They’d cleared out one of the stalls, and chained Breughel up naked like an animal in it. Kraly sat on a stool, asking questions, while an inky clerk with a quill taller than his hat scratched down a transcript of the conversation. Detlef wondered how he transliterated the screams.
One of Kraly’s halberdiers was naked to the waist, his torso flushed and sweaty. He had armoured gauntlets on, and had been working Breughel over.
The prisoner’s human face was bloodied. The rest of him leaked a yellowish fluid.
Even if Breughel had had any answers, he wouldn’t have been able to give them, Detlef thought.
“What are you doing here, Kraly? You idiot!”
“Getting a confession. The crown prince will want things sorted out before he gets here.”
“I think if you hit me a couple of times with those gloves on, I’d confess too. Surely, even a cretin like you knows why torture is out of fashion. Unless, of course, you get your amusement this way.”
Kraly stood up. He had Breughel’s yellow ichor on his boots. He was freshly barbered and wore an immaculate white cravat. He didn’t look as if he had spent the night crawling about secret passageways and leaping to conclusions.
“There are details known only to the murderer. Those are what we are after.”
“And what if he’s not the murderer?”
Kraly’s lips curled up on one side. “I think that’s unlikely given the evidence, don’t you?”
“Evidence! The killer just stuck his bloody hand on a door to point you at a convenient scapegoat, and you’ve done just what he wanted. A nine-year old wouldn’t be taken in by that old trick!”
The torturer took a good shot at Breughel’s stomach, disturbing the forest of unclassifiable fronds that grew there. Several of the eyes in his chest had been put out. Another of Kraly’s men was heating up a brazier and sticking blacksmithing tools into it. Torture was evidently not a lost art in Ostland. Detlef wondered how Good Prince Oswald would react to all this.
“I was not referring to the bloody door, Mr. Sierck. I was referring to… this monstrous abortion, this creature of Chaos…”
Mouths around Breughel’s waist snapped open, long tongues darting out. The torturer cried out.
“That stings.” Blue weals rose on his arm.
“You’ll be dead in three days,” said Breughel, his voice remarkably unaffected.
The torturer started back, raising his hand to strike. Then panic filled his eyes. He grabbed his arm, as if to squeeze out the infection.
“You can’t possibly know that, Breughel,” Detlef said. “You’ve never stung anyone before.”
Breughel laughed, liquid rattling in his throat. “That’s true.”
The torturer looked relieved, and cuffed Breughel viciously. Blood flew. The floor of the stall was slippery with various bodily fluids. The place smelled badly. The clerk scribbled down a precis of the incident for posterity.
“Kraly, can I talk to my friend?”
The steward shrugged.
“Alone?”
He nodded his head, got up, and strolled out of the stall. His torturer went with him, rubbing his itching rash. The scribe also withdrew, muttering about judicial procedures.
“Can I get you anything?” Detlef asked.
“Some water would be nice.”
Detlef used a dipper in a bucket that stood nearby, and raised the water to his friend’s lips. He found it strange being so close to such a twisted creature, but he swallowed his distaste. Breughel coughed as he slurped, and the water trickled out of his wounded mouth. But his throat worked, and he got some down. He hung there, exhausted, in his chains, and looked expectantly at Detlef.
“Go on,” he said, “ask me…”
“Ask you what?”
“If I gutted Rudi and took his eyes. And did the same for Menesh.”
Detlef hesitated. “All right, I’ll ask you.”
Breughel’s eyes leaked again. He looked betrayed. “You have to say it out loud. It hurts more that way. The hurting is the most important part of it.”
Detlef gulped. “Did you kill them? Rudi and Menesh?”
Breughel painfully formed a toothless smile. “Is that what you think?”
“Oh, come on now, Vargr! This is me, Detlef Sierck, not some total stranger! We’ve worked together for… how many years now? You stuck by me all through The History of Sigmar, you think I’m going to desert you just because you’re a…”
He groped for the word.
Breughel gave it to him. “A mutant. That’s what they’re… what we’re called, these days. Yes, I’m a creature of Chaos. Look at me…”
Breughel pulsated, strange organs emerging from his torso.
