Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  39

  Sophia watched it all happen from Messinger’s office: everything, from solemn procession to final chaos, as the lights on the bridge winked out one by one until there were none left. After that, there was only roaring noise.

  The light from the White Tower shone out, steady and bewitching, illuminating the flanks of Goat Mountain. It reflected on the faces of the people drawn towards it, faint scratches of blue against the dark.

  Downstairs from the office, all was silent. The front doors had opened once or twice, and footsteps had tapped against the tiles, but if anyone was still there, they were staying determinedly quiet, presumably to avoid attracting attention.

  Below, out on the quay, the last of the crowd hurried over the bridge. Sophia, suddenly realising how conspicuous she must be – a candlestick with three burning candles sat on the table behind her, framing her silhouette in the rectangle of the open windows – stepped to one side.

  The prince, and his whole party, seemed to have been swallowed up. Messinger was nowhere, the militia had melted away. She’d read enough histories to know what was coming next.

  Her people were at prayer. She was not. They had lit their Sabbath candles; she had not. They had recited kiddush; she had not. They were at the synagogue, and she was not. It was a sin for her not to be there, and yet HaShem had chosen her to be a prophet, and had conspired for her to be here instead.

  She took another look out of the window, and she could see nothing that might stop her leaving. All the same, it was better, she decided, to be prepared. There were two spathae mounted across each other on the wall, their hilts and points protruding from behind the leather-covered auxilia shield they were displayed with. She drew up a chair, stepped up, and lifted the shield free.

  Sophia had never held a sword before. She didn’t know what it would feel like, or how to wield it without slicing her own leg off. She’d just have to learn as she went.

  Both swords were polished bright. Even though they appeared merely ceremonial, and were far removed from what she imagined battle-ready blades should look like, she hoped that they were the genuine article. She wrapped her hand around the grip of the leftmost sword and pulled it free of the bracket.

  She had imagined it heavier, that the point would drag down towards the floor. Instead, it fitted her neatly and sat up keenly. It might have been a presentation piece, but it was no toy.

  She climbed down off the chair and levelled the spatha at the door, sighting down it. It was perfectly straight, and the candlelight dripped off it like butter. HaShem had provided again. She felt like Deborah.

  She glanced up at the other one, and regretted having to leave it, as well as the many other weapons on the walls. She opened the door a crack and listened. It was still quiet, so she wedged the chair in the gap and scooped up the candlestick to light her way.

  There was the upper gallery, the staircase and the hall to negotiate. The wood creaked as she walked across it – there was no way it would not – so she speeded up, flitting down the first flight and turning the corner for the second, holding the sword down by her side, but ready.

  She paused. The candlelight barely reached the bottom of the stairs, let alone the deeper recesses of the entrance. She didn’t even know if the bundle of clothes she’d stashed were still there. Not that it was important any more. There were, she knew, other people in the building, but she hoped they wouldn’t try to prevent her from leaving.

  Sophia was halfway to the double front doors when their wood shuddered. A moment later, the latch rose, snicking loudly against its stay. She blew out the candles and spun away, just before a door was flung open, and a gaggle of people burst in. Crouching down in an alcove, she waited, not daring to breathe. The door banged shut again.

  Someone coughed. Others wheezed and gasped. Then a voice.

  “Is there no one else here? Mr Trommler? Mother? Master Messinger?”

  She knew who that was. She uncoiled in the dark. “I don’t know where they are, my lord.”

  He knew her voice, too, despite the gasps. “Sophia?”

  She stepped closer to him. “Someone came in a little while ago, but I don’t know where they’ve gone. No one came upstairs.”

  “Eckhardt’s out there.”

  “I know.”

  “I have to try and kill him.”

  “My lord, it’s too late—” objected one of his men.

  “No. I refuse to accept that.”

  Her hands were full, candlestick and sword. She knelt down and put the candlestick on the floor, then reached out. She found his bound-up shoulder, and moved up to rest her palm on his cheek.

  “Felix, whatever you do now, it’s too late for the Jews. We have to run, and quickly. When your German subjects cross the bridge again, it’ll be for one thing and one thing only.”

  “It won’t happen,” he said fiercely. “I won’t let it happen.”

  “You know it will. Without us being here, you might have a chance to restore some sort of order come the morning.” She put her hand behind his head and pulled him to her. “With us here, we’re all dead.”

  She held him for a moment, then pushed him away.

  “I can protect you,” insisted the prince.

  “You might be able to protect me. But you can’t protect us all.”

  Felix didn’t answer for a moment. He sheathed his sword with a long metallic slide, and let out a series of grunts and grimaces. Then he found her hand and pressed something into it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “I have to go.”

  “That’s my father’s ring. It’s my ring now. Get everyone you can and go to the fortress. You’ll be safe there.”

  “The …” The thought simply hadn’t occurred to her. Princes simply didn’t make that kind of gesture.

  “If I have to, I’ll hold them at the bridge. Ring the bell in the Bell Tower, and I’ll know you’re safe. Reinhardt: take the rest of the men back to the Chastity Gate and make sure the Jews are let in.”

  “My … lord?”

