Finally recovered, Alaric shook his head. “The witch hunters? Why would they care about this?”
“They care about everything,” Rolf’s widow replied. “They are the real power in Middenheim now and their eyes are everywhere.” She shook her head and her hands tightened around the book held to her chest. “Once they were cautious in their accusations, never attacking a man until they had proof of his wrongdoing. Not so now. Ever since the siege they’ve grown bolder, more aggressive, and more eager to feed the flames with human flesh.” She sniffed again to hold back tears. “That’s why they took my Rolf. He’d been tricked into carving those monstrosities, but the witch hunters refused to believe that. Said he’d been a willing participant. They’d no proof of that, none, but the elector count does as they say, and the White Wolves hide in their citadel and let those fanatics slaughter innocents by the dozen.” She shuddered. “We withstood all the forces of Chaos before, but now our streets run red with blood and it’s all let by men of the Empire.”
“It’s not safe to talk of such things,” the youth cautioned with a quick glance to Alaric, who raised his hands.
“I’ll not repeat it,” he assured them, earning a grateful glance from both. Inside he was trying to reconcile what they’d said with what he knew of the witch hunters, particularly Kleiber. The man was a fanatic, certainly, and eager to slaughter enemies of the Empire, but he had never struck Alaric as unjust. Was he merely the exception? Or was it only because they had come to know Kleiber as a person, and he them?
“Will you keep the shop?” he asked them, more as a way to bring the conversation to safer ground, but Rolf’s son shook his head.
“I work in wood, not stone,” he said, not without a touch of pride. “My shop is two streets over.” He glanced around them at the carvings everywhere. “We’ll sell what we can of the work, and then sell the shop itself. I know a man who offered to buy my father’s tools as well.” He smiled a small, sad smile. “If there’s ought here you’d like for yourself, please take it. My father spoke highly of you, and tell Dietz I said hello—he and I knew each other as boys.”
“I will, thank you,” Alaric replied, “and thank you for the offer, but I’ve no place to stand such fine pieces as these.” He paused for a moment. “May I have a last look around, though?”
“Of course.”
He left them to their cleaning and sorting, and wandered the twisting paths through the shop, running his fingers along various statues and pedestals as he walked. It seemed impossible this could be the last time he would squeeze through these crowded aisles or sidle by looming stone figures. Even though Dietz had introduced him to Rolf only a year ago, they had been in this shop many times since. Alaric felt he knew its layout as well as any place in Middenheim, perhaps better than any place at all save only the family manse and the University of Altdorf’s scholarly halls.
As he wandered, thinking back over his previous visits, Alaric found himself drifting towards the shop’s far corner. Finally he stopped, unable to proceed any farther. He was facing the corner itself and on either side were statues of winged horses, armoured warriors and majestic wolves, all carved from the pale grey granite so common here. Directly before him was a gap through which he could see the heavy stone of the walls themselves and he nodded sadly. Even now he remembered quite clearly what had stood here before.
“I am glad to see that piece gone, at least,” he remarked after making his way back to the worktable. Rolf’s widow and son were still there, the one still examining the ledger and the other wrapping a small figurine that had been sitting on a shelf just above.
“Which piece is that?” the youth asked, not even looking up from his task.
“The statue, of course,” Alaric said, and then continued when both of them glanced over at him as if expecting more. “The corrupted statue, the one that started all this; I gather the witch hunters came for it?”
“Witch hunters! Feh!” Rolf’s widow spat to one side, her face twisted in a grimace. “They’ve not set foot in here since hauling my husband off to his death, and I’d not allow them entry if they tried!” Her son nodded, his own face hard and looking more like his father’s as a result.
Alaric frowned as her words struck him. “The witch hunters didn’t take him,” he corrected softly. “The city guard did that and then gave him to the witch hunters for trial. You’re saying they’ve never been in here, the witch hunters?” The widow and her son both shook their heads, her vehemently. “The city guard, then? They confiscated the statue?”
“They haven’t dared show their face here,” Rolf’s son contested. “They knew my father would have no traffic with such things yet they left him to the witch hunters’ lies.”
Now Alaric was puzzled and a bit alarmed. “Where is the statue, then? If the guard didn’t take it and the witch hunters didn’t destroy it, what happened to it?”
Struber had said nothing about the statue, but then the count’s aide had said very little at all. Alaric had found him without difficulty and had reported the success of their mission—it had taken Struber a moment and several reminders before he had remembered the matter at all.
“Ah yes,” was all he’d said after Alaric had described the particulars a third time, “those dreadful statues. Didn’t you have another man with you?”
“Several,” Alaric had replied with a sigh, “including a witch hunter, an explorer, a trader, and a unit of the count’s own guard.”
“Ah, that would be Sergeant Holst?” Struber had asked, showing real interest for the first time. “Fine man, fine. Has he returned with you?”
“No, he is still in the Black Fire Pass, assisting the commander there in destroying the last of an orc warband.” Alaric had gestured towards the folded parchment Struber held absently. “His report is there, in your hand.”
“Is it?” Struber had blinked at the paper as if surprised to see it there. “Yes, yes, very good. And the mission went well? The statues were all recovered?”
