01 - Honour of the Grave

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  “Please let my servant escort you to the drawing room, where we may parley at length.”

  “All I mean to say, dear Jurgen, is that you may overestimate the degree to which the common soldier cares for the upholding of the von Kopf honour. The count, in his wisdom, has always supported your family, and your company of Sabres. You are exemplars of Averlandish determination and vigilance. But we are the sort of people who understand these sorts of things. The common fellow, the groundling, the gutter-grubber, may not appreciate the reasons for rigidly sticking to the letter of dusty ancestral rules. He might perceive them as—well—over-harsh.”

  “If you insist on making your point in front of the prisoners, perhaps you could at least get to it.”

  He rose to pat an unappreciative Jurgen on the shoulder. “Pardon my prolixity. I know you are a military man, and accustomed to short, barked orders. All I am saying is that you may wish to suspend judgment when and if you do recover custody of poor, callow Lukas. A literal application of your family oath could prove distracting at an otherwise crucial moment.”

  “And tell me, Anton—does this advice come from the count, or from you?”

  Brucke emitted a droll chuckle. “You know as well as I do that the count is…” He looked at the prisoners. “You know how the count is.”

  Jurgen put his hand on Brucke’s silk-coated shoulder, and squeezed hard. The courtier winced. “In that case, I will entertain these suggestions with all respect due to the person making them.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “You know nobles and their ways: what did you make of that strange display, Franziskus?”

  They were still shackled, but now they were bound back to back around a timber support beam. At Jurgen’s command, Gelfrat and a complement of Sabres had roughly led them out of Jurgen’s manor, through his courtyard, and along the streets until they reached one of the town’s south towers. They’d been dragged up narrow, curving stone steps and deposited in their present location: a small room that might normally have been used to store weapons or provisions. Their ceiling was the floor on which the tower sentries walked. From a narrow window, hardly big enough to stick an arm through, Angelika and Franziskus heard the voices of the watchmen, and the occasional bout of raucous laughter. The storm had been in full cry as they were led through the streets, and now, though their clothing had dried somewhat, they were chilled and damp.

  “I am no expert in high politics, Angelika. My father always avoided the court and courtiers, as much as he could. He said they were asps, the lot of them.”

  “A novice in a nunnery could tell you that much.”

  Franziskus clucked his agreement.

  “But from what the way that Brucke fellow spoke, he would be an adviser to the count, yes?” Angelika continued.

  “So I gathered.”

  “And he wanted Lukas left alone.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Which means there is a safe harbour for the boy, when we find him: we’ll take him to the count, who’ll protect him.”

  Franziskus moaned. “When we find him?” He rattled his restraints. “Unless he’s in a secret compartment somewhere in this cell, I don’t imagine we’ll be doing that in the near future. Remember Jurgen’s threat—at this very moment he’s securing the services of a first-class torturer.”

  “Naturally, we have to get out of here before we can do anything.” Pushing her back against the support beam, Angelika wiggled into a standing position. “I was hoping he’d put us in a brig or stockade somewhere on his own estate, with the activity of servants and dogsbodies to cover our escape.”

  “That thought probably entered into his calculations.”

  “Or he just didn’t want us dirtying up his estate with our stench of dishonour. Let’s think. First we need these shackles off. Then: how many guards do you figure they have outside?”

  Franziskus, who faced the stout wooden door, framed in an archway of granite, squinted doubtfully at it. “How does that even matter? The door is firmly locked!”

  “My wager is, there’s one guard only; you saw how narrow the staircase is, when they hauled us up here. This is not normally a prison cell, so there’s no proper place for anyone to stand guard outside that door. Maybe there’s no guard at all.”

  They heard coughing on the other side.

  “I wish you were right, and I was wrong,” said Franziskus. “But I don’t think we can make any travel plans yet.”

  “Enough gloom. I can’t do all the escaping by myself.” She studied her leg-irons for weak links, then released them in frustration.

  They heard muffled conversation by the door. Angelika picked out two separate deep voices. There was a third, which took her a while to pick out: it was a woman’s soft cooing.

