by Cory Barclay
“Priest?” Claus called out to the darkness. When Dieter emerged from the shadows, Claus nearly dropped the tray. Grinning broadly, the old man said, “I’ve brought you both some food, leftovers from Aellin’s tavern.”
“Your generosity is much appreciated, Patric.”
Ever since Dieter had learned Claus’ real name, and that he was Gebhard Truchsess’ secret middleman in Bedburg, he’d refused to call Claus by anything other than his true name. Which of course irritated Claus to no end. But as long as they weren’t in public, the old man seemed to tolerate it.
“While I was there,” Claus said, “I saw something. Something you should see.”
Dieter took a hard piece of bread from the tray, split it in two, and gave the bigger piece to his son. Biting into his half, he asked with his mouth full, “What did you see?”
“You should see for yourself.” Claus looked around, eyeing the decrepit conditions. “And you should get you and your child out of this cesspool.”
“Can I trust you?” Dieter dared to ask. “You aren’t setting me up to be captured?”
Dieter figured that even if Claus didn’t respond, he’d be able to read the look on his face. The old man was simply too honest to keep a secret. But Claus just frowned.
“You need fresh air so you don’t go mad. I assure you there’s no one there looking for you.” Then he cracked a smile and took a quick sniff. “Although when you step into public, smelling as you do, you might attract the wrong sort of attention.”
Dieter nodded but didn’t smile. There was just nothing happy to smile about, even staring into the warm, kind eyes of Claus.
“I can tell you this,” Claus said with a wink and twitch of the nose, “Aellin won’t get near you.”
He waved Dieter onward. “Come now, just take ten minutes to see what I mean. You’re lacking in company down here, and God knows I can’t stay here much longer before I succumb to some mystery disease.” Somberly, he added, “Your son can’t, either.”
Dieter nodded and rose from the curb. Following Claus down the tunnel with his son in tow, his eyes darted everywhere. A few minutes later, they came to the small ladder that led back up to Claus’ secret trapdoor.
Nudging Peter up the ladder ahead of him, as soon as they stepped into the warm lobby of Claus’ inn, the boy immediately ran to the fireplace, happily rubbing his hands in front of the flames to warm himself. Meanwhile, Dieter changed into a fresh set of clothing that Claus provided.
“They might be a bit small,” the old man said, “but they’re better than what you’ve got. Will you have a spot of tea before you go?”
Dieter was finally able to offer a thin smile as he shook his head. He looked over at his son, now curled up next to the fire. Reading his mind, the old man said, “Grandfather Claus will watch the boy.”
Which unfortunately made Dieter flash back to the last time he’d entrusted his son with Claus at the inn. The result had been unspeakable violence right outside the inn’s front door—a vicious battle that brought the loss of his arm, the death of Rowaine’s lover, Mia, and the loss of his precious wife Sybil, whom he never saw again and was presumed dead from the witch burning in Trier.
Reading Dieter’s thoughts, Claus smiled reassuringly, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. Just don’t be too long.”
Dieter left the inn and headed straight for the tavern, his hood pulled over his head. As usual, he kept to the shadows, though this time it wasn’t necessary as the streets were deserted. When he got to the tavern, he stepped in and quickly moved away from the front door to avoid attention. From beneath his hood, his eyes swept the room.
Why couldn’t the melodramatic old man just tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for . . .
Then he spotted it. In the corner of the room a man sat by himself, leaning over a mug, his shoulders sagging. Dieter walked up behind the man just as Aellin came up beside him. Grabbing his hand, she whispered, “He came in a little while ago.”
“Alone?” Dieter asked, squeezing her fingers.
Aellin frowned and nodded. Then she pinched her nose and leaned her head back. “Jesus, priest, you smell like death died twice.”
Ignoring her, Dieter walked around the man’s table to face him.
Martin Achterberg looked up from his mug, his mouth parting in shock. He looked just as he had two weeks earlier: square-faced, scruffy chin, curly hair.
