It was as though the malaise that had gripped the fields around Kohlstadt had spread to the forest. The grass beneath his feet was blackened and slippery underfoot; white puffs of mould were beginning to break it down into slime. The bushes were denuded, only a few die-hard leaves clung grimly to the rotting remains of twig and branch, themselves succumbing to fungus and decay. The odour was stronger here, the unmistakable stench of putrefaction.
“Rudi? Rudi!” It was only as he heard his father calling that he realised he must have been staring in astonishment for some time. Gunther broke through the undergrowth, and stopped. His jaw dropped.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Rudi asked. His father shook his head, dazed by the sight of so much devastation.
“Never even dreamed I would.” He seemed to come back to himself then, as he took Rudi by the arm. “Best we get away from here.”
Rudi nodded. The whole clearing had an unmistakably unhealthy air. For a moment he felt the faint stirring of some other emotion he couldn’t quite identify, hope or anticipation perhaps, but it quickly vanished. “Are you all right, lad?”
“I’m fine.” Rudi dismissed the sensation briskly. Gunther looked at him curiously for a moment. Knowing it was pointless to dissemble with the man who’d raised him, Rudi added, “I just felt a bit funny for a moment. Must be the smell, I guess.”
“Must be,” Gunther agreed. As they made their way back through the thicket to the safe familiarity of the green, healthy forest he added, “it’s not like you to be sickening for something.”
Those words came back to Rudi the following day at the meeting in Magnus’ parlour. If he were to mention the strange glade he’d found, now would be the perfect time. But something held him back.
Suppose Steiner thought he might have become infected with something while he stood there, surrounded by all that corruption? Or Magnus or Greta? They’d exclude him from their meetings for fear of catching whatever it was. They would find someone else to deliver their notes and report on events around the village, and he’d go back to being the outcast nonentity that everyone ignored. He should tell them, of course, but if that was the price…
He hesitated for a moment before telling himself that Steiner had only asked about traces of the beastmen. So he nodded his agreement.
“I’m sure he would. But we didn’t find a trace of them.” As the half-truth slithered from his lips he felt again that strange mixture of emotion that had taken him by surprise the day before. But this time there was another element, a sensation of gloating over his duplicity.
Appalled at what he’d done he resolved to speak up now, and damn the consequences. But it was too late. Steiner was standing to leave, and the meeting was at an end.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’ve a few more packages for you to deliver,” Magnus told Rudi after the door had closed behind the burgomeister. Greta stood up, brushing an errant strand of hair back behind her headscarf.
“I have as well,” she added, producing three packets of powder sealed with wax. Rudi recognised them immediately as he’d distributed several like them over the past few days to households where the fever had struck. Precisely what they contained he had no idea, as he had no desire to linger in the vicinity of the pestilence. So he handed them over to whoever answered the door and beat a hasty retreat. Each one was labelled with her spidery handwriting, although the marks meant nothing to Rudi.
“Who are they for?” he asked. Even though she knew he couldn’t read, Greta’s hand darted towards each one as she recited the names, the habit of expecting them to be read was too ingrained to override.
“Tomas Lindemann at the shoemaker’s, Marina Hoffstader in Butcher’s Alley, and Hans Katzenjammer at his mother’s house.”
So Hans was sick too. Hardly surprising, considering how he’d looked the last time Rudi had seen him, but somehow the name took him by surprise. He’d become so preoccupied with his activities over the last few days that he hadn’t given the two brothers a single thought. He felt a faint twinge of guilt at the lack of compassion he felt at the news. So he poked at it, hoping to stir up a little more feeling.
“He’s the same as the others?” The Lindemann and Hoffstader households he already knew about, he had visited them before. Twice, in the case of the Hoffstaders, as Magnus had begun to dispatch food parcels to some of the sick and to the poorest families in the village as the price of provisions had continued to rise. Greta shrugged.
“I suppose so. He refused to see me, but I don’t see what else it could be.”
