Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  “No.”

  She slid her hands around his thin waist, wrapping it twice with the bandage to trap the loose end, then looping it up his back.

  “Put your right hand on your left shoulder. Hold your elbow into your chest,” she instructed, and he meekly complied. She drew the bandage diagonally across his front, down the length of his arm and under his elbow, before looping it around his bicep and tying it off.

  She sat back and inspected her work. It was, if anything, a little tight, though it would relax with time. Felix didn’t seem to notice any discomfort.

  “There’s more to this new story,” she said. “We met a hexmaster at the White Tower – just the one, and I think he’s the only one left. I think all the others have either been killed or run away. From the state of him, he must have killed a few himself. He says he can bring the magic back. That’s what Mr Thaler, Master Messinger and the chamberlain are arguing about now.”

  “Won’t bringing the magic back be a good thing, though? Everyone misses it, and we need it.”

  She leant forward to cut away the excess bandage, and let the scissors fall to the floor. “You can’t do what the hexmaster wants, even if you believe him. Even if he can do what he claims.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said plaintively.

  “He wants to use your subjects for fuel.” She took the scraps of material and cast them at the fire. “That’s what he said. Fuel. One or two a day. Every day. Sacrifices.”

  A noise in the corridor distracted her, and the door was flung open. A lean, angry man in fine clothes took one look and rushed at her. He moved extraordinarily quickly, taking hold of her hair in one fist, jerking her backwards to a half-standing position, and putting a dagger to her throat.

  She barely had time to gasp, and when she did so, the point of the blade touched her neck.

  “Let go of her,” said Felix. He put his good hand on the floor and pushed himself up. He really wasn’t very tall. He was half dressed and one arm was bandaged across his chest. But he was a prince. “Let go of her at once.”

  Despite the direct order, the man didn’t relax his grip on her hair, or move the dagger aside. “Who is this woman? How did she get in here?”

  Although both her hands were free, Sophia didn’t dare move. She might get one hand between his knife and her, but he was very strong and she didn’t want to die.

  Having regained his colour previously, Felix was now shock-white again. He saw the scissors lying on the floor next to his feet, and he scooped them up, holding them in front of him in lieu of any other weapon. “Let. Her. Go.”

  The man still didn’t obey. He clenched his fist tighter in her hair and pulled harder. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But she was transfixed by the boy-man in front of her, levelling a pair of closed scissors at the man’s face.

  Felix danced forward. His movements were almost as quick as her assailant’s: he had a leg either side of Sophia’s in order to get close enough, but his footwork was assured. The point of the scissors trembled in front of the man’s right eye.

  “Signore. You’re mistaken. She hasn’t hurt me, and I insist you let her go, at once.”

  The man could have dropped her: sprung his hand and let her fall to the floor. Perhaps, with the threat of blindness an inch away and the prince clearly agitated, he decided that any sudden movements wouldn’t be wise. He lifted his knife hand high, and lowered Sophia to the ground, disentangling his fingers with exaggerated care.

  As soon as she was free, she scrambled away and put a heavy chair between herself and the man.

  “Apologies, my lord,” he was saying, “I am only ever concerned for your safety. That she has not mistreated you is both your luck and hers, not design.” He looked at her like a cat would regard a mouse. “From the back I thought it might be the witch Agana.”

  There was a clump of her hair on the floor beside him, and when Sophia put her hand to her head, it came away wet. She almost picked up the chair and threw it at the man, this signore. Did she look like this witch from the front, too? He had had ample time to check. She pressed her fingers against her neck, and discovered a thin ribbon of blood running down to her collar.

  The prince, though, seemed to accept the apology. He let his arm fall by his side, all the fight knocked out of him. “Why are you here, signore?”

  “I came to find my lord and prince, to request his presence at a meeting of grave importance where the future of the palatinate may be decided.”

  Felix glanced at Sophia, then back at the signore. “I have to go,” he said.

