Fabian leapt to his feet and squared up to his brother; undeterred by the fact that his face barely reached Jakob’s broad chest. “The bailiffs all laugh at him behind his back, Jakob. They take wages for soldiers they sacked months ago, and leave the gatehouses unmanned. They pocket the profits from the harvest and tell him the crops all failed. But the old fool won’t believe me when I tell him what a bunch of crooks they are. Berlau is barely defended at all these days. But father just tells me about the new chapterhouse he’s funding or shows me a sketch of some new chancel in Wolfenberg that Braun has convinced him to pay for. He’s pissing all over our family name, Jakob. He’s forgotten his heritage. Another few years of this neglect and Berlau House will be as ruined as Braun’s temple.”
“I’m not in the mood for this rubbish, Fabian,” said Jakob, turning to leave. He paused at the door and glared back at his brother. “You’re not a child anymore. You should learn to be a bit more respectful when talking about our father. He’s a good man.”
“Really?” replied Fabian, striding after him and jabbing a finger into his chest. “You think you can come back here, after spending months peering into your navel, and tell me what kind of man our father is?”
Jakob grabbed his brother’s shoulders and slammed him back into the bookshelves. “Watch yourself,” he whispered as leather-bound volumes thudded to the floor around them. “Sigmarite doctrine doesn’t tend to preach forgiveness.” He pushed Fabian back against the shelves, so that the boy grimaced with pain. “Don’t take me for a pious sop. I’m still a Wolff.”
For a few seconds the boys stood there, glaring at each other with complete hatred. Then Fabian flared his nostrils and twisted his face into an exaggerated frown. “The blood of a Wolff runs true,” he said, in note-perfect imitation of their father’s low, booming voice.
Jakob held his brother for a few more seconds, scowling furiously, then the tension suddenly exploded from his lungs in a bark of laughter. He stepped back, shaking his head and started to giggle “The blood of a Wolff,” he gasped, in the same ridiculous low voice Fabian had used, “does indeed run true.”
“Boys,” came their mother’s voice. “Stop playing and come down for a drink. We’re in the Long Gallery.”
The two brothers were still chuckling as they marched obediently down the stairs.
“There’s only so much I can teach him,” Braun was saying as they entered the room. He was stood in front of a window that looked out onto a sun-dappled orchard and as he spoke he dabbed repeatedly at his face with a damp handkerchief. “He’s already surpassed me in several areas,” he explained, waving at Jakob. “Your son can recite The Life of Sigmar in its entirety as easily as I can recall a simple prayer.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it, to be honest. I’ve already allowed him to perform some important ordinances and observations, and he executed them with startling success. For instance, only last Wellentag he recited the most beautiful threnody for a recently deceased goat.” He paused, and closed his eyes, seemingly holding back tears. “Old Man Gobel loved that animal more dearly than his own children and your son’s eloquence was a great comfort to him.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” asked Hieronymus. There was no trace of emotion on his stern face, but a slight tremor in his voice betrayed his excitement. “Is the boy ready to be fully ordained into the church?”
Braun shrugged. “It’s always hard to gauge such things. One must be wary of subjecting a noviciate to the trials prematurely, but he certainly shows unusual promise. I’ve been corresponding with an old friend of mine in Altdorf, Arch Lector Lauterbach, regarding the matter, and he has requested that I bring your son to the capital, so that he may test him more thoroughly in the Cathedral of Sigmar.”
Hieronymus could control his features no longer. His eyes bulged as he looked from Jakob to Braun. “An Arch Lector? I had no idea you had been discussing the matter with such senior figures.” He placed a hand on Jakob’s shoulder and allowed himself a slight smile. “Of course you can take him to Altdorf, Brother Braun. It would be a great honour for us.” He puffed out his chest and dusted an imaginary piece of fluff from his jacket. “In fact, it is a long time since I visited the capital myself. If it would be of use, my wife and I should be glad to accompany you.”
Braun raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, no offence to your lordship, but I had really imagined it would just be Jakob and myself.”