“Refused to see you?” Magnus looked intrigued. He leaned forwards in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “That seems a little odd.”
The healer shrugged again. “He’s delirious, I’m told. He became quite hysterical when his mother told him she’d sent for me. It seemed better to wait until he was calmer before trying again.”
“Maybe the medicine will help,” Rudi suggested. He wanted to feel sorry for the hulking youth, he really did, but the truth was there were people he liked a great deal more who were just as ill. The death toll was now up to three out of more than a score of cases. If he had a choice he’d rather feel sorry for Marina Hoffstader, who had been so grateful for the bread and ale Magnus had sent her that she’d given him a flower from her window box in the hope that the scent would keep him safe from the contagion. Or Big Franz, whose wife and daughter were both unwell, but who stuck doggedly to his responsibilities in the militia by day, and by night stayed up to nurse them.
“I hope so,” Greta yawned. The strain was beginning to show. She straightened her shoulders with a visible effort. “If you get the chance to see him, perhaps you could tell me what the symptoms are.”
“I’ll try,” Rudi promised, although he quailed inwardly at the thought. It would be bad enough having to see one of the disease’s victims close to, let alone if that person habitually bore him nothing but malice.
“Good.” Magnus dismissed the topic. “I’ve a couple of business letters for you to deliver as well. One to Johannes at the tavern, and one to the Altmans.”
“Business? At a time like this?” Greta’s tone was scathing. They had been thrown together during the current emergency by their positions in the community, but they had never managed to be anything more than cordial to one another. Rudi found this surprising, because he liked them both. But there was an undercurrent of animosity between them, which seemed to run a lot deeper than their differences in opinions as to how the problem should be tackled. Oh well, he told himself, it was just part of the social interaction between people that he had been unable to fathom thanks to his life in the forest. Perhaps they’d had some romantic liaison in the past that hadn’t worked out. After all, no one seemed to know quite who Hanna’s father was…
No, the thought was absurd. There was no resemblance at all between the cadaverous merchant and the healer’s daughter. Her face was too round, her features too soft…
“They’ve got enough to worry about at the moment without trying to scrape together the interest payments they owe me.” Magnus broke into his thoughts. “I’m just telling them not to bother until things settle down again.”
“You’re a very generous man,” Greta said. “I sometimes wonder where you get it from. Your grandfather, perhaps?” There was an edge to the question that Rudi missed completely, and if it meant anything to the merchant he gave no sign of it. He just smiled ruefully.
“My grandfather was a moneylender from Nuln. The only selfless act of his entire life was dying young enough to leave his fortune to my father, who lost most of it speculating on expeditions to Lustria which either sank on the way there or succumbed to the perils of the jungle upon their arrival.” He shrugged. “What I have in life I’ve made for myself, and it only seems fair to share my good fortune with others. I’ve no heirs, so I might as well do what I can with it while I have the chance. I can hardly spend it in Morr’s realm, can I?”
“I suppose not.
” Something in Greta’s tone indicated that she hadn’t heard what she’d been expecting, or possibly fearing, in reply. She stood to leave. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Of course.” Magnus rose anyway, to usher her out of the room. He rang the little bell on the occasional table as he stood up. After a moment Kirstin appeared, pale as ever, her eyes a little bloodshot. She was dusting flour from her hands, and looked irritable. No doubt she had been dragged away from the kitchen in the middle of preparing a meal.
“You rang, sir?” This time she favoured Rudi with a watery smile, which disappeared almost immediately as her gaze skipped past him to her employer. Despite himself Rudi felt a small sense of satisfaction at the change in her attitude; it mirrored his general rise in status among the small community. Now when he picked up the packages of food she prepared for him to deliver to the poor and sick she would at least attempt to be cordial. She might make some trivial remarks about the weather or the spread of the pestilence before sending him on his way to the day’s destination. An older, worldlier, or more cynical lad might have attributed this at least in part to the latest changes Magnus’ mirror had shown him. His journeys around the valley had toned his muscles, making him leaner and stronger, and his face had lost the last faint traces of the puffiness of youth. Almost without realising it, he had reached the cusp of adulthood.