“It’s a strange disease. I don’t know if I’m dying of it, or being reborn. I wish I were a writer like you, then maybe I could describe what it’s like.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Some of the time. At others, it’s… quite pleasant, actually. I don’t have to feel pain if I don’t want to. Otherwise, I’d have given Kraly a nice little confession. Unfortunately, I can’t protect myself through ignorance, you see. These tentacles in my belly can see what’s uppermost in a man’s mind. I know the details of the murders Kraly wants to beat and burn out of me. Just as I know how you really feel about what I’ve become…”
Detlef cringed inwardly, and blurted an apology.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m disgusted at what I’ve become. I’ve always been disgusted at what I was. It’s nothing new. I don’t blame you at all. You’re the only one who ever gave me a chance. I’m going to die soon, and I’d like you to know how grateful I’ve been for your friendship.”
“Vargr, I won’t let Kraly kill you.”
“No, you won’t. I have the choice whether I live or die. I can stop my heart, tear it apart with the teeth I have inside my chest. And I intend to do it.”
“But Oswald is a fair man. He won’t see you hanged for murders you didn’t commit.”
Breughel’s cilia writhed and changed colour.
“No, but what about seeing me hanged for the murders I will commit? Even seeing me hanged for what I am. I’m changing—”
“That’s obvious.”
“Not just in my body. My mind is changing, too. I have impulses. The warpstone warps minds as well as bodies. I’ve been misremembering things, having strange ideas, strange desires. I’m altering severely. I could go to the Wastes and lose myself in the hordes of Chaos, join with all the other monsters. But I’d not be me anymore. I’m losing Vargr Breughel, and I don’t think I want to leave behind what I’m about to become.”
Breughel gritted his teeth, and strained against his chains. There was a great grinding inside his chest. His cilia deepened in colour and stuck out like fat sausages.
Kraly and his men came rushing back. “What’s the beast doing?” asked the steward.
Detlef turned and hit him in the gut, hurting his knuckles more. Kraly bent double, swearing and coughing. Detlef wanted to hit the man again, but there was too much else going on for him to bother.
Breughel’s torso swelled up, and he snapped his chains out of the wall. Smiling, he advanced on Kraly. The steward screamed as the monster came for him. Breughel rattled his chains and, smiling, slapped his tormentor’s face. He continued to expand, rents appearing in his skin. Eyes stood out like boils. He drew a great breath, inflating his lungs. Then, he burst.
Detlef stood back to avoid the splatter. The torturer fell over, putting a hand into the brazier of hot coals to steady himself. He screamed as his hand was roasted through. Breughel fell apart with a great sighing.
As he died, Vargr Breughel said, “Good luck with the play.”
IV
When, three days later, the Imperial party arrived, things were as nearly back to normal as they ever could be. Detlef had supervised the burial of Vargr Breughel, and informed Henrik Kraly that it would be in his own best interests to keep out of his way. Kraly put up notic
es announcing that Breughel had been the murderer, and muttered to his men that each day which passed without a fresh atrocity proved him right. If the dwarf had confederates, the steward did not spend too much of his time seeking them out. Privately, he expressed the opinion that the voices they had heard in the room where Menesh was murdered were those of the daemons Breughel was summoning with his unholy ritual.
Murderer or not, Breughel was much missed by the company. Detlef called a halt to rehearsals for an entire morning so that everyone could attend the assistant director’s funeral. Detlef had him buried on the mountainside, outside the fortress walls. Justus the Trickster, a cleric after all, read the lesson, and Detlef gave a brief eulogy. The only conspicuously absent face was that of Lilli Nissen, and she hadn’t even been much in evidence at rehearsals recently. Breughel had more friends than he knew. When Oswald came, Detlef vowed, there would be a reckoning with Kraly, whom he considered his friend’s murderer.
