The Devil's Library

by Tom Pugh

  He held his breath. Had he seized an opportunity sent by heaven, or embarked on a path to suicide? Longstaff drew his dagger, certain the storeroom door was about fly open. They would try to take him alive, save him for torture and execution. It would only take a misplaced word from Fischer, a headcount at the citadel gates. And Sparrow? Longstaff shook his head; he could rely on the dog at least. He willed Fischer to pack up and leave, return to his cramped home in the city and pray – if he valued his life.

  The door remained shut. Hardly two hours past noon, the room was already beginning to melt into darkness. Longstaff kept low, flinching every time the floorboards creaked above him. He looked up, thinking of the path he would have to take in the dead of night.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Terem Palace was silent. With luck, the guards would be dozing against their pikes. Longstaff used dirt to darken his face and removed his white shirt. The short-waisted jerkin he wore beneath was padded and lined with silk. Over the years, he’d sewn half a dozen small medallions into the lining; campaign medals from Metz and Marciano, as well as tokens of friendship and remembrance from fallen comrades.

  Would he join them now? Fear threatened in the darkness. If the Tzar’s men caught him, it wouldn’t be a clean death. Gossips in the city claimed Ivan spent hours in the citadel dungeons each night, personally extracting confessions from men he suspected of treason.

  Longstaff opened the storeroom door and peered into the corridor. Empty. Moonlight filtered through the gallery windows on the first floor. Thick carpets swallowed his footsteps up a wide flight of stairs. He tested each tread, praying the next wouldn’t betray him.

  He moved through the palace like a ghost, following the directions Quist had given him. A lone soldier leaned against the wall at the end of a corridor, grey cloak over his chain mail coat, whip curled at his belt.

  Longstaff approached in shadow, listening to the even rhythm of the guard’s breathing. The man was asleep on his feet, cap pulled low over his eyes, a key hanging from a hook on his belt. Was the door locked or unlocked? Longstaff held his knife a fingers-breadth from the guard’s throat and reached for the handle with his free hand. Unlocked. He pushed it open an inch, terrified it would creak, expecting to see the guard’s eyes flicker open. The door swung open on silent hinges. Longstaff slipped inside and closed the door.

  Figures loomed from the shadows.

  He stabbed, wildly. Felt the knife-point strike cloth and hair.

  Dummies. Lit by a single, flickering candle and clothed in Ivan’s ceremonial habits; the lesser and the greater, both lavishly ornamented with gold and jewels. Longstaff breathed a silent sigh of relief, sweat cooling on his neck as he looked around. The walls were lined with rows of clothing: furs, tunics, boots and half a dozen crowns. An open door on the far side of the room led to a second chamber.

  Longstaff crept across the dressing room. He put his cheek to the doorframe and listened for signs of life.

  Nothing. He peered inside, at a strange mixture of armoury and library. Two of the walls were covered with weapons: straight and curved swords, a lance, a poleaxe, a dozen knives and daggers, several pistols. On the third, a huge icon of Christ hung above a heavy wooden chest. And, just as Sir Nicholas had promised, the fourth wall was covered in books and scrolls.

  A cat lay asleep among furs on a divan in the centre of the room. A glass stood beside a stoppered decanter of wine on a low table. Longstaff picked it up – a film of dusty sediment suggested no one had been here in days. There was a book on the table, bound in poor-quality leather. He flipped it open. The frontispiece was familiar; he’d seen copies in Germany and the Low Countries; a chronicle of the atrocities committed a century ago by Vlad Tepes Dracul of Wallachia. The new printing presses were fuelling a thirst for sensation and horror.

  Longstaff moved to Ivan’s collection of scrolls and books. He forced himself to work methodically, look at each in turn. An ancient timber groaned and the breath caught in his throat. A small book, neatly bound in red leather and inlaid with metal. He scanned the shelves, feeling panic uncoil in his gut. There, tucked away at the end of one high shelf – haltingly he made out the Greek characters: On The Planets, Their Characteristics and The Orbits They Describe Around The Sun.

  Footsteps, the soft murmur of a man’s voice. There was no time to hide, only to throw himself down behind the heavy chest.

