by Nathan Long
‘Here we are,’ said Stefan.
Ulrika looked up. The gates of the Music Academy were before them – two ornate stone columns topped with gargoyles playing flutes and trumpets, rising among the trees of the wooded northern fringes of the Magnus Gardens. She looked on them with a touch of relief. Their debate would have to be postponed, and she could use the time to find a better answer to Stefan’s question.
If only she wasn’t so hungry.
They stepped through the gates and into a strange, glittering world. It seemed as if the madness that had twisted Praag had struck most forcefully here, but also whimsically. The buildings of the Academy were weird, oddly angled edifices, spired and turreted and banded with glittering tiles of blue and red and orange. Minarets sprouted from their roofs like jewelled mushrooms, and statue-bedecked fountains dotted the grounds, all portraying various mythical heroes, each contorted and straining, their hands clawing the air and their faces grimacing as if caught in the throes of some terrible passion.
But as bright as the buildings were on the outside, they were dark on the inside, and the college seemed nearly as deserted as the streets that surrounded it. Only a few students shuffled across the quadrangles, and for an academy of music, it was eerily silent.
Ulrika wondered where they had all gone, but a moment later, a statue told her the answer. It stood outside the concert hall, a winged woman with a sword in her hand, and its limbs were so covered in black ribbons it appeared furred like a bear. Ulrika stretched out one of the ribbons as she passed it. There was writing on it in white ink, Andre Verbitsky – Clarinet – Slain at the battle of Zvenlev, may Father Ursun receive him.
They were all like that – cellists, flautists, harpsichordists, timpanists, who had set down their instruments and taken up their swords and spears, only to die in their hundreds defending the city and the country they loved. It hurt Ulrika to look at them all. These were not the men one thought of as going to war for Kislev. These were not the hard-bitten Ungol riders, or the proud Gospodar lancers. These were merely the boys who filled the regiments, who marched behind the heroes, who died before their talents could be discovered. These were the boys who were missing from the quadrangles.
‘That is the library there, I think,’ said Stefan, pointing to the right.
Ulrika stroked the ribbons with a soft hand before following him. This was the fate of all Praag if the cult triumphed. Every statue in the city would be clad in black. She would not allow it. Not while she lived.
The library was a gilded toad of a building, fat, squat and crusted with an over-abundance of lapis and gold cupolas that glittered like jewelled warts, but as dark within as all the rest, which suited Ulrika and Stefan’s purposes perfectly.
They strolled around the back of it as if merely admiring its corpulence, then looked around to see that they weren’t observed, and clambered up its baroque ornamentation to a little balcony. Through the diamond-paned glass of the doors they could see a circular, high-ceilinged central room, with three floors of galleries ringing above a central atrium – and each floor dense with heavy-laden bookshelves.
‘We may be here a while,’ said Stefan, staring at them all.
‘They must have a catalogue of some kind,’ said Ulrika with more confidence than she felt.
After another wary look around, she grabbed the door handle and pulled. Two sharp jerks and the bolt tore from the lock with a splintering of wood. They slipped in and hurried down to the ground floor.
In the centre of the atrium, surrounded by low tables that crouched at its feet like worshippers, was a high desk, almost like a priest’s lectern, with the words ‘Librarian Presertim’ carved into the front of it in the Kislevarin alphabet, and behind it a low wall of shelves, groaning under the weight of nearly a hundred massive tomes.
‘The catalogue?’ asked Ulrika, pointing.
‘Let us see,’ said Stefan.
They stepped to it and both pulled out tomes at random. Ulrika flipped hers open to the middle. The pages were heavy vellum, and originally hand-written in neat old script in several hands – titles on the left, notations on the right. The difficulty was that those original columns had been written over, crossed out, corrected and appended so often the pages were almost unreadable. Words were scribbled on top of words, new entries were crammed between old ones, arrows pointed to things that had been lined through, and notations had been changed six or seven times over, each time with smaller numbers and letters as the later editors tried to fit the new marks into smaller and smaller areas of open space on the page.
Ulrika closed the book with a groan and looked at the spine. ‘Ca to Ce’ it read. The one beside it on the shelf read, ‘Ci to Co’. Each letter of the alphabet had more than one book.
