The Devil's Library

by Tom Pugh

  Durant didn’t bother to turn. “Of course, a man like you wouldn’t understand.”

  Schoff’s eyes slid towards the Englishman, hoping he would take offence.

  “A man like me?”

  The dog rose to his feet, but there was no sign of anger on Longstaff’s face.

  “Herr Durant acts against the interests of the Otiosi,” interjected Schoff. “An organisation you have agreed to serve for one year of your life.”

  Longstaff shook his head, blue eyes creased in weariness. “I agreed to find your books, not settle your arguments.”

  They both despised him. Schoff could feel their contempt. “Rest assured, Herr Longstaff, I have a book for you to find.” He spoke without thinking, rash words prompting an idea. He was a lawyer, trained in finding elegant solutions to intractable problems. It didn’t matter what they thought of him. What mattered was ensuring the palimpsest reached Gregorio Spina as quickly as possible.

  “Sit down. Both of you. I need to think.”

  Longstaff sighed before taking a seat beside the fire. Durant took the opposite armchair, provocatively tapping fingertips against his pursed lips.

  Schoff stared at them. The Frenchman was unpredictable, but Longstaff seemed steady. A man able to survive in Muscovy would certainly ensure that the palimpsest arrived safely in Italy. The lawyer’s thoughts raced on; there was another book, hidden in a fortress above Lake Como. Not a huge detour, but it would give him the time he needed.

  Schoff removed a sheet of paper from his desk and began tracing an audible line across the page. He kept them waiting longer than necessary, to remind them of his authority and give himself time to think. Where could he send them? A smile lit Schoff’s bland features as Spina’s words returned to give him strength. Among the filth, like a diamond at the centre of the Devil’s black heart, God has placed a treasure, a weapon to defeat the Antichrist and pitch his hordes back into Hell. Assuming the palimpsest did reveal the location of the Devil’s Library – and surely, that was a risk worth taking – the Otiosi had outlived its usefulness.

  He looked up. “Herr Durant has a document in his possession, which he is bound to place in my keeping. He refuses to do so, however, insisting he will only deliver it to my ultimate superior. I do not approve of blackmail. It galls me deeply to yield, but it seems I have no alternative.”

  Schoff paused. “Herr Longstaff, I will provide you with an address, no more than three week’s journey from here. You are to deliver Durant and the palimpsest to the man who lives there.”

  “Wait,” interjected the Frenchman. “None of this is necessary.”

  “Hold your tongue,” snapped the lawyer. “You have forfeited my trust, Herr Durant. You are an oath-breaker.” He saw the Frenchman flinch. Good. It was a question of control. He turned to Longstaff. “Take Ivan’s book with you, and I advise you to keep the address a secret…”

  Longstaff interrupted. “I killed a man in Livonia and another in Moscow.” He looked angry. “You sit here risking men’s lives for the sake of paper and ink...”

  “For the accumulated knowledge of centuries, if Herr Durant is correct. The complete works of Epicurus, and who knows what else.” He stood. “I know you have been promised a reward by one of our members. Follow my instructions, and I will ensure that Sir Nicholas discharges his obligations to you without delay, waiving whatever remains of the seven months you owe us.”

  Longstaff grew still, Schoff smiled. Now he had the man’s attention. “There are two addresses here. The first reveals the location of one final book. It isn’t far out of your way.”

  “Have you lost your senses?” snapped Durant. “This is hardly the time for detours.”

  Schoff froze him with a look. He was in command now, lying fluently, buying time for Spina to make his preparations. “On its own, your palimpsest is worthless. It is encoded, as you say, and requires a key.” He turned to Longstaff, not waiting to see Durant’s reaction. “Three weeks, give or take a few days. Then home.”

  Longstaff approached the desk, warily glancing down at the paper. Schoff saw him flinch when he saw the name – Il Medeghino – and the location in the hills above Como.

  “I understand you’ve been there before,” Schoff’s voice was light.

  Longstaff stared at him. “I’d hoped never to return.”

