Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  I do not expect you to heed my words, or to change the course of your misbegotten manhunt against me. But when your doom comes, at least you will know who is behind it, and that you were warned. I pray that there are men among the witch hunters with more sense and foresight than to stand idle against this threat.

  Karl Hoche

  Brother Karin reread the letter, then carefully refolded it. “A trick,” she said. “Another contemptible diversion, trying to conceal his own villainy and schemes through misdirection. A classic conjuror’s trick, like those of the fellow we arrested last night. The letter was delivered by hand?”

  “Shortly after three bells,” Holger said. While she had read through the letter in silence he had stood on the other side of the library table, looking down at her and trying unsuccessfully to read upside-down what had been written in it. She had summoned him early and he had not yet broken his fast, or even had a cup of water.

  “He means us to think he is still in the city,” she said, “and so he has left. Probably to rejoin his heretic friends in Huss’ crusade.” She gave a short, barking laugh. “They call it Sigmar’s Crusade, you know. The peasants and the street-folk.”

  “A few priests too.”

  “Idiots,” she said. “Gullible fools. That village yokel Valten is no more Sigmar than I am.”

  Holger coughed. He had heard Brother Karin discourse on this subject before. It never took less than ten minutes, and he was hungry. “So, brother,” he said, “what should we do? Send the Templars back out to have him arrested?”

  “No,” she said. “The Grand Theogonist won’t stand for another failure, and you know we can’t touch the crusade now. With Hoche gone we couldn’t arrest Huss because we had no evidence he knew his true identity. Now they’re so close to the capital, the Emperor would disapprove of sending troops to massacre holy men at Altdorf’s doorstep, particularly now with the need to form alliances and appear reasonable. Besides, the Grand Theogonist has no stomach for blood. He’s weak. A man of compromise. Pathetic.”

  “What then? A hit squad? I know some men, adept with bows and knives…”

  Brother Karin spat eloquently. “We do not do that,” she said. “We leave sneaking and the subterfuge to our enemies. Those are not our ways, and never will be.” She placed her chin on her hand, in thought. It was a strangely masculine gesture. “No word from the magician?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I suppose not. The first day of questioning is always slow, particularly with wizards. Go now. I have a meeting with the Lord Protector and the delegation from Talabheim, trying to raise a regiment from our numbers.” She sighed. “Yet more of the repercussions of that bloody Convocation.”

  Holger nodded a bow and left the room, striding down the corridor and the wide stone staircase at the end of it. She had not asked to destroy the letter, but surely that was just an oversight. She seemed distracted a lot of the time now. She had never shared any of the letters’ contents with him, which seemed strange since he was supposed to be coordinating the search for Karl Hoche.

  He thought, not for the first time, that she was taking this whole business far too personally. That was not the witch hunters’ way. It was important to remain detached, uninvolved, impersonal. Many men broke down the first time they had to extract answers from an old woman, or burn a six-year-old, or arrest a relative or a friend. You learned quickly that personal feelings were a bad thing for a member of the Order of Sigmar. Personal feelings of any kind.

  He turned left at the bottom of the stairs, heading towards the refectory, then paused and headed back across the hallway to the porter’s desk. Perhaps there was word from Theo or Erwin, some update about Hoche or the crusade. He needed something to go on, or today would be another day of kicking his heels. Oswald Maurer was in the hands of the inquisitors now, and all he could do was wait to see if the man gave up any answers before he died, went mad or lost the ability to communicate.

  Old Max, the porter, saw him coming and raised a hand in salute. Holger quickened his pace towards the man’s table.

  “A letter for me, Max?”

  “Aye, sir. Brought by a boy in a cleft stick.” Max held out a folded piece of parchment, held dosed with a blob of pale wax. Holger took it.

  “A boy? What boy?” There was no mark in the wax. He tested it with his thumb and it gave slightly: candle-tallow, not sealing wax.

  “I don’t know him, sir. I know many of the messenger-hoys from the inns, but in a city this size…” Max raised a hand, palm up, in a gesture of hopelessness.