‘Is The Memoirs of Kappelmeister Barshai filed under “Memoirs”?’ she asked, putting the tome back on the shelf. ‘Under “The”? Under “Barshai”? Is Barshai his first or last name?’
Stefan shook his head and snapped his book shut. ‘We’d better try them all. You start with Barshai. I will look for Memoirs.’
Ulrika nodded and ran her finger along the row of fat books until she found ‘Ba to Bi’, then pulled it out and carried it to a desk. Stefan joined her and they began flipping though them. Ulrika shook her head as she stared at the nearly obscured columns that filled the pages. They had been in alphabetical order once, but newer entries were sometimes just scribbled in the margins, or written on opposite pages. It was enough to make her head spin, and her growing hunger was only making it worse.
She found a page where most of the original entries began with ‘Bar’ but written over them were others that started with ‘Bam’, ‘Bas’, ‘Bal’ and even ‘Bon’. She slowly ran her fingers down the original columns, trying to read what was written through the clutter of obscuring scribbles.
‘Bar Chord Variations in Roppsmenn Zither Playing, Bare Before the Gods – the Dances of Darkest Ind, Bartolf, Gustalf – Minuets and Reels.’ Ulrika growled. ‘Madness. Sometimes the books are listed by subject. Sometimes by author’s name.’
‘Mnemonics for Imperial Scales,’ murmured Stefan. ‘Memories of Estalia, The Merman’s Daughter – an Opera in Seven Acts.’
A thud from the entrance hall brought their heads up. It was followed by the faint jingle of keys, and the squeak of a lock.
As one, Ulrika and Stefan closed their tomes quietly, then returned them to their shelves and crouched down behind the librarian’s podium.
More thumps and rustlings reached them from the hall, followed by stifled female giggles and an exaggerated ‘Shhhhh!’ Yellow light threw swooping shadows on the wall as unsteady footsteps clumped closer. Ulrika could smell blood in the vein, and wine on the breath.
‘Not many people know it, my shweet,’ slurred a drunken male voice. ‘But th’ bed in whish the great Ossilian Astanilovich composed all his concertos is on dishplay in th’ second-floor gallery here. Would you like to shee it?’
Ulrika ducked lower as a laughing couple staggered through the door, groping each other as much as walking. The shorter was a round, red-cheeked young lady, whose generous bosom was falling out of her low-cut dress. The taller was a thin young man with a mop of sandy hair and a candle held askew in one hand – and a face Ulrika was surprised to recognise. It was Valtarin, the violin prodigy who she had seen perform at the party. She blinked at the coincidence.
‘Le’me give you th’ grand tour,’ said Valtarin, starting into the atrium and throwing out a flailing arm to indicate the whole of the library. ‘Thish holy ground is where I shtudied the worksh of the masters, and learned th’ shecret notes and chords that break hearts and shpread legs.’
Stefan leaned close to Ulrika as Valtarin and the girl lurched closer. ‘We’ve no time to wait for these fools to leave,’ he whispered. ‘We must kill them and continue searching. Here’s your chance to feed.’
‘I…’ said Ulrika. ‘No. I know him. I have a better plan. He may be of use.’
Stefan raised an eyebrow. ‘If he is not, he will die.’
Ulrika nodded.
‘That,’ said Valtarin, pointing to the podium where they hid, ‘ish where old Gorbenko sat, like a god of judgement, doling out information only to th’ worthy. What a buffoon! What a backwards thinking–’
He cut off with a gasp as Ulrika and Stefan rose from behind the desk. The girl shrieked and collapsed beside him in a froth of petticoats.
‘Who-who-who are you?’ stuttered Valtarin. ‘What are you doing here?’
His heart was hammering. So was the girl’s. Their fear was intoxicating. Ulrika was beginning to regret not agreeing to kill them as Stefan had suggested.
‘Searching for knowledge,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘And you?’
‘But… but th’ library ish closed,’ Valtarin said. ‘You aren’t allowed here.’
‘Nor are you, I’ll wager,’ said Ulrika, then smirked and looked at the girl. ‘Certainly not for the reason you’ve come. So we would both be in trouble if our trespasses were discovered, yes?’
Valtarin looked from her to Stefan to the girl, weighing the situation. ‘I… I…’
Ulrika cut him off. ‘Do know how to find a book in these catalogues?’