  “My lord should at least consider putting on a shirt,” she replied. What was she saying? She was bleeding from the head, the neck, and she was asking the half-naked Prince of Carinthia to put on some clothes. She wiped her hand on her skirt, and turned her back on them to look in the chests for something that might fit him without looking ludicrously huge.

  She wondered as she searched whether she’d get that dagger between the shoulder-blades. She shuddered, and carried on regardless. Eventually, she found a suitable shirt that had ties which she could use to take in any excess.

  Aware that the signore was staring at her all the while, she stepped behind Felix and asked him to raise his good arm. She dropped the shirt over his head, feeding his hand up the sleeve until it popped out the other end, then pulled the rest of it down over his bandages. She tied bows where she could, and even turned him around so she could lace his collar.

  The signore’s face was full of rage. He hated her. Yet after Felix had stammered his thanks and looked up at her looking down, when he turned back around, the man’s snarl had vanished.

  “We are in the solar, my lord. If you please.” He gestured to the door, his hand still threaded with strands of her hair that glittered like web.

  “I do have to go,” said Felix.

  “Of course, my lord.” She dipped into a curtsey, and stayed with her head bowed until he left.

  Then it was just her and the signore.

  “I know who you are,” he said.

  “Then you lied to Felix.” She moved to stand back behind the chair. “You lied to your prince.”

  The man shrugged off the accusation. “That idiot librarian thinks you have something useful to contribute to our discussions. You do not. You will not be heard.”

  Sophia was about to tell him that it was too late, that she’d already given her testimony about Eckhardt to the one person who genuinely mattered, when she decided that saying so wouldn’t be a good idea. She was facing the sort of man who would kill her out of spite – not today, perhaps, but tomorrow, or the next day – and he’d make it look accidental so as not to arouse suspicion.

  She had to rely on Felix not blurting it all out, of course. Her life was in the hands of a grief-stricken twelve-year-old boy.

  “As you wish,” she said, and he seemed satisfied that he had cowed her.

  “Wait here. Someone will escort you to the Wagon Gate.” The signore didn’t even bother facing her as he carried on speaking on his way to the door. “Stay away from the prince, Miss Morgenstern.”

  It was just her, now. She didn’t know how much time she had before a guard came to throw her out. She did know that she had to make the most of what she had.

  Looking for likely bandage cloth had revealed a writing set. Ink, pen, cut squares of parchment. She raced to it, opened the box, and took it over to the fire, where there was most light.

  She crouched down, and started to scratch out her words.

  32

  Thaler was too close to the fire, and he was sweating. He recognised that his seat had been offered to him quite deliberately to discomfort him. Messinger was in hardly a better position.

  Things had started off well: Trommler had been in charge then, and Thaler realised that he’d met a kindred spirit, a man with a book under his arm. He’d listened gravely – there seemed to be no other demeanour that suited him – and nodded slowly as he gave them permission to proceed to th
e next part of their story.

  The change had come with the entry of the Italian sword-master, Allegretti, from a door at the far end of the solar. He’d insisted they sit rather than stand. He’d insisted they drink, while surreptitiously abstaining himself. He’d made small talk, enquiring after their health, the state of the weather, the general disposition of the library and the town; anything but the most important matter of Eckhardt and his offer.

  It had grown too much, and Messinger, already highly agitated, had blown like an over-heated kettle. Thaler, in his attempts to reason with both the mayor and the sword-master, had become roused himself, and it had taken all Trommler’s skill to calm them down.

  Thaler didn’t even know why Allegretti was there. He appeared to have invited himself and excluded everyone else. He wasn’t the prince, and it was the prince they needed to see. Yes, the boy had only twelve years under his belt, but it was obvious that Carinthia couldn’t accept the demands of a deranged murderer, no matter what riches he proffered in return.

  Yet Allegretti couldn’t see that. He kept on accepting their points, only to completely overturn them with his next “But if…”

  Messinger continued to explode. Who would have thought that such a short man could contain such boundless reserves of fury?