  Holger looked at the firm handwriting that formed his name on the front of the message, then turned it over, broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of cheap parchment.

  Brother Anders,

  In room 29 of The Black Goat Inn on the Königplatz, you will find a woman gagged and hound. Treat her with care. Her name is Emilie Trautmann. She is a member of the Purple Hand cult of Tzeentch worshippers, and has been working with Hen Doktor Kunstler, who under another name caused a fuss in Middenheim some ten years ago. With the right persuasion she will tell you why she and her comrades are in Altdorf, and the devilry they are plotting.

  In the old temple of Manaan off Kantsweg you will find evidence of a Tzeentchian rite performed last night, by Kunstler and others. At least one member of your order was present. If you have contacts in the Cloaked Brothers, they will verify this.

  I do not tell you this to earn your trust or to seek your favour, forgiveness or understanding. It is because you are better placed and equipped to deal with this threat than I am.

  There was no signature.

  Holger stared around the hallway, recognising two junior brothers of the order. “Siegfried! Amadeus! Come with me, now!” He ran from the chapter-house into the cathedral square, heading north towards the Königplatz. Breakfast would wait.

  The rain dripped from the brim of his hat as Holger stared across the gloomy square at the temple of Manaan. Its doors were dosed and the heavy iron chains that secured them were still rusted in place. Anything of value had been stripped away years ago. Only the city’s drunks, lovers and vagrants came here now, and even they had stopped trying to get through the doors, preferring the steps and porch for their secretive activities. Yet something felt wrong.

  The inn room had been a wreck. There had been a woman staying there, and clearly there had been a fight. Blood had been spilled. Someone had been tied up, and their bonds had been cut with a knife. According to Frau Kolner who owned The Black Goat, the girl, and two companions had left early that morning. She had been wearing a veil and limping. One bird had flown. So far he did not know whether the writer of the mysterious letter was telling the truth, spreading gossip against his enemies, or just another crank.

  He moved closer, towards the steps. On the greyed stone he could see a scratch, the kind a boot-nail would leave. It meant nothing. The ground to either side of the steps was littered with the smashed remains of cheap earthenware bottles. Any drunk could have made this mark. Any drunk with a nail and an idle hand. Or wearing a good pair of shoes.

  He climbed the steps and studied the doors. The heavy chain was crusted with years of rust, seemingly one circle of links, presumably sealed by a blacksmith when the temple was closed. The doors opened inward, assuming their hinges had not rusted shut completely. The old priests had certainly built the temple in the right place: the only wetter spot in Altdorf was in the Reik itself.

  He touched the chain with his gloved hand and it moved a little. That was odd: the links looked like they were rusted together, and should not move like that. He grabbed hold of them, pulling them tight, inspecting them closely. Rust flaked off the metal. No, not rust: a dark red clay that dissolved into the rainwater on his gloves. Underneath the metal was still rusted, but glints of fresh wear showed through in places.

  In a few seconds he had located the false link. Not broken, as he had guessed, but ingeniously crafted to spring open when twisted the right w
ay. He pulled the chain free of the black iron handles, dropped it to the ground and stepped inside.

  The interior was dark, smelling of dust, woodworm, rot and long-dead pigeons. His eyes swept the cavernous room, ignoring what was ordinary, seeking out the unusual, as he had been trained. There were no footprints in the dust on the floor, because there was no dust, though it lay thick on the pews and benches. It had been swept clean, presumably to hide footprints, and possibly more. There was a faint, lingering trace of lamp-oil in the air. Across the stone tiles, at the far end of the aisle, was a spray of dark liquid. He knelt beside it. Blood, and recent.

  Something under a nearby pew caught his eye. The dust had been swept away here too, and a symbol drawn onto the floor. For something in chalk, it was intricate and detailed: a variant of a Tzeentchian symbol that he recognised: he had last seen it carved into a nun’s forehead in the carnage of Priestlicheim. If it was here, there should be others. He looked around. Yes, a second hidden under another bench. And a third. In five minutes he had uncovered twelve in all, in a circle around the point where the bloodstain had fallen.