Valtarin blinked, apparently surprised at the question, then shook his shaggy head. ‘Only Gorbenko knows. He made a mesh of ’em jusht so he could keep his job. No one can find anything without him any more.’
Stefan’s hand dropped casually to the hilt of his rapier. Ulrika stepped down from the desk to keep Valtarin’s eyes on her.
‘Then perhaps you have direct knowledge of what we seek,’ she said.
Valtarin’s eyes followed her as she crossed to one of the tables and leaned against it. The girl picked herself up off the floor and clung to Valtarin’s arm.
‘I represent a collector of fine musical instruments,’ Ulrika said, taking her purse from her belt and opening it. ‘A nobleman of Sigmar’s Empire who is seeking a rare, legendary instrument that perhaps you’ve heard of.’ She took out five gold coins and laid them one at a time on the table. ‘The Viol of Fieromonte.’
Valtarin’s eyes went wide at the name and he stumbled back, almost upsetting the girl again. His heart hammered even harder.
Ulrika exchanged a glance with Stefan, who was stepping down to circle around behind Valtarin. Such a strong reaction. Could it be the boy knew something of the theft?
‘I see you’ve heard of it,’ Ulrika said, advancing on him. ‘Do you have some interest in it too?’
‘What?’ said Valtarin, looking nervously from her to Stefan. ‘No! I don’t think it even exists any more. It is just an unlucky name, a musician’s curse. It is bad luck to hear it, and worse to speak it.’
‘I think it is more to you than that,’ said Ulrika. ‘You are sweating, sir. Why?’
The boy backed away from her, eyes rolling. ‘I… I… Why don’t you madmen leave us alone!’ he cried. ‘Nobody here knows where your cursed violin is!’
Ulrika stopped and looked to Stefan again, then turned back to Valtarin. ‘There have been others here?’ she asked. ‘Inquiring after the Fieromonte?’
He nodded, his eyes still wide with fright. ‘I… I didn’t see them myself,’ he said. ‘But I heard. They scared old Daska near to death.’
‘How long ago was this?’ asked Stefan. ‘Who were they?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Valtarin. ‘I only heard that they came sneaking around a few weeks ago, saying they wanted to buy it, like you. And they didn’t like it when nobody could tell them where it was.’
‘Well, we are not so rough,’ said Ulrika, pushing the coins towards the quivering young man. ‘If you were able to tell me where it was, or where in this place I might find knowledge of it, these coins would be yours. We were seeking a book called The Memoirs of Kappelmeister Barshai.’
Valtarin looked at the gold, then up at the three floors of books. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where that is. I’ve never…’
Ulrika sighed and reached for the coins, while Stefan reached for his sword.
‘Wait!’ said Valtarin, edging away from Stefan. ‘Wait! I wasn’t finished. I was going to say, I’ve never heard of it, but I know someone else who might know. I… I’m sure he would.’
Over Valtarin’s shoulder, Stefan shook his head, clearly impatient to return to their search. Ulrika ignored him.
‘Who is this person?’ she asked the boy.
‘My old tutor, Maestro Padurowski,’ he said. ‘He knows everything about violins. If the Fiero–, er, the instrument, still exists, he could surely tell you where it was.’
‘Where is he now?’ asked Ulrika.
‘He will be in his offices,’ said Valtarin. ‘Working on his arrangements for the duke’s victory concert.’
‘And did these others speak to him?’ asked Stefan.
Valtarin shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was tutor Daska they saw. He didn’t come out of his apartments for a week, after.’
‘Can you bring us to this Padurowski then?’ Ulrika pressed. ‘The coins will be yours.’
Valtarin hesitated, looking towards Stefan. ‘Will you hurt him?’
‘We are not like the others,’ said Ulrika. ‘We will pay him, just as we are paying you.’
The boy nodded at last. ‘Come with me.’
He turned to the entry hall and beckoned them to follow. Stefan shot Ulrika a disapproving look as she scooped up the coins, and they fell in with him. She shrugged.
From behind them came a plaintive, drunken whine. ‘But, Valtarin, I thought you were going to show me Astanilovich’s bed.’
