Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Mannslieb was full, throwing a cool silver light across the cobbled streets through broken rainclouds. Schwarzhelm reached the end of the street and paused, checking his bearings. The southern wall of the Palace complex lay ahead. From his long acquaintance with the sprawling site he knew it was the least watched. There was nothing much of value at the southern end of the estates—just scholars’ dens, storerooms, stables, fodder yards for the menagerie, and other semi-maintained buildings. Despite that, the walls were high and heavy, crowned with battlements and cut from unwearing granite. Along the top of them ran a wide parapet, ceaselessly patrolled by the Palace guards.

  Schwarzhelm stepped out from the shelter of the street and turned left, walking close to the curve of the wall. He let his gaze slip over the stone as he did so. There were no gates, no windows, not even a grille or arrow-slit. The surface glared back at him, unbroken and smooth.

  He kept walking. From time to time he heard noises ahead of or behind him. Footsteps padding away in the dark, the distant cackle of a cheap strumpet, the barking of a chained dog. He ignored them all.

  He reached his goal. A culvert placed at the base of the wall, barred against entry and guarding the outflow of a drain. The slops from the Palace ran straight out into the street, gurgling down the edges of the roads and off into the maze of buildings beyond. The stench was marginally worse than Altdorf’s habitual fug of filth. The rains had made all drains in the city overflow, and a torrent of grey water surged from the outlet, filmy and dotted with floating refuse.

  Schwarzhelm looked back, watching to see if he’d been observed. The street was empty, and there were no guards on the rampart above. He drew a huge ring of keys from his belt, wrapped in cloth to ward against clinking. There were some advantages to being so high in the Emperor’s trust.

  But, of course, that was no longer true.

  He selected a long iron key. The arch of the culvert rose less than three feet above the surface of the street. Reaching down into the foaming water, he felt around for the lock. It was there, rusted closed. He tried the key.

  No luck. He reached for another and repeated his groping. On the fourth attempt, he found the one that fitted. It was not an exact match—he had to force it into the lock and then wrench it round. With a grinding sound, the mechanism snapped open. Schwarzhelm grasped the bottom of the barred gate and lifted it. The heavy iron grille took some shifting, and as he laboured foul water splattered up into his chest and face.

  Beyond the entrance, the drain ran into darkness, never more than a few feet high and dripping with noisome fluid. There was enough space between the surface of the water and the roof to breathe, though he’d be half-submerged in the stink. Schwarzhelm lay face-down on the street and began to worm himself into the gap. It was hard work—the grille had to be kept open while he snaked under it. Eventually he made it inside and the door slammed back down behind him. There was no way of locking it from the inside, and it was all he could do to keep his mouth and nose out of the drainwater. Like a beetle burrowing in manure, Schwarzhelm hauled himself along the cramped way, feeling his muscles bunch against the sides.

  Darkness pressed against him like swaddling. The uneven stone jagged on his clothes, his sword-belt, his boots. He shuffled forwards, mouth closed against the noxious effluent around him. After just a few feet he felt like gagging and stopped in his tracks, working to control himself. He was hemmed in, crushed by the tons of rock above him. A flicker of panic flared up in his stomach.

  He quelled it and pressed on. Working slowly, powerfully, he edged through the narrow space. Progress was slow, and he was almost wedged tight as the drain took a sharp dog-leg right before running onwards. As he hauled himself round the angle, he felt his heart thud rhythmically, his hands scrabbling at the cold stone.

  Then, ahead of him, he saw the far end of the culvert coming into view. A faint semicircle of open air, barred by a similar grille. He shuffled towards it, keeping a tight grip on the bunch of keys. Beyond was a small courtyard. Through the bars it looked like the rear area of a kitchen, or maybe a wash-house. There were barrels littering the space, some open and on their sides revealing their contents of rank-smelling refuse and spoiled food.

  There was no movement in the square, and no light save that of the moon. Schwarzhelm fumbled with the lock. The key worked as before, and the grille clicked open. He shoved it up and pushed his way under it. As he rose, he made sure it was gently lowered back into position. He looked about him warily.

