Death and the Devil

by Frank Schätzing

  Throwing his wet cloak into a corner, he felt his way along the table to the bench by the fire. He needed to sit down. By this time his eyes had become more used to the darkness. Was that a candlestick on the table? He grasped it, carried it over to the fireplace, and tried to light the wick from the embers. After a couple of attempts, he succeeded. Pleased with himself, he took the candlestick back to the table to leave it there while he went to look for something to drink.

  He saw Rolof.

  He froze.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven,” he whispered.

  He began to tremble uncontrollably. The candlestick fell to the floor and the candle went out. Stumbling, he backed toward the door. “Richmodis,” he moaned, “Jaspar, Rolof. Oh, God, what shall I do, oh, Lord, what—”

  A heavy hand was placed on his shoulder. “Nothing,” said a voice.

  THE WAREHOUSE

  Daniel was crawling nowhere on all fours. Every direction was the same. There was a flicker of light in front of his eyes, but the light came from inside his head. Otherwise he couldn’t see anything at all.

  He felt his face. His nose and forehead hurt horribly. His fingers touched something wet and sticky. A terrible thought came into his head.

  The whore had knocked his eyes out.

  It brought him to his feet. With a howl of rage he set off running blindly, tripped over something, and fell flat on his face. Once more he pulled himself up. Someone was whimpering. He tried to work out where the noise was coming from until he realized he was making it himself. Both hands stretched out in front; he cautiously stepped forward without the slightest idea where he was heading. His fingers encountered masonry. After a while they came to a corner. He would keep feeling his way, he decided, until he found the door. Then across the courtyard and along the house walls—

  Suddenly his fingers felt a different texture. Cloth.

  Cloth that was moving.

  Daniel shrank back against the wall. “Kuno?” he whispered.

  Someone took a step toward him.

  “Can’t you see I’m defenseless?” Daniel panted. “You wouldn’t—I mean—that witch blinded me, Kuno, look, she smashed my eyeballs. Oh, God, Kuno, I’m begging for mercy. I’m begging you now. I’m blind, do you hear, blind—”

  “Don’t exaggerate. You’re not blind. It would help if you opened your eyes.”

  Daniel froze. Then he blinked. His lids were stuck together with blood, but suddenly he could see again. In the gloom of the warehouse he could make out the silhouette of a very tall man in front of him. “You’re not Kuno.”

  “No. I am your obedient servant. I see that my charming guest has flown the coop. I presume you didn’t help her on her way?”

  “Urquhart?” Daniel exclaimed in surprise.

  “That remains to be seen.” There was a note of caution in the voice. “More important is, who are you? What I do with you depends on who you are, so your answer had better be good. One I find convincing.”

  “Is Daniel Overstolz convincing enough?”

  “Worth considering. If you’re telling the truth, I will be Urquhart. If not, then your executioner.”

  “This is outrageous!” Daniel felt his old arrogance return. “My father is Johann Overstolz, one of the most powerful men in Cologne. We pay you for your services, not for your insolence.”

  There was a brief silence, broken by the sound of a slap as Daniel’s head jerked to one side.

  “What—?” he gasped.

  “The next will come from the other side,” said Urquhart calmly. “Then from this side again. We can keep it up until dawn, if you like. I have time until then, as you well know. It’s obvious you’re an Overstolz. Only rich merchant scum that bought its patent of nobility and never held a scholarly book in its hand would show itself up with such empty-headed yapping. What are you doing here?”

  “When I tell my father—”

  “No, I will tell your father. I will tell your father that my bargaining counter has escaped, leaving behind his son, who appears to have taken a beating. From the young lady herself? Do you think he’ll enjoy hearing that? Will he be proud? Or perhaps you aren’t his son at all? We can easily find that out.”

  Daniel felt the other grasp his collar and pull him toward him. “Quickly now. I need to speak with Matthias.”

  “But Matthias was going to meet you every two hours—”

  “That would be too late, blockhead. Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know,” wailed Daniel.

  “Then your father will know. If he is your father.”

