Casimir looked at his shirt lying on the table. The same perfect circle showed on the front, the linen slightly scorched around the edges. He felt his bowels begin to grind. There are degrees of terror, Joachim had once said to him. You really know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’ve shat yourself. That’s what it’s like at the start of a battle. Thousands of men lined up, all filling their breeches: you can smell it, it’s disgusting. Casimir hauled on his muscles and clamped his legs together.
‘If you can’t explain, perhaps we can help you.’ The procurator produced a dagger from his boot top and leaned across the table. He pointed its tip to Casimir’s chest, at a new, small pink scar, slightly to the left of his breastbone. ‘Care to tell us how you survived it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Really?’ The dagger hovered, brushing against the skin. Casimir closed his eyes and shook his head. Suddenly the point of the blade pricked into him. He yelled and jerked away, but the guard behind him grabbed his shoulders and stopped him dead. A trickle of hot blood welled up and coursed down his chest. He opened his eyes and saw Cassel and the procurator looking at him.
‘There’s a matching scar on your back,’ said Greitz. ‘If you like, we could mark that out for you, too. Alternatively, I could just push a little harder next time and see if you can repeat the trick. Maybe you’d better start and answer our questions. Where is your father?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know’s not good enough. Again, where is your father?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know!’ Casimir shouted, and then to his horror what he had dreaded actually happened: his body betrayed him. A great hot torrent of urine flooded down his legs, soaking his breeches and splashing the carpet. He could not believe how much there was of it. Across the table he saw the procurator’s lips twitch. He and Cassel exchanged glances, and the little secretary smirked. They were laughing at him, actually laughing at him, and there was nothing he could do except stand there, dripping on the carpet. If Casimir could have died of humiliation and terror, he would have done so at that moment.
‘Where is your father?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since Sunday morning. Please. Believe me, I’m telling you the truth!’
‘Your father is a magician.’
‘No.’
‘He was seen practising magic on Friday night. He had a grimoire in his house, it’s there on the table. Let me ask you again: is your father a magician?’
‘Maybe. Once. I don’t know.’
‘Then you are a magician also.’
‘No. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘How does it work, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know much at all. Do you know what punishment the statutes prescribe for those who practise magic?’ Casimir did, but was clearly not expected to answer. ‘Burning. It’s not a particularly common crime. The last case to come to trial was about fifty years ago. They used to do the burnings in the old market place down by the Ling. The magician was usually drugged so he could not use his magic. They chained him to a stake and soused him with pitch, and if they were feeling kind, they hung a bag of gunpowder around his neck before they set the flames going. Seems an appropriate end for a firework maker’s apprentice. Burned on his own bonfire with a couple of loads of catherine wheels thrown in for good effect.’
‘I’m not a magician,’ said Casimir sullenly.
‘I’m sure you’re not,’ said Greitz. ‘If you were, I doubt you’d be standing here. But somebody was working magic when you fled your father’s shop. Somebody your father is working with—’
‘No!’
‘—somebody who pretends to share your father’s political opinions. Your father is a notorious radical. He has been under surveillance ever since you came to Starberg. He does not believe in governments, he wants to destroy the established order—’
‘No.’ Somehow Casimir gathered his shattered wits. ‘My father doesn’t want to destroy anything. He thinks that in time, people will learn for themselves, that they will come around to his way of thinking of their own accord.’
‘That’s not what it says in this pamphlet.’
‘That was given to him. Simeon didn’t ask for it, he doesn’t believe it. He believes in people, and their right to choose. He believes that they have a right to be free and not oppressed by governments. He believes in everyone’s right to live peacefully, without war or persecution or hardship. He believes,’ Casimir’s voice grew stronger, ‘that if everyone behaved like this the world would be a better place. He might be wrong. He probably is. He hopes that human beings will be better and wiser than they really are or ever can be. But if he is wrong, at least his ideas have never hurt anybody. At least he is sincere.’
