The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  The less warning of attack, the less manpower there would be.

  Damn it! He could not just sit here!

  'I am going out,' he said. 'Get that report written up, will you?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Asmus, still writing.

  'And get yourself a lamp, for God's sake. It's nearly dark already.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  It was indeed nearly dark, and the mist was coming off the river in a thick, cold smoke that filled the lower streets. For all that, there seemed to be more people about than was normal for the hour. Men passed him, striding swiftly, hurrying to some house or friend or gathering that he could not guess at. Others hung in doorways or at street corners, murmuring to one another or listening to someone holding forth by the light of a lantern. They glanced at him as he strode by in the shadows like a rumour of war. A man spoke to him. It was a question, but because of the accent he did not catch it. He stared at the fellow, who stared back at him, holding out a pamphlet. There were a stack of other pamphlets under the man's arm. He saw the man realize that he was an officer, start, and draw back even as he put out his hand to take the sheet. Then the pamphleteer was scurrying away in the mist, leaving him standing arm outstretched, fingers empty.

  Five years before, in Brussels, in Paris, he had taken pamphlets like that one eagerly He had even written some of them. Now he was on the other side. He took off his plumed cap and drew his coat around him as he went, hiding his uniform as far as he could. And he walked among them, like a hidden enemy.

  Enemy? No, not enemy. This was not revolution in the air. It was fever. Fear. He caught the words Prince and émigré and Chapter again and again. People were pressing each other for news. Anyone who could be imagined to know what was happening inside the Chapter meeting was being called over, to exchange rumour and counter-rumour. Wéry heard the phrase the French have demanded . . . but whatever it was they were supposed to have demanded was lost in the noise of someone coughing up fog. He heard the word siege uttered like the hiss of a snake in a thicket.

  He stopped in the little square of Saint Lucia and the church loomed down at him, lightless and silent. It was broad-fronted, with a high tower, small windows and walls of stoutly-built stone. It stood corner-wise on to the street opposite. Cannon fire from down there would be deflected by the angle of the walls. The other streets onto the square were narrow and twisted. Any guns firing up those would have to be positioned so close that the crews would be at risk from sharpshooters in the spire. You could post watchmen up there. You could loophole the walls. The place could be a little redoubt, as long as men were determined to hold it. And as long as they had powder and shot. When that ran out the defenders would have to retreat or die like rats in a trap.

  And how could you retreat from here? You would have to have allies on the rooftops. The rooftops would be important. So would the sewers. Where did the sewers run?

  He paced on down the narrow streets, fighting his battle in his mind. The mist thickened, warning him of smoke. The enemy would fire the town. That would clear the rooftops of any of his sharpshooters who were downwind. It would also make it impossible to breathe in cellars, where people would be hiding, and in the sewers too. What could the defence do about that? Could they soak the timbers of every house in town with river water? Which way would the wind be blowing?

  There were people ahead of him. There was a noticeable drift among them, in the same direction that he was going – uphill towards the cathedral. Probably there was already a crowd assembling outside the Chapter House, waiting for news. He might go and join them – he might at least hear how things stood, if there were announcements after the meeting ended. But if it ended badly, and the crowd found a uniformed man in its midst, it might become dangerous. He would do better to go back to the barracks.

  He did not want to. All he could do in the barracks was fret. Here in the street he could at least have ideas. This guildhall now . . . Look beyond the carved gilt wood gleaming in the lantern light over the door. See the windows, commanding the alley opposite. See the French skirmishers cowering for shelter under the fire from its roof. See them scuttling for doorways, leaving a comrade writhing in the smoke! Then they would regroup and attack the door. Bayonets and musket butts. Yet. . .

  Stand fast. That was the answer. Make them take you down man by man. The Lie loved weakness. It loved to whisper of the cost. Never listen. Never surrender. Never, never, never – no matter what the odds or the changing causes, never surrender. Only that way would it have any meaning at all.

