Rudi ignored them all, confident after his last foray into the area that none of these debased specimens of humanity would have the courage to attack him openly. The weapons he bore and his muscular physique marking him out as too dangerous an intruder to challenge.
Only once did he prove to be mistaken in this assumption, as he crossed a narrow bridge over a waterway so choked with sewage that its surface looked almost solid—the stench rising from it was overpowering, making his breath catch in his throat, but in some curious fashion he found the reek invigorating too. It meant he was getting closer to his goal.
“What have we here?” A small man with a large mole on his cheek, whose voice held a strange, nasal timbre which reminded Rudi of a peevish duck, stepped out of the shadows on the far side of the bridge, barring his way. A trio of other ragged figures followed him, fanning out to block the pathway completely, and the scuffing sound of feet against cobbles told Rudi that any potential retreat had been closed off with equal efficiency. They all carried knives or clubs. “You look a bit lost, mate.”
“I don’t think so.” Rudi continued to stride forward, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword, and the first hint of uncertainty began to appear in the leader’s eyes. “This is the way to Schwartzwasserstraat, isn’t it?”
“It might be.” The man rallied, clearly taking courage from the proximity of his confederates. Not that he had much choice; in this blighted quarter of the city any sign of weakness would undoubtedly cost him the leadership of his shabby little band and probably his life into the bargain. “But it’s across our bridge, innit?” His confederates sniggered and Rudi nodded in satisfaction. There were only two behind him and they’d just given away their positions.
“Your bridge?” Rudi raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you have a title deed you can show me?” A small voice at the back of his mind marvelled at the fact that he was tacitly boasting of his newfound literacy at a time like this. The brigand’s face darkened.
“Think you’re smart, don’t you? We don’t like smartarses round here.” His eyes flickered past Rudi’s shoulder, warning of the coming attack as effectively as if he’d shouted an order.
Without thinking, Rudi drew his sword with a reversed grip and thrust backwards under his own armpit, a trick he’d seen Theo practise during the time he and Hanna had travelled with the mercenary band. The blade met resistance and kept going, eliciting a startled grunt, and he withdrew it from the falling body of the footpad behind him in a single fluid movement, bringing it round to face the small knot of bandits on the bridge ahead of him.
A blur of motion in the corner of his eye was all the warning he needed to step out of the way of a descending club, and as he struck backwards with his elbow, something crunched under the impact and the second thug behind him pitched backwards, his larynx crushed. He thrashed on the ground for a moment, trying desperately to draw breath, and then went still.
Trying not to think about the fact that he’d just killed at least one man, probably both, Rudi strode forward confidently. There was no time for regret or recrimination now. His own life was still in danger.
“Don’t just stand there! Get him!” The leader yelled, horror and indignation mingling on his features. He started forward, lunging with the knife he carried, one of his companions at his shoulder.
“You get him. I’m out of here,” another of the thugs said, turning away, clearly more afraid of Rudi than of anything his boss might do.
“Me too.” The third, a woman by the pitch of her voice, agreed, turning to follow.
“I won’t forget this!” their erstwhile leader shouted, turning to look after them. “You’re both dead, you hear me?” The motion checked his rush just long enough for Rudi to block the clumsy swing of his remaining companion’s club and kick him hard between the legs. The man fell, shrieking in a surprisingly high falsetto, then curled up moaning.
“You first,” Rudi said, backhanding the leader across the face with the hilt of his sword. The little man dropped his knife and reeled against the balustrade. Rudi put the tip of his sword to the man’s throat.
“No, wait!” the fellow yelled, a damp patch appearing at the crotch of his britches with remarkable suddenness. “We didn’t mean no harm, honest. We were just having a bit of a joke, see?”
“Of course you were,” Rudi said. He lowered the blade a little. “Am I right for Schwartzwasserstraat?”
“Yes, yes you are.” The man nodded vigorously. “Just down that way, turn right, you can’t miss it. Full of old houses, very smart, built in the old days.”
“Thank you.” Rudi punched him hard in the face, pitching him over the railing into the foetid depths below. Ignoring the glutinous splash and the faint, profanity-laden screams which followed, he resumed his journey. Word evidently travelled fast in the Doodkanal. After that he had no more trouble and the streets were noticeably more empty.
Schwartzwasserstraat was exactly where his would-be murderer had described it, wider and more open than the other streets he’d seen so far in this forgotten and blighted corner of the city. Clearly it had been prosperous at some time in the past, but like the rest of the Doodkanal those days were long gone. Commerce had trickled away decades ago, if not centuries, to the newer, larger facilities of the Suiddock, and the builders of the fine homes who’d prospered here when the city was little more than a town had followed it.
Some of their descendants, no doubt, had been content with the grander mansions of the Oudgeldwijk, their fortunes shrinking inexorably down the generations along with those of their neighbours, while the lucky ones had continued to prosper and crossed the river.
These days the once grand houses were little more than ruined shells, occupied for the most part by desperate, ragged tribes of people who swarmed over and around their residences with every sign of a determination to defend them from intruders, even though they were armed with nothing more deadly than shards of broken masonry. What allegiance they owed to one another Rudi couldn’t tell, since whatever family resemblance he might have noticed was obscured by grime and the pinched expressions borne of the privations they endured.
