by James Wallis
Reisefertig yawned, and tapped the page of the book with a thoughtful finger. It reminded him in a way of a pattern that had been carved onto the school-desk where he had sat many years before, trapped for long hours as the teacher droned on about pointless subjects like mathematics. He had plotted battle-campaigns across that desk, using the carved paths as ditches and fortifications for his strategies, dreaming of the glories of life as a Reiksguard officer.
The fantasies had not included nine years on the trail of a sad old heretic, nor spending long nights trying to puzzle out the secrets of illegal books.
The tome would give up its secret eventually. Meanwhile…
His tapping finger touched one end of the tangled pattern and began to idly trace its interwoven path across the page. The room was still around him, and time was silent as the pattern’s intricacies yielded to his meandering digit. How long could it take to travel from one end of the path to the other? The puzzle seemed so difficult, and yet as he followed the spiralling trail, he felt it begin to come clear in his mind. Pieces of old knowledge began to fall into their appointed places. Clues, riddles, the books: they came together and he could see now they were all parts of a bigger, greater pattern.
And there was more: the revelation brought a new understanding, a new consciousness.
Outside the window the clear, bright light of dawn broke across the city of Altdorf, and as Reisefertig raised his eyes to look at it, he felt a greater light shine forth inside him. At last he understood the fire that kept Klimdt’s spirit alive, that drove him to live among dusty, earthy books, digging out their secrets. Fire and earth. Of course. Everything was so clear now.
In the other room, Braubach snorted in his sleep. Reisefertig glanced at the connecting door, then at the books on the desk.
Should he take them with him? There was no need. He had read and reread them so many times that he knew their every word; only now he understood them too. Better to leave them here. Braubach would figure the secret out for himself eventually, and would follow into the path of enlightenment.
With slow calm, the man who had been Lieutenant Andreas Reisefertig picked his riding cloak from the back of the door and walked out of the office, down towards the Reiksguard stables.
Somewhere out in the world, possibly in the Unseen Library in Marienburg, were the missing pages from the Lexikon of Eber Keiler of Salzenmund, and Klimdt had need of them.
Behind him on the desk, the pattern on the book’s endpapers glowed slightly, perhaps in the light from the dawn. The pages ruffled as if in a breeze, as one and then another flipped over, turning faster and faster until the book slammed itself shut with a bang. Outside the closed window, the face of Morrslieb could have been grinning as it faded in the bright morning sky.
REST FOR THE WICKED
The Königplatz in Altdorf was full of the bustle and hubbub of its morning market. Carts, barrows and stalls blocked the streets and people crammed together, jostling and shoving to move between the sellers, their arms burdened down with purchases. The air was full of the smell of fresh vegetables, roasting meat, fresh-baked bread, lavender and beer. The stallholders’s shouts echoed from the tall buildings surrounding the square: “Who’ll buy my schnitzel?”; “Estalian wines, strong and cheap”; “Pound of black bread, only sixpence”; “Horsemeat, fresh slaughtered”; and “You hooligan—stop!”
A small man with dark hair and the eyes and long moustache of a Kislevite had leaped onto the shouter’s table of pastries. He stood there for a second, looking round in panic, then jumped down into the crowd, pushing his way through. Twenty yards behind him two men were giving chase, one short, slim and blond, one tall and dark, both wearing leather jerkins. The dark one had his sword drawn.
“Imperial officers! Clear the way!” the blond man roared in a voice that seemed to come from a man twice his bulk. His tall partner vaulted the table in a leap and landed beside the stallholder. “Which way did he go?” he demanded. The man pointed. Dark looked at blond.
“North.”
“The city gate.”
“Let’s go!”
They sprinted through the market and down the street, darting through gaps in the crowd, trying to keep their quarry in sight. It wasn’t easy; the streets were crowded with early-morning traffic, pedestrians, people on their way to work or heading home after a long night. Carts and horses moved slowly through the throng, blocking the way. There was no sign of the short man. The taller of the pursuers stopped, staring across the packed bodies, trying to see movement.
