The officer nodded curtly and glanced towards the worktable. Two strides took him to the chip-strewn surface and he brushed rock dust aside, examining the table’s contents. After a moment he pulled a scrap of parchment from beneath a handsome horse head sculpture.
“12 Chambers Street,” he read aloud, then tucked the scrap into his belt pouch. “Carrul, Nodren, Filbar, escort them to the jails. The rest of you, come with me.”
“I want to see that warehouse!” Alaric insisted, but the officer ignored him. Dietz, seeing the frustration on his employer’s face, knew he had to intervene.
“You should bring us along,” he mentioned quietly, and the officer paused to listen. “Keep your guards together, keep us under control, and we’re two more sets of eyes.” He shrugged. “Not exactly out of your way.” Which was true—Chambers Street was between them and the jails.
The officer hadn’t moved, and for an instant Dietz worried that the man was one of those who refused to take advice, even if it was good. But then he nodded. “We will all go together.” He held out his hand, and Carrul laid Alaric’s rapier in it. The officer nodded, slid the scabbard through his belt, and then turned and gestured towards the door.
“After you.”
“Well,” Alaric’s voice broke the silence. “Either we’re too early or we’re too late.” The words travelled easily across the wide floor of the warehouse, echoing slightly in the vast, empty chamber. They had found the place without difficulty and the door had been closed but not locked. Apparently the workers had not had time to secure it properly—crates and bales and barrels lay around the wide space inside, tools for sealing them and marking them nearby. It all had the signs of a hasty departure, and perhaps an involuntary one, judging from the overturned boxes against one wall and the ball of twine unspooled and tangled upon the floor beside a half-wrapped vase.
“Find the book,” Dietz suggested, earning him a nod from the officer and a blank look from Alaric. Of course his employer had never worked in a warehouse or unloaded freight, so he hadn’t known that every warehouse kept an inventory book. Everything entering or leaving the warehouse would have been recorded, along with a date, time, and destination or origin.
A moment later, one of the other guards—Nodren, possibly—came back with a large leather-bound book. The officer—whose name, they’d learned, was Herrer—set it down on an empty crate, opened the book, and began quickly flipping through it. When he growled in frustration both Dietz and Alaric crowded closer.
“This entry is from two weeks ago,” Herrer explained, pointing at the left-hand page before him. “This entry,” his hand jabbed at the right-hang page, “is from two days ago.”
Alaric looked at the seam of the book and immediately saw loose threads and shreds of paper. “The pages have been torn out,” he observed. “But why?”
“To keep anyone from reading them,” Herrer guessed. “This way we cannot be sure when the statues arrived or where they went. We cannot pursue them further.”
Dietz had been only half-watching the exchange. A faint noise had distracted him, and now he tilted his head trying to hear it more closely. It was almost like—
“Someone’s in here,” he announced, and the guards flanking him immediately dropped his arms and stepped away, hands on their blades, eyes searching the rafters and corners for an ambush.
“Who’s there?” Herrer demanded, his own blade half-drawn. “Show yourself!”
After a moment Dietz heard the sound again, slightly louder. It swelled further, and then a small, stooped figure appeared from the far end of the warehouse.
“Who’s there?” a voice called out—that and the way it moved told Dietz it was an older man approaching them. “Damn fools, making too much noise,” he added under his breath, obviously not realising they could hear him. “You’ll scare them all away.” Those mutterings had been in the trade tongue, and Dietz saw at a glance that the others did not recognise it, which was no surprise—they’d have no need for it. He had spent his youth carrying messages for the guild, however, and still remembered the tongue.
“He’s talking in trade-speak,” he explained to Herrer quietly. “I can speak it. Let me talk to him.”
Herrer nodded curtly, not needing to point out how closely they’d be watching him, and the guards stepped back to give him more space. Alaric was watching eagerly, clearly delighted at the chance to hear more of an unfamiliar language, even if it was still in use.