“Destroyed.” Alaric had found it harder and harder to maintain a civil tone. “They were destroyed, yes. It was a complete success.”
“Excellent, excellent.” Struber had looked past Alaric, his voice trailing off, hands still holding Holst’s report, and for a moment Alaric had feared the aide had fallen asleep with his eyes open. After a full minute of silence he had coughed lightly and Struber had started and focused upon him again.
“Yes, was there anything else?”
“No, nothing else.” Alaric had left then, relieved that apparently it was over, but somehow feeling annoyed there had not been more resolution. Perhaps if Struber had at least remembered where they’d gone and why it might have helped. Thinking back on it now the aide clearly had no idea what he’d been talking about. He hadn’t mentioned the first statue or its later destruction, but that was hardly surprising—even if it had been destroyed Struber either wouldn’t have known or would have known at one time, but forgotten about it shortly after.
Rolf’s widow was frowning now as well. “I’d thought they’d taken it when they took my husband,” she admitted.
Alaric shook his head. “No, they arrested him and said they would confiscate and destroy the statue.” He shrugged. “Perhaps they did come back for it that night. I was otherwise occupied.”
“No one came that night,” Rolf’s son contributed. “I closed up the shop after I heard about the arrest.” He stopped to think. “There was a man the next day, however, said he was here to claim a piece my father had done for him.” He shrugged. “The man had his receipt in my father’s hand so I saw no reason not to complete the sale.” He smiled. “My father would have approved of that—he hated loose ends.”
“Did he arrive alone?” Alaric asked.
“No, he brought several men with him and had a sturdy wagon just outside. He needed it, too—the piece was taller than me and solid.” Now his frown deepened into a scowl. “I thought the piece unfinished at first, since it had no clear
features, but as I looked I could make out more detail. They covered it with a cloth, to protect it, I suppose.”
Alaric had gone past puzzled and into worried. “Do you know the man’s name?” he asked, trying to shake the chill that had gripped him.
“I cannot remember it,” Rolf’s son admitted, “but I put the receipt there.” He pointed to the ledger his mother held, and she handed the book to him. He turned to the last page and pulled out a folded paper stuck between the binding and the endpapers. “Here it is.” He handed the sheet to Alaric, who carefully unfolded it.
“One statue, part of a matched set of four,” he read softly. “Commissioned by—” he paused, and then read it again. “Wilfen von Glaucht.”
“Taal’s teeth,” he muttered, and then glanced up at Rolf’s son, who was watching him closely. “When was this?”
“The next day, as I said,” the youth replied. “Right at dawn, why?”
Alaric shook his head, turned to go, and then stopped. “Can I keep this?” he asked, waving the receipt.
“If you like,” Rolf’s widow told him. “We’ve no need of it.”
“Thank you, and I am truly sorry for your loss,” Alaric told them. Then, clutching the casket under one arm, and still holding the receipt in his other hand, he headed for the door. He barely glanced about him as he walked.
Wilfen von Glaucht! That was the name used by the man who had commissioned the statues! And he had claimed the first one—really the fourth and final one—the day after they had seen it. The day after Rolf had been arrested. The same day they had spent locked in a jail cell.
That meant that one of the four statues had not yet been destroyed, and its creator, the man behind all this, had retrieved it even before he, Dietz and the others had left to find and destroy its counterparts.
All this time they had thought they had only three statues to find and dispatch. In fact they’d had four, and the fourth one was now loose somewhere in Middenheim, assuming it had not been carried beyond the city already. Wherever it was, it had been there for months while they traipsed around the Empire, probably drawing power the entire time.
He had to find Dietz.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dietz walked slowly through Middenheim’s streets, in no hurry to be anywhere. The afternoon and evening had gone as well as could be expected.
He had called on Dracht first, thinking to get the worst part out of the way. His brother had been at the shop that had been their father’s and it still looked the same: neat and tidy, and prosperous. Dracht himself looked much the same as well, though his hair was thinner and more grey than black, and his face was more lined—Dietz had pretended not to notice his older brother’s right leg, which ended just above the knee. They had never been close and the visit was more a formality than anything else.
Next Dietz had gone to see Dagmar and their father, which was far more pleasant. They still lived in the small, tidy house his father had purchased when first starting the family. His father was blind, as he had been since Dietz had first reached manhood, and Dagmar cared for him—lovely, sweet Dagmar who could have had men waiting on her instead of the other way around. She had been thrilled to see him, as she always was, and over dinner he had regaled them all with stories of his adventures. His father had listened and nodded. Dracht had clearly not cared, but Dagmar had hung on every word. Before Dietz left he begged her to come with him, as he always did, but she refused. It was Dracht’s responsibility to care for their father, but he claimed his house was barely large enough for his own family, with no room for the old man, and Dagmar was too dutiful to leave their father alone. Dietz sent money when he could, but he wished there was more he could do.
As he pondered the problem Dietz noticed a man turning the corner a few blocks away, a large heavy-set fellow in a long cloak and a velvet cap. For an instant he wondered why it seemed so familiar and then his mind snapped from the past back to the present and he remembered.
