“Why would the lords who rule here seek to protect me?”
“Now you’re being wilfully obtuse. It’s a good thing you don’t play these foolish, stubborn little games when your life is in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“You turned to dark lore for salvation.”
Dieter shook his head. “I used a spell I learned at the Celestial College.”
“Infused with the power of Chaos.”
“I… modified it slightly to make it more effective, but it was still fundamentally the same magic, and I’m still the same man. Whatever you imagine, your poisons haven’t changed me.”
“Then why are you eating giant meat?”
He looked and saw the gory slice of flesh in his red-stained hand. He tasted the gamy, salty aftertaste in his mouth. He retched and screamed at the same time, choking himself, and the palace, plain and ocean-sky dissolved into something altogether different.
In the final nightmare, a creature resembling a colossal hornet stung Dieter in the centre of his forehead. When his eyes snapped open, the agony of that wound turned to a sensation that fell just short of pain but throbbed with every heartbeat.
He lay on Mama Solveig’s lumpy cot with Jarla sitting close at hand. He studied her and the cellar, looking for anomalies, trying to verify that he was truly awake at last. The delirium had fooled him before.
Everything looked all right, and he felt weak, feverish and queasy, as was frequently the case when he’d studied or sought to use the dark lore. “This is getting to be a habit,” he said, struggling to sit up. “Me passing out. You keeping watch over me. Damn it, I thought Mama told me I wouldn’t throw any more fits.”
“It wasn’t like the first time. You didn’t thrash and roll about, and you didn’t stay unconscious nearly as long. Mama said you just strained yourself. Or something like that.”
He tried to figure out if that was good or bad and decided he lacked the knowledge to make a judgement.
“Are you thirsty?” Jarla asked. “Or hungry?”
He remembered the smell and taste of raw giant meat, and his stomach churned. “Not yet.”
“While I sat here, I practised the light spell. I think I’m getting good at it. I never understood much of the magic before, but you made it plain what I needed to do.”
Curse her, why did she keep babbling when he felt so jittery and strange? He drew breath to bark at her to shut up, and then his perspective shifted. He remembered he was fond of her and recognised that she was trying to take care of him. “You were a good pupil. You have a knack for that particular charm. It must be because of your sunny disposition.”
She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Do you remember what we talked about before Adolph arrived?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I want for us to be together, if you still do. If not, I understand. I mean, I’m just a—”
He reached out and laid a finger across her lips. “Hush.” Wondering if he knew what he was doing or even what he truly felt, he leaned forwards and kissed her.
The days and nights slipped past, and some Dieter spent afraid of everything. At such times, he longed for his safe, pleasant life in Halmbrandt with an intensity that twisted his guts and made him want to cry. It was generally then, too, that he made another attempt to locate the Master of Change, each such effort merely repeating a ploy that had already failed. But he’d already tried shadowing Mama Solveig, ransacking her possessions, quizzing the other members of the coven and casting divinations, all to no avail. What was left?
But on some days, or at least for certain hours, the grinding fear abated. During those times, awareness of his old life faded, and he spoke of his fraudulent past as a hedge wizard glibly, as though it were the reality. Except for Adolph, the cultists seemed friends and kindred, their treasons and blasphemies simply a routine albeit covert part of life. Even when Mama Solveig poisoned a patient with the taint from Tzeentch’s icon, he sometimes had to remind himself what a foul, despicable crime it actually was. Dark lore was just an engrossing study, and his spasms of anger, seething restlessness and aching brow, merely familiar, unremarkable aspects of who he was.
The moments following such interludes, when he felt he had nearly warped into an entirely different person, were the most alarming of all. Then he yearned to run but didn’t, for fear of Krieger, or because he still clung to the hope of recovering what he’d lost. Or maybe the forbidden texts held him, tempting him back for just one more perusal and one more whispered secret, seducing him again and again and again.