  A carriage was coming up the street behind him. Its wheels clattered loudly on the cobbles, and the sound echoed from the walls of the overhanging buildings. People were squeezing to the side of the street to be out of its way. The horse had nearly reached him. He pressed himself into a doorway and let the thing by, vaguely recognizing the device on the bodywork from somewhere.

  He felt the street-muck spatter from its wheels against his boots, and then it was past him. He stepped out from the doorway to follow.

  A man's voice sounded from the carriage, and it stopped. As he came up with it again, a door opened and a pale face showed from inside.

  'That you, Wéry?'

  It was Uhnen. He was drunk.

  'It's me.

  'My Virgil. Where're you going? Climb in. I'll have you there in a minute.'

  'I'm just taking the air.'

  'Climb in. You're a good fellow. I want to talk with you.'

  Reluctantly, Wéry climbed into the leather-smelling interior. There was almost no light. There was no one else in the carriage.

  'Drive on,' said Uhnen to his coachman.

  The carriage lurched into motion again.

  'Where are we going?' asked Wéry.

  'Nowhere much,' said Uhnen, lolling on the other seat. 'I think I was going to try the Hotel Markburg next, but it doesn't matter. We can go anywhere you like.'

  'What's the matter?'

  'Oh.' Von Uhnen waved his hand dismissively. 'She doesn't want me.'

  She?

  'Told me so yesterday, over cards.'

  She would be Maria von Adelsheim, of course. (What had she done about his messages? Surely someone should have gone for them by now!)

  'I thought she was already betrothed,' Wéry said.

  'Oh, she is. I don't see it should matter . . . Well, why should it? He's a boy, and anyway he barely leaves his rooms from one year to the next! What sort of a match is that? It's ridiculous . . . I tell you what, Wéry. I lay it on that mother of hers. It's her way of keeping Maria with her as long as possible. That, and spite because they made her marry an idiot. Ruin it for everyone else. That's what she's doing . . .'

  'I'm sorry to hear it,' said Wéry stiffly.

  'I need to get drunk,' groaned Uhnen.

  'You've done that already, haven't you?'

  'Not half enough. We'll go down to the Markburg. I know them there. They'll see us right.'

  Wéry doubted very much if he would be welcome at the Markburg, which was exclusively for families of Imperial Knights. And even if they turned a blind eye to his presence, he did not want to spend his evening nursing Uhnen's lovesick heart. Certainly not when Maria von Adelsheim was the cause! But Uhnen had been friendly since the affair at the bridge. Aristocrat he might be, but he did not deserve to be abandoned like this. Love was a great leveller, and a dangerous enemy.

  And it was not as though he had much else to do! He only hoped that Asmus would have the sense to go home when he did not reappear.

  'She seemed to like me very well,' groaned Uhnen.

  'She may well do. But that doesn't mean everything.'

  'And I've been protecting them! I could destroy them with a word. But I've not told her that. I won't.'

  'Destroy Adelsheim? It would have to be a very powerful word.'

  'Oh,' said Uhnen, with affected weariness. 'Illuminati.'

  XVII

  Alleys in the Mist

  Even in his drunken nonchalance there
was a tremor in his voice. Illuminati. Who had secretly inspired the Revolution? Who were determined to bring down the Mother Church? Had you never seen one? That only proved how clever they were.

  Wéry said nothing. He had seen two revolutions without laying eyes on a single Illuminatus. Before coming to Erzberg he would have sworn with confidence that the Illuminati no longer existed, and that even if they did they were an irrelevance. And yet time and again the word was spoken here, with a conviction that sometimes shook his own.

  'I could have told her how much she owes me,' said Uhnen absently. 'How much all her house owes me. Maybe I should . . .'

  'It's probably just gossip.'

  'That it is not! I was there!'

  Wéry drew a long breath. For a moment he almost changed the subject. But then he said: 'You had better tell me about it.'

  Von Uhnen looked at him, swaying slightly with the movement of the carriage.

  'You're a good fellow, aren't you? You're my Virgil. You'll know how to treat this.'

  Wéry said nothing. Von Uhnen knew that he reported to the palace. He would know, too, that the palace thought the Illuminati were in league with the French. And yet he was still going to speak.