  They’d even got to the stage of discussing whether or not to extend the number of capital crimes, so as to feed the boilers of Eckhardt’s proposed magic-factory. Just a thought, a suggestion.

  “Stop,” said Thaler. “This is preposterous.” He got up out of his chair and walked across the room to the windows, where it was cooler and he could think more clearly.

  “Mr Thaler, I insist you rejoin us.” Allegretti frowned at him.

  “And I insist the prince hears what we have to say. We have rights of audience.”

  “The mayor has rights of audience, Mr Thaler. Under-librarians do not.”

  Thaler expected Trommler to intervene, but he didn’t. He did, however, raise one eyebrow ever so slightly, and Thaler took heart.

  “Master Allegretti, all free men of Carinthia have rights of audience to their prince, whether they’re the lowest shit-shoveller or the highest … whatever.” Thaler leant back into the wonderfully cool window alcove. “And I, through fate, represent the library.”

  “I accept your right, Mr Thaler, but we must have discussed the matter thoroughly first, in order to advise our lord wisely. He is tired, and distraught. Better we leave him to rest until we have something to say.”

  “Gods, man,” growled Messinger. “You always have something to say. If your swordplay was as prodigious as your word-play, I’d be talking to Gerhard.”

  Allegretti’s hand dropped to his right-hand hilt. “Where I come from, you would be on the end of this for such an insult.”

  “You’re in Carinthia now, and we can tell blowhards like you to shut the fuck up as often as we like.” Messinger leapt up and deliberately kicked his chair over on the way. “But if you like, I can see about learning some Italian ways.”

  Trommler rose like a shadow between them. “Gentlemen. We do no service to the prince by such actions. Neither does it appear we can usefully agree on a course of action to present to our lord.”

  “The mayor and Mr Thaler are intransigent, I agree,” said Allegretti, and sighed dramatically.

  “Who is this man anyway?” appealed Messinger. “Nothing but a glorified teacher.”

  “Perhaps I should teach you some manners.” Allegretti half drew his sword, and Thaler decided that this meeting was already a disaster. He hurried over and interposed his bulk.

  He took the mayor by the shoulders and pushed him back until they were outside the circle of chairs around the fire and in the orange darkness beyond.

  “You’re doing exactly what he wants, man. Don’t rise to it.”

  Messinger shivered with frustration: “What is it that he wants? He can’t honestly want to barter lives for magic, can he?”

  “There will be many who will. Don’t tell me you’re not tempted.” Thaler dropped his hands and clasped them in front of him. “Lights for the library. You think I want to spend the next however-many-years ruining my eyesight, reading by candlelight? All the other librarians, all that work, all that copying: how many lives do you suppose that’s worth to me?”

  “But you know as well as I do that once we’ve entered into this pact, there’ll be no end to it. We’ll run out of criminals sooner rather than later, then what? Who do we pick after that? Bavarians? Jews?” Messinger span away and paced the floor. “Yes, of course I’m tempted. It won’t be like before, where everyone had magic, just not as good as ours. We had an edge then, enough of an edge to make us rich and allow us peace. We’ll have magic and no one else will. Not so much an edge as an overwhelming advantage. Can we resist abusing that? If it means we don’t have to feed our own to this Eckhardt’s desire, but can take prisoners from the lands around us, who wouldn’t?”

  Thaler was struck by the differences in their ambitions. He just wanted a good light by which to read a book. Messinger was talking about invading their neighbours and taking sacrifices from the conquered lands.

  “I’m a peaceable man, Master Messinger…”

  “And so am I, Thaler. I know I bluster and strut, but that’s what’s expected of me. I can’t countenance this … this, monstrous exchange, no matter how it might damage us otherwise. Because if the Wiennese, or the Bavarians, or even the Venetians get wind of what we’re up to, we’ll have three fuck-off-sized armies camped on our doorstep before autumn. And they’ll know exactly what’s at stake. It’ll be either us or them.” The mayor subsided momentarily as he gnawed at his fingernail. “I won’t have it, Thaler, do you hear? Better we fade into obscurity than have our name remembered as a byword for this outrage.”

