by James Wallis
The prince coughed and Alexis stopped talking abruptly, sliding back in his chair under his master’s glare. The prince turned to the Palisades officers.
“That will be all,” he said.
“Thank you for your time, your highness,” Grenner said, bowed and backed out of the room, Johansen beside him. He made sure they were twenty feet down the empty corridor before speaking. “I hate dealing with nobs,” he said. “Humourless sods.”
“This one not as stuck-up as most, though,” Johansen said. “What do you reckon? Did he get his mistress up the spout, she was blackmailing him, and he hired someone to blow up the inn to get rid of her?”
“I know you can be thick as a brick sometimes,” Grenner said, “and that may explain why you never get anywhere with Frau Kolner, but did you really not notice?”
“Notice what?”
Grenner let out a sigh. “He didn’t kill her. He was in love with her.”
“You should have pushed him for more information about the girl.”
Grenner turned on him. “Don’t tell me how to ask questions. That’s my job. You almost got us thrown out of an audience with an Elector with your ridiculous…” He stopped, pressing a hand against his eyes. “Sorry. Sorry, Karl. I didn’t mean that. It’s just… I’m tired and stressed.”
Johansen put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That goes for both of us. And it’ll get worse before it gets better. Still, come midnight we’ll be laughing about this and toasting the new year, eh?”
“I bloody hope so.” Grenner said dryly. “Right. How many glove-shops are there in Altdorf?”
There were six, but they got lucky with the second one. Anastasia hadn’t come to work that day, the glove-maker’s wife told them, and hadn’t sent word that she was ill. But it had happened before, and besides it was Hexensnacht, so they weren’t worried. Grenner turned on his charm and got the girl’s address in two minutes.
“Fast work,” Johansen observed as they left the shop.
“New personal best,” Grenner said. Inside he felt distant, distracted, as if there was a layer of wool between his thoughts and his actions. The bright cold sunlight made him feel cold, reminding him of too much beer and not enough rest the night before. His feet were heavy. He hoped there’d be no need for fast reactions or swordplay today.
The girl’s lodgings were close to the city’s north wall, decorated with the fripperies a rich lover buys for his fancy, or a girl not used to luxury buys for herself. Anastasia wasn’t there and the bed had not been slept in. They searched the place with a swift thoroughness born of long practice.
“She was an Ulrican,” Johansen said, holding up a silver wolf-head.
“Interesting. She could read, too,” Grenner said, holding up a ragged, leather-bound book. He leafed through the pages.
“Any good?”
“Hardly Detlef Sierck. What’s that?” A piece of paper fluttered down from between the pages. Grenner picked it up. “Address.”
“One she wanted to hide.”
“Wouldn’t she memorise it?”
“The prince said she was scatterbrained.”
“Oh yeah.” Grenner peered at the scrawled writing. “It’s in the docks. Warehouse district.”
“Probably a glove wholesaler, knowing your luck.”
“My luck?” Grenner looked askance. “Explain that to me on the way there, Herr Not-been-kissed-for-a-month.”
The warehouse on Weidendamm was old but the lock on its wide doors was new. Grenner tested its inner workings with a bent piece of metal while Johansen kept watch. Technically, as Palisades officers, they could enter and search any building, but dockers’ understanding of the finer points of the law was often shockingly bad.
“So we’re here because we found this address in the effects of an Elector’s mistress, right?” Johansen said.
“Right.”
“Why do we think this is a good lead?”
Grenner stopped his picking and looked up. “It’s our only lead. Plus we’re seeing Hoffmann in an hour and he’ll want to know what we’ve been doing.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Shut up. I’m concentrating.”
“We could claim addled wits from lack of sleep.”
“Shut up.”
“Face it, this is half-arsed.”
Grenner stood up, put the lockpick back in his pocket, and kicked the door hard. The wood around the lock splintered and the door swung inwards.
“Subtle,” Johansen said.