Hieronymus’ face remained impassive, but Fabian noticed the slight tightening of his jaw that usually preceded an explosion of anger. “I imagine the priests would be keen to meet such a generous benefactor as myself, Brother Braun,” he said in carefully controlled tones.
Braun opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to reconsider. He gave a wide smile and bent his frail old body into a low bow. “Of course, that’s absolutely right your lordship. And it would be a perfect opportunity for you to see some of the work you’ve contributed to. I would be delighted if you and Frau Wolff could accompany us.”
“Excellent,” said Hieronymus, clapping his hands down on his thighs. “Then we’ll leave as soon as possible.”
Fabian backed cautiously towards the door.
Hieronymus grabbed him by the shoulder. “You too, boy. It will do you good to see a little of the real world, instead of wasting your time on all those infantile myths you seem so obsessed with.”
“But father,” whined Fabian, “the priests have no interest in meeting me.”
Hieronymus gave a short bark of laughter. “You think I’d take you to the cathedral? And let you ruin your brother’s future with some petulant remark?” He loosed Fabian’s shoulder and shook his head in disbelief. “I think not. But I won’t leave you here to wreak havoc in our absence. I dread to think what we’d return to. And you may even be able to make yourself useful in Altdorf. You’ll stay with my cousin Jonas, and if you value your hide, you’ll do as he asks. Spending time with an educated gentleman such as Jonas might give you a little of the intellectual ballast you seem so sorely lacking in.”
“Altdorf,” murmured Margarethe, looking nervously up at the religious plasterwork that decorated the ceiling. She took her husband’s arm. “Is it wise to travel at the moment, Hieronymus? Altdorf is such a long way from here and the roads are so dangerous.”
Hieronymus nodded his head firmly. “A journey to the very heart of the Empire is just what these boys need.” He noticed Margarethe’s concerned expression and took her hand. “Don’t worry yourself unduly. We’ll take guards. There won’t be a problem.”
Servants bustled into the room and handed out slender glasses of wine. Brother Braun took a tiny sip and placed the glass carefully on a table. “There’s actually another small matter I wished to discuss with your lordship,” he said, taking the seat that was offered him. Once he was settled, and the others had taken their seats too, he continued. “There has been some concern over the last couple of weeks that…” he paused, unsure how to continue. He was suddenly unable to meet Hieronymus’ eye and as he continued, he fixed his gaze carefully on the elaborate wallpaper behind the noble’s head. “Well, some of the villagers feel that they’ve been somewhat abandoned.”
Braun noticed the expression on Hieronymus’ face and hurried to finish before he was interrupted. “It’s not that they mean to criticise your lordship’s management of the estate in any way, it’s just that at this particular time they would be grateful—”
“What exactly is the problem?” interrupted Hieronymus.
Braun took a deep breath and frowned. “It’s one of my own brethren, I’m afraid,” he said. “Well, at least I believe he’s a lay brother of some kind. I’d been turning a blind eye to his eccentricities, but now he’s taken it on himself to pass a very harsh judgement on one of your villagers.”
Hieronymus shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Surely I have men to deal with this kind of thing, Braun. Do you really need to bother me with such matters?”
“There are no men, father,” snapped Fabian, his voice squeaking with excitement. “I’ve already told you: your stewards have been lying to you for months. The militia’s almost non-existent. We’re left open to every fraud and charlatan who wants to fleece the good people of Berlau. In fact just last—”
Hieronymus silenced his son with a raised hand and a glare. “Who is this lay brother, Braun, and what exactly is he trying to punish?”
“His name’s Otto Surman,” answered Braun. “I know very little about him. When he arrived last summer, I took him for a devout man of learning. He attended a few of my services and asked if he could make use of my library. To be honest, I had suspicions from the first, but I could see no reason to be rude to the man, and I let him stay. Recently, though, it seems he’s assumed the role of judge, jury and executioner. I’d heard several rumours from my congregation and dismissed them as idle fancy, but now I’ve seen an example of his cruelty with my own eyes.”
Hieronymus nodded for him to continue.