  He was alone. His cloak, jerkin and breeches were covered in slurry. He stank worse than an ogre’s jockstrap, and looked nearly as bad.

  So this was what he’d been reduced to. The last time he’d entered the Palace precincts he’d been wearing ceremonial armour and had been accorded a full guard of honour. Now he looked like the lowest common street thief.

  No matter. He was in. Now he had to find what he was looking for.

  The fevered nights over Averheim had given way to a more seasonal warmth. Cool airs ruffled the Grosslich standards as they hung from the walls of the Averburg, lit by the full face of Mannslieb.

  Tochfel sat in his chamber high in the citadel wanting nothing more than to sleep. The day had been long, and his run-in with Euler had been an inauspicious start. The demands of the new elector were legion. Even though Grosslich was almost impossible to track down in person, his orders, delivered by messenger, just kept coming.

  Most of them concerned the new building. Requisitions were coming in at nearly a dozen a day for everything from masonry and metalwork to wine and silverware. The proud home of the Averlander electors, the seat of the Alptraum and Leitdorf dynasties, was being emptied. Soon it would be nothing more than a cold stone shell, a faint reminder of the glories of the past.

  But it was not the tide of paperwork that kept the Steward awake. He had a visitor sitting before him, a thin-faced man with receding hair and a wild look in his eyes. Odo Heidegger, the witch hunter in charge of the purgation of Averheim. He sat before Tochfel, his thin fingers clasped on his lap. He’d eschewed the leather coat and breeches worn by most of his order, and instead wore the ceremonial robes of his office—dark red lined with black. They were coloured that way, no doubt, to hide the blood.

  “I do not understand,” Heidegger said again in his reedy, mellifluous voice. “There was no objection to these names when they were first submitted to your office.”

  Tochfel ran his hand through his thinning hair. He was strung out. He really needed to sleep. “And as I told you, Herr Heidegger, I’ve not seen this list until now. I had no idea there were so many.”

  In his hands he held the offending list. At the top was the stamp of the Temple of Sigmar in Averheim. Heidegger had been promoted to the pinnacle of the local hierarchy shortly after Grosslich had been installed. Since then it had been his solemn duty to oversee the remaining interrogations and to arrange suitable punishment for those found to have aided the traitors.

  “Yes, it is sad, is it not, that so many chose to fall into darkness,” said Heidegger. He looked genuinely mournful. “But they all confessed. You can see the signatures.”

  Tochfel swallowed as he looked at the series of scrawled names from the literate victims and crosses from those who weren’t. All of them were shaky, as if the owners’ hands had barely functioned by the time they were called into action. Several were half-obscured by dark-brown smudges.

  “Some of these names are known to me,” protested Tochfel. “Here is Morven, my aide. What possible reason could you have for—”

  “He confessed, Steward. What more do you want? It is there, all on the list.”

  Tochfel could read it for himself. Wantonly held the Averburg against the forces of the rightful elector, thus delaying the campaign against the Traitor Leitdorf. Sentence: Death by flame. That was a travesty. Tochfel had passed those orders himself. At that stage in the campaign, no one knew the scale of Leitdorf’s treachery, nor that Grosslich had the blessing of Schwar
zhelm. For that matter, he himself could be liable to…

  He shuddered.

  “I will not sign these,” he said, putting the papers down. “I need more time. There’s been no scrutiny, no examination.”

  Heidegger retained his sorrowful expression. There wasn’t a hint of anger there. He looked a little like one of those otherworldly Jade magisters, lost in a reverie of gentle regret. And yet Tochfel was judge enough to see the fragility of the man’s mind. Most witch hunters went mad sooner or later, and this one would not be long.

  “That is regrettable, Steward,” Heidegger said. “I will have to report it. The elector will not be happy to hear that his quest for justice has been impeded.”

  “I don’t care,” snapped Tochfel, his fatigue making him unwary. “There are men on this list innocent of any crime. Why has the court of inquiry not included Templars from other cities? I’ve not been present at any of your interrogations.”

  “You’re welcome to join me. Some people find them… distasteful.”

