. He bowed deeply. “Good morning, Mary. It’s nice to see you again.” He straightened and tugged at his doublet to adjust the lines.
“Herr Hocholting –” Before she could reach for the Smith and Wesson, she found her arms pinned to her side by the troll. The other guard came to her, the familiar one. She realized why he looked familiar. The last time she had seen him, he had a beard and much longer hair, it was night, and he ran away with Hocholting.
He took her Smith and Wesson from her holster and handed it to Hocholting. Her heart was racing. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She glared at the guard. “It’s Fritz, isn’t it? Thought you looked familiar.”
He did not look at her face, or even acknowledge her. He crossed himself then began mumbling a prayer while he felt her waist, searching for an additional concealed weapon or slit in her skirt. She tried to kick him and was rewarded by being lifted bodily off the ground by the troll. Fritz caught her boot and removed a dagger from a sheath there. He continued to mumble a prayer. Mary pushed him away with her other foot while the Troll squeezed her arms. She kept kicking. “You’re hurting me, stop it!” Fritz handed the knife to Hocholting, which he looked at disdainfully and set aside. The Troll put her back on the ground. She wondered if he was mute, or incredibly strong, he didn’t even grunt when he set her down.
Hocholting was turning the revolver over in his hands, examining it by the firelight. “Fritz believes you to be a very powerful witch, Mary. The prayer protects him. We had a priest bless this mission and give us prayers to ward off your witchcraft.”
“I’m not a witch, Hocholting. You know that.”
He made a non-committal face and flavored it with a shrug. “That remains to be seen. You will need to be questioned, examined as it were. Examined without restrictions is one of the legal phrases. Then we can make a determination.” He pointed to Sybilla and Franz, standing in the corner. “They believe you to be a witch. Or a demon. Doesn’t really matter. Many other Fugger believe it. Enough to help with this little scheme. Is this all of the weapons she carries?”
Sybilla nodded tersely. Franz simply stared. Mary’s heart rate spiked.
“This weapon,” Hocholting held up the Smith and Wesson, “caused me much grief, Mistress Russo.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“Restrain her, I will not make that mistake again. She is a deadly thing.”
Fritz got out a small box from the shoulder bag he was carrying. In it was a thin leather strap, with salt clinging to it, and salt in the box. He began to mumble a prayer again while he tied her wrists in front of her. She tried to hold her wrists apart so there would be circulation, but the man was stronger, and the binding cut into her wrists. “Ouch! That hurts!” Fritz tied knot after knot after knot to secure her.
“The salt is to prevent you from using witchcraft to release the bindings,” explained Hocholting. “It’s thought this would be extremely painful for a witch.”
“It hurts because they are too tight. I will fall off the horse like this.”
Hocholting quirked his head to the side. “So we are going to ride, then? You have it figured out?”
“Of course. You're taking me back to Munich. Maximilian needs a confirmed witch, an up-time witch, to take the blame for his wife running off. You, through Grossembrot, are providing that with me. It’s a win-win for you. Grossembrot gets to kick dirt into the face of the Fugger, scores points with Maximilian, and Maximilian gets his scapegoat for his failed marriage.” Mary gave him her best sneer. “After all, the failed marriage couldn’t be the result of forcing a headstrong princess to marry her creepy old uncle, would it? That wouldn’t make her run away, not at all, so it must be witchcraft.” Mary sniffed and shook her head with disdain. “My mother always told me that men are fragile creatures.”
Hocholting glanced to Sybilla and to Franz, then back to Mary, obviously impressed. He gestured for her to continue “And the Fugger? What do they get?”
“Now that I am tied up, could this troll let go of me?”
Hocholting nodded to the big man. “Hans, you may let her go, she is just a girl without this.” He waved the revolver in the air, then tucked it into a leather bag on the floor and pushed it behind him. Out of reach. Mary followed it carefully with her eyes.
Mary turned and stepped to Sybilla, grinding her teeth in barely suppressed anger. “It must have been hard, pretending to like me these last four months.”
Sybilla laughed, edging back slightly. Franz eased over to protect her, and Mary shot him a contemptuous look.
“Hard? Not really. Not for me,” said Sybilla. She paused for a moment, considering. “There were times when it was sad. You are not an unpleasant person, Mary. Interesting, at times. Unbelievably stupid about how the world works, and yet, at the same time, so clever. It’s a shame you are what you are.” She brushed a curl out of her face and peered at Mary. “Tragic, really.” Sybilla raised a single eyebrow and looked Mary directly in the eyes.