  “Someone selling something?” Franziskus asked.

  “Shh!” said Angelika. She strained to hear but individual words were impossible to make out. From the tone of it, her guess was that the woman was trying to overcome the reluctance of the two men. The conversation ceased. She sighed.

  The door opened. Petrine Guillame, still clad in her tight, green-flocked gown, with its generous neckline, rushed through the archway, brushing past both guardsmen, who grinned like fools. Full purses hung at their belts. Franziskus kept one eye on them; and with the other, he watched Petrine throw herself to her knees before him.

  Angelika, who faced the opposite way, could not see her. “Who is it?” she asked.

  Petrine clasped Franziskus’ shackled hands in hers. “I am so, so, sorry for what I have done to you, dear good Franziskus,” she breathed.

  “Who is that?” Angelika called, louder.

  “It was entirely unforgivable, and I beg your forgiveness for it, Franziskus,” said Petrine. “I hope you came to no harm, against those halflings.”

  “Half!—is it that woman?” Angelika demanded. “Guillame? Petrine Guillame?”

  The guards found this amusing, and chortled and jabbed one another in the ribs.

  The woman went on, ignoring Angelika: “Tell me no harm came to you, sweet Franziskus.”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  “Oh no! They hurt you! I swear, I thought from Toby’s description of them that they’d be no match for you, or that you’d realise you’d been led on a goose hunt before things ever came to blows! My guilt is terribly, terribly compounded!”

  “Is that her?” Angelika cried.

  “Yes,” said Franziskus, weakly.

  Angelika shook her chains furiously. “Count yourself lucky I’m shackled!”

  “You,” Petrine said. “You are the one.” She stood, stepped over to face Angelika, and looked down at her grimly. “You are the one.”

  “The one what?”

  “You.” Hard, downward-sloping lines appeared on her brow. “You made yourself a… friend to…” She cast her eyes over to the guards, to show why she didn’t refer to Davio by name. “It is because of you that I am sent here, through hardships and dangers. He wishes you to know that he meant for no injury to come to you. It was a most terrible error.”

  “I hear you are also a friend to the one we speak of.”

  “And it is said of you that you antagonise every one of the persons you meet, because that is the way you are. But that is not why I am here. He wants you to know it was me, not he, who had you misdirected. He is responsible for none of your pain. I thought it would be best to prevent you from recovering a certain important hostage you sought. But it was not.”

  “And this is what you came here to tell us?”

  “When he heard you were in trouble, he found it most imperative to prevent you from thinking ill of him.”

  “How very thoughtful of him. Especially since it’s only your neck he’s risking to say it.”

  “You are not fit to judge him. I do his bidding with the utmost willingness.”

  “He is still well, I take it? Well and safe?”

  She ignored Angelika’s question, returnin
g instead to Franziskus’ side. She squeezed the muscle of his upper arm.

  “I never dreamed you would end up here, bound to die in Grenzstadt,” she said to him, eyes sparkling with tears. “It was never the intention. Never did we think you would be so persistent. I beg of you, Franziskus, absolve me of blame. Do not go to your grave with hate for me lodged in your heart. Go with an unfettered soul, so that you may not be blocked on your road to heaven.”

  Franziskus drew back from her. “You play false with me, I know it.”

  “Yes, yes, I have, curses be on me, but I am here hoping you will absolve me.” Her slim fingers wandered along back and down to his belt. “Promise me, as you die, that you’ll blame neither me, nor Davio.” Too late, she realised her blunder. Franziskus saw the guards take mental note of the name. “Do not blame us,” she whispered. The tip of her nose brushed the lobe of his ear. “Do not send your ghost to haunt us from beyond.”

  “It’s nice of you to offer him one final roll in the hay,” said Angelika, “but you’re turning my stomach.”

  Petrine stood up, huffed, and swept from the room. The guards banged the door shut; the loud clicks reverberated off the stone walls as one of them turned the lock’s tumbler with his key.