  He let go of Daniel, shoving him back against the wall. Daniel coughed and spluttered. “It’s not my fault,” he muttered.

  “No, of course not.” Urquhart smiled. “Nothing’s ever anyone’s fault, is it? Now tell me what happened. And get on with it.”

  WAITING

  Goddert yelped. He shook the hand off and took a leap he would not have believed himself capable of.

  “Good Lord above!” he exclaimed. “Did you give me a surprise!”

  “Sorry.” Jaspar regarded his hand as if it were a poisonous spider. With a shrug of the shoulders he picked up the candlestick and disappeared into the darkness. They heard him rummaging around for a while, then saw him again as the candle lit up.

  “Where have you been?” Goddert was babbling and Jacob could see that his nerves were in tatters. Rolof was still stretched out on the bench as if he were sleeping through everything as usual.

  “Goddert, there’s something we have to tell you—” Jacob said.

  “Tell me? And what about that?” Goddert’s trembling finger pointed at Rolof.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Christ almighty, I can see that!”

  “That’s not important for the moment, Goddert—”

  “Not important?” Distraught, Goddert ran over to Rolof and back again. He dug his fingers into his shaggy beard and looked around wildly. “And where’s Richmodis?” he croaked.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Do me a favor and sit down, will you?”

  Goddert went paler than he already was and sank down on a stool. Jacob felt like simply running away. It was his fault everything had turned out like this. He brought misfortune to everyone. What could they say to Goddert?

  “You, too, Fox-cub,” ordered Jaspar.

  Abashed, he sat down opposite Goddert and tried to look him in the face.

  “Nothing’s happened to Richmodis?” Goddert asked, like a child.

  “I don’t know.” Jaspar shook his head. “I don’t know. No idea, Goddert. She’s been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Gerhard’s murderer, at least that’s what we suspect, has taken her away somewhere. If we can believe him, she’s alive, and at the moment I believe him.”

  “Kidnapped,” whispered Goddert, with a blank stare.

  “We have to—”

  “What’s been happening?” whined Goddert. “Everything was fine yesterday. Who would want to kidnap my child? She’s never done anyone any harm, she—”

  Jaspar and Jacob exchanged glances. Then, gently, they told him what had happened since they had last seen him. But Goddert only seemed to be taking half of it in. His eyes kept being drawn to Rolof’s body. Eventually it became clear he wasn’t listening at all. He just kept moaning, “Richmodis.”

  “There’s no point,” Jaspar said quietly to Jacob. “The shock’s been too much for him.”

  “What are we to do with him?” whispered Jacob.

  “With whom? With Goddert or Rolof?”

  “Both.”

  “Goddert we’ll take home—at least there he won’t have to see poor Rolof all the time. That’s the best we can do for him for the moment. As for Rolof? I don’t like having a body that’s been slit open and written on with his own blood lying about the house. Looks suspiciously like heathen rites. I think for the time being we should get him out of the way, however much it pains me not to
give poor Rolof a proper burial. Let’s get Goddert home first. You’ll stay with him and I’ll come back and”—he cleared his throat—“clear up.”

  They took Goddert by the arm and led him out unresisting. His eyes were blinded by tears. The fury of the storm had increased and several times they almost ended up together in the mire. It was something of a miracle that Goddert was able to put one foot in front of the other. He was rapidly succumbing to apathy. Jacob remembered how he himself had staggered along the Duck Ponds two days ago after he had found Maria’s body, ready to accept any lie, provided it was better than the reality, shattered and yet strangely uninvolved, an interested observer of his own wretchedness.

  He felt immensely sorry for the old man.

  At last the houses on the Brook appeared through the slanting curtain of rain. They hurried on, heads well down between their shoulders. Goddert was whimpering to himself.

  Jacob clenched his teeth. Then he saw something and stopped in his tracks.

  There was a jerk as Jaspar took another stride. Goddert slipped out of their grasp and went sprawling, splashing mud in all directions.

  “For God’s sake, Fox-cub, what’s all that about?”

