by Tracy Falbe
Sarputeen strode toward a formal looking door where he expected to encounter someone with some authority. As they ascended the steps, a couple men-at-arms burst out the door toward them, and Johan’s heart nearly split. But the armed men barged past them on some other errand, and Johan let out a slow breath to regain his composure.
He followed Sarputeen inside. Wooden panels gave the wide hall a solid majesty. A vast tapestry depicting Christian soldiers battling Ottomans confronted them from the back of the chamber. Its magnificence overwhelmed Johan with crosses emblazoned on chests and curved blades lifted high.
Sarputeen spotted a fellow dressed like a minister. Finely knitted hose covered his thin legs, and his shoulders were thin beneath his dark blue garments, hinting broadly that his trade depended on the quill and not the shovel.
“You sir,” Sarputeen announced, and his voice seized the fellow as if he were a mouse surprised in the tall grass from above. He blinked with confusion at the approach of the stranger with the wolf skin and shining crucifix.
Before the bureaucrat’s haughtiness could spew a rude reply, Sarputeen pulled him forward with his authoritative voice.
“I’m Brother Miguel of the Society of Jesus just arrived in Pressburg. I must meet with Duke Osmount on an urgent matter. I have a letter of introduction from the Archbishop of Prague,” Sarputeen said, and his stern face demanded action without hesitation.
The bureaucrat blinked as if too many strange details had clogged a mind accustomed to orderliness and mundane tasks.
“Are you mute? Tell me which way to go. A grim warlock besets the city,” Sarputeen divulged.
“The Archbishop of Prague sent you?” the man finally managed. His mind had chosen to keep the matter of a warlock in some mental committee for the moment.
“You’re wasting precious time,” Sarputeen scolded.
“I’ll see if the Duke’s secretary is available,” the bureaucrat decided. He was about to tell the Jesuit to wait in the hall, but Sarputeen gestured impatiently for the man to proceed with the clear intention of following him.
The bureaucrat led them down a corridor. He looked over his shoulder often. Concern lit his eyes, but his quick feet obviously hoped to bring this encounter to a speedy conclusion.
The man knocked on an office door. A terse voice responded, and the tone gave little indication of welcome, but the bureaucrat managed to convey his news through the closed door.
“I’m busy,” replied the secretary, who surely expected the distraction to cease.
The man who had taken Sarputeen this far started to apologize, but the sorcerer shoved him away and opened the door himself. A bald man sat behind a cluttered desk. A quick scan confirmed for Sarputeen that no one else was in the room, and he entered. Johan slipped inside as well. He murmured his gratitude to the bureaucrat before shutting the door in his befuddled face.
“I’m on a mission from the Archbishop of Prague in the pursuit of magic workers,” Sarputeen announced and yanked his letter from a pouch. He slapped it on top of a pile of letters beneath the secretary’s nose.
The secretary frowned with the utmost disapproval, but he was not a man who dismissed demands from an archbishopric without knowing the details.
Sarputeen crossed his arms. “I’m sure you need to check my credentials,” he said, and the statement coaxed the secretary to pick up the letter.
His expert eyes scrutinized the document. The paper, script, and wording appeared quite legitimate as was the seal, and he learned that Brother Miguel had the archbishop’s blessing to pursue the Butcher of Prague by all means necessary. Local lords were to grant their full cooperation. The secretary smirked a little at the presumptive attitude of the Church.
He sat back in his chair and folded his hands. “So the Butcher of Prague is here?” he asked.
“Nay, things are worse,” Sarputeen said. “A warlock sent by the Turks has been chasing me. He could be in the city already.”
“A warlock? But I read that it is some wolfman blamed for the devilish deeds in Prague,” the secretary said.
“Do you think only one magical beast threatens good Christians?” Sarputeen demanded. “I must meet with the Duke and inform him.”
The secretary actually laughed, and the expression suited his round face. He did not care if Christ was returning by sundown, he did not schedule sudden meetings with the Duke.