The coven gathered anew, and Mama Solveig quavered, “It’s time for another trip into the forest. There’s a fellow who needs to get away from the city, and Leopold could use some fresh supplies.”
“I’ll go,” Adolph declared. Dieter wasn’t surprised. Ever since the debacle with the spell that jabbed holes in reality, the scribe had worked hard to regain his status among his peers.
Mama Solveig smiled. “You’re a good, brave boy. You always volunteer.”
Adolph smiled back. The expression looked out of place on his surly face. “Well, I’m not so brave that I wouldn’t like some help. The raiders have been almost too successful lately. They’ve got everybody stirred up, and I believe the army suspects Leopold has allies here in town. Will you lend me a hand, Dieter? You’re a good magician, and you need to meet our allies sooner or later.”
Dieter could think of few things he was less inclined to do then venture into the wilderness with Adolph. The latter plainly still harboured a grudge against him even though, in recent weeks, he’d struggled to hide it. But it wouldn’t look well to the other cultists if he refused.
“I’ll go,” he said. Jarla stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
Shrewd as she was, Mama Solveig must have harboured the same suspicion that Adolph meant him ill, but it didn’t show in her demeanour. She beamed as if they were two quarrelsome grandchildren who’d finally learned to play together nicely.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was well after sunset, but the benighted street was still busy. Filthy and stinking, many labourers were only now shuffling home after a long day of toil, even as the night people, painted whores, slinking cutpurses, and their ilk, began to emerge from their lairs.
Which meant Dieter had to wait for a break in the traffic. When it came, he glanced about. As far as he could tell, no one was paying any attention to him. He stooped, picked up a pebble, and used it to scratch a triangle divided by a diagonal slash on a grimy brick wall.
It had been easy enough to slip off on his own to inscribe the sign. Mama Solveig had come to trust him. But as he trudged back the way he’d come, he wondered if leaving the mark would actually do any good. If Krieger’s agents hadn’t actually been observing him a moment ago, would they find that one bit of graffiti amid all the enormous bustle that was Altdorf?
What if no one made contact? Dare he take it as proof the witch hunters had lost track of him, and if he did, would he then see fit to run?
Behind him, a male voice said, “It’s about time.”
Startled, Dieter whirled to behold Krieger. The big man had exchanged his black garb for nondescript clothing and now, with his sword and pistol, looked like a bravo or mercenary.
“Is something wrong?” Krieger asked.
In fact, the moment had the jarring, disjointed quality that too many situations possessed of late, but Dieter saw no reason to go into that. “You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting someone to pop out at me almost as soon as I drew the sign.”
Krieger grinned. “I told you, somebody’s always keeping track of you. It happened to be my turn. Come on, I know a good place to talk. I’ll even stand you a mug of ale.”
Krieger led him to a tavern, its four-panelled door crudely painted with bottles and overflowing flagons. Excited voices jabbered on the other side. When the witch hunter opened the door, a stench composed of stale beer and sweaty, unwashed bodies wafted out, and
Dieter spied a number of soldiers among the crowd in the candlelit common room.
He froze. “Are you out of your mind?”
The witch hunter chuckled. “Those fellows may have been told to keep an eye out for you, but I promise you, none of them is likely to recognise you at the moment. Not when they’re all at least half-drunk, and intent on their sport.” He pushed Dieter over the threshold.
Once inside, immersed in a stink compounded of beer, sweat, and blood, Dieter saw that a fighting pit yawned in the centre of the floor. Two bare-chested dagger-men, their muscular bodies gleaming with oil, stood glaring at one another at opposite ends of the sunken arena. Most of the patrons were indeed preoccupied with the contest to come, either arguing over who was likely to win or placing bets with a fat man behind the bar, who employed a chalkboard to keep the tally.
Krieger insisted on placing a wager of his own, and in the process bought two mugs of ale and hired what in this seedy establishment passed for a private room: a cramped alcove with a curtain to isolate it.