  “Look.” Jacob pointed.

  Jaspar squinted. There was a faint gleam of light between the shutters of Goddert’s house.

  Light.

  “Goddert,” said Jacob, speaking slowly and clearly, “did you leave anything burning when you went out?”

  From the ground Goddert gave Jacob an uncomprehending look. “No.”

  “Not a candle, an oil lamp, fire in the grate?”

  “Definitely not. Why do you ask?”

  “Sorry, I’d forgotten the Lord didn’t bless you with the gift of long sight. It looks as if you have visitors. Were you expecting any?”

  “I’m not expecting anyone at all. You must be wrong.” Then his face was transformed. “But perhaps—perhaps Richmodis is back!”

  He scrambled to his feet and set off for the house. Jaspar grabbed hold of him. “Nonsense, Goddert. Face up to the facts. She’s been kidnapped.”

  “No,” Goddert shouted. “It’s Richmodis! She’s come back. My little girl! Don’t you see, Jaspar, it’s all been a terrible mistake and she’s back. Let go of me!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Goddert.”

  “No. Let go.” His strength suddenly seemed to have returned. He pulled himself free and set off running toward the house.

  “The fool!” Jaspar swore. “Goddert, stay here. You’ve no idea who’s in there,” he shouted.

  “Richmodis!”

  They slithered along behind him, but Goddert was too quick for them. They saw him fling open the door and disappear inside, then heard his cry.

  “Oh, Lord,” groaned Jaspar.

  A few steps brought them to the house. They clattered into the room and came to an abrupt halt. Jaspar’s chin dropped. “Richmodis,” he gasped.

  Goddert was pressing her to him, as if he could hold her so close nothing in the world would ever take her away again. The tears were running down his cheeks. Richmodis was patting his rounded back. Her hair was disheveled and dripping wet. She gently prized his arms away from her and stroked his face. “Are you all right, Father?”

  Goddert was laughing and crying at the same time. “Who cares how I am? Holy Virgin, I thank you. Oh, God, I thought I’d never see you again!” His head swung around to Jaspar and Jacob. “Ha! Didn’t I tell you? My little girl!”

  Jaspar grinned. He went over and, throwing his arms wide, hugged the pair of them. “Goddert,” he said solemnly, “you can say what you like about your mental capacity, but that of your stomach is far superior to mine.”

  They laughed and held one another tight. Jacob stood by the door observing a happiness that, for a moment, blotted out everything else. Then he felt sadness welling up inside him and turned away.

  “That’s enough,” said Richmodis. “Come and look in the back room.”

  They followed her. A man was lying on the massive kitchen table. His face was terribly pale, his clothes soaked in blood in several places. As they entered he laboriously raised his head.

  Jaspar was beside him immediately. “What happened?”

  “Sword wounds. One in the leg, the other in the side. I was just going to bandage them.”

  “We must wash them first. Get me some wine, vinegar, and water. Cloths as well. Quickly.”

  “I’ll fetch the wine,” said Goddert.

  “I want it to wash him with, Goddert, to wash him! Understood?”

  Goddert gave him a withering look and hurried off. Richmodis brought some cloths. With an expressionless look on his face, Jasper examined the man, felt his body, checked his pulse, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  The man groaned and tried to sit up. Jaspar gently pushed him back down. “Don’t move. We have to bandage your ribs first. Tell me your name.”

  “Kuno Kone,” the man whispered.

  Jaspar paused for a second. “Kone? The merchant house?”

  Kuno nodded.

  “Well, well, well. Curiouser and curiouser.”

  Jacob looked down at the man, feeling superfluous. He was about to say something, but Goddert shoved him to one side and put a brimming pail of water and two jugs on the floor beside the table. Jaspar sniffed them.

  “That smells of vinegar,” he declared and picked up the other. “This’s probably wine. But it’s best to be sure.” He put the jug to his lips and took a long draught.

  “Hey,” Goddert protested. “To wash him, you said.”