“Dieter!” Martin nearly shouted. Then he looked conspiratorially over his shoulders and leaned in, motioning for Dieter to sit.
“Where have you been?” Dieter asked, his voice stern and cold. He sat down across from him and waited.
Martin drained his ale, his eyes taking on a faraway sadness. “She’s gone, Dieter.” Tears welled in his eyes. “They took Ava.”
“Who did?” Dieter asked.
Martin shrugged.
“And how? You two were on the same horse. Why are you here?”
Martin toyed with his mug, refusing to look Dieter in the eye.
“Martin? Say something.”
“I’m ashamed,” he blurted, his head bent low.
Dieter waited.
Finally Martin looked up. “We were going to leave, Dieter,” shame filling his eyes. “Ava and I . . . we were going to quit this awful place.”
Dieter quelled a stab of anger that melted into pity. The young man was clearly grieving. And it made sense. Martin and Ava were both young and had each gone through difficult times—one, branded a criminal his entire life and his family murdered; the other, an actual criminal for most of her life and an orphan.
But they’d found each other, wallowing in misery together. Of course they wanted to leave Bedburg and start a new life. Any such couple would.
“I understand,” Dieter said softly.
“You’re not . . . angry with me?”
Dieter gave him a sad smile. “How could I be, my friend? I’d be lying if I said the same thought hadn’t crossed my mind as well, many times.”
“But you’ve never acted on it . . .”
“Neither did you, apparently, or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Martin sighed. “We were stopped at the west gate. Jerome and William made it through the southern gate to Claus’ inn. I assume they went underground, but I have no idea how they were caught.”
“And how were you caught?”
“We were recognized at the gate. Karstan was waiting for us.”
Dieter swore under his breath.
“They took Ava, and I escaped,” Martin said, looking away toward the bar.
Dieter raised one eyebrow as he watched Martin. He dropped the subject and instead said, “Do you still want to help?”
Smiling, Martin nodded. “I want to resist the iron fist.”
“Where are they holding Ava?”
“In the jailhouse, I assume.”
Dieter immediately began thinking of ways he could bargain with Ulrich. After all, he did have a history with the man, a tenuous one at best, but a history nonetheless.
Maybe there’s something I can give him in exchange for Ava . . . something more valuable than one poor girl.
“Come on,” Dieter said, rising from the table. “I’ve been here too long. People are starting to look this way.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll introduce you to my new home,” Dieter said.
They headed back to the inn for Peter before taking the plunge into the darkness.
Fortunately, old man Claus couldn’t bear the thought of young Peter staying in those nasty tunnels, so he’d insisted that Martin, Dieter, and Peter spend the night at the inn. Naturally he wouldn’t hear of them paying for their rooms.
Dieter slept like the dead. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. He awoke early, immediately aware that the bed next to him was empty. Panicking that Peter was gone, he looked down to realize that his son was safely asleep beside him.
So it was Martin who had left. But wh
y and where?
He got up, stretched his aching joints, and looked out the window. The sky was dark purple and heavy, the sun still an hour from rising. Moving quietly so Peter could continue sleeping, he latched the door and made his way downstairs, finding Claus sitting at the front desk, chipper and humming to himself.
Sitting at the small table near the desk, Dieter asked, “Don’t you ever sleep?”
Claus just shrugged.
“What’s your secret?”
Claus furrowed his bushy white brow. “My secret?”
“I come down the stairs to the sound of you humming, rummaging around your desk, already starting your day with a jump. How do you do it?”
Claus smiled broadly, reaching for his cup. “Tea,” he said.
Dieter chuckled, shaking his head. Claus brought a mug over for Dieter and sat down next to him. Slowly crossing one leg over the other and leaning back, the old man looked very grandfatherly.
“The secret to happiness is in the eye, or should I say the mind, of the beholder, my friend,” he told Dieter. “I’ve discovered that if I act happy and give the outward appearance of happiness long enough . . . it eventually comes true.” He smiled kindly at Dieter, who returned the gesture.