  “Just do it, man! That’s an order.”

  “Thank you,” Sophia said. She was already breathless, ahead of all the running she’d have to do.

  “Open the door,” said Felix, and it inched back open. “Good luck.”

  She crept outside, and the first thing she did was to check on the light coming from across the river. It seemed steady enough, except that there was a glow around it, as if a fog was rising. Whether it was just the collective breath of thousands, or something more sinister, she couldn’t tell. But there was no baying mob yet.

  Felix’s ring was too big for any of her fingers. She jammed it on her right thumb, working it painfully over the joint. It felt cold and heavy, and since she never wore jewellery, odd and obvious.

  She ran back along the quayside and up into the town, taking the narrow cut that led to the Old Market. The moonlight illuminated only half the square and, as she darted into the shadows towards the start of Jews’ Alley, she ran headlong into someone, something.

  They fell and she fell. Sophia was on her back, trying to tell which way was up, when the sky darkened and metal glittered. Without thinking, she brought the sword up, expecting to do no more than bat her assailant away. Such was the force of her swing and the length of the blade that the point sliced through something significantly more substantial.

  She heard a single bellow of pain, and the shape above her fell all over again. This time, it didn’t get up.

  The man – it sounded like a man, and smelt like a man – groaned deep in his throat. He’d landed partially across Sophia’s legs: she dragged one free and kicked him away. He groaned again, more quietly.

  She couldn’t see what she’d done, who it was, or tell anything about him. She didn’t know what to think, even. Had he been going to attack her, or had she just wounded, or killed, an innocent man?

  She scrambled to her feet, and the sword dragged along the ground for a moment before she remem
bered to lift it. It seemed welded to her arm, something to cling to. “Sorry,” she stammered, “I’ll send help.” She ran the length of Jews’ Alley: the candles in the windows lit her way, and she could see that there was no one else around.

  She’d grown up in streets that were never dark, thanks to the same magic she’d been taught to reject. Now she knew the truth of the cost of it, she was glad, but she still missed the light.

  The synagogue doors were still closed: she’d arrived in time. She crashed through the first set, into the porch where the stairs went up to the women’s balcony, and instinctively turned to climb them.

  No. Not today. She could hear the words of the Aleinu through the doors ahead of her, and that’s where she needed to go. She put her hand on the handle, and realised she was more scared of going in than of what would happen if she didn’t. She trembled and her knees started to buckle.

  By the lantern-light, she spotted that her sword was smeared with blood. Flecks were on her hand and bodice. And her skirts were heavy with it. There were even splashes of it drying on her face.

  If she didn’t act, they were all going to die a far worse death than the man she’d cut at.

  She pulled the door aside and marched down the aisle to the bimah, where the Torah scroll lay, unrolled. Rabbi Cohen, yad still in hand, stared at her: at first, open-mouthed, then with increasing fury.

  “Get out,” he roared, “get out, get out, get out!”

  “No,” said Sophia. “They’re coming to kill us, and everyone needs to listen to me.”

  She turned her back on him, the bimah and the open ark. She looked up to where she would normally sit, up on the balcony at the back. There were a handful of women present, whereas downstairs it was full, and every man was dressed in his Shabbat best.

  They were as shocked as Cohen was, but their anger was giving way to uncertainty.

  “She is not permitted to speak. Throw her out,” thundered the rabbi, but instantly her father was on his feet, shouting over the top of him.

  “Shut up yourself, Cohen. Sophia, what happened to you?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. The last hexmaster’s coming for us, and he’s got the whole town behind him. We have to leave now. Everyone.” It wasn’t getting better, it was getting worse. She was dripping on the floor. How was that even possible? How much blood can one man contain? And they were still sitting there – except for her father – looking at each other to see who would say something first.

  “You’re all idiots,” said Aaron Morgenstern, and he climbed over three men to get to the aisle. “The girl turns up covered with blood and carrying a sword, and you think, ‘what could this possibly mean?’ Mensch, what do you think it means? I’m going home to pack.”

  “No. There’s no time,” said Sophia. “They’re coming. We have to run.”

  “But to where?” someone called, and she held up her sword-hand.

  “See this ring?”

  “You’ve gone mad,” said the rabbi behind her. “Possessed!”

  She turned and levelled the sword at him. It weighed deceptively little, despite being almost as long as her legs: he was easily within reach. “Look at the ring. Recognise it?”

  He was forced to examine it, the edge of the bloodied blade at his neck. “No.”

  “It’s the ring of Prince Gerhard. His son gave it to me to get us – all of us – into the fortress. Assuming you choose life over death, of course.” She lowered the sword and tried to be slightly less threatening. “I know it’s the Sabbath. I know I shouldn’t interrupt the service, I know I shouldn’t be down here in this state. I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t telling you the truth and I wasn’t terrified of losing everyone here to Eckhardt.”

  “But what about the prince? The mayor?”

  “Felix said he’d try and hold the bridge for as long as he could, but we have to give him a signal when we’re safe. He’s going to die too if we don’t move.” She looked up at the balcony, and it was empty. The women had gone, not that the men could see. “If you’re coming, get your wives and children and be in Scale Square as soon as you can. Go. Go!”