“Fastred!” The man was already around the corner and Dietz ran to catch up. “Fastred, wait! It’s me, Dietz!”
As he barrelled down the street Dietz passed a large building with a worn wooden plaque on the door and realised it was the Middenheim office for the Guild of Explorers. He had come here once with Alaric and was surprised to see just how far his wanderings had taken him. Fastred had said earlier that he planned to enjoy the guild office’s comforts—why then was he leaving?
Still running, Dietz reached the corner and skidded around it, catching a glimpse of the man up ahead. “Fastred!” he called again, but the distance was too great. Even as he watched, the man pulled off his cap and tugged up a hood attached to the cloak, covering his head completely.
This was getting stranger and stranger, Dietz thought, slowing slightly. Why would Fastred be wearing a hood, unless he didn’t want to be recognised?
Dietz was only two lengths behind the man and was certain it was Fastred Albers he pursued, but he did not call out again. Instead he slowed to extend the distance between them and caught his breath, calming his heart and forcing his footsteps to match the same beat. The more he watched, the stranger this seemed. Fastred was a wise man who valued his own skin, sometimes a little too much. What would he be doing out here at night, walking alone and hiding his face? If he had somewhere to go, why not go in the company of friends, or send someone else instead? The portly explorer was also something of a show-off and loved attracting attention, which made it even harder to imagine him skulking along in a hooded cloak. Something was not right.
Dietz followed Fastred, careful to keep his footsteps light and his shadow behind them or hidden within Fastred’s own. They were in a residential district, not the nicest in the city, but certainly not the poorest. As he watched, Fastred crossed the street and walked right up to the front door of one of the buildings. It was a handsome house, built of rough stone bricks, but it was not large and like its neighbours it had seen better days. Fastred raised his hand to the front door, first glancing around and tugging his hood down farther, and Dietz shrank back against another building to avoid the explorer’s notice. At last Fastred rapped on the door, three quick sharp knocks. After a moment it opened and he stepped inside.
“Definitely odd,” Dietz muttered to himself, staring at the closed door. Why would Fastred come here and take such trouble to conceal his identity? Could he be romantically involved and hiding the fact to protect the woman? Perhaps—Fastred had regaled them with tales of his romantic encounters during their trip and clearly the large man had more than one powerful appetite. But why do this in such sly fashion? The Fastred he knew would have marched boldly to the front door, loudly demanded entry, and then trumpeted his presence to anyone within hearing range and a great many without.
“Why else would he be skulking about?” Dietz asked himself, and suddenly an answer came to him, and with it, something else.
“I need Alaric,” he decided.
* * *
“There you are!”
Both men said it simultaneously as they entered the Dancing Frog’s taproom and spotted each other in the light of the guttering torches. Alaric commandeered a small, rickety table off in one corner while Dietz ordered two ales from the barman and carried them over. They each drank half their tankard’s contents in a single gulp, and both started talking at once.
“I found a—”
“I think that—”
“It looks like—”
“I just saw—”
They both laughed. Finally Dietz said. “Right, go ahead.”
Alaric related the events of the day, from reporting to Struber to his visit to Rolf’s former shop and the disquieting conversation he’d had with the stonemason’s son and his widow. He talked as quietly as he could and still have Dietz hear him over the noise of the other patrons. Fortunately the other men were more intent on drinking, singing and fighting than eavesdropping, but he still thought it best to exercise some caution.
“It’s suppo
sed to have been destroyed,” he pointed out to Dietz, “the statue. It was taken away instead.”
“Taken away?”
Alaric nodded and pulled out the receipt, squinting to read it by the dim light from the torch mounted on the wall above them. “By Wilfen von Glaucht, the same man who commissioned them.” He leaned forward. “And this is convenient, he claimed it the morning after Rolf’s arrest. The same morning we spent locked in that miserable jail cell.” He smiled, though the expression was more determined than pleased.
“He knew we were going,” Dietz pointed out, tapping the receipt. “And knew exactly where and when, and took advantage of our imprisonment to hide the last statue somewhere safe.”
“Exactly.” Alaric banged his hand flat on the table, causing their ale mugs to jump. “Sorry, but that means whoever it was knew our plans.”
Dietz’s mind slid back to another man they had known, a short, slight man with narrow features and a deft quill; a man who would never ride with them or scold them or cook for them again.
“Renke was killed by a knife in the back,” he reminded Alaric, which sobered them both immediately. “Who’s to say it is not the same man?”
“It could be,” Alaric agreed. He stroked his chin. “Each of our companions arrived here that night or the next morning. Their respective superiors sent them to keep an eye on us. That means their superiors had either been in the courtroom or had heard the results. How much else did they hear? Were they really all sent, or did someone claim that to blend in with everyone else? If he knew we had found the first statue, and had moved it to safety, he might want to keep an eye on us and hopefully prevent us from destroying the other three. Plus it gave this one a chance to receive sacrifices, and power.”
Dietz pushed that image away. “So one of our friends, the same ones who mourned Renke not long ago, may be not only Renke’s killer but the statues’ creator?”
[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon Page 17