The play was set in its final form now. Detlef went through a complete day of rehearsal without adding, deleting or changing any lines, and an enormous cheer went up from the company. He took out his much-scribbled script and pondered a moment before pronouncing the text whole and finished. Then he delivered a fifty-minute lecture on the finer points of the actual production, browbeating, upbraiding, cajoling and pampering those who deserved it and enthusing his followers with the spirit of the piece. Watching from the audience—with a stand-in taking his role—Detlef thought the only dead spot was Lilli, and there was really nothing to be done about that. At least, she still looked incredible, teeth in or out, and her blankness could just barely be interpreted as undead detachment, even if that interpretation went against the grain of the play and the expectations of anyone who had met the real Genevieve Dieudonne. He could not speak for his own performance. That had been one of Breughel’s functions, to keep him alert as an actor while he might be overly concerned with other details of the production. He hoped his friend would not be overly critical from the afterlife, and sought to curb the excesses Breughel had continually pointed out to him.
When runners appeared early in the morning to announce the imminent arrival of the Emperor and the electors, Detlef was confident enough to cancel the day’s work and leave the company to their own devices. They would perform all the better for the rest and relaxation. And he knew they would appreciate the opportunity to gawk at rich and famous people. More than one young actress or musician vanished to their chambers to dig out their most fetching, and/or revealing, costumes in the hope of attracting a wealthy patron among the Emperor’s entourage.
The Emperor Karl-Franz rode into Castle Drachenfels at the head of his caravan, Oswald—Grand Prince Oswald now—a little behind him, and his son Luitpold doing his best to keep abreast. The Emperor waved, and the assembled cast cheered him. The rest of the caravan creaked and lumbered through the castle gates and the courtyard became a chaos of ostlers and coachmen and servants. The dignified personages spilled out of their carriages and were led to the luxurious apartments that had been prepared for them in the wing of the fortress opposite the actors’ quarters. Detlef heard Illona Horvathy commenting enviously on Countess Emmanuelle von Liebewitz’s ridiculously bejewelled travelling clothes. He recognized the elector of Middenland, who avoided his gaze and hurried off, grey-faced, to find the privies. Some people don’t travel well. Kraly turned out and got to Oswald first. He delivered a concise report, and Detlef saw the elector’s face grow serious.
Oswald came over to Detlef, leaving Kraly to liaise with the new influx of guardsmen.
“This has been a bad business.”
“Yes, highness, and made the worse for your servant.”
Oswald was grave. “So I gather.”
“Vargr Breughel was innocent of any crime.”
“Yet he was an altered.”
“That is, in itself, not illegal.”
“For now, maybe. There are moves in the college. However, I assure you this will not end here. Steps will be taken. You will be heard.”
Young Luitpold ran up to Oswald and tugged at his coat, excitedly. Then, he became aware of Detlef, and turned from a normal boy trussed up in a silly soldier suit to a miniature aristocrat with poise and bearing.
“Detlef Sierck, permit me to introduce Luitpold of the House of the Second Wilhelm.”
The boy bowed, his hand fluttering before his face. Detlef returned the bow.
“I am honoured, highness.”
His duty done, Luitpold returned his attention to Oswald. “Show me where you slew the monster, Oswald. And where your tutor was killed by Ueli the dwarf, and where the gargoyles came out of the walls.”
Oswald laughed, but without much humour. “That can wait until Detlef’s play. You’ll find it all out then.”
The future Emperor dashed off, one silk stocking slipping to bunch at his ankle. Oswald looked more the proud parent than Karl-Franz, Detlef thought. Then, the grand prince turned serious again, as if suddenly aware of the place he had returned to.
“We didn’t come in through the courtyard, you know,” he said. “I only saw this afterwards, in the sunlight. We came in through the cliff gates, which lie beyond that arm of the fortress.”
He pointed. By day, Drachenfels was just an ordinary mountain fastness. Only at night did the dread creep back.
“That’s where I saw Sieur Jehan, my oldest friend, with his throat pulled out, bleeding his last.”
“We have all lost friends, highness.”
Oswald stared at Detlef, as if seeing him for the first time. “Forgive me. So, this place has claimed more victims. Sometimes, I think we should have had it pulled down and scattered the stones, then seeded the site with salt and silver.”