  So the letter had told at least part of the truth. A group of people had met here, had done something involving blood, and had taken pains to conceal their entrance and exit. At least one of them had been a Tzeentchian. But that was not enough. What mattered was not that they had been there, but who they had been, why they had met, and where they could be found.

  He would put Siegfried and Amadeus on duty, questioning the local inhabitants about who they had seen the night before. It seemed unlikely that it would do any good, but it would get them off his hands for a while.

  He wondered who had written the letter, and why it had been sent to him in particular. He was not well known among the Order of Sigmar, and since the bad business in Priestlicheim he had been stuck in Altdorf on the Karl Hoche investigation.

  He needed more information.

  He turned to leave, and found it.

  A piece of parchment was fixed to the inside of the temple’s door, folded and unsealed. His name was not on it, but he knew it was for him. He took it down and recognised the handwriting.

  Brother Anders,

  Thank you for trusting me this far. For that trust, I give you the body of the man who told the cultists at Priestlicheim that they were discovered and you were on your way to arrest them. He was not present at the massacre, but his hands are drenched in its blood.

  You will find him in your own chapter-house, in Brother Heilemann’s room. His identity will open more questions than it closes. Do not ask your colleagues, or you mil never learn the answers: truth and loyalty have many enemies within the Order of Sigmar.

  Again, there was no signature. Holger stuffed the note into his pocket and sprinted out of the temple, down the alley and east towards the chapter-house, through the thin cloying rain.

  A few hours earlier, as the sound of four bells had echoed from the great tower of the cathedral outside, a lone figure had walked down the empty Hauptstrasse and up the worn stone steps to the double-doors of the chapter-house of the Order of Sigmar, and had rapped gloved knuckles against them. As he waited for an answer he adjusted his tall hat, pulling it round so the silver buckle stood at the front like a badge of office or a shield. If anyone had been watching they would have said he looked nervous or ill at ease, but there was nobody to see him.

  After a minute the door opened a crack, and then further as the night-porter recognised the uniform of the man outside. “Good morrow, brother,” he said. “How can I help you at this late hour?”

  “Good morrow,” the man on the step said. “I am just come from Nuln, with an urgent letter for Brother Heilemann. Can you tell me where he lodges, or where he is to be found?”

  “Why brother, he lodges here,” the porter replied. “Give me your letter and I will pass it to him.” The door swung open and light of the double moons shone through, illuminating the stark hallway inside and the porter who stood in the doorway. He too wore the tunic and black leggings of a witch hunter, though one side of his trousers hung loose and terminated in a blunt wooden stump. On his breast, medals and ribbons glinted in the cold light: half of them pilgrims’ badges, the rest medals.

  The man on the step paused. “Here?” he said, and then, “I cannot give it to you. It must be delivered only by my hand and I must see him read it.”

  The porter’s brow furrowed. “Brother, I can do those things for you.”

  “I assure you, brother, that it is my wish to discharge my duty, be free of this burden and find rest, as soon as possible,” the traveller said. “But this is a matter of honour, and loyalty.”

  “I understand.” The porter shuffled to one side, making room for the other man to pass by. “His chamber is on the fourth floor, in the east wing, on the left, marked by his name. Though I tell you he will not be pleased to be woken. His tongue is sharp and his accusations and imprecations will rouse the brothers around you.”

  “It won’t be the first time. Thank you, brother.”

  The man stepped inside and the door swung closed behind him. The hallway was illuminated by tall candles on iron stands, the light flickering and faint. At the far end a wide staircase stretched upwards, curving away. He walked towards it, aware of how his worn boots made the tiled floor echo, and hearing the mistimed rhythm of the old porter’s steps returning to his desk.

  He took the stairs slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. It felt like he was climbing a mountain. What if he met someone, or was challenged? But there was nobody else awake, or if there was then he did not meet them.