Sarputeen’s dour expression inspired him to rethink his discourtesy. Trying to be accommodating, he flipped open a folio and said, “I’ll schedule an appointment for three weeks hence.”
“God in Heaven!” Sarputeen thundered and came around the desk. Johan coiled for action, ready to follow the sorcerer’s lead even if they were about to assault an official of the crown.
The man’s eyes got nearly as round as his shiny head. He cringed in his chair as Sarputeen slapped his hands on the armrests. Condemnation for the secretary’s inadequacy blazed zealously on his face.
“Heed me,” Sarputeen commanded as if giving the man a last chance to avoid some momentous error.
“A warlock you say?” the secretary asked uncomfortably.
Sarputeen let go of the chair and straightened. “He’s fair of face and foul of heart. He pursues me. The city guard must be alerted,” he said.
“But...well...” the secretary sputtered, uncertain what he should do with the information. Saint Nicholas time was no time to be having a witchcraft scare.
He brushed off his sleeves as if brushing off his nervousness about his official intruder. “Brother Miguel, I suggest you take your concerns about this magic worker to the magistrate. This isn’t the sort of thing that concerns the Duke,” he said.
“That letter states most clearly that I’m to be given aid from the highest chambers of power,” Sarputeen said.
The secretary winced. “I could have you talk to Captain Druhardt,” he suggested after recalling that he had seen the Captain of the Palace Guard in the building.
“Very well,” Sarputeen said, somewhat mollified.
“I’ll introduce you,” the secretary said, and Sarputeen stood aside so that the man could get up from his chair. Sarputeen slyly plucked his letter off the desk on his way out.
They located Captain Druhardt in the main hall. He was chatting with two men and appeared to be on his way out. The secretary was grateful to catch him.
Forcefully, he interrupted the Captain. “Brother Miguel is here from Prague. He has news that concerns you.” With the words out, he withdrew rapidly. Johan watched him go, but the man avoided eye contact as he made his escape.
Sarputeen concerned himself with the Captain. He folded his letter and while putting it away said, “The Secretary was good enough to confirm my credentials. You’re to alert the watchmen that a warlock approaches the city.”
The Captain blinked with some surprise.
“I’ve been sent by the Archbishop of Prague,” Sarputeen added. “I’m a hunter of magic workers and one most perilous is coming.”
“Is this a joke?” Druhardt inquired and glanced hopefully at his associates.
Reproach blazed on Sarputeen’s face, and the demeanor of the Captain shifted. His bemusement changed to fascination. He wanted to look more upon this aged yet beautiful face. Mysterious eyes pulled him into a world of daydreams where singers danced in circles and feelings mattered. The force of the stranger’s spirit enveloped him like the heady scent of a perfect rose blooming above secret lovers.
“We’ll expect you later,” one of the other man said.
“Yes, later. I must attend to this,” Druhardt said in a softened voice that belied his bull-chested body.
The two men departed. Johan saw their departing glances of curiosity but judged them eager to be about their own business.
Sarputeen drew the Captain away from the exit toward the immense tapestry where his voice would land softly.
“You must let me tell the Duke of our problem,” Sarputeen said like a friend suggesting
a solution to a problem.
“You’re a witch hunter,” Druhardt decided.
Sarputeen tried to be patient as the man found a way to justify doing his bidding.
“This is very serious. Any stories you’ve heard do no justice to the threat that is at my heels,” Sarputeen said, and Johan nodded gravely.
“Take me to the Duke,” Sarputeen prompted gently.
“Uh...he’s not here,” Druhardt said.
“Where is he?”
“Hunting,” the Captain divulged.
The information stymied Sarputeen. He was not going to meet with the Duke, and he still had no idea where to find the imprisoned Valentino.
Even so, he could strive to make Janfelter’s visit to Pressburg difficult. He said, “I must consult with local church authorities. Until I come back, tell your watchmen to beware the stranger with long dark hair and fine weapons. He carries both a sword and guns. He goes by the name Janfelter.”