  'There was a reception at the Adelsheim place last week . . .' Uhnen began.

  'Which one?'

  'The house in Saint Emil quarter.'

  In the city. On the Prince's territory. That was unwise. But of course the Lady Adelsheim would think herself invulnerable.

  'There was a funny little man there called Sorge. Lady Adelsheim said he had come to educate them all . . .'

  'The name again – Sorge?'

  'Doctor Sorge, of Nuremberg.'

  Sorge. In German that meant Worry. Apt, and memorable too. Although Nuremberg, an Imperial city nestling in Bavarian territory, was not the first place he would have looked for French agents. Perhaps their reach was longer than he had thought.

  'He came under the wing of Baron Löhm. The strange thing was, my father said, when they all sat down and started to talk, both the Baron and Sorge seemed to think that it was the Baron who was under Sorge's wing, and not the other way about . . .'

  'Your father was there?'

  'My father went into the meeting with them. I didn't. Most of this I had from Father. They were trying to seduce him, because he's on the inquiry into Hersheim. Of course that didn't work. But according to him, Löhm said there were Illuminati in half the cities in Germany. There are some in Nuremberg, some in Frankfurt, some in Cologne – I can't remember all the places. They recruit followers, and those followers recruit more followers, and so on until they've a great net of people in every state, influencing the government and what have you. Apparently they've even got someone here, in the palace. Highly placed. I had thought it was all rubbish but . . .'

  'How high? A canon? An official?'

  'Can't tell you. Sorge told him to stop blabbing, I think.'

  Connections with the French; connections with an Illuminatus; opposition to the Prince; rumours that could have been designed to undermine the army; and now secret infiltration of the palace! What did the Adelsheims think they were doing?

  God! And it was to Adelsheim that he had trusted the link with his contacts across the Rhine!

  The coach rocked and clattered slowly over the cobbles. There was a sick feeling in Wéry's stomach. Steady, he thought. Steady.

  Fears make nightmares of the smallest things. There did not need to be anything in this. The men in Lady Adelsheim's set were exactly the educated, bored, free-minded sort who might band into secret brotherhoods out of a vague philanthropy and a love of being mysterious. Canon Rother, in particular, was no French tool. His aim was clear enough: to foster enough disaffection with the Prince for the Chapter to appoint him coadjutor, to rule the city and state alongside his enemy Why should any of this mean there was a conspiracy? When you hear them singing the Marseillaise in the city quarters, that's when you need to worry.

  Nevertheless, it sounded as if the Adelsheims had been very unwise indeed.

  'We're going to have to start again. And I'll need this written down. Can you come back to the barracks with me?'

  'I don't want to go back to the barracks!'

  'We cannot talk about this at the Markburg.'

  'Then we'll talk about something else. I don't mind.'

  'I could have a bottle brought to my rooms,' said Wéry and groaned inwardly at himself.

  'Make it one each, to start with,' said Uhnen promptly.

  Then he seemed to hesitate. 'You're a good fellow, Wéry, he said uncertainly. 'You'll do the right thing.'

  'I don't know what I'll do,' said Wéry frankly. 'But let's hear it anyway.'

  He was suddenly feeling very tired. And the coach had stopped again. Noises surrounded it. A crowd was pressing past in the narrow way.

  'You'd think half the city was out,' mused Uhnen.

  'Perhaps it is.'

  A white uniform gleamed beyond the carriage window. A voice Wéry knew was calling urgently.

  'Lanterns! Lanterns!'

  Wéry looked out. There, standing in the roadside behind the coach, was the stocky figure of Heiss.

  Heiss, like all the officers close to Balcke-Horneswerden, had acquired a hunted look in recent weeks. More and more of his colleagues seemed to think it bad luck to associate with him. He had become moody, unpredictable, prone to fits of temper and long silences. Now he cut a wild figure in the gloom. He was hatless, cloakless, and held a pistol pointed up at the sky. With his other hand he was gesturing to the crowd to gather around him.

  'What's the matter?' called Wéry.

  'Who's that?'

  'Wéry, and I've got Uhnen with me.'