The witch hunter sampled his drink and made a sour face. “Tastes like they emptied the latrine back into the barrel to stretch the supply. Still, foul drink is better than none, especially when there’s cause to celebrate.”
“You mean, because I’ve found the Master of Change? I haven’t.”
Krieger gave him a stare. “I told you not to draw the mark until you did. It’s too risky.”
“You don’t understand. The man has hidden himself too well. We’ll never find him using the approach you dictated.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Yes, two—”
The spectators beyond the curtain roared as, presumably, the fight began. The sudden bellow drowned out Dieter’s voice. He waited for the clamour to partially subside, then began again.
“Two of them. The first is, arrest Mama Solveig, the old midwife—”
“Who leads your coven. I know who she is, and I explained to you why it won’t work.”
“It will if we manage it correctly. I’ll be with her when you come for her, and I’ll use my magic to make sure she doesn’t escape or kill herself.”
The crowd howled, possibly because one of the fighters had landed the first slash or stab.
“We had a wizard working with us when we tried to arrest one of the others,” Krieger said. “It didn’t help.”
“But she trusts me, and I’ll be standing right beside her.”
Krieger shook his head. “You said you had another idea?”
“Yes. The cultists are sending me into the forest to carry supplies and a new recruit to the mutants.”
Krieger cocked his head. “And so?”
“And so you have some scouts or skirmishers or some such shadow me, and a company of soldiers follow them. They can find and exterminate the raiders, and isn’t that the main thing? Every day, I hear people grumbling about how the mutants butcher innocent people, hamper trade, and affect the price and availability of goods. Every day, folk lose more of their faith in an Emperor, who, despite all his knights and men-at-arms, can’t seem to deal with a threat lurking just outside the walls of his capital city.”
Krieger leered. “I didn’t realise you were such a keen student of politics.”
“Damn it, you know I’m right!”
“Maybe you are, wizard, maybe you are. But when mutants stop concealing their deformities, run away to the wilderness, and turn brigand, I don’t have to worry about them anymore. At that point, they become the army’s problem. My job is to ferret out the corruption hiding in our midst, and at the moment, my target is the Master of Change.”
“It’s possible Leopold Mann—the leader of the bandits—knows the Master’s identity. If you take him alive, maybe you can get it out of him.”
“Not the worst notion I ever heard, but I’m inclined to stick with the original plan.”
Dieter had to clamp down hard on an urge to jump up and strike the big man in the face. “That isn’t sensible or fair! I’ve brought you more than you had any right to expert, and I’ve explained how it can be used to deal with the Master of Change and the marauders as well. I deserve to be set free and cleared of the charges against me.”
“That’s one point of view, but for better or worse, I’m the one who decides when your work is done.”
“Do you want me to die? Because that’s what’s likely to happen if I go into the forest, and then you’ll derive no benefit at all from all my spying.”
“You tell me your sorcery’s potent enough to manage this Mama Solveig. Then it ought to be strong enough to protect you out in the woods as well.”
“Even if it is, I can’t stay where I am, doing what I’m doing. I—” Dieter abruptly realised what he was babbling, and stopped short. He didn’t dare tell Krieger that he’d come to find dark lore fascinating if not addictive, or about the incipient changes in his mind and body. Bargain or not, the witch hunter might well deem such an admission ample justification to send him to the fire when his task was done.
Krieger studied him. “Go on, finish your thought.”
“Never mind. What’s the point? You aren’t going to change your mind no matter what I say.”
The big man grinned. “Now there’s the discernment a good spy needs.”
The crowd beyond the curtain roared, most likely in appreciation of the death stroke. Then they started chanting, “Tzeentch! Tzeentch! Tzeentch!”
Dieter cried out and jerked in his chair. His flailing hand knocked over his tankard, spilling beer across the tabletop.
Quick as a cat despite his heavy frame, Krieger jumped up and put his hand on his pistol. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Dieter said, “just my ears playing tricks on me.” The spectators were actually shouting, “Zeyd”, no doubt the name of the victorious pit fighter.