  She hoped she’d done enough. She headed for the doors, pushed them aside and stepped out into the cool night. She leant back against the wall of the synagogue and closed her eyes. The doors banged open again, and again, and again: up and down Jews’ Alley, people were running in and out of houses, collecting everyone with a hurried tale about the Morgenstern girl and the prince.

  “Sophia?”

  “Father.” She opened one eye.

  “Are you all right? Your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

  She laughed. It was a little late for that. “I’m fine, Father. None of this … this mess is mine: someone attacked me – I think he was going to attack me – in the Old Market. I think I killed him. With this.”

  “You were supposed to be in Halstadt.” Morgenstern’s whole body ached for an explanation. “What happened?”

  “Oh, the rabbis saw me and chased me down the quayside, then the bargees threw bottles at them, then the mayor called out the militia, and I’ve been hiding in the Town Hall all day. By the time everything was quiet, there was no way I could get to aunties’ before Sabbath. The mayor’s a good man, Father: no love lost there for the Order. I just hope he’s still alive. Felix’s stepmother and the children are missing, too. It was …” she shuddered, “terrible.”

  Her neighbours started to stream by, and despite the urgency of the situation, almost everyone was clutching a bundle of something or other; treasures that they didn’t want looted.

  “Sophia, since when did you start calling the Prince of Carinthia by his first name?”

  “Since last night.” She stopped, scandalised. “Nothing happened. He’s just a boy. We’re … friends.”

  “Never trust the Germans,” Morgenstern said.

  “Some Germans, yes.” She shook her hand in his face.

  “And now you have the prince’s ring on your finger.”

  “It’s on my thumb, Father.” No one had passed them for a little while, and she grabbed his arm and propelled him towards the square. “It won’t fit anywhere else.”

  And from what seemed not so very far away came the sound of thousands of voices raised in a shout.

  40

  Büber slipped out of the doorway and crossed the wide quay quietly, not that he needed any of his skill to remain unseen: there was simply no one looking, least of all the diminutive figure of a boy with a sword in his off-hand.

  He couldn’t be heard, either, over the tumult that was beginning to wind back down the lower flanks of Goat Mountain. Gods, they made a lot of noise; he never missed this city with all its attendant human and mechanical chattering.

  The boy stood on the approaches to the bridge, resolute but alone. In front of him was the curve of the stone arch reaching towards the other bank, and dotted on it, in ones and twos, were bodies.

  If it made him contemplate his mortality more keenly, so be it.

  “Has everyone deserted you, my lord?”

  For someone not yet adult, and injured too, he brought his blade up far too quickly.

  “Hold.”

  Though Büber had a sword at his belt, and a bow on his back, he had nothing in his hands. “You’re as stubborn and graceless as your father. It got him killed, and you seem to be determined to go the same way.”

  He pushed his hood back and let the prince take a good look.

  “You came back.” The sword-point didn’t waver.

  “I thought I owed some measure of respect to Gerhard. I’ve paid my dues, and I should really go, since I’m banished.” Büber glanced across the river. “There are good reasons to stay, though. If you come with me, I’ll show you.”

  “You’re not banished,” said Felix. He lowered his sword. “I made a mistake.”

  “Well, that’s refreshing: a prince saying he was wrong. There’s hope for you yet, my lord.” Büber
rubbed at his stubble. “Why are you standing here?”

  “Because there’s no one else left to do so.”

  “It’s a good answer,” said Büber, “but it was the wrong question. What difference do you think you’ll make? ”

  “I promised …” The prince tapped the sword against the ground. “The Jews are going to the fortress. They’re supposed to give me a signal when they arrive: the bell, from the Bell Tower.”

  Büber turned around and looked up. He could just about see the top of the tower above the roofs of the warehouses. “And you think that staying here is going to slow down a mob like that? You’d have a better chance of holding back an avalanche. Your Jews are going to either make it or not: anything you do here won’t count.”

  People were starting to filter onto the far bank, dark shapes rimed with moonlight. There was an awful lot of them.

  “But I promised,” said Felix.

  “Then you were a fucking idiot, my lord. You are very young, though, and it’d be a shame if you never grew up to learn either wisdom or humility.”

  “You … you shouldn’t speak to me like that.” The Sword of Carinthia started to rise again.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t. But if you don’t get your arse off this bridge, you’re going to be the prince of a mass grave. So it doesn’t really matter how coarse my words get, does it?”

  They saw him. Someone shouted, and a group of them speeded up, trotting and full of nervous energy.

  “Really,” said Büber. “No one is going to remember this as a heroic gesture, because I’ll be too embarrassed to tell anyone about it, and they’ll be too ashamed.”

  The first of the mob had reached the crest of the arch, half a dozen of them, then joined by half a dozen more.

  Felix coughed into his sleeve and raised his voice.

  “You men. Do you recognise your prince?”

  Perhaps they did. Or perhaps they recognised the dark outline of Büber better than that of a dark-haired twelve-year-old. They slowed, but didn’t stop.

  “You need to get out of our way,” one of them called. “We’ve work to do tonight.”