  “There’s no one else I can trust,” Schoff slipped the paper between the pages of Ivan’s book and offered it to Longstaff. “I’ll send boys for your things. Take your pick of the horses from the stables at the head of the Old Salt Road.”

  The Englishman looked round at Durant, who shrugged.

  “Do you accept the commission?” persisted Schoff, feeling certain of the answer. There was no need to point out what would happen if Longstaff refused; the web of control he’d woven about both men was secure enough.

  With ill grace, the Englishman snatched the book from his hands.

  Mathern Schoff could still hear the two book thieves, clattering down the stairs and into the street, when the exhilarating sense of power began to wane. His hands shook as he poured himself a glass of wine. He drank it slowly at the study window. The good burghers of Lübeck were still there, discussing business on the very spot he’d stood on as a child to watch the heretic Anabaptists burn. He still saw the dying men in his dreams, their faces etched with fear, lank hair lifting on the waves of heat.

  Schoff turned in disgust, sat down at his desk and began to write.

  Revered Master,

  You have impressed upon me how vital it is that I do nothing to jeopardise my privileged position with the Otiose. Only in one, exceptional circumstance am I permitted, indeed encouraged, to deviate from our agreed protocols. Today, I was visited at my home by a thief who claims to have discovered a letter that refers to The Devil’s Library. Knowing how much importance...

  Schoff felt a sudden, paralysing surge of frustration. Would Gregorio Spina be pleased or disappointed? Should he apologise for failing to lay hands on Lucretius’ letter? Should he write, “I could not safely insist, for fear of revealing too much?” No; too much like an excuse. Wiser, surely, to draw attention to his speed of thought? Durant would protect the palimpsest and Longstaff would protect the Frenchman. Schoff felt a twinge of doubt at having sent them after another book, but it had been the only way to win enough time for his letter to reach Spina in Rome. Admittedly, Il Medeghino had a fearsome reputation, but he and Longstaff were old comrades in arms…

  Schoff’s thoughts brought him full circle. What should he write? How best to phrase it? The thought of losing Spina’s approval was unbearable. He drank a second glass of wine, then snatched the unfinished letter from his desk and threw it on the fire. He would travel to Rome in person – there was no one else he could trust.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ivan’s book weighed heavy as Longstaff strode through the streets of Lübeck, ignoring the Frenchman alongside. He didn’t like the man, and he’d liked Mathern Schoff even less, but that wasn’t the reason for his anger.

  He’d first walked these cobbled streets as a nine year-old; too young to understand the calamity that had befallen his family or the reasons behind his sudden flight from England. Paul Lammermeier, the man his father had chosen to be his guardian, had done his best. Longstaff had repaid his kindness by repeatedly running away, determined to return to England and avenge his father’s death. He never got far; not then, never had anything to show for his efforts but cuts and bruises.

  There had been better times, when the grey squares of Lübeck seemed to fill with Lammermeier’s passion for the place, with its vast shipyards and warehouses, the forests of steeples and towers, but Longstaff’s enthusiasm for a merchant’s life had always been short-lived; a poor match for dreams of fame and glory.

  He hadn’t set foot in Lübeck for seventeen years and Lammermeier was long since dead. Was there anyone left in the city who would know him? Longstaff turned off the wide thoroughfare and walked through the artisan�
�s quarter, a warren of narrow streets and closely packed houses: cutlers and coopers, scythe-smiths and brass-smiths, pewterers and polishers, all hard at work in their ground-floor workshops. The noise was deafening.

  Longstaff slowed as he passed three fine new houses. Crumbling walls had stood here once. There had been a gate, hidden by ivy, and a secret garden where he’d kissed his childhood sweetheart for the first time. Marie would be married with children now, he guessed, and changed beyond recognition, just as he was.

  Durant cleared his throat: “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

  “Why couldn’t you have just given the lawyer what he wanted?”

  “I’ve done you a favour, Longstaff. Saved you six months of your life. You should be grateful.”

  They had reached a patch of scrubland against the city wall. Longstaff looked around; some things hadn’t changed with the passage of time. He pointed: “You’ll find the stables beyond the southern gate.”

  “And you?”