“You’re a wise man,” Dieter said, sipping his tea.
Claus raised a finger and shook his head. “I’m old—big difference there, Dieter,” he chuckled. “But I have learned a thing or two in my day. Tell me, what makes you happy?”
Dieter thought about that for a moment. It had been a long time since the subject of happiness had crossed his mind. Lately, it seemed hopelessly far away, out of reach. He realized he hadn’t been truly happy since Sybil. When he lost her, everything changed from happiness to survival—keeping his child safe, trying to stay alive in this deadly place.
“My son, and the memory of my wife,” he said finally. “The only two things that have ever given me happiness.”
“Ah, love and the memory of love,” Claus repeated. “Two of the universal paths to happiness. Complicated, yet essential.” The old man slowly helped himself up from his chair, sighing as his bones crackled.
Dieter stared at the man as he walked away. Claus was old and weary, showing signs that his days were few—his balding head sprouting dark patches of aging skin, his pace slowing, his back hunched.
“One day I would like you to tell me about yourself, Claus—where you’ve been and what you’ve done,” Dieter said fondly.
Claus turned, chuckling as he feigned surprise. “Me? Now that would be a dull story!”
“Somehow I doubt it . . .” Dieter mumbled, thinking back to what he did know about the man, how he’d fought in the Spanish army and had been Georg Sieghart’s superior officer.
But he left the military. Through choice or betrayal? And how did he end up here, as one of former archbishop Gebhard Truchsess’s top intelligence aides? From soldier, to spy, to innkeeper? Quite the life.
Without warning, Martin barreled through the front door, shaking Dieter from his thoughts. Waving a small, wrinkled piece of paper in his hand, he eyed both men and smiled.
“We received a new note this morning,” he said, almost out of breath.
Dieter pursed his lips, thinking out loud. “The first one since Jerome and William’s capture and executions . . .”
Martin nodded. “Someone still wishes to help us.”
Sighing, then draining his tea, Dieter stood up. Holding out his hand for the note, he said, “We could certainly use all the help we could get.”
As Dieter read the paper, Claus said, “Well?”
Dieter sighed. “It’s from the illustrious ‘Mord’ again. This time, marking Cristoff Krüger—the barkeep—as the next target.”
“He’s a Protestant infiltrator?” Martin asked, surprised.
Dieter shrugged. “Seems like everyone at that tavern is affiliated with the Protestant uprising in some way or other these days—”
“More like everyone in general,” Claus added. “The rebellion is gaining favor among the masses. I see it in the way people carry themselves—whispering, shaking hands out in the open. Much different than before.”
“Heinrich Franz is losing his grip over them,” Martin said.
“Then let’s loosen his hold even more,” said Dieter.
After arranging for Peter to stay again with Claus, he and Martin left for the inn.
Approaching the tavern from a side alley, they hid behind a fruit-cart. Dieter peeked over the cart to watch the mostly-empty road that led to the tavern. Dawn was just breaking. A few people came and went from the tavern, mostly discarding buckets of vomit and piss from the night before, or drying out ale-soaked rugs.
Dieter saw no military or other guards in sight.
“Let’s hurry before we’re too late,” Dieter said, quickly crossing the street, hoping they weren’t walking into a trap. He trusted Martin, but he’d also learned not to trust anyone totally.
When he entered the tavern he didn’t bother hiding his face. But once inside, he suddenly felt self-conscious and pulled his hood back over his head before stepping to the bar.
Even at the early hour, two regulars sat at the counter, their heads drooling over their ale. Cristoff was cleaning off mugs with a rag, looking nonchalant as usual.
His world is about to drastically change.
Dieter rested his arms on the bar, then whistled for Cristoff. The short man waddled over with a disgruntled look.
“My apologies for the rudeness,” Dieter said in a low voice.
