by Cory Barclay
Sybil placed her hand on his shoulder, which stopped him cold. “Don’t worry that shiny head of yours, John. I’ll speak with her.”
He leaned back, satisfied, then his eyes scanned suspiciously from side to side. “You can’t call me that, my lady. Please. I would lose all credibility here.”
Sybil chuckled again. She pushed up from the bench and cradled Peter in her arms. “I enjoy your company, Mister Wallace. I hope we may have more conversations in the future.”
Daxton bowed his head in mock formality. “I’m forever at your service, Lady Nicolaus.”
Sybil made her way below deck. The corridors and rooms were eerily quiet. She knocked on Rowaine’s door.
“Who is it?” came the response.
“It’s Sybil, captain.” Then, explaining, “I’m here on behalf of Mister Wallace.”
She heard a groan, but Rowaine said, “Come in.”
When Sybil poked her head in, she saw that Rowaine had barely moved since the afternoon. She was still in the same position—on the edge of her bed, head bent low.
Sybil stepped in closer. She noticed the captain eyeing something in her hand with deep interest. A piece of paper with a drawing on it.
Sybil creased her brows. “What’s that you have there? A portrait of Georg?”
Rowaine shook her head. “Remember how I told you that my mother’s killer didn’t see me, but I saw him?”
Sybil nodded.
Rowaine held up the paper.
Sybil fidgeted with her hands. “It may not be my place,” she said, “but why would you keep something like that, my lady?”
“I drew a picture of him so I would never forget his face. I’ve committed it to memory, but I like to keep my memory fresh. When I’m feeling sad, I look at the picture so I can blot out my sadness with anger. And hope. You may not understand.”
Sybil nodded slowly. “I believe I do.” She held out her hand. “May I?”
Rowaine swept her red hair out of her eyes and hesitated. Eventually, she handed the paper to Sybil. “I’ve sworn to find him some day. It’s probably made me what I am today—vengeful, and always near the sea so every corner of the world is open to me.” Rowaine chuckled to herself.
Sybil looked at the drawing and tilted her head, not sure she was seeing right. She suddenly felt faint. Everything grew blurry. Though Rowaine was speaking, her words seemed to fade away.
“M-my lady,” Sybil stammered. Rowaine noticed her expression and stopped talking.
“I think I know this person,” Sybil muttered weakly, looking up from the picture. Her eyes drilled into Rowaine’s. “No . . . I’m positive I know this person. I recognize this face.”
Rowaine met Sybil’s stare, her eyes blazing with hellfire.
Sybil continued. “This man was a friend of your father—with Georg. A good friend, actually.”
“Who is it, Sybil?” Rowaine asked. “Tell me! I’ve been hunting that face since I lost my family.”
Sybil swallowed hard. Her heart fluttered. That mustache . . . those eyes. “He’s the chief investigator of Bedburg. His name is Heinrich Franz.”
Rowaine bolted off the bed and snatched the paper away. “Bedburg, you say?”
Sybil nodded.
Rowaine looked down at the picture one more time, then stormed out of the room. Over her shoulder she yelled back, “Then we’ve found our next destination.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HUGO
The group was gathered in front of Bedburg Castle. In all, there was Hugo, Ulrich, and eight others. And one dog.
To Hugo’s right stood Ulrich, Grayson (the bodyguard), Arne (the young tracker), and Tomas (Hugo’s sword trainer). To his left stood Severin and four others Hugo didn’t know—three men and a woman who were tasked with assisting the witch-hunts in Trier. Ulrich’s group would be escorting them.
As Hugo gazed up at the castle, out of the corner of his eye he leered at Severin.
Even with his bruises and scar, he still looks so smug.
Though Severin was a year older, Hugo thought he’d probably never outgrow his hawkish, angular features.
He’ll always have the appearance of an untrustworthy ferret.
Ulrich referred to members of the group by first name only. “Herr Samuel,” he said to the one Hugo knew only by reputation as the head inquisitor, “I trust you have the paperwork that will prove your profession once you arrive in Trier?”