“Yes,” Magnus nodded. “Rudi is about to leave. Are the packages ready?”
“Ready and waiting, sir,” she nodded, meeting Rudi’s eyes almost eagerly. “If you’d follow me to the kitchen?”
He did as he was bid, pausing just long enough to pick up the letters Magnus had prepared and to slip Greta’s packages of medicine into his pouch. He had memorised who each was for with the aid of the little mental tricks he used on such occasions. Greta had pointed out which was which, so he placed them in order of delivery: Marina Hofstader’s first, then Tomas Lindemann, and Hans Katzenjammer last of all. He wanted to put off that meeting for as long as possible. The letters were easy to tell apart, as the one for the Altmans had a crumpled edge and the one for the tavern-keeper had a blob of wax trailing from the seal which looked a bit like a rabbit’s head. He sometimes supposed it might make things a little easier if he could simply read the names on the papers, but reading looked really hard, and was probably beyond him without years of study.
Kirstin led him into the kitchen, which smelled invitingly of rabbit stew and baking pastries. Whatever her moral shortcomings, it seemed, she was an accomplished cook. She handed him a satchel, containing five parcels wrapped in waxed paper, and recited the names of the intended recipients. The contents were all identical, so there was no need to memorise anything here.
“It doesn’t seem much,” she said, “but I suppose those poor people will be pleased to see it.”
“That they will.” Rudi shrugged the strap of the satchel over his shoulder. “They always ask me to thank you for your kindness.” Something approaching colour flared briefly in Kirstin’s cheeks.
“They should thank Herr von Blackenburg,” she said. “He provides it.”
“But you prepare it,” Rudi pointed out. “And very well too, judging by the smell in here.”
“I do what I can, but I’m no halfling. They really know how to cook.” For a moment she seemed almost animated. It was the first time Rudi had seen her enthused about anything, and for a moment he could understand why her tavern-room conquests found her so appealing. “Here. Take this.” She plucked a cooling pastry from a tray and handed it to him. The crust was still warm against his fingers. For a moment her hand lingered as their fingertips brushed together, then she withdrew it abruptly. “You’ve got a lot of walking to do today.”
“Thank you.” Surprised, and a little unsure of how to respond, he tucked it into the satchel on top of the packages, and turned to the door. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”
“I hope so.” Kirstin watched him go with a faint smile, and returned to her work.
Despite his best efforts to prolong them, the bulk of his errands passed remarkably quickly. There was an air of foreboding about the streets now. The few people abroad were hurrying about their business with lowered heads and quick, nervous footsteps, almost as if the mouths of the alleys they passed were filled with dark, menacing shadows instead of bright sunlight. The day was warm, the sun striking back from walls and fences, baking the mud and ordure which coated the streets to hardness. The air felt thick and foetid against his face. As he trotted from one address to another Rudi felt as if the village itself was feverish. The sweet scent of putrefaction tainted the air without any definite source. It was an all-pervading smell.
He was imagining things, he told himself angrily, the streets always smelled like that in the summer. But something stirred within him again, almost savouring the disgust and unease that he felt. He swallowed, his throat dry. He’d been out in the sun for too long, had sweated too much, and was getting dehydrated. He needed a drink.
Veering aside from his intended route towards the Lindemann house, he cut down an alley towards the tavern. He’d deliver Magnus’ letter to Johannes the taverner now, and spend a couple of his coppers on a drink while he was there. He could certainly afford to, the number of errands he was running these days was earning him more money than he’d ever possessed in his life. In this week alone he’d made more than a shilling. It was the first silver coin he’d ever held, and if the plague would just continue for another month or so he’d be rich by the time it burned itself out.