Cristoff frowned. He had deep bags under his eyes, probably from staying awake into the wee hours of the morning for most of his life.
“Usually it’s only the whores that are whistled to, priest . . . not the owner of the tavern.”
“We come with urgent news,” Dieter began.
A loud crash shook the room, startling everyone but the two bar patrons at the counter. Upstairs, doors creaked open as people poked their heads out to see what the commotion was. Glancing over their shoulders, both Martin and Dieter’s eyes went wide.
Three armed men entered the tavern, immediately stepping to both sides of the door as a fourth man entered.
We’re too late!
Ulrich stood in the doorway.
The universally feared torturer and jailer swiveled his neck slowly, scanning from one side to the other. No one spoke as he slowly marched to the center of the room.
Dieter’s heart pounded. Casually, he turned back toward the bar while trying to pull his hood tighter around his head. Martin did the same. Cristoff gave Dieter and Martin a scornful look, as if it was their fault for the intrusion, before he finally looked up and addressed Ulrich.
“Can I help you, Herr Ulrich?” he said, feigning calmness.
Ulrich’s gruff voice rang out. “Yes, barkeep, I’m here to arrest a certain person . . .” he trailed off as he stomped toward the bar. “Ah!” he called out suddenly. “There she is!”
She?
“Aellin Brandt!” Ulrich barked, now looking up the staircase. “You are under arrest for treason, for conspiring to rebel against the lordship of Bedburg. Please step down here.”
Turning to his left, Dieter looked up the stairs, keeping his face hidden. Aellin stood at the top of the stairs, her curly black hair in a bun. Her face flashed pure terror as she gripped the staircase railing with both hands. Dieter could tell by her eyes that she was considering making a run for it.
But to where? Out a window?
Please don’t run, Aellin . . .
While Aellin remained frozen, Ulrich bounded up the stairs, more quickly than a man his size should have been able to do, and grabbed her by the shoulders. Aellin writhed from his grip, as Ulrich roughly pulled her down the staircase and out the door, his men quickly following.
“This is madness!” she screamed, her voice trailing off as they took her away. “I’ve done nothing wrong!” she yelled down the quiet street of a still-waking Bedburg.
Dieter considered what had just happened. Then realized something was wrong.
He reached into his tunic and found the crumpled note.
The message was wrong.
“Dammit,” Cristoff said, pounding his fist on the bar top. “She’s my best earner!” Then he returned to his chores like it was just another day. Glancing over at Dieter, he returned to their earlier conversation. “What urgent news did you have for me?”
Dieter was still staring at the message in his hand. Then he realized something he hadn’t noticed before. He got up quickly, pulling Martin along with him, and returned to Claus’ inn. There, he retrieved one of the earlier notes they’d received.
And noticed it immediately.
The handwriting was different. Noticeably.
Especially the curved lines of the signature, since it—Mord—was the only word found in both notes, and thus easy to compare.
“These notes were written by two different people,” he said, looking up at Claus and Martin.
“We’ve been compromised.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HUGO
“I’m not in love with you, Hugo. I never was.”
Ava’s words hit him like a spear through the heart. Even locked in a cell, her tone was anything but submissive. Undeterred by her surroundings, the woman’s words were unkind, combative, defiant. Hugo could barely speak, his face twisted. “B-but, when we were younger . . . in the Vagabond Five . . .”
With knees drawn up to her chest and her arms across her legs, Ava sat back against the wall of the cell and shook her head without emotion.
“I never thought of you like that,” she said. “We were good friends, nothing more. I’m sorry if you think I led you on . . .”
That’s exactly what you did! he wanted to shout. But Ulrich and Karstan were in the next room and he didn’t want them to hear him grovel.
Shifting from heartbroken to angry, he squinted at her. “You’re heartless, Ava. You played us against each other—Severin, Karstan, me.”
She scoffed. “You’re delusional, Hue. I never did any such thing! If anything, I tried to keep us all together, even when things began falling apart.”