“This way, Johansen,” the blond man said, pointing to a side-street. “Short cut.”
“Thanks, Grenner.” Johansen followed his partner. The road twisted, then widened, and ahead he could see the stonework of Altdorf’s great city walls and the flags flying high above the north gate. Someone shouted in the crowd, people moved aside, and he caught a glimpse of a short man with dark hair and a long black moustache. The Kislevite. Johansen sprinted after him.
Something was happening at the gate. Mounted members of the city watch were moving people out of the way, clearing a path through the crowd as a column of soldiers in Middenland colours rode into the city, two abreast. Behind them was an older man in rich fur-trimmed clothes on a magnificent chestnut stallion, followed by a train of carriages.
As the crowd was parting to let the procession through, the Kislevite dodged through the milling bodies and ducked away, running through the throng towards the gate. Johansen, a few yards behind, found his way blocked by a halberd. The guards were dismounting, using their weapons to keep the watchers back.
“Imperial officers! Let us through!” shouted Grenner, a few yards behind.
The guard’s face was stony. “Can’t do that, sir. Not while the Elector Count’s passing.”
“Sigmar’s beard…” Johansen put a hand on the halberd. It didn’t move. The guard looked past him curiously.
“Sergeant Grenner?” he said. “Is that you? I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Promotion,” Grenner said. “Let us pass.”
“Orders, sir. We’re protecting the Elector.”
Grenner swore and started to argue. Johansen watched the procession, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference now. The Kislevite had escaped, the operation was blown, three weeks of work was down the cistern, and Hoffmann was going to be very unhappy.
He looked at the man on the horse. Grand Duke Leopold von Bildhofen, Elector-Count of Middenland, one of the twelve most powerful men in the Empire. He didn’t look powerful; he looked bored and tired, and his horse looked the same. They’d probably been on the road since dawn.
Then the Kislevite broke from the crowd and cut across the open space in front of the soldiers, towards the procession. He darted in front of the Elector’s horse and it shied, stepping sideways. Then it shuddered for an instant, and Johansen knew something was wrong. He grabbed Grenner, who turned as the great chestnut horse bolted, scattering the soldiers, heading down the street that led to the Königplatz, its rider thrown forwards onto its neck.
Johansen pushed the guard away from his horse, grabbing its reins, putting a foot in the stirrup.
“Hey, you can’t-” one of the guards shouted.
“Someone’s got to,” Grenner said, already astride the other horse. They dug their heels in and galloped after the runaway.
The chestnut stallion was at full gallop and the crowds parted like a ripped sheet to get out of its way. The north end of the street was clear but the Königplatz ahead was filled with the carts and stalls of the morning market; if the panicked horse tried to jump one, or slipped on the cobbles, then its rider was a dead man.
They were gaining on the runaway, but not fast enough. The chestnut would be tired from its journey and not used to city streets, while their horses were fresh and properly shod for running on cobbles, but something had panicked the stallion and that gave it the edge for speed. Johansen could see the Grand Duke pulling frantically at the reins, try
ing to bring his mount under control and failing.
“Can we head him off?” he shouted to Grenner, a few yards away.
“Not enough room!”
“Go either side, then.” The sound of horses coming up from behind would push the chestnut to run faster, but it was the only chance they had.
Grenner went left, Johansen right, each urging their horses to more speed. The gap between them and the Elector narrowed. A drop of something wet landed on Johansen’s hand and he glanced at it. Blood, but from where? He looked ahead at the stallion, only a couple of lengths away. There was a wet patch of sweat on its neck. No, not sweat; something thicker and darker.
The three horses began to draw level, the chestnut between the two Palisades agents. The Grand Duke’s gaze was fixed ahead, on the market square, now frighteningly close. He didn’t seem aware of them.
“Lift him!” Johansen shouted and stood in the stirrups. With one hand holding the reins he leaned across and gripped the duke’s right arm. The nobleman jerked, his eyes darting to Johansen. Then, as Grenner grabbed his left arm, the two men lifted him clear of his saddle. Without the weight of its mount the chestnut surged ahead. Its muscles moving like wild poetry, it charged into the Königplatz and tried to leap a cart. Its rear legs skidded on the cobbles, slick with mud and rubbish. It fell. There was a noise of shattering wood, screams, an awful sound of pain. A thrashing that suddenly stopped.