“We don’t mean any harm,” Dietz called out in trade-speak, stepping forward to escape the guards’ shadows. “We were looking for something that was delivered here.”
“Eh?” Now the man was close enough, they saw he was old indeed, with pale yellowing skin hanging loose on his frame and a few wisps of thin grey hair bushed back over large red ears. His clothes were loose and ragged, though still serviceable, and he carried a wicked-looking knife at his belt and a small, tight-knit net in one hand. His eyes were crafty but unfocussed, and Dietz knew at once the sort of man he was. He had met enough of them over the years, men who had once been sharp, but had since grown so addled they could handle only simple tasks. Still, the man was here and might prove useful.
“My name is Dietz,” he called out, taking another step forward and holding both hands up slightly to show he was unarmed, “and yours?”
“Franz,” the older man grunted, stopping a few paces away. “Ye’ll upset the rats, you will, stomping about like that.”
“Sorry.” Now he understood the net. “Have you caught many tonight?”
“Aye, three big ’uns,” Franz announced proudly, patting a bulging, squirming bag at his side—its underside was wet, and sticky drops fell to floor. “Haven’t found the nest yet, but I will.”
“I’m sure you will,” Dietz agreed. “We’re looking for some packages. Three of them, large and heavy, well wrapped. They’d have come in some time these past two weeks. Have you seen them?”
“Packages?” Franz peered at him, and at the men behind him. “Heh, what’re guards wanting with packages, then? Is he in trouble?” A bony finger jabbed in Alaric’s direction, where his finery stood out among the guards’ armour.
“Could be,” Dietz admitted, “if we can’t find the packages. Do you remember any?”
“Don’t notice much,” the old man told him. “Too busy with the rats. Cleanest warehouse in the district,” he added proudly, “on account o’ me traps and nets.” Then he scowled. “If’n I could just find that nest!”
Dietz started to turn away, sure he’d not gain anything more from the man, when an idea hit him. “These packages were large,” he mentioned again, “and the man delivering them as well. Heavy footsteps and heavy objects—the rats would’ve scurried away like mad.” When he saw the gleam in the ratcatcher’s eyes he almost shouted, but contained himself: best not to show how important this was.
“Oh, that ’un,” Franz muttered darkly. “Great bear of a man, he was, red and grey, stomping about and talking so loud I couldn’t catch a one of ’em!” He glared at Dietz as if he had caused those intrusions personally.
“That’s the one,” Dietz agreed, grinning. “Wouldn’t know stealth if it bit him,” which was true enough, and won a chuckle from Franz. He could hear Alaric behind him, repeating the words quietly, trying to commit them to memory. “When was he here?”
“Three days ago, last,” Franz replied after a moment, idly scratching his stubbled chin. “An’ another three or four before that, and the same before that.”
“Any idea where the packages went?”
Franz snorted at that. “Packages? You might as well call ’em boulders, that’d be closer to the truth.” He scratched again. “Aye, the wagons creaked fit to burst with those, they did.”
Now they were getting somewhere! Dietz forced his voice to stay calm. “What wagons?”
The old man looked at him as if he were the daft one. “Metzer’s, o’ course, what else? Sent his heaviest wagon each time and still ba
rely held ’em.”
Dietz nodded. Jurgin Metzer ran a livery a few blocks away—he vaguely remembered the place, and its owner as well.
“Thanks,” he told Franz. “We’ll try not to make too much noise when leaving.”
The ratcatcher grunted his thanks. “Get going, and take them with ya,” he said, stroking the bag at his side. “Nest’s here somewhere and I aim to find it!”
While Franz wandered away, glaring into the shadows and stooping to study likely spots along the walls, Dietz related the conversation. Alaric, he could tell, was dying to ask translations of specific words, but Herrer was more interested in the content.
“I know Metzer,” he admitted. “We’ll ask him about these shipments.” Then he gave Dietz another grudging nod. “You did well. I’ll put that in my report.”