Trusting again to his formidable appearance he started down the street, conscious of the pressure of innumerable eyes upon him.
Belatedly it began to occur to him that he had no way of identifying Magnus’ house from any of the others, even if it was really here. The beggar could simply have been lying to him, as Gerrit had said. Now he’d seen the ravaged avenue for himself that possibility seemed all too likely.
“Excuse me.” He caught the eye of a woman slinking along the edge of the street in the lee of one of the walls. She looked about fifty to his eyes, but so did everyone else around here, even the children. “Which of these houses belongs to Magnus von Blackenburg?”
Even allowing for the sullen reaction his presence had stirred up in the locals so far, her response startled him. Her eyes widened and she turned away, stooping, with a shriek of unmistakable terror. As she straightened up again, a lump of brick in her right hand, the woman made a curious gesture in his direction.
“Get away from me!” She flung the brick at him, missing by several feet, turned again and bolted. Too stunned to react, Rudi watched her disappear into the ruins of a nearby house. A moment later faces began to appear at the doors and windows.
Puzzled and not wanting to get sucked into another brawl, Rudi resumed his walk up the street. He’d already killed two men this morning, three if the bandit’s leader hadn’t managed to scramble out of the effluent before drowning, and he’d rather not take any more lives if he didn’t have to. Part of him marvelled at the dispassionate way he was able to think about it. He’d expected more of the remorse and confusion he’d felt after slaying the bandits on the road, but those feelings refused to stir. The footpads had meant to kill him, he’d defended himself instinctively with none of the time to consider alternative strategies which Tilman’s more cautious and methodical thugs had provided him wit
h, and they’d died instead. That was all. He dismissed the matter from his mind and began to study the buildings around him for clues.
In the end he found the place more easily than he’d expected. Towards the far end of the street one of the houses stood a little apart from its neighbours, surrounded by the tumbled remains of a stone wall and the overgrown remnants of what might once have been a small garden. Although it seemed equally shabby, unlike the others there was no sign of unauthorised occupancy, stout shutters closing off most of the windows. His heart beginning to beat a little faster, Rudi picked up his pace.
As he neared the gap in the ruined wall where once a gate would have stood, his sense of cautious optimism gave way to one of elation. The family crest he remembered from Magnus’ mansion back in Kohlstadt was painted on the tumbling stump of the gatepost in colours so faded and peeling they were almost illegible and had it not been for their familiarity they might just as well have been. But it was enough. Breaking into a run, he hurried towards the front door.
“Magnus!” He couldn’t restrain himself from shouting. “Magnus, it’s Rudi!” But echoes were his only answer.
This wasn’t good. He slowed his pace again and began moving with the caution of the woodsman he used to be. Approaching the door, he raised a hand to knock, then hesitated, chills of apprehension chasing themselves along his spine. The thick slab of wood was ajar.
“Magnus?” Rudi pushed the door open. It creaked loudly, the echoes resounding like a pistol shot. The door had been forced, the timber of the frame splintered and bent where the lock had burst away from it. He tried to imagine the strength that would require and shuddered. No one replied, so he stepped inside, drawing his sword again.
Having little idea of the layout of the place, Rudi explored the whole house methodically, finding room after room full of decaying furniture, the air heavy with must and damp. There were signs of recent occupancy too, though, footprints in the dust and food in the kitchen, already days old and beginning to rot. Reminded abruptly of the fact that he hadn’t eaten properly since the previous evening, he looked for something still edible, but common sense reasserted itself just as he was on the point of picking up some mould-encrusted cheese. A faint sense of disappointment rippled through his head as he pushed it away and he resolved to eat again as soon as he had the opportunity.
From the kitchen it was a short step to the trapdoor leading down to the cellar. As he lifted it, the sweet, pungent scent of decay wafted up to him, so strong as to seem almost pleasant. Lighting a stub of candle he found on a nearby shelf with the tinderbox from his belt pouch he ventured down the rickety wooden steps.
The cellar was larger than he’d expected, vaulted brick forming a ceiling high enough to stand with no difficulty. He was even able to raise the candle over his head to widen the circle of illumination without touching it. He glanced around, trying to orientate himself.
The smell of putrefaction was even stronger here, emanating from a pile of rotting refuse in the corner, which was the first thing to attract his attention. Fascinated and repelled at the same time, Rudi walked towards it. All kinds of organic waste seemed mixed up in it, including what looked like faeces. Curiously there was a sense of symmetry about it, as if the filth had been carefully arranged in some way. Symbols he didn’t recognise had been daubed on the walls around it, apparently in the same substances as constituted the heap itself, and despite their strangeness he felt a curious sense of recognition stir in the depths of his mind as he stared at them, as if with a little more concentration they would fall into place and make sense.