  Thaler hung his head. “We’re of one mind. We must convince the prince.”

  “Will he believe us over his tutor?” worried Messinger.

  “We need to gather the earls – the remaining earls, that is,” Thaler corrected himself, “– and hold a grand council. If Felix hears many voices against and only one for, then we’ll win the day. Surely.”

  “And if our lord already has his mind poisoned against reason? Gods, man: he’s just a child.” Messinger started to wind himself up again. “And now he’s gone.”

  “Who?” Thaler turned.

  “The Italian. Mr Trommler, where did he go?”

  Trommler, with his back to the fire, answered. “Gone to fetch the prince.”

  “Time for our secret weapon, then,” said Thaler, and went to collect Sophia from the anteroom.

  She wasn’t there. He went into the corridor beyond and looked up and down its length. She still wasn’t there.

  Had she wandered off? Gone home? Been chased away? Thaler clenched his jaw. It was one thing to hear two old men tell a story about a blood-stained hexmaster promising the world if they’d just give him people to kill. It was another to hear a young woman testify that the Order were killers, and that Goat Mountain was already a graveyard for countless victims.

  She could help swing the decision in their direction.

  He went back into the solar. “She’s gone,” he said.

  Messinger groaned. “That’s what you get when you rely on a woman. And a Jewish woman at that.”

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—”

  “As to why she’s left us in the lurch? Curse her.” Messinger looked back at Allegretti’s empty chair. “Do you think I could have him?”

  “Who? Trommler?” Thaler was appalled.

  “No, the Italian.” The mayor rested his hand on his sword.

  “Oh, you mean the prince’s very own Genoese sword-master, the one who fights two-handed and has nothing to do but practise all day, every day, for what? Two decades?” Thaler considered the matter for a moment before concluding. “Don’t be an idiot, man. He’d spit you like a partridge and pluck you to boot. Neither of which
will help us find Sophia.”

  There was nothing for it but to admit her disappearance to the chamberlain.

  Thaler cleared his throat. “Mr Trommler. Miss Morgenstern appears to have vanished.”

  Trommler stretched his calves by standing on tiptoe, and turned around to bake the other side. “Vanished, you say? Despite everything, I find that extraordinarily difficult to believe. You are normally so precise in your vocabulary, Mr Thaler: please try again.”

  “Well, she’s not there.” The librarian tutted. “Perhaps she’s taken fright after all.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe we’re as frightening as all that. Civilised men can and do disagree passionately, something that Miss Morgenstern surely knows.” Trommler rose again on his toes. “Even if she can’t be found, I’m sure she has used her time wisely.”

  Messinger started to pace the floor. “We need to offer something in magic’s place. Other than barbarism and defeat, that is. Can we do that?”

  “The water,” said Thaler. “The Romans did it. So can we.”

  “How? Deliver water to every house, every yard, every fountain in Juvavum?” Messinger snorted. “If you can do it, it’d be—”

  “Magic, Master Mayor?” Thaler looked down at his boots. “Yet we know that the water used to flow without it.” Somewhere beneath his feet, beneath the very fortress itself, was the answer. The Romans couldn’t create water like the Germans: the spell for that, the associated rune, didn’t exist then – yet they were still using Roman plumbing, and dabbling in Roman pools.

  Then he looked up, so suddenly that the bones in his neck went crack.

  “The mikveh,” he shouted.

  Messinger, startled, stopped his furious pacing. “What? What’s that you say?”

  “The ritual baths of the Jews. The mikveh, they call it. All this time, it’s had water – it still has water – that doesn’t come from magic.” Thaler blinked in surprise. “So where does it come from?”