  Longstaff shrugged. The Frenchman couldn’t leave without him; the lawyer had seen to that.

  The trailing hem of Longstaff’s coat kicked up dust as he traced the passage of an ancient fight. Six months after arriving in this city, a group of local children had cornered him on this spot, to remind him that he was an outsider, an exile, a landless orphan. The boys had poked him with grubby fingers; a blow drew blood from his nose. Longstaff had lashed out, sending one crashing to the ground. The rest attacked, beating him about the head and body. A moment earlier he’d been exhausted. Now he roared in fury, biting, scratching, tossing and tumbling to shake himself free.

  Longstaff had been fighting ever since. Paul Lammermeier had offered to make him his heir. Marie had offered everything a young woman could. He’d abandoned them both for a solider’s life. Drifted south, full of plans to fight the Ottoman Turks and become a great Christian hero.

  Longstaff had little to show for those years except scars and Sparrow, the dog he’d adopted after deserting Italy’s most feared soldier of fortune. He hunkered down and scratched her between the ears. She’d been a pup at the time, hardly bigger than the bird he’d named her after, chest fluttering in awful terror as a lad struck her with a spiked stick. It hadn’t been idle fun: she was being trained for a career in the bear-pits, where roaring crowds would goad her into a frenzy of blood and slather.

  Longstaff had been a boy when he’d fallen into Il Medeghino’s clutches. The mercenary general’s methods were more sophisticated, but their effect had been much the same.

  With one hand on Sparrow’s head, Longstaff swore to himself that when he got home to Martlesham he would throw away his sword and raise crops, spend his life performing acts of kindness and earn a small reputation for generosity. It was an embarrassing dream, modest and vainglorious in equal measure, and more than he deserved after the things he’d seen and done in Italy.

  Was that why God was sending him back? Was it a test, to see if he was worthy of a second chance?

  He arrived at the stables a few minutes later, where Durant was standing with a proprietary hand on the neck of a tall, high-stepping chestnut with a wide mouth and broad nostrils, ears pointing forward like spears. He might be an arrogant fool, but the Frenchman was clearly an excellent judge of horseflesh.

  “Your friend already has the pick of them,” acknowledged the stablemaster, a bandy-legged man who looked long and hard at Longstaff, before recommending a big grey with an ugly cast in one eye.

  Schoff’s two servants arrived minutes apart. The first of them was out of breath from running across town to collect Durant’s baggage. Longstaff stared – the man was hardly more than a pair of legs beneath the enormous pack.

  Durant set to work, rearranging the contents to sit more comfortably across the chestnut’s rump. He spread a large cloth on the cobblestones, which quickly disappeared beneath a bone saw, half a dozen phlebotomy cups, and a set of small golden bells with the clappers carefully wrapped in cloth. Longstaff felt at liberty to stare; Durant’s head was buried deep in the pack. Only his arm snaked out from time to time, adding new items to the growing pile; herbs bound with ribbon and powders in thin leather bags; writing materials; a small mahogany box; a dozen phials. Was this man thief or apothecary?

  The second servant arrived from the docks. Longstaff strapped the old katzbalger sword around his waist and removed his musket from the greased wrapping paper. It was a beautiful weapon, made by the finest gunsmith in Suhl. He stared down the barrel, taking pleasure in the clean, straight lines.

  “I suppose you have names for them, too?” Durant was laughing, hand on hip. “Devil’s Bane? Thunderstick?”

  Longstaff pointed at the contents of Durant’s pack, strewn across the yard. “You’ve enough baggage to satisfy a new married girl and the nerve to insult me?” He pulled himself onto the ugly grey. “We have a long journey. It’s time we started.”

  “A moment,” Durant looked down at his scattered possessions.

  Whistling for Sparrow, Longstaff rode out of the yard with a clatter of hooves.

  The Frenchman drew level before he’d gone two miles. “You might have given me time to pack, or was that English humour?”

  “You were the one making pleasantries, Durant.”