‘Sincere enough to write a treasonous poem calling Her Majesty a tyrant?’
‘No.’ After months spent listening to chunks of The Tyrant read out loud during its composition Casimir knew it as well as if he had written it himself. Greitz had not read the poem. There had been no copies in the house when it was raided, and even if he had seen it elsewhere, he had wilfully misunderstood its message. He quoted Simeon. ‘The tyrant is not a person, or a government or an external power of any kind. It is the binding spirit in all of us which will not let us do what we desire or achieve what we hope for.’
‘And what does your father hope for? My death? Her Majesty’s? That’s what the pamphlet says, doesn’t it? Let me read it to you: That the existence of a monarchy is the Vilest Impediment to a man’s exertion of his right to Choose, and that the Death of Monarchs, by violent means if necessary, is both Justifiable and Desirable, is a fact few sensible men will dispute. Assass—’
‘No! I’ve already told you, it wasn’t Simeon! Tycho wrote it, not my father.’
‘Graff Tycho wrote the pamphlet. Note that down,’ said Greitz, and Casimir felt the words curdle in his mouth. In his anxiety to protect Simeon, he had forgotten that Tycho, too, was a prisoner. The man was a fool, and had brought this disaster down on all of them, but Casimir would not deliberately have incriminated him for the world. Greitz continued, ‘As a matter of fact, we have been watching Graff Tycho for a while. We’re reasonably certain of a lot of things. We know, for example, that the pamphlet was printed by William Thursday. The typefaces match those found in his printery. Then there is Joachim Leibnitz, known as a courier with subversive leanings, recently arrived in Starberg and taken prisoner. Your father is a known confederate of both these men. It is also known that a quantity of gunpowder has been removed from your premises in Fish Lane. Do you know where your father is?’
‘No.’
Suddenly Greitz changed tack. ‘You went to see the Princess Christina yesterday morning, I think. Is that correct?’
‘I…’ The change of tack took Casimir by surprise. ‘Yes.’
‘With your father?’
‘No.’
‘But your father saw her.’
‘Yes. Ruth—Margravine Winterhalten took him.’
‘But you went separately. What did the princess say to you?’
Casimir hesitated. Partly, it was from a sense that he was on dangerous ground, but he also found he simply couldn’t remember exactly what had been discussed. It was as if a dark curtain had descended over his memories of the interview. He groped for something suitable to say. ‘She—Her Highness told me she was concerned about the accident on Friday night.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she was at the display. She might have been killed. She thought the accident must have happened because Simeon was under strain. She told me to watch out for him. And if he did do anything, she told me…’ his mind went momentarily blank and then the answer came to him in a flash from nowhere, ‘she told me you would need to know at once. Because you were in charge and she was afraid the security for the wedding might be compromised.’
Greitz looked displeased. Casimir waited uneasily. Cassel, who h
ad been sitting throughout the entire conversation, silently playing with his quizzing glass, now lifted the glass slightly as if conveying some unspoken warning, and with a flash of insight Casimir realised this matter encroached on something more dangerous and with wider implications than those that immediately affected him and Simeon. He wondered what the procurator really wanted from him, and who he was ultimately chasing. He was sure it was not him, and possibly, it was not even Tycho or Simeon. He remembered what Princess Christina had said to him: My future brother-in-law learned to hate me when we were both still children. Could it be that the person the procurator was hoping to incriminate was the princess herself?
The procurator sat a moment longer, considering. Then he turned unexpectedly to the two guards who had waited throughout the interrogation.
‘For the moment, I think that will be all,’ he said. ‘Take him back to his cell. We’ll decide what to do with him later.’
Alone in his cell, Casimir wrapped the sack around his naked shoulders and curled up in the corner. The interrogation could have been much worse, but he did not imagine for a moment they had finished with him. They had not hurt him or pushed very hard with their questioning; all they’d really done was frighten him. They were softening him up for next time. Casimir did not delude himself that his chances of surviving intact until morning were anything but extremely slim.