“Thanks.” Dietz knew all too well that, if the witch hunters wanted to find him guilty, the officer’s report would mean nothing. Still, it couldn’t hurt.
“Course I remember them,” Jurgin Metzer said when Herrer asked him about the packages. “Great massive things, solid stone—had to reinforce the axles just to bear the weight.”
Metzer looked much as Dietz remembered him, a short stout man with a thick moustache on the verge of turning from brown to blond, and no hair atop his head, but a thick red-brown braid in back. He’d given Dietz a nod of recognition when they’d arrived, and if he wondered about the armed guards he didn’t ask.
“Who paid for them?” Herrer demanded, and Jurgin produced an inventory book much like the one at the warehouse. This one had no missing pages, however, and he thumbed through it quickly, finally stopping on one page.
“Right,” he said, reading quickly. “Wilfen von Glaucht. Placed the order five weeks ago. Four deliveries, same size and weight. Though I think he underestimated the weight. Damn near killed my horses, they did.”
“Where did the packages go?”
Jurgin consulted the book again. “First one to the foot of the Howling Hills. Second one out into Reikland. Third one up into Black Fire Pass.” He looked up. “Strange locations, but he paid well and in advance. Didn’t have to meet anyone with them, either—just drop them there and head on back.” He frowned. “Fourth one hasn’t shown up at the warehouse yet—they’ll let me know when it does.”
“It won’t,” Herrer informed him curtly. “It has been confiscated, and the mason taken into custody. I will need a copy of the information for the other three.”
Jurgin wrote it out without a word and handed it over.
“You may be called upon for questioning,” Herrer mentioned, and the livery master’s face went pale, but he didn’t protest. There was no point.
“Now you know where they were sent,” Alaric pointed out as they left the livery, “and the orders were placed weeks ago, long before we arrived. Surely there’s no reason to detain us further?”
That earned him another of Herrer’s frowns—Dietz doubted the officer ever smiled. “You could have been working with accomplices,” he pointed out, “arriving late to establish your innocence. No, we will leave it to the witch hunters.”
Very little was said after that.
CHAPTER THREE
It was a long, unpleasant night. When Dietz had been younger he had often aided his brothers Darulf and Darhun with pranks and petty thefts. Once they had been caught and had spent the night in the city jail. It was even worse now than Dietz remembered, filthy and stale and sour, each cell jammed with occupants. They had slept very little and were relieved when the guards came to escort them out early the next morning. At least until they stepped outside and the guards handed them over to several other men; men wearing the wide-brimmed hats, black breastplates and long black cloaks of the witch hunters. The men led them towards the palace itself, and with each step Dietz’s concerns mounted. In his experience attracting attention from those in power was never a good thing.
Alaric, however, was not worried. “We’ll soon have this sorted out,” he assured Dietz as they followed their new guards. He had been sure their case would be shunted off to some minor functionary who would not care about their innocence, but clearly someone had recognised their importance, since they were being conveyed to the impressive building before them. As they mounted the wide stone steps, Dietz examined his clothing, doing his best to brush away the dirt from their short incarceration, and he smoothed his hair as much as possible, regretting the absence of his cloak and his rapier.
Their escort hurried them into the building, down the wide stone hall, up a broad staircase, and at last through a pair of gilded, ornately carved doors. The witch hunters paused just inside the threshold and all but hurled Alaric and Dietz before them, using enough force to send the pair crashing to the floor, where they lay stunned for a moment on the inlaid tilework.
“What have we here?” The voice carried, cutting them where they lay, and Dietz raised his head enough to look around. The sight before him made him wish he could sink through the floor. They were in a large, handsome room, its walls covered in rich brocade hangings, and its vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of Ulric and the other gods at play.