Samuel was middle-aged, with dirty blond hair to his shoulders and gaunt cheeks that actually enhanced his good lucks—much too handsome, in Hugo’s opinion, to be the man who sentenced people to their fiery deaths.
Samuel nodded at Ulrich’s question.
“Why do you ask?” the woman next to Samuel asked, wrapping her skeletal arm around Samuel’s waist. She had high cheekbones, substantial hair that rested on top of her head like a roll of dough, half-lidded eyes that made her look perpetually tired, and the voice of a hyena. Hugo assumed she and Samuel were married.
Ulrich rubbed the back of his head. “Why do I ask?” He huffed. “If you run into any highwaymen or bandits on the road, Frau Tabea, it might help to clarify who you are. Less likely to get killed that way.”
Tabea put a hand to her mouth and gasped.
The remaining two men in the group were Gregor and Klemens.
Gregor was Samuel’s secretary. Pudgy and a bit older than Samuel, his round belly resembled a soft apple. Hugo guessed he lacked the ambition or charisma of the handsome inquisitor necessary to excel on his own in that profession.
Klemens was closer in age to Hugo, with soft features and a lute slung across his back. Besides being a musician, his role in the group was as Inquisitor Samuel’s cook. To Hugo, he seemed sad, like he was pining over some young lover he’d left behind in Bedburg. Then again, most musicians Hugo knew carried that same forlorn look.
Rounding out the group, sitting quietly by Klemens’ right foot, was Mord, a panting bronze-and-black Shepherd dog with a lolling purple tongue and pointy, white-tipped ears. The dog immediately took to Hugo, and Hugo felt the same toward Mord, crouching down and scratching behind the dog’s ears, Mord returning the favor with a slobbery lick to Hugo’s face.
Addressing Inquisitor Samuel’s wife, Ulrich said, “The trek is more than one hundred miles, Frau Tabea, through poor roads, woods, and hills. If you aren’t prepared for the hike, or the possible danger, it is my advice that you stay behind.”
Tabea quickly shook her head, wobbling her hair bun on top. “I won’t leave my husband behind, not when there’s treachery afoot. I shall aid him in outing the witches, in God’s name.”
More likely you want to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t lay a tender hand on any of those witches, thought Hugo.
“Besides,” Tabea said, tilting her chin, “I have the carriage.”
And while that was technically true, with the massive quantity of luggage she’d brought, it was a small miracle her husband could even fit in the carriage with her, much less anyone else. And judging from the harried expression on Samuel’s face whenever his wife started chattering, if he had a say in the matter he probably would have chosen to ride a horse like the rest of the group, rather than spend the whole trip crammed in there with his wife.
Surveying the colorful assortment of characters before him, Ulrich said, “If you’re lucky, you’ll make it to Trier within the week.”
“And if w’re unlucky?” asked Grayson.
Ulrich shrugged. “You won’t make it at all.”
Grayson and Tomas chuckled, but Tabea once again blanched—a look she seemed quite comfortable with.
Their horses were packed and ready. A brilliant morning sun began its ascent up to a cloudless sky.
Before mounting, Ulrich pulled Hugo aside. “Since I won’t be journeying with you, I want you to follow Tomas’ lead. Whatever he says or does, you do.”
“You already told me that,” Hugo said. “I will, Ulrich.”
“Good,�
� he said, patting Hugo on the shoulder. He started to walk away.
“I still don’t understand why Severin has to come,” Hugo yelled out, stopping Ulrich in his tracks. Slowly, Ulrich turned toward him.
“Did he steal your woman?”
Hugo furrowed his brow. “W-well . . . no.”
“Did he get you arrested?”
Hugo shook his head. “But he certainly could have been a better help.”
“The only thing he’s guilty of, boy, is trying to steal your precious ring. The same ring that you stole to begin with. He’s a thief—has been all his life. What do you expect from him?”
Hugo frowned.
Ulrich gave him a weak smile. “Maybe you can learn to forgive and forget. Maybe he will, too. God knows you’ll have plenty of time to do it.”
It was mid-afternoon by the time the group got under way. As they left Bedburg, it was clear that spring had arrived—the town’s stench of mud, sweat, and leather replaced by the almost dizzying scents of crisp, fresh pine.