What was he thinking? How could he possibly be so callous as to wish disease and misery on people just to make money? Repulsed by the thoughts he found festering in his head he increased his pace, as though he could leave them behind if he moved fast enough.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry, young Walder?” Engrossed in his thoughts, he had almost passed Big Franz without noticing him. And that took some doing. The village smith was muscled like an orc, and stood nearly a head taller than anyone else in Kohlstadt. Now, though, his impressive physique was sagging with exhaustion, his muscles were slack from fatigue, and the fringe of dark hair which protruded from under his pot helm was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Which was probably close to the truth, Rudi reminded himself.
“I’ve some messages to deliver,” he replied, not wanting to get sucked into a prolonged conversation.
“I might have known.” Big Franz stood aside to let him pass unimpeded. He was leaning slightly on his spear like an old man with a walking stick. Despite himself, Rudi slowed.
“You look terrible,” he said. The militiaman shrugged.
“I feel it too. But it’s hard for everyone at the moment. We’re having to stand double watches now, because half the militia is sick, or too scared to leave their homes.”
Rudi nodded. “I know. I’ve got some medicine to deliver to Hans Katzenjammer.”
“Katzenjammer’s ill?” Big Franz looked vaguely surprised. “I didn’t know that. Haven’t seen either of them in over a week.” He didn’t sound as though he considered it much of a loss. He might have been about to say more, but a jaw-cracking yawn interrupted him. Rudi gazed at the man in consternation, all trace of his earlier callousness deserting him.
“When did you last get some sleep?” he asked.
Franz yawned again. “Yesterday morning, I think. Got a couple of hours in. Then Frieda got delirious again.” So his wife was still sick. Rudi didn’t dare ask about his daughter. If the news was good, Franz would already have told him. Come to that, if any of the fever victims had shown any signs of recovery the news would have been all over Kohlstadt within the hour. Another thought occurred to him.
“When did you last eat anything?” Creases appeared in the blacksmith’s forehead as he tried to remember. That was the only answer Rudi needed. With a faint pang of regret he fished the pastry Kirstin had given him out of the satchel, savouring the appetising aroma for the last time. “He
re. I think you need this more than I do.” A faint smile appeared on Franz’s face as he realised what it was.
“Shallya bless you, lad.” Two thirds of the pastry disappeared in a couple of bites before decorum overcame hunger, and the towering militiaman held out the remaining scraps of crust in a slightly shamefaced fashion. “Are you sure you don’t want to split it?”
Rudi shook his head. “Finish it off,” he said. “You need the energy.”
“Aye. That’s right enough.” Franz chewed and swallowed the remains of the delicacy with evident relish, already looking a little restored by it. He stood straighter now, and his eye seemed keener, not so blurred with fatigue.
After a few words of farewell Rudi made his way to the tavern, where he delivered Magnus’ letter and quenched his thirst. A couple of extra coppers bought him some hardening bread and some watery broth to soften it in. Despite himself he couldn’t suppress a twinge of regret at his generosity to Big Franz. Still, this was as good as the food he’d expected to eat when he set out that morning, he reminded himself, and at least he was still healthy enough to appreciate it. He wished Franz well, and muttered a brief prayer to Shallya for his family’s recovery.
“Can I get you anything else?” Johannes asked, seeing that his meal was over. Rudi shook his head. The innkeeper was a short man with a fringe of greying hair through which his near-naked scalp emerged like a rock from a fast-flowing stream. His apron was stained with the detritus of his calling, and the sleeve of his shirt was patched at the elbow. Rudi shook his head.
“No thank you. I’ve still got plenty of stuff to deliver.”
“So I see.” Johannes cast covetous eyes at the satchel that was still bulging slightly despite the delivery of a couple of the food parcels. Usually at this time of day the tavern would be filled with artisans flocking in from the neighbouring shops for their midday meal. But it was deserted. Despite this Johannes leaned in close and lowered his voice. “You’re carrying quite a lot of food about these days.” Unsure of what he was getting at, Rudi nodded.
[Blood on the Reik 01] - Death's Messenger Page 6