  They passed a roadside inn shortly before sunset. Without a word, Longstaff nudged his horse through the tall gates, dismounted in the courtyard and inquired after two rooms. Satisfied he and the Frenchman wouldn’t have to share, he made himself comfortable in the quiet common room, where a serving girl came to take their order. She was about twenty, with pretty blue eyes and full lips. Longstaff had been on the road for weeks, and the months before in Moscow had provided little in the way of diversion. “What’s your name, young lady?”

  She rolled her eyes, “Francisca.”

  “Is it always so quiet in here, Francisca?”

  “What can I bring you?”

  “Meat and drink. And the pleasure of your company?”

  She looked him up and down, managing to wink and look indignant at the same time, then turned on her heel and walked to the kitchen. Longstaff admired the roll of her hips.

  “Do you actually want her?” sneered the Frenchman. “Or was that performance for my benefit?”

  Longstaff’s smile faded. “We have a long journey ahead of us, Durant. Shouldn’t we try and make the best of it?” He put his elbows on the narrow table. “Tell me more about the palimpsest.”

  Durant aped his gesture and tone: “Tell me more about our destination.”

  Longstaff’s hand shot forward, seizing the Frenchman’s collar. “The lawyer said nothing about delivering you in one piece.”

  “How far would you get with a corpse strapped to your horse?”

  Longstaff felt the point of a knife against his belly. He released his grip, smoothing the collar of Durant’s doublet. “Expensive cloth,” he smiled. “We’ll see how fine you look after a week in the saddle.”

  The serving girl returned with a platter of meats and roasted vegetables.

  Durant leaned back, passing a hand across his mouth. “I think you’ve overestimated our appetites.”

  “Perhaps,” she looked at Longstaff. “What do you think?”

  Longstaff heard the invitation in her voice. To hell with Durant. This wasn’t a partnership. It was a job, his last for the Otiosi. Longstaff admired their courage, but it wasn’t his fight. He would deliver the Frenchman, collect his reward and return home. He met the girl’s eyes. “Rest assured, Francicsa. I have a healthy appetite.”

  The girl was gone by the time Longstaff woke. He stretched out a hand; the mattress was still warm. With a smile, he imagined her slipping out of bed and dressing in the pre-dawn light. He sat up; the coins he’d left beside her clothes were gone.

  As he dressed, Longstaff bound Ivan’s book and the lawyer’s sheet of paper to his chest. He wasn’t concerned about bandits on the Old Salt Road – one of the safest thoroughfares in the Holy
Roman Empire – but Durant was a different matter.

  The Frenchman was waiting for him in the stable yard, the two horses already saddled. “I trust you enjoyed the evening.”

  Longstaff mounted: “More than you, I suspect. Shall we?”

  They rattled onto the road, riding at a steady, mile-eating canter until Durant’s mare threw a shoe.

  “Your damned pack,” cursed Longstaff.

  The Frenchman dismounted. “Shoddy workmanship.”

  Longstaff shaded his eyes. Smoke rose from the chimneys of a hamlet, about a mile from the road. He made a point of remaining in the saddle, grumbling about the delay, while Durant walked his horse alongside.

  The smith was an old man with failing eyesight. Longstaff listened to the uncertain ring of the hammer, his mood darkening as clouds rolled in from the east.

  “Stop pacing,” snapped Durant.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything in your pack to keep us dry. A closed carriage perhaps?”

  “The nail was bent. This horse could carry twice the weight.”

  The old man straightened, pronouncing himself satisfied as the heavens opened.

  “About time,” Longstaff swung into the saddle, kicking the big grey into a heavy canter. He was soaked to the bone by the time they finally reached the next inn, wanting nothing more than a decent meal and a warm fire.

  A boy ran through the rain to take their horses. He was skinny with a running sore on one side of his head. Longstaff slid gratefully from the saddle and peered through the inn windows. A welcoming fire, a middle-aged woman in a spotless apron, tray in hand. And three heavy-set men with their feet up on iron firedogs. Longstaff stared in disbelief. They’d put away their long fur coats and tall hats, but no power on earth would persuade them to shave the long beards. Ivan had sent four boyars, but the fourth lay dead in the snows of Riga with a ragged hole in his belly.