Mary broke her eye contact with Sybilla, and took a step into the small room, taking her away from the door. She used the movement to twist the bindings on her wrists. They didn’t move at all, the grains of salt acting like an abrasive under the leather, cutting and burning. She winced as she turned to the Fugger. “You know they are going to use this against the family, against the Fugger. ‘Harboring a witch in Tyrol,’ they will say, ‘Spreading witchcraft and heresy, using magik to subvert, to make profit, the way they always have’. You know this, don’t you? It’s what will be said. It will be costly.”
“Mary, the Fugger are not a monolith. We don’t all think about money all the time. We
think about faith, tradition, and our position as leaders. We are not all money-grubbing Jews who wish for nothing but profit. Look to the Fuggerei in Augsburg for our magnanimity. Many will welcome this outcome, this return to correctness. We cannot become like you, we cannot be what you represent. To do so is to lose the world to Satan.”
Mary turned her attention to Franz. “Are you sure about this? Are you sure this is what you want to do, Franz?”
He sniffed at her, hands behind his back, ramrod straight. “Herr Hocholting, do we have to listen to this thing speak to us continually? Don’t you have some distance to cover before nightfall?...”
The door opened, and young Matthias stood there, looking at Mary. Puzzled.
Heads swiveled.
He saw her hands tied in front of her. Hocholting. Sybilla. He knew. His hand went to his knife on his belt.
“Matthias, run!” She looked into his eyes and watched as his boyish bravery turned to hard resolve. “Please, run…” she whispered, too late. The boy made the decision to fight, to rescue the girl. To be heroic. He drew his belt knife.
Hans, the troll, was on him in a second. He simply picked the boy up and slammed him into the heavy door frame. At the first impact Mary could see Matthias’ eyes roll back into his head, and his jaw slacken. He dropped the knife. Mary screamed. By the fourth impact, the doorframe was slick with his blood. Hair, bone, and blood spattered onto the stone wall.
He hung limp. Dead.
Holding Matthias out in front of him like a child with a stinky diaper, the troll opened the door with his foot, and carried the lifeless body out onto the porch. He dropped him onto the dirt, wiped his hands on a rag, and came back in, checking for blood on his clothing.
Hocholting looked at Hans somewhat distastefully. “Why was he here?”
Hans shrugged, and Fritz answered. “He always tags along with ’er –” he pointed to Mary “– I think he’s ’er familiar, he’s always following ’er like a puppy dog, even when he doesn’t have to. We tried to fool ’im, to make ’im stay behind.” He pointed to Sybilla. “I told ’er we might have to kill ’im.”
Mary took a step towards Sybilla, furious. Franz stepped between them. “You told him he could come along,” Mary spat. “You could have sent him back!”
Hocholting and Franz both looked at Sybilla. She shrugged. “It will make our story more believable. We were set upon here at the ski lodge, and the boy was killed in the struggle.”
Hocholting shook his head. “It’s unprofessional.” He made a circling signal with his hand. “Let’s get going, I want to be over the border into Bavaria by nightfall. Too much talking. We need to ride. We will take all of the horses.”
Sybilla made a noise of protest that was quelled by Hocholting’s impatient glare. “Well, I like that horse,” she huffed.
“You can have her back when you get to Munich in the next couple of weeks.” He tilted his head to Mary. “Let’s go. Now.”
They filed out of the hut. Mary paused at the lifeless form of Matthias as they made their way to the horses. “I’m sorry, Matthias.” She tried to reach down to him, to touch him, but the troll roughly dragged her away. She glared at him. The man had piggy eyes in a broad ruddy face with a flat nose, broken a dozen times. He sneered at her as he put her on her horse, tossing the feed bag aside. The horse jerked back, already nervous at the odor of blood.
Within a few minutes, they were all mounted and headed back down the mountain. Hocholting, leading the way, had the three horses from Matthias, Franz, and Sybilla tied to his saddle. Fritz rode next to Mary, and the murderous troll followed up in the rear. Fritz pointed down the hill and off to his left, and Hocholting turned in his saddle to listen. “There is a path which leads to the main trail near the bottom of the meadow. That leads up to the Achensee, and from there it is an easy ride over the frontier to Bavaria.”
Mary’s hands were still tightly bound, and she was losing feeling in her fingertips, which were now an ugly purple color and tingling. The men had tossed a cloak over her hands to hide the fact that she was tied up. “Please don’t shout at anyone, Mary,” Hocholting said. “I don’t want to have to kill some hapless traveler or merchant because you drew attention to yourself. You're responsible for enough death, don’t add more.”
She called him several rude names under her breath and forced herself to keep flexing her fingers to keep the blood flowing. She wasn’t sure it was working. She was numb below the wrists. She had to do something before her hands were completely useless, and soon.