Hours passed. Casimir dozed off briefly once or twice, but his aching head and trepidation about what was coming kept him from falling into a deep sleep. Eventually he was roused by the sound of the door being opened. It was Cassel, this time without his quizzing glass, accompanied by a guard carrying Casimir’s clothes.
‘Get dressed.’
The guard threw Casimir’s clothes at his feet, then proceeded to unlock his manacles. Casimir picked up his vests and pulled them over his head, then put on his shirt and jacket. The guard opened the door and he was marched out down the corridor he had passed along earlier. This time, instead of turning left, his escort went right and led him up a flight of steps to a heavy, wooden door.
The guard opened it and a blast of wintry air hit Casimir’s cheeks. With a shock he realised he was looking at Quay Street, the road that ran along the Ling towards the River Court. It was still night, still raining. A gleam behind the clouds showed the waning moon, setting over the water.
‘You’re a lucky boy,’ said Cassel. ‘The procurator has decided to release you. The printer’s wife broke under questioning half an hour ago. She’s told us all we need to know. For the moment, and I stress, for the moment, you’re no longer wanted. As long as you don’t attempt to leave Starberg, you’re free to go.’
Casimir stared at him. He took a few unsteady steps forward, then looked back to see whether anyone was following. The great oak door of the Undercroft was already closing in his face.
Casimir walked down the steps into the street. The rain spattered his face and he turned up his collar. For the first time in his life, the endless Starberg winter drizzle seemed a blessing beyond price or compare.
CHAPTER TEN
Casimir was not even halfway home when he realised they had let him go. It did not take any particular insight or brilliance to reach this conclusion. A scratch on the chest, a wet pair of trousers, an interrogation that had comprised mere threats and menace, and they had turned him loose. He was on a leash and they were waiting to see in whose direction he would run.
Annice Thursday had broken under questioning. Casimir did not care to think what this had involved, or even if she and Will were still alive. Unlike Ruth, who had a toughness and emotional integrity that would be slow to break under pressure, Annice was soft and gentle. Furthermore, she had no one to protect her. She was just a printer’s wife, a person of no particular importance who, like her husband, could disappear in an eyeblink without anyone daring to comment. And Joachim was the same. This realisation came to Casimir as something of a shock. Of course he had always known his uncle talked himself up, spinning tales that would have boggled the minds of anyone credulous enough to believe them, but the thread of truth that ran concealed through the weft of his fictions was such that he had nevertheless thought of him as somehow indestructible. Yet the truth was, Joachim was just a man who could die or be murdered as easily as any other. If Casimir was going to find Simeon, elude Circastes and get out of Starberg, he was now going to have to do it without his uncle’s help.
Casimir turned into Fish Lane. He could not think of anywhere better to go, for he had no hiding place and there was always the chance—though rapidly diminishing—that Simeon would come back there. Halfway down the street he saw two men and a woman walking towards him. The men were carrying a set of familiar wooden chairs and the woman pulled a trolley laden down with household goods. As it trundled under a street lamp, he recognised Simeon’s big pewter chamberpot filled to the brim with catherine wheels, crackers and jumping jacks.
‘Hey! What are you doing?’ Twenty-four hours earlier Casimir had been resigned to leaving everything behind, but the sight of his earthly possessions being carried off by a bunch of strangers brought an abrupt reversal in this thinking. He made an unsuccessful grab at the trolley. The chamberpot fell off with a crash and several jumping jacks exploded deafeningly inside it. ‘That’s ours—what are you doing?’
‘Get lost!’ The bigger of the two men grabbed Casimir’s coat and gave him a shove that sent him skittering backwards. ‘Mind your own business and you might stay in one piece.’