  “It’s none of my business, Franziskus, but your taste in women is appalling.”

  “When we met back at the Castello, it was not her shape, or the softness of her skin, that fooled me. It was the sincerity of her plea.”

  “Sincerity?” Angelika asked.

  “She was different this time. More like an actress, treading the boards.”

  “That was a performance, to be sure—but to what end?”

  Franziskus answered her with a metallic clicking sound. Then a louder clank. Another click, another clank. He stepped quickly over to Angelika, dropping both sets of his shackles at her feet. He held up a pair of iron keys on a ring. “We are the beneficiaries of a classic diversion. She slipped this into the folds of my tunic as she pretended to weep and wheedle.” He squatted to insert the key’s end into Angelika’s wrist cuffs.

  “When she brushed past the guards…” Angelika said.

  He unlocked her leg-irons. “I didn’t see it, and they didn’t feel it. Most impressive technique, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ll say I like her better when her deceptions work in our favour.”

  “She slipped me this, too.” He handed her a knife, its blade a little shorter than the daggers she favoured. She weighed it in her hand. They gathered up the chains and crept over to the door. Alert, they waited, starting each time they heard noise from the corridor.

  About an hour later, the lock clicked as a jailer turned a key from the outside. Franziskus flattened himself by the door frame. Angelika stood poised with the knife ready for an inward swing; scratches on the stone floor left a mark for her to aim for. The door opened. Franziskus lunged. He looped chains around the jailer’s throat. He drew the man into the cell. Angelika showed him the knife, sticking its tip to his throat. Checking to make sure he was alone, Franziskus eased the door shut and impelled him further into the room. Sweat bubbled from the jailer’s face.

  “There are several in Grenzstadt I’d like to stick this knife into,” Angelika told him, “but if you stay quiet you won’t be one of them.”

  Franziskus led him to the beam and clapped him in his own shackles, tying them tight so he couldn’t rattle them. Angelika used the knife to cut a swatch of fabric from the tail of his tunic, and stuffed it in his mouth. He whimpered and nodded, to show them he would cooperate.

  Angelika stepped to the door, then backtracked to the chained jailer. She reached into his belt and snatched his purse. He dropped his head in resignation.

  “This is for your own good,” she told him, opening it to find four half-crowns. “If Jurgen caught you with a bribe dangling from your belt, he’d have you hanged for sure.” The guard seemed unconvinced of her altruism.

  Then they slipped into the corridor and ran quickly down the tower stairs.

  Emerging from the tower and onto the curving stone steps that led from the top of the wall to the courtyard at street level, they held their heads high and moved unhurriedly downward. The square was mercifully empty of uniformed men. Angelika listened intently, waiting for a shouted alarm. She looked for places to hide: there was the statue of Parzival Leitdorf, but that would not grant much cover. She noted a stack of barrels, piled on their sides, against the town walls, but, to get to it, they’d have to dash right across the length of the courtyard.

  About thirty feet from the foot of the stairs, a four-wheeled wooden cart waited. High-backed chairs sat at attention inside it, tethered in place with cords. They were wooden and stained black; red leather pads covered their backs and arms. The disassembled parts of a matching table lay among them. A spindly-legged man in a dark frock coat emerged from a shop to peer inside the cart and then sniff up into the darkening sky. He held up a palm to feel for raindrops.

  Angelika flattened herself against the stone wall that abutted the steps.

  The dark-coated man took no notice of the escapees. Pointing his sharp nose in the direction of his open shop door, he snorted out a command, then strode inside. He soon emerged with three stooped, unshaven men in shirts of grimy linen. As he clucked imperiously at them, they battled a tarpaulin of waxy, blackened canvas clumsily over the back of the cart. They threw cords over it, and hastily tied them down. Their master patted his coat pockets, grimaced with annoyance, and bustled on clicking heels back into his shop.

  Franziskus glanced nervously up at the tower.