Johansen and Grenner reined in their horses and lowered the Grand Duke to the ground. His face and clothes were spattered with blood. A crowd was staring at the three of them. The Middenland soldiers were cantering up, their swords drawn.
Johansen dismounted and bowed. “Karl Johansen and Dirk Grenner of the Palisades, your Grace. I apologise for any rough-handling you received.”
The Grand Duke looked down at him. “Good work,” he said, and his voice reminded Johansen of a man speaking to the servant who empties his chamber-pot. Then he noticed the Middenland soldiers and turned away to speak to them. Johansen straightened up, awkwardly. Grenner was looking at him.
“They never thank us.” he said.
“They never do,” Johansen said. “Come on. I want to look at his horse.”
The two men walked into the marketplace where the great chestnut horse lay across two broken carts, surrounded by sausages, cheeses and cauliflowers. Its hind legs were twisted the wrong way. Someone had cut its throat to end its pain.
Johansen knelt and ran a hand over the blood-soaked hair on its neck. There was no sign of a slash or a cut, but his fingers found a pucker on the skin. He drew his dagger and dug into the dead flesh until he found what he knew would be there: the head of a crossbow bolt, strangely twisted, buried deep in the hot muscles of the neck. He cut around it and tugged it out. Its bloody steel barbs gleamed in the sunlight.
“Nobody saw the assassin?”
“No, sir.” Hoffmann’s chamber on the top floor of the Palisades building was not large, nor richly furnished. It had no great glass window with grand views, no wall-hangings, no oak panelling, no bookcases, no crossed axes, suits of armour nor pictures of the Emperor. It had Erik Hoffmann, and that was enough. His voice would have been enough. The deep Salzenmund accent, with its rolled vowels and hard consonants, made every word sound like a growled threat. A woman had once told Dirk Grenner that it was the most alluring voice she’d ever heard. That relationship hadn’t lasted long.
“You’re certain it wasn’t the Kislevite or his comrades?” Hoffmann asked.
“Definite, sir,” Grenner said. “If he’d known the shooting was going to happen he’d have led us away from it.”
Hoffmann stared at his two officers for a moment. Then he crossed to the window and stared out. “This is an unholy mess,” he said. “I’ve already had Lord Udo von Bildhofen, the Grand Duke’s son in here, demanding that every Palisade agent drop what they’re doing and guard his father, and wanting to be personally briefed about everything we’re doing. The von Bildhofen family dines with the Emperor tonight. A negative report could be very bad for us.” He didn’t turn round, but stood silent; a long, tense pause. Then: “What did you make of the bolt?”
“Custom job, designed to rip open veins and organs,” Johansen said. “I saw one like it during a Tilean campaign a few years back.”
“Quite right. I sent it down to Alchemics for analysis. The steel and wood are from the south of Tilea.”
“Why would a Tilean want to kill an Elector?” Grenner asked.
“More likely a Tilean assassin,” said Johansen.
“One hired by someone who wants the job done properly, I suspect.” Hoffmann turned, walked back to stand by his desk. “The Grand Duke’s nominated successor is his brother, Baron Siegfried. His wife is Tilean.”
“Think he’s hungry for power?” said Grenner.
“Find out and stop the assassin. Before anyone important dies.” He picked up a folder of parchment from the desk and leafed through it, then looked back up. “What are you waiting for? Go. And don’t make this the second operation you botch today.”
The interior of the tavern was dark, the ceiling low, the tables crowded, the drinkers Tilean. Curious and hostile eyes looked at the two Altdorfers as they entered, resenting their intrusion. Most of the city’s natives had the sense to stay out of the Tilean quarter, and the only ones who ventured into the Villa Bianca were either dupes, foolhardy or desperate.
At the back of the room two richly clothed Tileans were talking earnestly in low tones. Grenner and Johansen found a table, sat and waited.