  Tochfel shook his head. Going up against the Temple of Sigmar was dangerous, even more so since Achendorfer had gone missing. He was running short of allies.

  “I did not say I would block these sentences,” said Tochfel, speaking carefully. “I merely wish for more time to study them. Give me until the end of the week.”

  Heidegger thought before replying. “I do not like it,” he said. “Justice must be seen to be done.”

  “There’ve been enough burnings already,” muttered Tochfel. “A hiatus will do you good, give you time to buy in more firewood.”

  Heidegger shrugged. “As you wish. I shall inform the elector of your views.”

  He rose, brushing at his robes as he did so. His fingers were forever fidgeting, as if they longed to grasp the instruments.

  “Goodnight, Steward.”

  “Goodnight, Herr Heidegger.”

  The door closed, leaving Tochfel alone in the chamber. For a moment, he thought about climbing on to his narrow bed. Then he saw the pile of papers on his desk, and realised just how much more work he had to get through.

  “This is getting beyond my control,” he mused, speaking to himself in his fatigue. “I will speak to Verstohlen. He will know what to do.”

  Schwarzhelm moved ever closer to his quarry. He went slowly, keeping to the darkness, watchful for the teams of sentries. He’d cleaned the worst of the muck from his clothes. The rain had started again. It might have been sent from blessed Shallya herself, as it damped down his stench and made the guards unwilling to patrol too zealously out in the open.

  The interior of the Palace complex was a vast morass of interconnected corridors and buildings. No living man knew them all, though Schwarzhelm was as familiar with them as anyone. He’d never penetrated so far into the southern wings of the mammoth structure, but he knew that Lassus had had his private chambers there. They were modest, less than would normally have been offered to a general of Lassus’ stature. Until recently, Schwarzhelm had been pained by the lack of respect shown to his old master. Now he cursed the fact that he even had chambers within such hallowed precincts.

  From the courtyard, he’d moved quickly towards the collection of apartments given to distinguished retired officers. Most were housed in a heavy sandstone monstrosity covered in eroded gargoyles and overworked copies of the Imperial coat of arms. In an attempt to mask the grotesque devices, huge stretches of ivy had been allowed to creep across the stone, obscuring all but the steep tiled roof with its iron guttering. Originally the building had been set amid a pleasant ornamental lawn, though the demands of the Imperial bureaucracy had ensured that it was now surrounded by three gothic scriptoria and a gloomy vaulted archive.

  Schwarzhelm paused, taking in his surroundings. The regular Palace guards were issued with crossbows, and without his armour he was vulnerable. If he was unlucky enough to stumble across Reiksguard, his situation would be far graver. For once in his life, stealth would have to take precedence over ostentatious bravery.

  He crouched tight against the wall of one of the scriptoria. The rain splattered down from the leaky roof, bouncing from his hunched shoulders on to the uneven stone flags beneath him. Ahead, maybe thirty yards away, two sentries walked lazily around the perimeter of the apartments. They had hoods cast over their faces to ward against the rain and said nothing. By their manner, Schwarzhelm could see they weren’t the Emperor’s finest. They moved off, heading in the direction of the walls. Schwarzhelm waited until there was complete silence, then moved.

  He crept across the open space quickly, lingering in the pools of shadow. Zigzagging from doorway to doorway, he reached the porch of the first set of apartments. The twin oak doors were flanked by crude sandstone columns, wrapped in ivy and surmounted by the coat-of-arms of some long-dead military commander.

  He looked back the way he’d come. Nothing. He withdrew the keys from his belt and tried several in the lock. None of them worked. That was unsurprising—there were a thousand keys for different parts of the Palace and most were jealously guarded by their owners.

  Schwarzhelm stowed them. There was a time and a place for finesse, and this wasn’t it. He pulled back, gathering his strength, and barged into the doors. They buckled against his massive frame, but held. He slammed into them again, sending a dull thud out into the night. On the third attempt, they caved in, swinging back violently and cracking against the walls. He went in quickly, pulling them behind him.