  “Firstly,” said Jaspar, licking his lips, “anything I use to wash our friend here must have my specific approval, and secondly you can let me have a knife instead of stupid comments. I’ll have to cut his clothes away.”

  Grumbling to himself, Goddert went to find a knife as Richmodis returned with another pile of rags. They all ignored Jacob.

  “Can I do anything?” he asked hesitantly.

  Jaspar looked up for a moment. “Play your whistle,” he said.

  Jacob stared in astonishment. “Do what?”

  “Don’t you understand German? Play your whistle. Until we’ve got him bandaged up.”

  Breathing heavily, Kuno seemed about to protest.

  “And you can keep your trap shut,” Jaspar commanded. “We’ll talk later. Goddert, the knife. Richmodis, soak that cloth in vinegar. Well, Jacob? Haven’t you any whistles left? I thought they grew on you, like monkeys on a tree. Come on. I want music if I’ve got to work at this hour of the night.”

  Jacob felt inside the habit. The last thing he would have thought of was his whistle. It was still there. It had survived the fishmarket and the horrific journey under the cart. He took it out from his belt, twisting and turning it in his fingers, at a loss for what to play.

  At that moment Richmodis looked up at him. And smiled.

  It was that brief, warm smile.

  Jacob started with the merriest tune he knew. And as Jaspar silently cut away Kuno’s clothes and then, with Richmodis’s help, washed him, carefully cleaning the wounds, and Goddert obediently brought fresh water and wrung out the cloths, the music gradually seemed to bring warmth to the room. With each silvery note peace and strength came flooding in, each arpeggio, each refrain drove the specter of fear a little further away. The faces of the others lost their careworn look and Jacob was fired with the joy of making music as he had not been for a long time. His whistle was a weapon combating despair; it rang out in their hopeless situation as if they had reason to celebrate, scorned danger with mocking trills, dismissed their terrors with a wave of its magic wand, rejoicing and pouring out the song of creation in cascade after cascade, calling up images of glittering stars and showers of pearls, exotic cities with minarets and slim towers of jasper, stories of fantasy and adventure, just as old Bram had taught him, Bram who, though perhaps not a crusader, had been a sorcerer who could conjure joy out of thin
air. Jacob helped them recover something of the vitality they felt they had lost in the storm, smoothed the turbulent waves of confusion and revived their spirits until the blood surged through their veins and Goddert broke out into cheerful laughter.

  With a guilty start, he let the whistle sink from his lips. The mood immediately cooled a little, but the icy despair had gone.

  A satisfied look on his face, Jaspar washed his hands. “Good. He’s sleeping. I could do with a drink. What do you say, Goddert”—he looked at Richmodis and then Jacob—“What does everyone say, shall we have a mug of wine?”

  “A mug of wine!”

  They filled the mugs and went into the front room, telling one another what had happened. Jaspar pretended he was too exhausted to talk and left it to Jacob to put the others in the picture. But Jacob was well aware of the real purpose behind it. Jaspar had sensed his feeling of isolation and, like a good friend, was drawing him into the group.

  When they had finished, they sat in silence for a while, each occupied with their own thoughts.

  “Let’s be under no illusion,” said Jaspar eventually. “The situation’s worse than ever.”

  “Why?” asked Goddert in astonishment. “Richmodis is here and we can’t bring poor Rolof back to life. It was God’s will.”

  “Do stop prattling on about God’s will, for God’s sake,” Jaspar snapped. “I find it remarkable the way God is made responsible for everything.”

  “Jaspar’s right,” said Jacob. “If the man who kidnapped Richmodis—and he’s obviously the same man that I saw on the cathedral—if he finds out she’s escaped, he’ll come looking for us. He’s got nothing that gives him a hold over us anymore. It’s back to square one. He has to kill us if he wants to make sure we won’t talk. Sooner or later—”

  “Sooner or later he’ll come here,” said Jaspar.

  “But he doesn’t know where we live,” said Goddert, a quiver in his voice.

  “He found my house, even though I didn’t send a written invitation with a map. Anyway, he talked to Rolof and it’s easy to squeeze things out of him.”