A murder of crows cawed overhead. When Hugo looked back to the gravelly road, Klemens the cook rode up beside him. He bounced on his horse like a boy unused to travel—quite a detriment for a supposed minstrel.
Hugo eyed Klemens’ white knuckles on the reins. “Loosen your hold. You’ll anger your horse, and he won’t be afraid to buck you if you treat him like a caged animal.”
Klemens smiled wide and bright, like he wasn’t accustomed to being talked to—even if just to be reprimanded. He tried loosening his hold on the reins but nearly took a tumble, causing his dog, Mord, to growl at the horse.
“Careful with your hound, too,” Hugo said. “He’ll frighten the horse.”
In truth, Hugo didn’t know what he was talking about. He had no real experience traveling, never having ventured more than a stone’s throw from Bedburg or his home to the south. He wasn’t sure if his advice was sound, but at least it was better than listening to the verbal abuse passing between Tabea and her husband in the carriage.
As the party rode past Hugo’s former family estate, vivid memories flashed through his mind of his life not so long ago: the horse-shaped doll his sister had carved for him when he was young; the two of them running through the fields or sneaking about and eavesdropping on their father.
But then he thought of what had happened to his father, and to Sybil, and the pain forced him to turn away from the abandoned estate.
Better to forget it altogether. All it ever brought me was misery.
“I noticed Mord took a liking to you,” Klemens said, interrupting Hugo’s thoughts, his voice sweet and friendly.
His own memories still lingering, Hugo faced Klemens blankly, unsure what the boy had said. Then, without a word, he rode ahead to join Tomas at the front of the group.
When Hugo had moved up behind Tomas, Tomas said, “I saw that we passed your house.”
It astounded Hugo how Tomas could know he was behind him without even turning around.
Hugo came up alongside him as Tomas continued speaking. “My adolescence brings back painful memories as well.”
“I don’t mind it,” Hugo lied.
Tomas chuckled. “Then why did you ride up here?”
“To get away from those yammering fools back there.” Hugo thrust his thumb over his shoulder.
“Get used to them. They’ll be with us for a while.”
Hugo said nothing. Instead, he delayed, struggling to find the right words. Finally, he said, “What happened to you, Tomas?”
The soldier glanced at him, his blue eyes fierce. “What are you talking about?”
Hugo moved a hand from his reins and rubbed the back of his neck. “When I was a boy, I remember you leading me away from my home, taking me to the jail to see my father. That was the last time I spoke to him. You were working for Heinrich Franz then—that bastard investigator.”
“He was a bastard,” Tomas said with a nod. “But I still don’t understand your question.”
Hugo hesitated. “Well . . . it seemed you had good work as a soldier. A respectable profession. You were the right-hand man to the chief investigator of Bedburg. You were garbed in Bedburg’s colors. Where did all that go?”
“All that went away with Heinrich Franz. Simple as that.”
Hugo could hear the disappointment in Tomas’ tone. He was abandoned too . . . he feels the same grief I feel.
“What brought you to leading these sorry folk?” Hugo asked, realizing too late the impertinence of his question.
Tomas didn’t take offense. “I’ve always been good at this. I escorted folk before I met Heinrich. I didn’t go anywhere—I just came back. In fact, I first escorted Heinrich when he came to Bedburg. We were both young then.”
“Why did he leave you?” Hugo asked.
Tomas eyed the boy. “If you’re prying to get a better understanding of your own circumstances, you’re searching the wrong place. Our lives are nothing alike.”
“But we had the same thing happen to us. We were both abandoned by those we love.”
Tomas laughed. “You are sorely mistaken, boy. I never loved Heinrich Franz. In fact, I was happy he was gone. I didn’t agree with most of his methods.”
He elaborated. “Grief is different for everybody, Hugo. Of course I felt betrayed when Heinrich moved on, but what was I to do? Wallow? I’ve never advocated self-pity. I couldn’t let myself be downtrodden. So I became a freelance guard, as I had done before. It was really nothing more than that.”