  The fourth floor began with a wide landing and three corridors stretching off it. He paused for a moment to get his bearings, then took the candle that stood on the table at the head of the stairs and chose the corridor to the left, raising the light to study the names painted in blackletter on each door as he passed them. Some doors, he noted, were more ornate than others, and some were clearly more solid.

  The corridor was long and branched twice, but he found the room. The door was dark with age and one of the panels was cracked where a knot in the wood had warped as it dried over the decades. He studied it for a long moment, then leaned forward and peered through the oval where the knot had once been. He could see nothing. A curtain, he guessed, or a robe hung on the back of the door.

  He put down the candle, drew his dagger and used its pommel to give three solid taps to the wood. After a few seconds he did it again and then concentrated, straining to catch any sound from the other side of the door. He could hear the pulse in his temple, feel his heart beating faster. The corridor was cold, but he could feel prickles of sweat on his back.

  There was a sound of shuffling movement and a voice: “What is it at this god-begotten hour?” He recognised it, but did not reply. Instead he rapped again, three more beats, and kept the dagger raised.

  “By Sigmar, if this is some fool’s errand then I’ll see you suffer,” the voice came again. Bare feet approached the door. Fabric swished and rings rattled on a curtain-rod. Then something moved on the other side of the knot-hole. An eye. He recognised it, and thrust the knife forward, through the knot, with all his strength.

  There was a faint, strangled cry that cut off suddenly, and the sound of a skull hitting a stone floor hard. He pulled the dagger back, and three inches of the blade were bloody. Straight through the eye and into the brain, he thought. Bull’s eye. If he had been given time to think he might have planned something more elegant, but at the crucial moment the fastest and most effective answer had been to cut through the knot. He felt Occam would have approved.

  He picked up the candle and made his way back to the stairs. Going down seemed to take longer than going up, the sound of his footfalls more resonant in the wide stairwell, the atmosphere closer and more oppressive. At the bottom, the hallway stretched into darkness. He headed towards the doors at the far end.

  “Sleeping the sleep of the dead?” The voice startled him a
nd he jumped, whirling, groping for his dagger.

  “Sleeping hard, was he?” The porter shuffled forward. The assassin fumbled his knife back into its sheath.

  “Yes.”

  “Not pleased to see you, I’ll be bound.”

  “No, I don’t think he was. Best not to wake him in the morning, I think.” He forced himself to relax, pushing his shoulders back. “One more thing: I have a letter for Sister Karin.”

  The porter coughed. “Brother Karin, you mean.”

  “Brother Karin, of course.” He pulled it out of his pocket. “This one will wait till morning.”

  “I will give it to her myself. With my own hand, brother.” The porter smiled. It was lop-sided; there was something wrong with the muscles of his face, and as he opened the door to let the assassin out, moonlight shaded the thin groove of an old scar that ran from his temple to his chin. “And I will see you tomorrow?”

  “You may. Though I fear it will be a busy day for us both. Goodnight, brother.” He turned and walked away, hearing the other man’s goodnight and the closing of the door behind him.

  It wasn’t until the chapter-house was hundreds of yards behind him, lost to view amidst the Altdorf skyline, that he finally felt able to relax. Herr Heilemann—Herr Stahl—was dead. The Purple Hand would be thrown into confusion, or at least their plans put back a step. The Empire might still teeter on the edge of disaster, but it was a quarter-inch closer to safety now. More importantly, he felt cleansed. He would never know if Heilemann had set the witch hunters on him in Nuln, but it was certain that the man had sent an assassin after him in Grissenwald. Revenge was a black emotion, a petty personal one that put him one step closer to the dark urges of the Chaos followers he despised. He should try to resist such urges for as long as he could. But tonight it felt very good indeed.

  The corpse lay on the wooden floor. It appeared to have fallen straight backwards from the door. A lot of blood had pumped from the single wound, running into the gaps between the thick planks, like red grain patterns. A bolted door, and on the other side a corpse stabbed straight through the eye. It was like a mystery-story from one of the penny chapbooks peddled on the city streets.