Turning away after contemplating the enigmatic sigils for another moment or two, he began to explore the rest of the chamber carefully. In the far corner the flame of his candle stub flickered, indicating a draft from somewhere, and a few moments of trial and error led him to another trapdoor set in the floor of the cellar. Seizing the ring, he pulled on it with all his strength, but it refused to budge.
That was curious. The slab of timber was free of dust, indicating that it had been opened very recently. Rudi bent down, placing an ear to it. Listening hard he thought he could hear the faint sounds of running water. Some kind of sewer, perhaps, or one of the minor waterways built over and forgotten in the early years of the city. Probing round the edge with the blade of his belt knife was enough to show that it had been firmly bolted from underneath. Finding nothing else of interest, the young watchman returned to the ground floor in a state of some confusion, mingled with a growing sense of frustration. Surely the house must contain some clue as to Magnus’ whereabouts?
After another desultory sweep of the ground floor rooms he returned to the entrance hall. The morning was well advanced and the sunlight streaming in through the half-open door was bright enough to pick out something he’d missed when he entered. The flagstones flooring the chamber were darkened in one spot, charred as if a fire had been kindled on them. Rudi felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir. Was he too late? Had Gerhard been here ahead of him?
A moment’s thought was enough to dismiss the notion. Given what he’d seen of the witch hunter’s methods he would undoubtedly have burned the whole building down, not just scorched the hall floor.
The idea which displaced it was even more disturbing. The horned sorceress used fire as a weapon, he’d seen that several times, and she and Magnus were evidently mortal enemies. Had she tracked him here and slain him with her pyromancy?
Sick with apprehension, Rudi bent to examine the burned patch. Whatever had caused this had been far from natural, producing enough heat to make the hard stone brittle. But there were no traces of bone or ash that he could see. He glanced up, relying on his hunter’s instincts, taking in the relative positions of the doors around him. He was almost exactly on a line between the front door and the entrance to the kitchen and close to the foot of the stairs. If Magnus had been descending them when the door was forced…
He let the scene play out in his mind’s eye. The merchant would have been about here, there was no doubt about that, but so stout a door would certainly have resisted assault for a moment or two. Long enough for him to have turned and run for the kitchen, the magical bolt meant to incinerate him expending itself where he’d been standing an instant before.
It made sense, every instinct he possessed as a tracker told him that. He turned slowly and began to examine the kitchen door. After a moment he nodded in satisfaction. There were faint scratch marks around the handle, as if inhumanly large hands tipped with claws had fumbled with the latch. Hans Katzenjammer, without a doubt, which meant that the horned sorceress had indeed been here.
Despair threatened to overwhelm Rudi for a moment. If Magnus was really dead, then the answers he so desperately needed were lost to him forever. Then reason reasserted itself. The trapdoor in the cellar had been bolted from the other side. Magnus must have escaped, or it would still have been open.
His breath left him abruptly in a spontaneous sigh of relief. There was still hope. All he had to do was find the man before Gerhard or the horned witch did.
That would be no small task. The merchant must surely know that his enemies were on his trail and would be making strenuous efforts not to be found. Nevertheless he was determined to try. He was a member of the city watch, after all, there might be some avenues of inquiry open to him that his rivals wouldn’t be able to use.
Feeling somewhat encouraged, Rudi ascended the stairs cautiously. As he’d hoped, one of the rooms on the upper floor was evidently Magnus’ bedroom, although like everything else in the house it was neglected and derelict. Only the fact that stained sheets still lay on the bed under a rumpled eiderdown betrayed the fact that it was still in use. Clothes hung in a dust-encrusted wardrobe, but nothing indicated where their owner might be or whether he’d ever come back to claim them.
Moved by an impulse he couldn’t quite account for he traced the tip of his index finger along the top of a chest, leaving a streak of clear wood. Laboriously he sp
elt out RUDI in the patina of dust, shaping the letters carefully as Artemus had taught him. Now if Magnus did return he would at least know his old friend from Kohlstadt was somewhere in the city and trying to make contact. He debated with himself for another moment, wondering whether to add any more information, and decided against it. If Magnus might come back here, so too could his enemies.
Finding nothing else to help him in the upper rooms, which Hans and the sorceress had evidently already searched judging by the way some of the furniture had been disarrayed, unless the mutant had simply been venting his frustration at the escape of their prey, Rudi began to descend the staircase. He was almost halfway down when he realised that someone else was standing in the hallway.
“Who’s there?” He drew his sword as he spoke and continued to descend.
“Sam Warble.” The halfling he’d seen with Kris at the Dancing Pirate was glancing around with barely concealed distaste. “I take it this is the maid’s day off.”
“What are you doing here?” Rudi asked. “Have you been following me?” Sam looked at the sword as though it were no more dangerous than a potato peeler and shrugged, apparently completely unconcerned.
“Why bother. I thought I might find you here.” His eyes were direct and stared at Rudi appraisingly. “It’s taken you long enough to find the place though.”
Feeling oddly embarrassed, Rudi put his weapon away. “What do you want?” he asked. The halfling nodded, as though he’d just made some kind of point.
“Lunch,” he said. “Then maybe we can talk a little business.”
“What kind of business?” Rudi asked warily.
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