A silence lingered as both men stared straight ahead. Hugo didn’t believe the mercenary. People might react to grief differently, but we all still feel it.
Tomas cleared his throat. “I knew a boy who was born to evil parents,” he began. “The father gave the boy to drunken friends who molested and beat him regularly. The mother finally killed the father, then drank herself to death. When the boy was orphaned out, his new parents gave him a pup, not much different than that Shepherd hound back there. But those parents were killed in a robbery, the boy left for dead. He was found by a couple, and this third set of parents seemed right and true.
“But then they killed his dog—burned it alive. Said the boy couldn’t have any ties to his old life. Slowly these heinous people became worse than any of the boy’s former parents. Yet they were the most pious of the bunch, respected in their community. The boy grew up not knowing what love was. He was misled, harmed, neglected. But did the boy let himself waste away, or be victim to his own misfortune?”
Tomas stopped his story. Hugo’s mouth was agape, eager to hear more. When it became apparent Tomas wanted an answer, Hugo uttered, “No.”
“No,” Tomas echoed. “You see, Hugo, sometimes you have to grab life by the reins when it tries to buck you off. Sometimes you have to take what you want.”
“What did he do?” Hugo asked. “How did he recover from all that pain?”
“Well . . . he became Bedburg’s torturer and executioner. He became Ulrich.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
GUSTAV
Gustav paced fore to aft on the deck of the Willow Wisp, his boots creaking on the rickety floorboards with each step. His mind wouldn’t focus and he felt flustered. It was partly from overindulging his laudanum, but also from the indignity of losing his prisoners to the pirates. A warm sensation pulsed behind his eyes. He tried blinking it away, but that just made him look even more like a crazed and confused drunkard.
“So . . . damn . . . close,” he muttered to himself.
Hedda took off her spectacles and massaged the bridge of her nose. “You should get some rest, Gustav. You’re in no state to—”
“I won’t hear it!” Gustav yelled, gawking at the grooves and holes in the wooden floor. He tried to avoid stepping on the uneven parts, and ended up hopping about, which only added to his crazed appearance.
Kevan and Paul sat at the end of the boat, looking everywhere but at Gustav, trying hard to avoid invoking his glare. Kevan fiddled with his boots;
Paul stared off the gunwale at the black water. Hedda kept glancing at the two, trying to get them to lend a hand in dealing with Gustav, but it was a hopeless endeavor.
“I won’t let them slip away—can’t let them slip away. They will face the end of noose, even if it’s the last thing I witness.” Gustav trembled violently. He stopped in place, putting his hands on his hips.
“You’re focusing too much on the small things,” Hedda said, nodding and agreeing with herself. “Remember that Sybil and Dieter Nicolaus are a means to an end. If the last thing you see is their swinging corpses, you’ve let them beat you.”
“My father . . .” Gustav said suddenly. “You may be right, woman, but the only way I see myself on that seat is if I bring those swine to my father’s feet. It’s the only way.”
“I’m sure there are other ways to win Ludwig’s approval, Gustav.”
“It’s the only way,” Gustav repeated a third time.
Captain Jergen poked his head up from the stairwell, his eyes nearly shut, his appearance even grimier than usual. “Could ya shut it for a coupl’a hours there, lordling?” he said, eye-level with Gustav’s boots. “After today’s adventures, me men and meself need us some real quiet time.”
Gustav felt like kicking the man in the face, or at least kicking something, hard. But having enough trouble just staying upright, he instead yelled, “Quiet your tongue, you rogue!”
Jergen jerked back. “Hey, I ain’t the one who robbed us, sir. So don’t go spoutin’ off on me. Listen to your lady love and give it a rest for the night.”
The captain’s head disappeared, his loud footsteps fading as he stomped back down the stairs.
“Wait!” Gustav said. The footsteps stopped. “Where will we be going tomorrow? When will we reach Amsterdam?”
A loud chuckle echoed from the bottom of the steps, bouncing off the walls. “Amsterdam?” Jergen called out. “We ain’t headin’ there, lordling. I got nothin’ to sell—you seen the bastards that fleeced us. They took all my goods! What am I gon’ trade, the rottin’ floorboards?”