The tender spot on his forehead throbbed to the beat.
The armoury was a massive, ugly limestone building, a small fortress in its own right. Standing beside the wagon with Adolph and Lampertus, Dieter stared at the recessed double doors in the centre of the wall and tried to avoid picturing what was happening on the other side.
Adolph chuckled. “It galls you, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“Knowing that right now, behind those doors, Jarla’s lifting her skirts for another man. Better get used to it. It’s what whores do. It’s the reason I cast her off.”
Dieter sneered. “You cast her off.”
“Did she tell you it was the other way around? Well, she would, wouldn’t she?”
Dieter thought how satisfying it would be to blast Adolph with his magic, or simply to hit him. Perceiving the barely restrained hostility between his companions, Lampertus looked from one to the other with perplexity and trepidation manifest in his expression. Dieter could scarcely blame him for his reaction, considering that he was entrusting his life to them.
Lampertus was a smallish, middle-aged coppersmith with a round, jowly face. Troubled by aches in his hips and knees, he’d submitted himself to Mama Solveig’s poisonous ministrations. Now some new extremity grew from his chest and periodically squirmed of its own accord, the motion perceptible even beneath his layers of baggy clothing.
Dieter tried to produce a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. We like to mock and taunt one another, but it’s all in fun.”
“If you say so,” Lampertus replied.
The right-hand leaf of the double door cracked open. Jarla beckoned from the shadows. Adolph climbed back up onto the wagon, flicked the reins, and the two mules started forwards. Dieter and Lampertus jogged alongside, swung the doors open wide enough to admit the conveyance, and closed them behind it.
The interior of the armoury was a square, high-ceilinged box of a place, with barrel upon barrel, rack upon rack and shelf upon shelf of swords, poleaxes, shields and helmets that looked like severed heads in the gloom. Enticed by Jarla’s charms, a bargain price, and the offer of a swig or two of
wine to sweeten the transaction, the sentry had fallen victim to the same sleeping powder that had once rendered Dieter insensible. He now lay snoring on the floor with his breeches undone and his manhood peeking out. Jarla noticed Dieter looking at the fellow, and winced and lowered her eyes.
Dieter reminded himself that she’d done only what he and Adolph had asked of her, and dredged up the resolve to react as was her due. He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “Well done. Did you take his purse?”
Jarla nodded. “I remembered.”
With luck, when the guard found his money missing, he’d believe the whole point of the incident had been to rob him, and would fail to notice someone had stolen from the arsenal as well. If so, it was unlikely he’d report the crime, considering that he’d forsaken his responsibilities to consort with a streetwalker.
The cultists scurried about the store, taking swords here, shot and arquebuses here, never too many of any one item or too much of anything from any one place, and stowing them in the hidden compartment beneath the wagon’s cargo bay. Throughout the process, Dieter’s nerves jangled with the fear that someone would walk in and discover what was happening. But nobody did, and in less than half an hour they were ready to claim the final prize: two casks of gunpowder. The item Leopold Mann supposedly needed most of all.
The barrels were too bulky to fit in the concealed compartment. The robbers lashed them down in the wagon bed and draped a tarpaulin over them to conceal the marks of the Imperial forces and the Blackpowder Men. Then they made their exit.
If there’s another sentry, Dieter thought, peering down from the ramparts, or if anybody else is looking and decides it’s strange for four civilians, one of them a whore, to be driving out of the armoury at such an early hour, we’re as good as dead. But their luck held, and, the team’s hooves clopping and the wagon wheels rumbling on the cobbles, they rolled on while the first grey hint of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.
They stopped in the miniature lumberyard behind Hanno’s shop, where the stacks of wood concealed the beer barrels stolen two weeks previously. They loaded and secured the kegs on top of the gunpowder, and then Jarla kissed Dieter goodbye. “Be careful,” she whispered.
The Enemy Within Page 12