  A painfully thin man, stoop-shouldered and hollow-chested, walked unsteadily through the door. He held a staff in one hand, tipped with an iron point. The callus on his forehead was well known in the city – the result of hours prostrated in front of icons. Ivan the Terrible. He looked nearer fifty than thirty; hooded eyes lost in his lined face. What in God’s name was he doing here, alone, in the middle of the night? The Tzar poured wine into the dirty glass, drained it at a single swallow and lay back on the divan. From the way he moved, it wasn’t his first of the night. A shudder ran across the sharp features as the cat licked his fingers.

  Minutes crawled past like hours as Longstaff waited for the gentle rasp of snoring. He rose silently, shoulders cramping, the book in one hand and his knife in the other.

  Ivan turned in his sleep. Longstaff froze, staring at the Tzar’s lank hair, the mottled skin, a thin ribbon of spittle running into his sparse beard.

  Please God, let him go on sleeping. Longstaff stole across the room, his eyes fixed on the Tzar. He reached the outer chamber, ears cocked for danger, waiting in the darkness until his heart was calm. He hid Aristarchus’ book in his jerkin and opened the door to the corridor.

  The guard jumped smartly to attention, eyes widening in horror as he realised his mistake. Longstaff buried his knife in the man’s throat, wrapped an arm around his neck to stop the blood, forced him silently to his knees and held him there until the body went limp.

  Ivan’s snores reached him from the adjacent chamber. He dragged the body inside and bundled it behind a tapestry. Longstaff’s sleeve was now drenched in blood, his hands were shaking. He pinched the inside of his forearm. Be patient; find a way out of the Terem Palace, reach the citadel gates before dawn. He stepped into the silent corridor.

  Sentries would be guarding the entrance below. The gallery? Longstaff locked Ivan’s rooms with the guard’s key and crept towards a door at the far end of the corridor, secured with a simple iron bolt. He eased it back and slipped outside.

  The freezing night air was like glass in Longstaff’s throat. Guards stood round a brazier in the centre of the square, torches burned at the entrance to the church and at regular intervals on the walls beyond. The country was at peace, Longstaff reminded himself. No one was looking for him. The Tzar was safe – feared and loved in equal measure, worshipped as the father of his people. Aside from the few bright spots of torchlight, the citadel was dark and silent.

  Longstaff dropped ten feet into shadow. He stayed close to the palace, trailing fingertips along the wooden wall, then along the rough stone walls of the Church of the Twelve Apostles. Now the ground was open, nearly fifty yards to the complex of barracks and warehouses beside the gates. Dawn approached. Longstaff put his head down and ran.

  He dropped into a crouch beside the barracks, panting, waiting for the rush of guards. Minutes passed, people stirred on the other side of the wooden wall. Longstaff’s fingers cramped on the knife-hilt and still no one came. The barracks offered cover until he was twenty yards from the gates, beside a train of covered wagons. Beyond them, grim-faced guards roused carters from their blankets.

  Another minute and the rising sun would strip Longstaff of his last remaining hope. He crawled to the nearest cart, rolled silently on the unpaved ground and pulled himself up, limbs crossed around the heavy axle. He heard a shout and several answering cries, before the wagon rumbled slowly through the gates.

  The city was the Tzar’s first line of defence, a maze where attackers could be cut down at will. In a dark alleyway, Longstaff rolled clear of the cart – sprawling like a drunk in the gut
ter. No one gave him a second glance. The wagon train was still in earshot when he picked himself up and hurried to the merchant’s house.

  He found Sparrow curled beside the door. Herr Fischer was inside, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He turned when he heard Longstaff, looking past him with bloodshot eyes.

  “You’re alone.”

  Longstaff nodded. “No one noticed I was missing?”

  “What in God’s name were you thinking? I nearly had a heart-attack when you didn’t reappear.”

  Cannon–fire. Both men flinched. Church bells rang as Fischer turned to the window and scanned the street. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing.” Ivan must have found the dead guard. “Calm down, Herr Fischer. We’re safe.” He poured a glass of spirits for the merchant. “Everything is arranged. I’ve paid a Saamid huntsman to drive me west. Take me to their camp beyond the city walls. An hour’s work and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  Longstaff produced three gold coins from his jerkin. “It’ll be like I never existed.”