“Subtlety is over-rated. Come on.”
The air inside was cold and dark and their breath hung in the faint shafts of sunlight. The floor underfoot was hard earth. A figure lay slumped and twisted a few feet in front of the door. The rest of the warehouse was bare.
Grenner went to the body. “Girl. Twenties. Pretty. Last night’s party frock. Neck broken. Want to bet she’s Anastasia?”
Johansen peered at the dead girl’s face. “Does she remind you of anyone?”
“No,” Grenner said, squinting. “Who were you thinking of?”
“I don’t know.” Johansen studied the corpse for a moment, then squatted and ran his hands over the ground, gathering a thin powder onto his fingertips. He sniffed them. “Gunpowder,” he said. “There’s the imprint of a barrel in the earth too.”
“Just one?”
Johansen blinked, letting his eyes adjust till he could make out the faint outlines on the floor. “Eight. No, twelve. More if they were stacked.”
“How many of that size would have blown up the Seven Stars?” Grenner asked.
“Three at most.”
“Damn!” He stood and prowled. “So… assume the prince’s mistress is feeding information to the assassins. Maybe she knows their motive, probably not. Last night she has a lucky escape and realises that they’d kill her too if necessary. So she comes to confront them… why?”
“Scatterbrained,” Johansen said.
“They do kill her. So they were here between the explosion and now, probably clearing the warehouse. But we still don’t know who they are.”
“My money’s on Ulrican fanatics. We could look for witnesses,” Johansen suggested.
“It’s the docks. Nobody ever admits seeing anything here.” Grenner thumped the wall. “It’s going to be a city records job, get a clerk to dig out the old ledgers and find who owns this place. The cargo records too, where it came from.”
“I’m more worried about where it’s gone. Cart tracks here.” Johansen pointed to the floor.
“Cart. Barrels,” Grenner said. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“A good way to get gunpowder into an inn cellar. You?”
“I was thinking about a Bretonnian wineseller.”
Johansen stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “We’re late for Hoffmann. And I’m hungry for lunch.”
Grenner took a length of twine from his pocket to tie the warehouse doors shut. “Lunch? Some of us are still starving for breakfast.”
From the windows of General Hoffmann’s room on the top floor of the Palisades building, the thin plumes of smoke still rising from the site of the Seven Stars were faint dark columns against the cold blue sky. Hoffmann stared out over the city, his back to his two agents.
“Twelve hours,” he said, “and all you’ve got for me is an empty warehouse and a dead girl.”
“An Elector’s mistress. That’s got to be worth something,” Grenner said.
Hoffmann shook his head. “She can’t tell us what’s going on, who these people are or where they’ll strike next. So who’s behind this?”
“Ulrican extremists,” Johansen said.
“Bretonnians,” Grenner said.
Hoffmann turned his stare to them. “Make your minds up,” he said. “The city’s in uproar, every noble is screaming for protection, we’ve got a report of skaven in the sewers, and on top of it another woman’s disappeared. The last thing I need is you two following a wrong lead.”
He paused. “You do have more leads?”
The agents exchanged a tired look. “Can you send someone to the city records office, to find out who owns that warehouse?” Grenner asked.
“And the customs records, to see if there’s anything on who brought the barrels to the city,” Johansen said.
“Who do you suggest I send?” Hoffmann asked. “There isn’t anyone else. Get the records clerks to do it.”
“You think there’ll be any records clerks there on Hexensnacht?”
“Then you do it. I’ve got my hands full.” Hoffmann turned back to the window. “We got the explosion report from Alchemics,” he said. “Inconclusive. The sulphur in the gunpowder was Tilean, the saltpeter was gathered near Wolfenburg and the charcoal could be from anywhere. The ingredient ratio suggests a Middenheim-trained alchemist, but that means nothing.”
“Couldn’t you send someone from Alchemics to the records office?” Johansen asked.