Maestro Padurowski’s offices were in an unassuming faculty building on the edge of the campus, a cramped hive of tiny suites that smelled of dust, wood polish and decaying paper. Valtarin knocked on a door at the back of the second storey and a brisk voice called, ‘Come!’
The young man pushed open the door and bowed, and Ulrika saw over his mop of hair a narrow room lined with paper-filled shelves and lit by a lamp set on top of a pile of folios. A man was hunched at a desk, wild white hair hiding his face as he scrawled rapidly with a goose-quill pen across a large sheet of music-ruled paper.
‘Is that my dinner, Luba?’ he said without looking up. ‘Just put it on the chair, will you?’
‘It is I, maestro,’ said Valtarin, bowing again. ‘Valtarin.’
Maestro Padurowski raised his head and flipped back a great mane of white hair, beaming. ‘Valtarin, my boy! How nice!’ He had a long, lined face, all nose and chin, with a high forehead and white eyebrows that would have shamed a magister.
‘I’ve brought some people to see you, maestro,’ said Valtarin, stepping in. ‘They want to ask you some questions.’
Padurowski scowled. ‘No time for that, my boy,’ he said, waving his quill and flicking ink everywhere. ‘We are rehearsing tomorrow and I haven’t transcribed the brass parts yet. Later, later. Next week.’
‘I can pay you for your time, maestro,’ said Ulrika.
Padurowski shook his head and bowed to his work again. ‘You can’t pay me enough to save my neck if I disappoint the duke at his concert. Go, go.’
‘It will only take a few minutes,’ said Ulrika. ‘And I will pay you a gold Reikmark for each of them.’
The maestro raised his head again, his eyes glittering. ‘A Reikmark for each minute? Even the duke doesn’t pay so well.’ He put down his pen and sat back. ‘Ask your questions.’
Ulrika put a coin on the desk. ‘I represent a collector of musical instruments who seeks a famed violin known as the Viol of Fieromonte. Your student said you might know where it was.’
‘I told them that others came asking about it before, maestro,’ blurted out Valtarin. ‘I told them they questioned tutor Daska and got angry when he didn’t know!’
Padurowski made a face. ‘And I don’t know why there is suddenly all this interest in an old legend.’
> ‘A legend?’ asked Ulrika. ‘You mean it doesn’t exist?’
The maestro smiled wryly. ‘It seems I will not win many gold coins,’ he said, ‘for the answer is short. It did, but does no longer. It was burned just after the Great War against Chaos. The tale goes that it had become possessed by a daemon when the hordes took the city, and afterwards it had the power to drive men mad. The duke at the time ordered it burnt at the stake, as if it were a witch.’ He laughed. ‘I know not if it was truly possessed. Perhaps so. But I do know it was burned, and its ashes scattered to the four winds. A great shame. For it was said to have the purest tone in all the world.’
Ulrika sighed. It couldn’t be true, not if the cultists had staked so much upon it, but Padurowski obviously thought it was, and there seemed little point in pressing him further. She laid two more gold coins on the desk beside the first. ‘Thank you for your time, maestro. I will inform my patron of this.’
‘I am sorry not to have been able to give you news more to your liking,’ said Padurowski. ‘But I thank you. I have never won coins so easily before.’
Ulrika handed Valtarin the five coins she had promised him, and she and Stefan made their way down the narrow stairs of the faculty building and back into the Academy grounds.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ulrika as they stepped through the Music Academy’s gates and started aimlessly through the streets of the student quarter, empty but for a dispirited-looking watch patrol. ‘How can the cultists be after a violin that was burned two hundred years ago?’
‘Padurowski must know less than he thinks he does,’ said Stefan. ‘Perhaps the story of the burning was planted at the time in order to hide the true fate of the violin.’
Ulrika nodded. ‘But if so, where is it?’
She paced on, trying to think of places within the city where an instrument could be hidden. Her hunger was making it hard to think. She had suppressed it during their interview with Padurowski, but now it was growing again, nagging at her like an insistent child. She forced it down and returned to the question.
There were treasure vaults in the duke’s palace, of course, and Praag had many private collectors of unusual objects. Or perhaps the violin was hidden at the Opera House or the Music Academy itself, but in which of those places, or a hundred others should they begin their search? The cult meant to steal it tonight, and if they couldn’t stop them, they would use it in two nights, when Mannslieb was next full–