‘I am minding my own business! You’re stealing my things!’ Casimir saw his own clothes, blankets and the striped pillow from his bed bundled up among the goods on the woman’s trolley. The pillow struck a chord of panic, for it was the one into which he had sewn Princess Christina’s gold ring. He snatched at the pillow, sending shirts, vests and stockings tumbling into the puddles. This time the man wrenched Casimir around, and dealt him a punch that missed his face, but caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder. Casimir’s foot twisted and he lost his balance; the man caught him by the collar and sent him spinning forward into the overhang of a nearby house. He hit the wall with a thump and fell down on the cobbles with the pillow clutched to his chest.
Casimir groaned and rolled over, exaggerating his distress. To his relief, the scavengers paid him no more attention. They continued to the end of the street and disappeared around the corner. When they had gone, he got up and hurried to the shop.
A dispiriting sight awaited him. Someone had broken the glass on the street lamp outside their door and the red and gold signboard with Simeon’s name on it had been wrenched from its fitting. When he stepped over the threshold he almost tripped over a sheet, filled with spoons, pewter plates, and household linen.
‘Shit.’ Casimir kicked the sheet and sat down disconsolately on the floor. With the exception of the sheet, which someone had obviously dropped in a hurry at his approach, the building had been completely stripped. Even the shelves which had been nailed to the walls were gone.
Casimir hooked his fingers into the ragged stitching at the end of the pillow and ripped it open. It took him a while to find the princess’s ring sewn in among the feathers, but at last he fished it out and put it on. It fitted snugly on his little finger, a woman’s ring with its raised pattern of roses circling the delicate gold band. Report back to me, the princess had said. Tell me if your father’s behaviour gives cause for concern. Since their conversation, Simeon’s behaviour had done little else, but that he might inform Christina of the fact had never crossed Casimir’s mind for a moment. He could not believe it had seriously crossed the princess’s, either. She could hardly have expected him to incriminate his own father.
At the very least, the princess’s motives were unclear. The procurator, on the other hand, clearly smelled treason, and was trying to draw a line of connection between Christina, Simeon, and Tycho’s plot. Casimir did not seriously believe there was one: after all, Christina had been named in Tycho’s pamphlet as someone who w
as to be killed. But it still did not explain why she had been so willing to invite suspicion by ordering Casimir to the palace in the first place, or why she was so interested in his and Simeon’s activities.
He could not trust her, for she was playing her own game, and he was also afraid of her. But there was now, quite literally, nobody else to go to. Around a quarter to seven, when the first grey gleams started penetrating the windows, Casimir let himself out through the skylight onto the roof. He walked the length of Fish Lane, eventually jumping down into Cathedral Street via an outhouse roof. From there, he made his way as quickly as he could to the palace.
When he reached the River Court, it was still early in the morning. The princess’s ring saw him safely past the sentry; lights burned in the palace windows and the air was raw as he pounded the great iron knocker on the western door. Fortunately Princess Christina was an early riser. The footman looked him over distastefully when he presented his credentials, but made less of a fuss about admitting him than Casimir had anticipated.
‘Your business?’
‘The princess will know what I’m here for.’
‘Her Royal Highness. You’ll have to do better than that if you expect an audience.’
‘Just show Her Highness the ring,’ snapped Casimir, and to his immense surprise the man turned and went clicking off down the polished corridor. Several minutes later he came back, carrying a set of dark, severely cut clothes over one arm. The coat was too long and the stockings too short; they made Casimir look like a page and were not new or even clean. But they were so much better than the stinking garments he was wearing that he could have almost cheered with relief.
‘Use this.’ The footman produced a comb and watched while Casimir made a futile attempt to drag it through his vomit-stiffened curls. When he had finished, the footman pointed for him to throw it into the fire and handed him over to a gentleman usher, who showed him upstairs into a pleasant sitting room. A fire burned in the hearth and vases of heavily scented flowers stood about on gilt stands, slightly drooping in the heat. The effect, in deep rose pink and gold, was like an expensive hothouse designed for a single, very beautiful exotic plant.
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