  The merchant shook his head. Longstaff slapped him. “Think. What will happen if they find me here?” He withdrew a fourth coin. “You have no choice, Herr Fischer.”

  Longstaff lay beneath a sheet of canvas, wrapped in his heavy cavalryman’s coat, pack and weapons beside him on the flat bed of Fischer’s cart. Were they heading for the Saamid camp, as he’d instructed? He pulled back a corner of the cover. There was Fischer, Sparrow beside him on the hard wooden bench. They were moving north, away from the citadel. The cart jolted to a stop as they reached the outer wall. Remember what I told you, Fischer. Ivan has a long list of enemies; it will never occur to him to suspect a humble merchant’s second. He braced himself, expecting to see the canvas pulled back, a guard’s face sneer down at him. Tethers snapped against the ox’s hide. The cart moved again, passing through the gates of Moscow.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lübeck, January 31st, 1562

  Mathern Schoff sat in shadow at a chipped wooden table, dark robe pulled close around his body. The Golden Cow had a reputation in Lübeck as a place where the sons of good families went to be fleeced by card-sharps and swindlers. Not at all the kind of establishment he would have chosen.

  Four years had passed since his meeting with Gregorio Spina; four years of living among these heretics, accepting their invitations to dinner, settling their disputes. The Otiosi had made contact six months after his return from Rome, in the form of a visiting Bremen merchant. As Spina had predicted, the man came armed with letters, indisputable proof of his father’s involvement in this cabal of blasphemy. Forewarned, Schoff had performed the part of a proud son, face shining as the merchant talked.

  Slowly, he’d earned their trust. Each autumn he sent Gregorio Spina an encrypted report of his activities. In all other respects, he was a loyal servant of the Otiosi. He took their oaths, served as a postbox, and provided money or lodgings. The members were dull and trusting. He found an odd pleasure in repeating their heretical notions, seeing the faces glow with enthusiasm, but hated dealing with the mercenaries they hired to find their books; unpredictable, violent men.

  Gaetan Durant, it appeared, was an exception from the general rule. The Frenchman occupied a table ten paces away. Schoff had recognised him easily from the description he’d been sent – tall and slim, invariably dressed in black, with dark hair combed straight back from a pale face.

  Durant also carried himself like a gentleman; he’d swept into the tavern as if it belonged to him, barely tasting a glass of wine before getting drawn into a game of cards – hardly appropriate for someone about to attend a confidential meeting. He looked more a like a man in need of distraction, as he lounged at the table and baited the young dandy opposite.

  Schoff sat quietly at his corner table, observing the man he’d come to meet. Unusually for a bookfinder, Durant had sought out the Otiosi, initiating contact through a Bruges bookseller and proving his worth on several occasions since. He’d accept a fee, or course – what mercenary wouldn’t? – but claimed his true goal was enlisting the aid of the Otiosi in the search for his missing daughter.

  Durant and the dandy played Landsknecht with a pack of block-printed cards. A simple game, named after the German pikemen who’d invented it. Schoff could hear their conversation clearly, even amidst the press of men and whores.

  “You’re bluffing,” the young man’s cheeks were pink with alcohol. A gentleman of fashion from a wealthy family, Schoff judged, who didn’t object to losing, but expected flattery in return.

  “Perhaps,” the Frenchman’s voice dripped with contempt. “Tell me, did it take you long to dress this morning? It’s admirable, the way you’ve judged the exact point at which breeches become too brash… ”

  “Enough!” A note of triumph in his voice, the young man placed his cards face-up on the table.

  Schoff caught the Frenchman’s scent – a cloying perfume. Durant looked bored as he flicked over his cards.

  The dandy stared in disbelief. Schoff could hear him breathe, great indignant snorts of air.

  “It’s not possible.”

  The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?”

  The young man lurched to his feet. “I’m not suggesting a damn thing. I’m calling you a cheat.” He stumbled over his stool and bumped the neighbouring table. Dice fell from a gambler’s hand. An ominous silence descended on the room, broken by the sound of ivory on flagstones.