“Nice place,” Johansen muttered ironically.
“Proof that all men are brothers,” Grenner said. “Empire, Tilean, Kislevite or Bretonnian—come mealtime we’re all in the alehouse.”
The taller of the two Tileans stood up, kissed the other’s hand, and left. The smaller looked around and took a swig from an ornate glass beside him. Another man began to approach him, but he raised a hand, and then gestured to the two Palisades agents. Grenner walked up to the table and bowed. Johansen followed.
“Thank you, Signor Argentari.”
The short Tilean smiled. “Sit, sit, Sergeant Grenner. It has been a long time. How is your life?”
“Not a sergeant any more, signor. I left the Watch some years ago.”
Argentari nodded sympathetically. “I have heard. How can I help you in your new employment?”
Grenner said, “Signor, do the Tileans have an argument with the Empire?”
“No more than usual. Why do you ask?”
“This morning someone tried to shoot the Elector Count of Middenland with a Tilean crossbow bolt.”
The signor’s expression kept the practised placid look that gamblers, politicians and liars work hard to perfect. Then he shrugged. “It is to be expected. We are the best crossbowmen in the world.”
“We need this man,” Grenner said.
“What makes you think I know any more than you?”
“Come off it, signor. You know the names of every Tilean in this city, where they’ll sleep this night and how much money is in their purses, down to the last copper.”
“That is true,” the Tilean said. “But my Reman ancestors had a phrase: ‘Quid pro quo’. It means: what would I gain from telling you?” He sat back, looking thoughtful.
Johansen leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what you gain,” he said and Grenner heard the frost on his voice. “If the Grand Duke dies with Tilean steel in him, life goes bad for every one of your people in this city. I’m not just talking about muggings and beatings and arson. Your trade will dry up. Nobody will hire your men. Increased watch patrols. Increased surveillance. Your wives and children will be pariahs, spat at in the street. And worse. Tileans protect their own, Signor Argentari, but you know the Empire does the same. You call yourself the father of Little Tilea. Prove it.”
Argentari shrugged, but Grenner could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Then he pulled a pocket-book from his jacket, flipped through it and
laid it flat on the table. There was an address on the page.
Grenner looked at it, then at Johansen. “What’s the time?”
“Two bells rang a few minutes ago. Why?”
“The Grand Duke’s meeting the Emperor this evening. He’s a good Sigmarite, he’ll want to pray first. In twenty minutes he’ll be walking to the great temple for afternoon worship. Right past that house on Marienstrasse.”
They sprinted out of the Villa Bianca, towards the river-bridge, the palace district and the temple.
The tolling of the temple bells echoed the agents’ footsteps as they ran into Marienstrasse.
“Which house?” Johansen panted. Grenner pointed: he knew the district.
“Half-way down. Sign of the crossed gloves.”
They burst into the glove-maker’s shop, past surprised customers in elegant dress and shocked staff in consternation. “Who lets out the rooms upstairs?” Grenner demanded.
A short, slender grey-haired woman came forward. “I do,” she said, “but we don’t have any vacancies.”
“You’re about to,” said Johansen. Grenner shot him a look.
“A Tilean. Arrived recently. Which floor?” he asked.
“The top. Hey,” she said, “you can’t go through-”
Beyond the door the light was dingy, the stairs narrow and the stale air smelled of boiled vegetables. They took the stairs two at a time, matching their footfalls to the sonorous chimes of the temple bells. The door at the top was shut.
“You get the door, I’ll get the suspect,” Johansen whispered, drawing his dagger.
“We need him alive.”
“I hadn’t forgotten.”
Grenner looked at the door. It was stout but old, almost certainly locked, and probably barricaded on the other side. The lock was the first problem, and its bolt would be just about… there. He kicked the spot with his heel, hard. There was a crunch as it gave inwards, but only an inch.
“Damn!”
Something moved inside the room. Grenner charged the door, hitting it with his shoulder. It flew open with a crunch, a broken chair scattering across the floor. There was a man standing by the open window, with a crossbow. It was aimed at Grenner’s face.