  Inside all was dark. The place was deserted, as were most of the buildings in the outer reaches of the Palace at night. A central corridor ran back into the gloom, marked by regular doorways leading off on either side. Two high windows at either end let in the scant starlight, but little was illuminated. Schwarzhelm reached into his jerkin and retrieved a flint and a fist-sized lantern. The metal frame of the lantern was carved in swirling lines and the clear windows were crystal—the gift of a grateful elven prince after a battle over a decade ago.

  He lit the wick of the candle and closed the lantern. The light glowed softly from the crystal, throwing diffuse shadows down the corridor. At the far end of it Schwarzhelm could see a stairway leading to the next floor.

  He went quietly and quickly, padding like a great bear on the threadbare carpet. The doorways passed silently, each inscribed with the initials of the official to whom the room within was devoted. Chancellor Julius Rumpelskagg, Magister F. H. Heilstaff, Egbertus Schumann, Under-Scribe of the Fifth Archives. Schwarzhelm knew where it would be, and knew just what he was looking for.

  Just before he reached the stairs he saw the nameplate glinting in the flame, its brass old and tarnished. Eryniem Hoche-Hattenberg, Master of the Keys. No official of that outlandish name had ever existed, though Schwarzhelm knew the room had been well used. He slid the key from Lassus’ chambers into the door and turned it. The lock clicked open.

  Inside, all was orderly and neat. The light of the lantern swept across a spartan chamber. Rows of books lined the walls. Most were treatises on warfare and military training. Schwarzhelm doubted Lassus had read many of them; the man had known all there was to know about war through experience.

  There was a single, draped window at the far end of the room. In front of the window stood the desk, a heavy construction in an archaic style with a polished surface and no drawers. The surface was almost empty, save for an inkwell, a penknife, a blotter and a tray of sand. A few used quills had been discarded in a basket next to the writer’s chair. No parchment remained, and there was no sign of any papers stacked up against the bookcases.

  For a moment, Schwarzhelm began to doubt his intuition. Perhaps Lassus had been too careful. He knelt down beneath the desktop, running his fingers under the wood. He groped further back, feeling for the tell-tale switch that would hide a compartment. Just as he was about to withdraw his hand, he felt the slightest variation in texture. He pressed hard. From deep within the desk there came a thunk, as if a brass mechanism had shifted into place.


  Schwarzhelm clambered to his feet. The right pedestal of the desk had opened, and a narrow door hung ajar on almost invisible hinges. The workmanship was perfect. When closed, the join would have been invisible even in full daylight.

  Schwarzhelm shone the light against the cavity, looking for needle traps. Seeing none, he reached inside carefully and pulled out a roll of parchment, tightly bound with leather straps. Without unwrapping the bundle, he could see what they were—letters written in some kind of cipher. Schwarzhelm was familiar with most of the battle codes used in the Empire, but this one looked strange and he could make no sense of it.

  He stowed the bundle in his jerkin and closed the door to the pedestal again. The first task on his list had been completed. He left the chamber, locking the door behind him. The corridor was as silent as before. He looked up at the window at the far end of the building. The clouds had parted again, and a feeble moonlight had returned. That would make things more difficult. He knew where the sword was being held, and taking that with him would be far more difficult than stealing letters.

  Extinguishing the lantern, Schwarzhelm headed back to the main door. The Chapel of the Fallen, right in the heart of the ancient Palace, awaited him.

  Pieter Verstohlen watched the moon ride clear over Averheim. For a change, he wasn’t in his tower room in the Averburg. His guest lived several streets away and had kindly offered him the use of her bedchamber for the night. Of course, he’d had to pay for the privilege. Or, to be more accurate, for her company within it.

  Visiting courtesans was not something he was proud of. He was careful, of course, and made sure only to procure the services of the higher class of courtesan. His stipend from Schwarzhelm, together with a history of cautious investments, had made him a man of comfortable means. He enjoyed the more exclusive things in life: good food, expensive wine, sophisticated women. Though the notion always seemed trite to him, it was true nevertheless—he valued them for their minds as much as their more regular services. Like many of his kind, solitude became a kind of mania after a while. It needed to be broken, even if that meant giving in to appetites that he’d rather not have had.