Hoffmann snorted. “Nobody’s going to do your book-work for you. And don’t dare fall asleep over them, or I’ll have your guts for garters. Go on, get out.”
The street outside the Palisades was quiet. A cat padded silently down the gutter. Grenner watched it go, yawned and flexed stiff muscles.
“If we’re going to the records office,” he said, “can we go by Weberstrasse?”
“What’s in Weberstrasse?”
“My tailor.”
“You and your clothes, I swear—” Johansen said, but Grenner wasn’t listening. Movement had caught his eye: a laden cart moving past the end of the street. He ran after it.
He was right: it was the Bretonnian’s cart, still piled high with barrels. The short man was staring straight ahead, as if deep in thought. Grenner overtook him and stood in the road, hand raised.
“Stop,” he said. “Where are you going?”
The Bretonnian reined in his horse. “Ah, m’sieur,” he said. “You have come to buy some wine? Ze aftertaste of cinnamon, she has lingered on your tongue…”
“Where are you going?”
The wineseller shrugged. “The market is finished. I go to find some taverns, maybe zey buy.”
“Where were you last night?”
“I put my cart in an alley, I sleep zere.” The little man raised his hands in supplication. “M’sieur, I have no money. I am—”
“You’re under arrest. I want you off the streets.” The Bretonnian turned white. He grabbed for his whip and swiped it across the horse’s rump. It started forward, towards Grenner, who ducked sideways and groped in his jerkin for a throwing-knife. A hand landed on his arm, restraining him. He turned. It was Johansen.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m arresting this man.” The cart was rattling away behind him.
“It’s not him.”
“How do you know?” Grenner demanded, turning to give chase. Johansen gripped harder.
“It’s not him. It’s Ulrican extremists, trying to kill their Elector.”
“I think he’s working with them.”
“Why?”
“Because…” The cart was gaining speed. “Look, he’s up to something or he wouldn’t be running.”
“Not our problem,” Johansen said. “Electors in peril, the safety of the Empire to protect, that’s us, remember? Leave him for your friends in the Watch. Besides,” he added, “if I was stopped by someone looking like you, I’d run too.”
“What do you mean?” Grenner ran a hand through his blond hair.
“You’re unkempt. Not to mention unshaved, haggard and smelling of last night’s beer.”
“Visiting my tailor would let me—”
Johansen laughed, a short humourless bark. “Forget it. We’ve got records to check.”
They went to three breweries, to ask about beer deliveries to the Seven Stars. Nobody knew about anything unusual.
They knocked on the doors of the houses around the remains of the Seven Stars to see if anyone had been awake before the explosion, or had heard or seen anything. Nobody had.
They spoke to a couple of winesellers about the Seven Stars, but the inn had only taken small casks. Grenner asked about a Bretonnian wineseller dying of plague four months ago, but they didn’t know of anyone. Grenner looked at Johansen significantly. Johansen raised his eyes to the ceiling.
They walked through the Königplatz. The market-stalls had closed up early for the day, clearing the space for the evening’s celebrations. There was no sign of the stoneworkers who had been there earlier.
They went to Grenner’s tailor, who fitted his new clothes and wanted to know how the search for the missing women was going. Even wearing a new shirt and stylish short-cloak, Grenner still looked unkempt and sleepless.
After several hours, after putting it off for as long as possible, they went to the city records office, in the basement of the council-hall. There was one clerk on duty, but after he showed them the section of leatherbound warehouse and tax records that they needed, he excused himself and they didn’t see him again.
“Typical work-shy civil servant,” Johansen said.
“Not very civil either,” Grenner observed.
The books were cold, wide, dry and dusty. Their parchment pages were filled with tightly written records of who owned everything in Altdorf, who had sold it to them, and what percentage of the sale the tax collectors had taken. It was slow, tedious work.
Johansen yawned and picked up the fifth ledger in the pile beside him. It was hard to stay awake: the cold air and the candlelight were soporific, and outside the narrow window daylight had fled hours ago. Across the table, Grenner echoed his yawn.