“There’s a boy in the village who goes by the name of Lukas. He’s a little simple maybe, but nothing more than that as far as I can see and Surman has accused the poor lad of the most terrible crimes. He claims he has been communing with the gods of the Old Night.”
“And has he?” asked Margarethe, her face filled with concern.
Braun shook his head. “The boy’s a bit of a loner that’s all, but I hear that Surman’s had his eye on him for a while. Lukas is not so bright and maybe a little odd, so the other villagers tend to steer clear of him. His only real friends are a bunch of carrier pigeons he keeps in a small cage. They’re a mangy bunch, and useless as messenger birds, but he dotes on them.”
“Where’s the crime in that?” asked Hieronymus.
“There’s no crime that I can see, but this Surman character noticed the boy talking to the birds and claims they were responding to his commands—as though he was talking to them in their own language. He decided that such behaviour—along with Lukas’ other eccentricities—marks him out as a witch of some kind.”
“How ridiculous,” exclaimed Hieronymus. “I believe I even know the boy. There isn’t an ounce of evil in him. What has this lay brother done to the poor soul?”
Braun grimaced. “He told the villagers that Lukas is possessed by some kind of bird spirit. They’re a superstitious lot, but even they found that a bit hard to swallow, so Surman offered to prove the boy’s guilt with a trial. He got the carpenter to construct a huge birdcage, then he locked the boy inside it and had him hoisted up thirty feet from the ground.”
Margarethe gasped. “What on earth does he intend to prove by doing that?”
“The cage is open-topped but there is no way the boy could reach the pole to climb down. He’d break his neck if he even tried. Surman has convinced the villagers that if they leave him up there long enough, the daemon will be driven mad by thirst and hunger and break free from Lukas’ flesh. He claims it will fly to freedom—thus freeing the boy from possession.”
“And the villagers have allowed this to happen?” asked Hieronymus, shaking his head in disbelief.
Braun nodded. “You must understand, lord, they’re all terrified of Surman. He’s told them he works for the church as a witch hunter, so they’re desperate not to anger him in any way.”
At the words “witch hunter”, Margarethe raised a hand nervously to her throat and looked at her husband. “Perhaps we shouldn’t become involved in a dispute like this. If he believes this boy is possessed, maybe he is. Who are we to deny the will of Sigmar?”
“The man is nothing to do with Sigmar,” replied Braun, shaking his head. “I’ve made enquiries, and there’s no record of him ever being ordained.” He placed a hand on Margarethe’s knee. “The countryside is overran with such charlatans, my lady. In dark times such as these, simple rural folk are easily swayed. Their paranoia robs them of good sense.”
“Still,” replied Hieronymus, frowning, “if he has the will of the people behind him, it might be dangerous to stir up trouble. Maybe my wife is right.”
“Father,” cried Fabian, leaping to his feet. “Remember who we are! We are Wolffs. Are we to hand over control of our estates to any witless vagabond who wanders across our borders?”
“Watch your manners, boy,” snapped Hieronymus and Fabian sat down again with a sigh.
“Very well,” said Hieronymus. “Let us make a compromise. I have no desire to delay our journey and get caught up in some petty legal dispute, but for once I think my son may have a point. This kind of bullying will lead to trouble if left unchecked.” He rang a little bell that was hung on the wall near to his head.
After a few minutes, an ancient hunchback shuffled into the room. Conrad Strobel had been the Wolffs’ retainer since the time of Hieronymus’ grandfather. Despite the heat, and his advanced years, Strobel was dressed for war. A thick leather jerkin enveloped his frail torso and his pinched, shrew-like features were almost completely hidden beneath a battered old helmet. “M’lord?” he asked.
“How many of my personal guard are on duty today?” asked Hieronymus.
The old man’s rheumy eyes grew even more clouded and he began to mutter under his breath.
“What was that?” asked Hieronymus.
“Three,” Strobel replied, raising his tremulous voice.
Colour rushed into Hieronymus’ face, but he refused to acknowledge the smug expression directed at him by Fabian. “Three units, do you mean?”