“What will he do to us?” Druhardt asked, truly becoming concerned.
“He’s a ruthless killer. He used dogs to massacre villagers near Zilina. If you see him, lock him up,” Sarputeen said.
“Indeed, we shall, Brother,” Druhardt said.
“And where do people get locked up in this big castle?” Sarputeen wondered.
“The dungeon is across the bailey below the justice minister’s offices as you’d expect,” the Captain said.
Sarputeen waved his hands across the big man’s chest. “Bless you, good Captain,” he said.
“Why does the warlock come here?” Druhardt asked.
“Because he is the enemy of Christians,” Sarputeen responded. Before the Captain could make any more inquiries, the sorcerer added, “I’ve been given some names by my master in Prague for local expertise. Do you know where I could find the lawyer Tobias Dorn?”
“Dorn?” Druhardt snorted. “I’ve not known him to be useful.”
“Still I would speak with him,” Sarputeen pressed.
Druhardt shrugged and provided a street name but warned the monk that the lawyer was not known for his piety.
“I defend the Church and leave judgment to God,” Sarputeen said. He thanked the Captain for his time and hustled away. Johan jumped into action and caught up with him on the steps. Trotting alongside the daring man, he whispered, “Most impressive, my Lord. I suspect you’ve done this sort of thing before.”
“Not for a long time,” Sarputeen muttered.
“What shall we do next?” Johan asked conspiratorially as they approached the gate.
“Scout out that lawyer’s house and find Thal,” Sarputeen answered.
He spotted a raven on the castle wall over the gate. The bird screeched, and a chill in the pit of Sarputeen’s stomach urged him to hurry.
Chapter 29. In the Banker’s House
Janfelter entered Pressburg unharassed. He relished the fearful glances of the folk. They recognized his costly clothes, tack, and arms as signs of danger. He locked eyes with those who stared too long. They invariably flinched.
Their nervous deference confirmed his superiority. He savored the boost in confidence as he pursued yet another test against a mighty foe. The damnable creature had shamed him multiple times, but this urban territory might betray him. His precious forest could not hide him with its invisible embrace here.
The reason why Thal and Sarputeen had come to this town continued to defy his attempts to cipher their behavior. Did Sarputeen have allies here? Janfelter knew that Tekax did, and he meant to gather new resources without delay.
He traveled the streets to higher levels where the gutters drained to lesser neighborhoods and the fine houses looked out upon views of the fair river valley instead of crowded roofs of thatch in the muddier districts. Ornate coats of arms hung over front doors and servants swept yards and fetched water for their wealthy masters.
He reined in at the house labeled with the name Welser. He tied his horse to a metal ring but paused before walking away. His muskets in their long cases attached to the either side of the saddle offered a tempting treasure. He shouted to a boy playing with a puppy in the street.
The boy regarded him with wonder. The stranger had the look of a hero out of some great story. His bright-eyed steed shifted its shod hooves that had charged enemies in foreign lands. The attention of such a warrior proved irresistible, and the boy picked up his puppy and approached.
Janfelter tossed a copper onto the cobbles.
“Watch my horse and gear. Don’t touch anything. Holler if anyone tries to steal from me. You’ll see blood spilled if that happens,” Janfelter said.
His foreign accent befuddled the boy a bit, but he glanced at the coin and understood what to do well enough. The foreign demigod turned his back on him and mounted the steps to the Welser house.
He found the door locked and smiled knowingly. The man within was too well schooled in the temptations of greed to leave his front door unbarred.
Janfelter slipped around to the back door. Entitlement marked his demeanor, and he moved as if he walked through the yard of his own property.
The back door was open for the sake of the busy staff who must come and go all day. He passed unnoticed women chatting in the kitchen as they chopped vegetables and rolled pastry. An old dog by the cooking fire huffed grumpily but no one heeded him.