“We’re doing this the wrong way,” he said.
“What?”
“We’re looking for where they’ve been. We should be working out where they’re going. Who they’re going to target next.”
“Oh yeah?” Johansen raised a weary eyebrow. “How do we do that, a crystal ball? You know what Hoffmann thinks about that scryer the Watch uses.”
Grenner passed a hand over his face, trying to wipe tiredness away. “It was just an idea.”
Footsteps weaved through the racks of records towards them. Johansen raised his head to look. It was Alexis, the prince’s bodyguard.
“Sigmar’s teeth, you two are hard men to track down,” he said.
Johansen thought of a snappy response, but swallowed it. It was too late and he was too tired. “What’s this about?”
Alexis leaned on the edge of the table. “Anastasia.”
“You know we found her body?” Grenner said.
Alexis nodded. “We heard.” He paused. “The prince lied to you. He sends apologies but he was trying to protect her.”
Johansen was suddenly very alert. Across the table, Grenner pushed his chair back.
“What was the lie?” he asked.
“His wife wasn’t ill. He was going to stay the night at the Seven Stars, but Anastasia told him he was in danger and he should leave.”
“So she was the person the cellarman heard leaving a few minutes later,” Grenner said. Alexis nodded.
Johansen absorbed the information, fitting it together. “She wasn’t an innocent,” he said, “she knew what the Ulricans’ plan was. But she couldn’t go through with it. She may even have lit the fuse, knowing the prince had left. And they killed her for that.” He looked up at Alexis. “When you learned the prince was seeing Anastasia you checked her background, had her followed, right?”
The bodyguard nodded. “We didn’t find any links to known troublemakers.”
“What other northerners did she meet regularly? Friends? Associates?”
“Her brother’s in the city.”
“What does he do?” Grenner asked.
“He’s a stonemason.”
Johansen exhaled sharply. “Grenner,” he said, “remember I said the dead girl reminded me of someone?”
“Yeah?”
“The stoneworkers’ foreman in the K�
�nigplatz this morning.”
Grenner stared at him, horror across his face. No words were needed. They sprinted from the records room, out of the council building, heading towards the Königplatz.
It was later than they had realised and the darkened streets were thronged with revellers. Johansen let Grenner take the lead, following the former Watch sergeant move through narrow alleys and through short-cuts, avoiding the crowds. After five years in Altdorf he still couldn’t understand why people celebrated Hexensnacht, the night of witches. Back home in the south his family would be around the fire tonight, doors locked and windows shuttered. Bad things happened on Hexensnacht.
Above them the two moons sat, one thin and one fat in a sky that flashed with bursts from fireworks, their explosions echoing off the buildings. It was not a good omen. As he ran, Johansen clenched his fists and made a silent prayer to Sigmar that he was wrong.
They burst into the Königplatz. The square was a sea of people and movement, lit by flickering braziers on poles. Johansen leaped onto a market-barrow to scan the crowd.
“The statues,” he shouted to Grenner over the hubbub, and began pushing his way to where he had seen the work-crew. They had been digging a trench, he recalled, deep enough for several barrels.
A knot of merrymaking students blocked his way. “Clear a path! Imperial officers!” he bellowed, shoving through them. Ahead a red-haired figure turned sharply, slapped someone on the shoulder and raced away through the crowd, towards the base of the statue of Sigmar. Johansen felt a rising dread, and gave chase. They’d spent the day assuming an Elector was in danger. They hadn’t thought about symbols of the Empire.
If the Ulricans had buried gunpowder, he thought, there would be a way of lighting it, some kind of fuse. As if on cue a firework went off behind him, throwing colours over the crowd. The red-headed man ducked between the bases of the outermost statues. It was darker in there and the crowd was thinner. Johansen saw Grenner to his left and gestured towards the maze of stonework. Grenner nodded. That was all the plan they needed: they knew how each other worked.