  'Good man! Get down – we need you!'

  In a city where officers were barely showing themselves by day, the crowd was rallying around Heiss like a ragged platoon. Lanterns danced among them. A number of them held sticks. Drawn by the urgency of the voices, Wéry climbed out. Von Uhnen followed him.

  'What the devil's going on?'

  'Devil may be the word for it. There's saboteurs out. Fireraisers. Someone's seen them, down on the quays!'

  'Fire-raisers?'

  'My brother saw them!' said a voice. 'Down there, by the Old Bridge!'

  'I don't believe it!' said Wéry.

  The mist was cold, and the wide-eyed faces pressed around him. Suddenly he was not so sure. He felt their fear, and his muscles stiffened with it. In the Chapter House, the city was debating war. But what if the French were already in the city? What if they struck first? That was what they were like. That was far more credible than any talk of Illuminati. You watched your front, and you watched your front; and then suddenly they were on you, round your flank and marching for your lines!

  'I don't believe it,' he repeated lamely.

  'That's what we're going to find out,' snapped Heiss. 'Come on!'

  He led and they all followed him. Down the twisting streets they poured like a pack of hounds. Feet pounded and slipped upon the cobbles. Voices called. A head looked out of a first storey window and cried out a question.

  'Fire-raisers!' they answered as they ran past. 'On the quay!'

  All at once Heiss turned to his right and plunged down a narrow alley. Wéry hesitated. Then, as if swept up by the others who pushed past him, he followed. The ground was muddy beneath his boots. The alley stank and there was little light. Men hurried ahead of him, squeezed by the close walls into a thin straggle of ones and twos. Others panted behind, pressing him on with their pursuit. There was no time to look round.

  'Hey, hold up!' came Uhnen's voice from far behind. 'Hey there!'

  But the men ahead of him ran on. Wéry followed, caught by the fever of the hunt, and his duty melted into the mist behind them.

  Down, turn, and on down. They were somewhere near the city's small Jewish ghetto, but he did not know where. They were heading towards the river, but where they would come on it he could not guess. Heiss
must be aiming to strike the waterside as high as possible, so that his little force could then scour the length of the quays in one sweep. But for God's sake, what was it they had seen? A torch? A plume of smoke? How could you tell smoke from mist in this murk?

  'Lights! LIGHTS!' roared Heiss from ahead. He was standing in an open space, looking back up the alley. Beyond him was the gleam of water. Three or four men joined him. One had a lantern. As Wéry arrived on the quay, gasping for breath, Heiss set off again, striding along the narrow wooden walkway that ran before the mean house-fronts of the Riverside Quarter. Wéry followed, a pace or two behind the others.

  'No fires yet,' said someone.

  'Keep your eyes open,' growled Heiss.

  More men were reaching the quay behind them. But voices were still calling among the alleys above and to their left. Some were still making their way down. Some were already lost.

  'Quietly, now!'

  Thump, thumpety-thump! went a dozen boots upon the walkway. Ripple-ipple, murmured the dark water. The mist blocked the far bank and the Celesterburg from sight. Squinting as he strode, Wéry could just make out the loom of the Old Bridge, barring the river. And the figure on the walkway thirty yards ahead of them, part-lit by a glow from a window. 'There!' he cried.

  Others shouted at the same moment. The figure turned, looking their way. It wore a heavy cloak.

  'You there!' cried Heiss.

  The figure wavered, and seemed to back away.

  'You there! Stand! Stand!'

  There was a flash from Heiss's upraised hand, and the report of the pistol. The figure disappeared.

  Wéry swore, and pushed past the others. For a few lonely seconds he was out and alone, with his boots thumping on the boards and his heart pounding, a cold, sick feeling in his guts like the river beneath his feet. Then he gained the stonework of the quay proper. What seemed to be a pile of cloths was lying there. But the pile had a foot, and an arm flung out of it. And a faint, keening noise came from it.

  It was a man.

  'Bring a light!' yelled Wéry. 'Bring it!'

  The others gathered round. The lantern swung above the fallen man's face.