  Schoff held his breath. The Frenchman merely laughed. “It’ll be the Devil’s own task for these gentlemen to discover which dice were loaded with quicksilver and which with lead, sponges, chaff and coal.”

  Mutters rose in the dark tavern.

  Durant looked around. “You see. No one likes being called a cheat.”

  The dandy drew his sword. A fencing blade, hardly more than a toy.

  Pressed against the rough wall, Schoff watched in horrified fascination as the Frenchman placed both hands on the tabletop. He rose with intimidating precision, not stopping until the point of the sword pressed against his chest.

  The boy’s eyes sought support from the tavern’s patrons. Some stared at him, some studied their shoes. Two men made discreetly for the door.

  “When you threaten a man,” said Durant, “have the courtesy to look at him.”

  The boy lost his nerve. “I apologise. I spoke without thinking.” Stiffly, he walked between the tables and pushed through the thick velvet curtain.

  Durant threw back his head and laughed. Every other man in the room was silent. The Frenchman had called them cheats and chased away an easy mark. Schoff waited to see them stand and issue challenges. Wasn’t that how these things were done? He watched in near disbelief as the card-sharps and gamblers returned to their games. Durant resumed his seat, idly toying with his winnings.

  Schoff stared at his glass. Should he leave? What could the Otiosi want with a man like this?

  Durant was staring right at him. Despite his efforts to remain anonymous, it seemed the Frenchman had recognised him at once. Schoff took a deep breath and nodded at the chair opposite. Loudly, Durant scraped the coins into his purse and approached with a swagger.

  “Herr Schoff?”

  “Sit.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He hooked an elbow around the back of the chair.

  Schoff leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “I’ve never seen such irresponsible behaviour. The Church in Rome, a dozen princes here in the north – they want us dead. The new humanist philosophy is a direct threat to their own authority.”

  “I know, I know. A group of scholars and clerks, whose only protection is anonymity,” the Frenchman waved a hand. “It was me who sought out the Otiosi. Not the other way round.”

  Schoff inclined his head. “To offer your services in return for help finding your daughter. I believe her name is Laure?”

  Durant’s expression hardened. “Is there word?”

  Schoff drew out the mo
ment before shaking his head. “The message I was given is that you should not give up hope.”

  The Frenchman replied with a smile of such bitterness he was forced to look away.

  “What is it this time,” asked Durant. “Another book?”

  The lawyer folded his arms, suddenly determined to make the Frenchman pay for his arrogance. “Perhaps it’s time we found someone more reliable.”

  Durant sighed. “Just tell me, Schoff. Your superiors know my worth, even if you don’t.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Livonia, February 1st, 1562

  Longstaff kept low by day, listening to the hiss of runners as they cut channels in the snow and the low panting of the sled-dogs. Sparrow ran alongside for an hour each morning, a black burr on the white blanket of snow, before conceding defeat to her distant cousins.

  At night, Longstaff fetched wood from the sled to build a fire, while the Saamid driver saw to the dogs. The Englishman wanted to talk, but he and the driver, Gosha, had no common language beyond a few words of Russian.

  Rolling onto his front, Longstaff stared at the silent country as the dogs ate away the miles beneath a slate grey sky. In the far distance, he saw the silhouette of a castle. They had passed burnt out villages in Livonia’s eastern marches – courtesy of Ivan’s raiding parties – but this castle was the first sign of life in nearly four days. Longstaff breathed a sigh of relief. With luck they would reach Riga tomorrow. The timing was perfect. It was February 1st, final day of the winter embargo. The Hansa captains were free to sail again and it would be a simple task to secure passage to Lübeck, where Quist and Sir Nicholas had told him to deliver the book.

  Longstaff sensed movement in the empty landscape and sat up, scanning the horizon. Nothing. The cold wind tore through his heavy jerkin and long cavalryman’s coat. He pulled a fur around his shoulders and strained his eyes. There. A smudge of dirt in the snow. They had been climbing steadily for most of the afternoon, he estimated the distance at five miles.