Janfelter made his way to a staircase and ascended the steps in near silence. When his boots tread upon the rug on the second level, the yipping of small dogs erupted. A duo of short-haired yappers with floppy ears charged out of a room. He stood his ground and kicked them away when they struck his ankles. They backed off but continued with their barking.
A butler burst into the hall. “Who are you?” he demanded. His tone had started stern but faded on the final syllable as he took in the hostile appearance of the possible assassin. He stepped back, obviously ready to jump from a window if he had to.
Janfelter passed his hand menacingly across the hilt of his sword. The man who had trained him in swordplay in Damascus had given it to him as a gift. His fingers went to a small pouch on his belt and took out a silver token.
Another man yanked open a door and demanded to know the nature of the disturbance. Janfelter held up the disc of silver and brushed by the butler, who cringed fearfully against the wall.
The round man in a long black surcoat and white puffy sleeves set his hands on his hips. He flared with offense at the intrusion and showed no fear of the strange warrior until his eyes fell upon the token held toward his face. Stamped into the shining metal were two spears over flames.
Now the man blanched.
“You are the banker Welser,” Janfelter said, judging the man’s identity by his dress and the gold rings on his fat fingers.
“We must talk,” Janfelter said and brushed by the man into his private chamber.
Welser signaled for his astonished butler to do nothing and followed Janfelter into the room. He nudged his dogs out into the hall before latching the door. He hastened to a table where he had been interrupted in his counting of gold and silver coins. Half were neatly organized in a wooden rack, and half were still arrayed across the table. Carelessly he scooped up the coins and shoved them into the rack and put it in a lock box.
Welser relaxed slightly now that his coins were put away. “Who are you?” he asked calmly.
“Janfelter.”
“What do you want of me? I’ve done no offense to your Master,” Welser said. He sat down and put his hands on the table. He felt the sweat stick to the smooth wood.
“And the decisions you’re about to make will be important to maintaining your respect for him,” Janfelter said. He pulled a stool up to the table.
“Are you going to offer me a drink?” he prompted.
Welser quelled his urge to summon a servant. This conversation surely required the strictest privacy, but pouring someone a drink galled him a little. Reluctantly, he leaned back and grabbed a decanter and glass. He slid a modest d
ose of brandy toward his intrusive guest.
Janfelter downed it and sighed like a sailor who has missed his drink rations. Alcohol affected him much less since Tekax had altered his body, but drinking it irritated the banker
“I need twenty-five of your best mercenaries,” Janfelter announced.
“I don’t have that many mercenaries,” Welser said.
“Then I’ll take as many as you’ve got,” Janfelter said.
“Look here. You can’t come in here and demand--”
Janfelter grabbed the banker’s velvety tunic and yanked his body across the table.
“You’ll do everything I say or I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to your little dogs. I’ll get away with it too. No one will miss hearing you speak,” Janfelter said. He slapped the silver token onto the table under Welser’s nose. His nostrils flared as he considered more closely the symbol of Tekax.
Janfelter leaned over him and whispered. “My Master told me that he made these tokens from silver melted from the last Byzantine Emperor’s tea service.”
“Let me up,” Welser puffed stubbornly.
Janfelter smiled. He admired the rascal’s nerve under pressure. He shoved him back into his chair.
“Welser, you owe a favor to my Master,” Janfelter reminded.
“I’ve granted him many favors. And at no small danger to myself. Dealing with the Ottomans is a sensitive thing in this city,” he said.
“The loan given you when you lost a fortune backing the wrong noble in a land dispute has not been fully repaid,” Janfelter said.
Welser wilted a little as he grappled with the facts of his debt. The Duke’s need for a withdrawal when the accounts were empty had nearly been the end of him. The mysterious one in the East had funded his bank in his moment of greatest need. Welser hoped to find an opportunity some day to rid himself of the insufferable obligation that Tekax imposed, but the unnerving killer in front of him convinced Welser that he would make another payment today.