Heavy curtains were pulled back, allowing light to pour through the large windows along one wall, and against the opposite wall was a low stone platform. A heavy golden throne sat at its centre, and a second chair, handsomely carved in gilded wood, had been set beside it. Despite the splendour of the surroundings, it was less the furnishings than the occupants that made Dietz blanch. For sitting on the throne was a stout man with a square, red-cheeked face and wispy blond hair, but ice-cold blue eyes—Boris Todbringer. Elector Count Boris Todbringer, ruler of Middenland.
Beside him was a tall, narrow man with sharp features and limp black hair—Dietz did not recognise him, but the man’s armour, cloak, and silver-encircled black hat showed him to be a senior witch hunter, most likely a witch hunter captain. They were in the presence of two of the most powerful men in the entire province, possibly the Empire. To make matters far worse, Alaric was already getting to his feet.
“Ah, good, an audience at last,” Alaric stated, making one last attempt to straighten his clothes. Then, giving them up as a bad job, he bowed towards the two men. “Alaric von Jungfreud, at your service,” he gestured to his side, “and this is my companion, Dietrich Froebel. I appreciate your seeing us so promptly, and I assure you that we will not take up much of your valuable time. Now then, I think it would be best…”
“Silence!” the man beside Todbringer snapped, his sharp tone cutting Alaric off neatly and leaving him staring, clearly offended and more than a little startled. “This is not an audience. It is a trial! You and your companion have been accused of treachery, of conspiracy, and of consorting with Chaos! How do you plead?”
“What?” Alaric glanced around and noticed for the first time that, rather than courtiers, the room was filled with more of those same sinister men who had accompanied them here. Right, he decided, time to set aside the niceties. “This is preposterous!” he replied coldly. “We are innocent, of course. It was only through our actions that your men learned of the danger at all! Yes yes, I know,” he said loudly, cutting off the thin man before he could speak. “We could have arranged that to conceal our own involvement. The guard captain suggested as much, but surely we would have known that you would see through such an obvious lie? Surely we would realise that you could not be fooled by so transparent a ploy?” As he’d hoped, the man sat back, a proud smile flashing across his lips as he accepted the compliments. This, Alaric thought to himself, would be far easier than debating the merits of the ancient trade routes with Professor Untegaar.
Dietz had finally stood up, but kept back a pace, watching Alaric work. He had to admit, he was impressed again—his employer often seemed a flighty young noble, but he could become intensely focussed when necessary, and he was still the most intelligent man Dietz had ever met. Right now, he was relating the incident to the men on the platform, which gave Dietz himse
lf a chance to glance around a little. The one thing that struck him most forcefully was a clear absence.
There were no priests of Ulric present.
For that matter, since they had been accused of heresy, their trial should have taken place in the Great Temple and been overseen by a priest, if not the Ar-Ulric himself. The fact that they were here in the palace, being accused by a witch hunter captain and the elector count, made no sense.
“…and that is the extent of our involvement,” Alaric concluded with a second bow. “Of course your men apprehended us, a perfectly understandable precaution, but I think I have explained our presence adequately, and a simple check can verify when we entered the city and that we have been absent many months. I can also provide several character references, both here and in Altdorf, to verify that we are men of our word and loyal citizens of the Empire.”
“An impressive recitation,” the thin man acknowledged coldly after a moment, “but it does nothing to disprove your guilt. The servants of Chaos are cunning, and often conceal their true natures for years before daring to strike. You set these plans in motion during a previous visit to our city, or through intermediaries, and expected them to be finished by the time you returned.”
“Yes, but why weren’t they, then?” Alaric responded. “If I had planned this all so carefully, why was the last statue still sitting there when I arrived? Why not have it delivered to the warehouse like the other three and carted off by a wagon as they were? Why run the risk of being associated with it at all? You have a very low opinion of my so-called cunning if you believe I would be so careless.”
Todbringer leaned over and muttered something to the thin man, who whispered a reply. Alaric was too far away to hear what they said, but Dietz, who was a few steps behind him, could hear clearly—not the two of them, but the witch hunters guarding the door behind him.
[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon Page 4