Hocholting continued conversationally. “It took me a while to figure out what ‘don’t get in the car’ meant. It took quite a bit of research. So, this time, I made sure you ‘got in the car’.” He made air quotes with his fingers around the remark. “We had you get in all by yourself. Voluntarily.” He chuckled to himself, dusting off his doublet under his cloak. “You are a child, playing at adult games. These games have consequences. Real ones. As you are learning, I suspect. It’s a shame, really. You are quite clever, and with some proper education, you could have made a credible operative.” He looked at her for a reaction. She gave him none and stared straight ahead. He shrugged.
They rode down the meadow. Hocholting in smugness, towing the horses, and Mary in a dark silence. The ski lodge was out of sight as they entered the forest pathway. Now is the best time. Out of sight of Sybilla, and before my hands become worthless. Mary turned in her saddle. “Herr Hocholting. I have to attend to some physical duties.”
“What?”
“I have to relieve myself, Hocholting.”
“Ach! Women!” There was a pause as he pursed his lips. “Very well. We are not going to untie you, so you must make do. Fritz, help her down and take her behind a bush. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“Thank you, Herr Hocholting.” Mary managed to keep most of the ice out of her voice, and appear compliant.
“Make it quick.” He glanced at the sky, trying to estimate how much daylight they had left. “We will not be at the frontier until after nightfall as it is.” He adjusted his cloak across his shoulders, they had stopped in the shade where it was far cooler. The horses tied behind him snuffled for new grass at the edge of the path.
Fritz leapt down off his horse, tied it to some bushes, and helped her down. He crossed himself and began to mumble that prayer again. She glared at him. They made their way a few feet off the trail, with Mary leading the way. There was a large log lying at the side of the trial, it looked recently felled, at least three feet in diameter. They made their way around it. She really did have to pee, so she found a handy bush and simply squatted with her dress and shifts held away from her body. It was awkward with her wrists tied together and her fingers working poorly. Her back was turned to Fritz, who was still praying. Well Mary, your Dad always said the best defense is a good offense.
Also, fuck these guys.
“So, Fritz,” she said over her shoulder. “Did you kill Bertran? The big man on the trail, that night. The first time you tried to kidnap me?”
“Be quiet.” He continued his prayer.
“He was the younger man. Only twenty. Quiet fellow.”
A hesitation. “Just a job.” More mumbled prayer.
“Not to me.” Mary took a deep breath and began to straighten up. There was a soft, metallic snick-snack as she drew back the hammer on her .32 automatic. It had been concealed in a holster, strapped to her thigh. She called it her Lara Croft Tomb-Raider style holster, and only the maker of the holster, Mary, and Maria her chambermaid knew it existed. Secrets. So many secrets. Because of this kind of shit. It made her angry.
Her back to him, she pretended to stumble. She focused on breathing, staying as calm as possible, steady. Because the best defense… She held the small automatic in her hands and waited for him to come closer. Her grip was awkward and unsteady, fingers numb, her heart pounding. She only had one chance to get this right. He touched her elbow, and a wave of involuntary disgust washed
over her, unbidden with his touch. The image of Bertran lying dead in the coal cart came to mind.
She spun around, holding the gun close, and fired twice into the center of his chest. Crackcrack. She might have shouted at him. The range was point blank, so near and personal she felt a warm spray of blood from his wounds on her neck and jaw. They locked eyes for a moment, his wide from shock. Then he fell, like a wet rag doll at her feet. Not waiting to see if he was dead, she turned and ran towards the troll and Hocholting, the .32 clenched in front of her.
She burst out of the trees to find Hocholting trying to control his horse, plus the three others tied to his saddle. The sharp reports of the .32 were not a noise these horses were used to, and they were unhappy. Over three thousand pounds of unhappy. He would not be a factor in this fight for a moment as he struggled to get the animals under control. That gave her a little bit of time to deal with Hans, the troll.
The troll was to her left and had already dismounted from his horse. He was her priority. He was fast, big, and dangerous. And unfortunately, not stupid. He was standing behind his horse on the narrow trail, preventing her from getting a shot at him, crouching slightly, controlling his mount. She tried to go around him, to get an angle on him, and all he did was turn the horse, keeping it between them like a shield. She needed a clear shot, but at the same time could not risk getting too close to him. She had seen how quickly he killed young Matthias. If he got within five feet of Mary, she was in trouble. If he caught her, she was toast. He would either kill her outright, or she would be back on the horse and end up hanging by a strappado in a dungeon in Munich with Herr Dunkel. And that wasn’t going to happen. Ever.
“Get her!” shouted Hocholting. “I want her alive!” His horses continued to dance around. He produced a knife from his belt and started sawing at the leads to free the agitated horses.
Up-Time Pride and Down-Time Prejudice Page 37