  The workmen finished their task and ambled back inside. Angelika sprang out from the wall, and rushed sideways to the cart. Franziskus took long strides to match her. With her dagger, she severed a couple of the cords, then held up a flap of canvas for Franziskus to crawl into. He crawled awkwardly beneath it, scraping a shin on the cart’s side. Angelika ducked in behind him, and pushed Franziskus deeper into the cart. She crouched between a pair of chairs; he found a place opposite her. They heard the clicking heels of the sharp-nosed furniture merchant approaching the cart, then felt it spring on its axles as he climbed up onto the seat in front. The sound of reins smacked against horseflesh, and the cart lurched onward.

  As it made a wide, slow turn, Angelika lifted the canvas to peer over the side of the cart. Franziskus looked, too, and saw Jurgen’s estate up ahead. They did not breathe until the horses had clopped right past it. The von Kopf manor was neighboured by fat, blocky armoury buildings, each ostentatiously displaying the seal of a different province or city above its big bronze doors. It made sense that various electors had taken permanent measures to store armaments here—so many wars were launched from here.

  The cart slowed as the armouries were replaced by opulent manors, each surrounded by a garden or courtyard. Angelika did not find these interesting, so she let the tarpaulin settle back down over her head. But then she heard a coach approaching in the opposite direction, and she looked out. The approaching carriage was blue and gold, with Count Leitdorf’s sun emblem emblazoned on its side door. As it drew nearer, its driver whipped his team to a halt. Their cart stopped, too. Angelika moved the curtains carefully back into place and held her breath.

  She heard a voice, addressing the furniture dealer. It was the rouge-faced courtier, Anton Brucke, inquiring after the state of the merchant’s inventory. Angelika rolled her eyes and clutched her knife.

  “Several classic and antique sets have recently come into my possession,” said the merchant, his voice cuttingly nasal.

  Anton said something about wanting a new formal dining set, in a style the name of which she could not make out.

  “We have no Nulnish carvers in town, good sir, but I can offer you a set just like—” He reached back to lift up a corner of canvas.

  The two stowaways shrank back.

  “No, no,” came Anton’s muffled voice. “It must be the new style.”

  The merchant let
the canvas drop back down. “I have a set in the tragische neuausgabe manner, which inspired the style you speak of—”

  “No,” said the courtier, smacking his horses with his reins, “it must be the other.” If he said anything more, the clopping hooves of his team obscured it. Angelika watched as Brucke’s coach pulled into the grounds of a modest manor, past topiary trees and eroded old statues. The merchant sniffed his disappointment loudly and then spurred his own horses on.

  The carriage continued on; the estates it passed grew progressively smaller and shabbier. Finally it stopped outside a shabby manor, with a garden overgrown with weeds. Storm-damaged shutters hung precariously from its window-frames. The furniture seller rang a hand-bell, to alert the servants within. No one seemed to stir, so he rang it again. Angelika took advantage of the distraction to flap the canvas over the cart’s sides and slip out. She leapt over a hedge, and landed in a garden opposite the dead woman’s estate. Franziskus rolled after her. They waited, crouching, until servants came out and occupied themselves with unloading the cart’s contents. When none faced their way, they returned to the lane, walking along it as if they belonged there. The road narrowed and snaked back into the heart of Grenzstadt. Shabby estates gave way to derelict ones, and then to shops and taverns.

  Dusk had settled on the town. With feigned confidence, Angelika and Franziskus walked along a narrow, curving street, looking past shopkeepers as they locked up for the night. Angelika saw empty expanses of stucco wall and imagined them with bounty posters on them, like the ones Benno had plastered to the walls of the burned Castello.

  A boy lit a candle in a ball lamp outside a tall, thin tavern with a plain brick facade. On a cushion beside the door, a troubadour sat, legs tucked beneath him. He pumped away on a squeeze-box, bawling out a triumphant ballad in which a hero named Konrad dispatched a succession of skaven and goblins, each in a different, gore-spattered way. A pair of soldiers, already staggering drunk, stumbled past him, and threw pennies at his head. He ducked and gave thanks as if they’d meant to reward him.