“But then you wouldn’t have been able to stage this pageant.”
“Maybe not.”
Detlef could not help but notice that Oswald seemed more disturbed by the death of Sieur Jehan, twenty-five years ago, than by those of Rudi Wegener and Menesh the dwarf within the last week. The aristocrat had grown a tougher skin since his first visit to this place. The boy hero of Detlef’s play was buried within the skilled politician, the dignified statesman.
A sprightly man in early middle age approached them. He had doffed his ceremonial coat, and Detlef took a moment to recognize him in a plain black travelling suit.
“Detlef, here is Luitpold’s father.”
Emperor Karl-Franz of the House of the Second Wilhelm held out a hand. Detlef didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it, and opted to do both. To his surprise, he found himself immediately liking the man.
“We’ve heard much of your work, Sierck. I trust you’ll not disappoint us tomorrow night.”
“I shall try not to, majesty.”
“That’s all we can ask for. Oswald, come, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
Karl-Franz and Oswald left, arm in arm.
So these, Detlef thought, are the giants, the true gods whose whims alter the courses of our lives, whose faults slaughter thousands and whose virtues endure forever. Like the fortress of Drachenfels, they don’t seem so much in the daylight.
Genevieve appeared, hidden behind her strange dark glasses, and flew to Oswald.
For a moment, Detlef wondered if what he was feeling was jealousy.
V
While Oswald entertained Karl-Franz and the electors in one wing of the fortress, and Detlef oversaw his dress rehearsal in the other, Anton Veidt was preparing to leave Drachenfels. He took his weapons from their hidden places in his room, and cleaned them. He wrapped a coil of rope around his skinny middle. He packed provisions enough for three days in the mountains. And he allowed himself a cigar, keeping the smoke down, controlling the spasms in his chest.
He was not a stupid man. Erzbet dead. Rudi dead. Menesh dead. He could follow the trend. The vampire lady and the grand prince might be foolish enough to stay and invite their fates, but Veidt was getting out now.
Twenty-five years ago, i
t had been the same. Conradin dead. Heinroth dead. Sieur Jehan dead. Ueli the dwarf dead. Stellan the Warlock dead. Others whose names he couldn’t even remember dead. And Veidt alone in the dark, waiting for death.
Sometimes, he wondered if he really had died in the passageways of this castle, and whether the remainder of his life was just a dream, or a nightmare? As his black crab ate more, he felt himself being tugged back to those hours in the dark with the poison creeping into him.
He would wake up at night, certain that the mattress beneath him was the stone floor of Castle Drachenfels.
Could it be only minutes since Oswald and the others had left him to die here? Could he have imagined the whole course of his life in these few moments of unconsciousness? In the dark, the events of twenty-five years seemed a dream. How could he have ever believed such a hazy, marginal existence was real?
These sick thoughts were a symptom of the dangers of this place. He should never have returned. There weren’t enough gold crowns in the Empire to hire a man to commit suicide.
He chose his time well, while Oswald was busy with his feast and Detlef his performance. There would be guards about, but they weren’t expecting anyone to attempt an escape. He should have no problem. And if he did come up against some itchy halberdier, he had his dart gun and his short sword.
Actually, he had no reason to believe he couldn’t just tell Oswald he was leaving and walk away from Drachenfels in the open. But he did not intend to chance the grand prince’s whims. Oswald could as easily have him imprisoned as let him free and there was no telling how important Veidt really was to his pageant.
In his old clothes, his hunting clothes, he left his room and crept down to the courtyard. It was well lit and he could see too many men-at-arms. Kraly himself was supervising the watch, fanatically devoting himself to the security of the Imperial party in an attempt to justify his earlier actions. The great doors were closed, so Veidt would have to scale the walls to escape. The risk was too great.
He would have to leave the castle the way they had come in all those years ago, through the gates at the clifftop. He had rope and his grip was as good as ever. He could descend the mountains, get away into Bretonnia. Oswald would never reach for him there and there were felons enough to keep his belly full. He could grow old with Bretonnian wenches and Bretonnian wine, and maybe burst his heart through excess before the crab killed him.
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