Strobel slowly shook his head. “Three men,” he replied. There was a hint of accusation in his voice as he continued. “I did inform His Lordship when I was forced to lose Ditwin and Eberhard.”
Hieronymus’ eyes widened and his cheeks darkened to a deep purple, but he replied calmly. “Of course. Have the three of them ride into the village would you, Strobel? There’s a man by the name of Surman who’s causing a bit of trouble.”
“Should they arrest him?” asked the retainer.
Hieronymus stroked his long chin and thought for a moment. “No, just have them free the boy he’s imprisoned and then banish Surman from my estate. Tell him that if he ever returns, I’ll have him up before the magistrate.”
“Very good,” replied Strobel and left with the same chorus of sighs and wheezes that accompanied his arrival.
“Is it wise to antagonise these people, my dear?” asked Margarethe, obviously uncomfortable at the thought of banishing a witch hunter.
“I’m not antagonising him, I’m removing him,” replied Hieronymus sharply. “Now, I’d rather not spend the whole afternoon discussing such tedious matters. Brother Braun—let’s retire to my study and plan the route to Altdorf.” As he rose to his feet his eyes were gleaming with excitement. “Imagine it, a personal invite from an Arch Lector.” He looked down at his sons. “And your first visit to the capital. Believe me boys, you’ll barely recognise yourselves by the time you return to Berlau. Altdorf is a city like no other. Nobody who passes through those hallowed gates is ever the same again.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE UNKNOWN HOUSE
“Is that the drains or the locals?” asked Fabian, wrinkling his nose in disgust as they drove into the Konigplatz. His impression of the city had so far been less than favourable. Their coach had approached the great north gates at a painful crawl, as the driver steered carefully through the flea-ridden lake of slums and refuges that had besieged Altdorf. Pock-marked fingers had reached up to them as they passed, begging for alms or passage into the city, and the driver had been forced to fend off hordes of naked, filthy orphans who clambered onto the roof and pleaded for food. It had been a miserable end to a miserable journey.
Once through the gates, things hadn’t got much better. Fabian baulked at the confusing maze of crowded, narrow streets and tall, teetering townhouses. The filthy, cramped buildings of the city grew more bloated with each wonky storey, so that by the third or fourth floor their half-timbered facades were almost tou
ching the houses opposite: arching over the bustling streets like bridges and plunging the flagstones below into a constant gloom.
There was a brief glimpse of blue sky overhead as they entered the Konigplatz, but the broad square was no less crowded than the streets that led onto it. As Fabian tried to climb down from the coach, grinning, shouting hawkers clutched at his clothes, thrusting their wares into his face and vying aggressively for his attention.
“Fabian!” cried his father. “Back in the coach, now! They’ll have the shirt off your back if you give them half a chance.”
Fabian climbed back inside and looked in amazement at his parents. “What a hellish place,” he muttered. “And what is that smell?”
To his annoyance no one seemed to hear him. They were all peering through the windows, engrossed by the mayhem outside. Despite his loud sighs, they continued to ignore him, so he followed their example, squeezing his face next to Jakob’s and looking out through the coach window.
Every form of life was parading through the square. The coach rocked constantly as the crush of bodies barged past it and the hawkers outside pressed dolls and clothes to the glass. A few feet away a man was driving a train of cages through the crowd and each one was filled with a menagerie of incredible creatures, half of which Fabian couldn’t even name. Birds with dazzling, rainbow-coloured feathers dozed on their perches and giant cats with ragged, white manes gazed idly out from their prisons. Further into the square, rows of striped awnings shaded produce from every corner of the Old World: fruit, livestock, fish and leather passed over the heads of the jostling figures as they haggled and joked with each other. Further still, in the heart of the square, ranks of crumbling statues towered over everything; made faceless and nameless by the elements, they watched the turmoil at their feet with a regal, patrician disdain, marred only by the thick layer of bird muck that coated their faces.
Fabian fastened a handkerchief over his nose and settled back in his seat. The thick odour seeped through the cotton. It seemed to be a powerful mixture of horse piss and rotting fish, with a persistent, acrid bass note that he guessed was coming from the open sewers.
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