“So, what happened to him?”
The gatekeeper shrugged.
“Difficult to say, really, burnt doesn’t really cover it, and anyway, fire doesn’t have a mind of its own. The fire that came out of the college, though… Well, it was alive, and it had a shape.”
“Everything has a shape,” his comrade said, but the gatekeeper shook his head impatiently.
“No, I mean a real shape: a man shape. It had eyes and teeth and claws, and when it grabbed poor old Frenk…”
He trailed off, eyes glazing over as he focused on the memory. It wasn’t a pleasant one.
For a moment, the other man fell silent too, struggling with his scepticism.
“Supposing that this fire did kill your mate.” he said at last. “Are you saying it was some sort of punishment for not saluting?”
“Don’t know,” the gatekeeper admitted. “All I know is that I always saluted, and out of the two of us it was him that got took.”
“You’re saying the wizards killed him for being cheeky? I don’t believe that. Why didn’t they just tell him to snap to it?”
“Because they never notice, and no, the thing that killed Frenk wasn’t doing anyone’s will but its own. At least,” he lowered his voice even further, “that’s what they said. Even so, makes you think, doesn’t it?”
His companion thought. A moment later, a mild looking old man, glasses as thick as pebbles perched upon his nose, doddered past them.
Both men saluted. Both men were ignored.
“I suppose,” the gatekeeper’s comrade said as the wizard wandered off into town, “that it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
The gatekeeper smiled. People learned fast around the college. Fast, or not at all.
Grendel would have agreed with him. As soon as he’d reached his chambers, he’d locked his doors, dragging home iron bolts that squeaked with misuse. Then, after placing his book reverently amongst the clutter of his workbench, he dragged a chair over to the door and wedged it beneath the handle.
He stepped back for a moment and regarded his handiwork. He briefly considered dragging over his bookcase too, but impatience decided him against the idea. Instead, he hurried back to his find.
The little red book had been expensive, but that only made it more intriguing; that and the fact that Grendel knew that he should have reported it to the proper authorities.
The proper authorities, he thought as he cleared a space on his bench, were idiots. He, on the other hand, was a wizard: one of the chosen, and when the winds of magic blew, how could he pretend not to feel them? To do so would have been like trying to live his life with his eyes closed.
Pleased with the analogy, and the warmth of self-justification it brought, Grendel sat down in front of the book. He took a moment to enjoy the sense of anticipation he got from embarking on the study of this mystery. Then, rolling back his sleeves and flexing his fingers, he placed his bony hands on the leather cover of the slim volume.
It was cold and smooth, and he wondered what sort of leather it was. Then he dismissed the question and started to empty his mind of all such chattering thoughts.
Even after decades of practice, it still took time to achieve the necessary inner silence, but Grendel was patient, and eventually his mind grew as still and as silent as a frozen ocean. Only then did he begin to speak.
His voice was as soft as his body was hard. The words themselves were also soothing. They pulsed with the well-honed rhythms of a balladeer’s lyrics, vibrant with a life of their own. When they drifted up into the dusty rafters, the spiders stopped spinning, as if eager to listen, and even the sparrows that nested in the tiles above fell silent.
Grendel let the words flow out of him, reciting the incantation with an ease that came of long practice. How many hours had he spent stumbling over these words, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar sounds? Thousands, probably. The first few years of his apprenticeship had seemed to consist of little else.
Some said that the language of his art came from the elves. There was certainly little of the guttural Imperial tongue about it. The words flowed as smoothly as quicksilver, a silken whisper that insinuated itself into the deepest recesses of a listener’s mind.
There were some, Grendel knew, whose mastery was such that they could kill with a single word. That was not his path, though. He had no time for the petty squabbles of princes, or the foolish pride that set his brothers against each other.
No, Grendel cared only for knowledge, and eventually, as day turned to night, and the shadows in the unlit chamber spread like so much spilled ink, he succeeded in gaining it.
After uncounted hours of channelling his power against the enchantment that bound the book, the spell broke silently, invisibly. One moment, the thing was as well sealed as a Khemrian tomb, and the next it lay open on the table.
It wasn’t until Grendel paused to wipe his glistening forehead that he noticed that night had fallen. He reached across for a lantern and fumbled around in the detritus that covered his table for his flint and steel.
Sparks struck the oil soaked cord and it sputtered into life. Grendel’s eyes watered at the brightness of the sudden flame. The book lay open in front of him, its grubby pages as inviting as the sheets of a dockside brothel.
Grendel scratched at his beard and paused. For a moment, a single moment, some instinct warned him of the precipice that he was about to step over.
It wasn’t just the severity of the rulings against practising unauthorised magic, he’d known of those right from the start, and had often bent them in the past. Nor was it the penalty that such a transgression might incur. He paid little attention to the outside world, and the horrors that Altdorf’s witch hunters inflicted upon rogue magic users scarcely seemed anything to do with him.
No, it wasn’t these thoughts that lay behind his sudden anxiety. It was something more, some animal instinct that had nothing to do with thought or judgement, but everything to do with survival.
Grendel’s bony fingers, which seconds before had been smoothing the pages as gently as a lover’s skin, started to tap nervously. Sweat dampened the pallid skin of his forehead, and he began to gnaw at the rat-tails of his moustache.
It was then, within the confusion of his thoughts, that a small, quiet voice spoke up.
It said, “You’re a wizard, not some silly apprentice.” Grendel, a little surprised by the clarity of the thought, nodded to himself. It was, after all, no more than the truth.
“Whatever secrets this tome contains,” the voice continued, “you will surely be the equal of them.”
Grendel’s crooked back straightened. Of course he would!
Don’t be a coward, he thought. Open the book and discover the wonders within.
For there are wonders within, probably more than you can imagine.
The wizard’s beard jutted out and his doubts evaporating like dewdrops before a rising sun. He began to read.
“Ulric freeze the testicles off those fools!” Titus roared, pacing around his chambers like some captive beast, “especially that pig’s bladder, Liebham. I remember him from apprenticeship, the snivelling little weasel, always creeping about and telling tales, and always copying from those of us with real talent. To think that he’s got the cheek to tell me what to do!”
Titus, his jowls wobbling with outrage, turned on his servant as if it had been his fault. Another man might have been shaken by this wrath. Not Kerr; after all, he had famously dragged his master from the fires that had been caused by his ruinous experiment. He still bore the burn marks to prove it.
“It’s terrible, master,” Kerr said, eyeing the fat man as a matador eyes a bull. “Terrible, heinous, irksome and gratuitous.”
“Speak normally,” Braha snarled, some of his rage finding a lightning rod in the slim form of his servant, “or I won’t let you read the Lexigraph again.”
Kerr winced. Since entering Titus’ employ he’d discovered both the ability and the opportunity
to read. His master’s Lexigraph was the cornerstone of this new pursuit, and he spent his days hunched over it, lips moving as he shaped new words.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to sound contrite. “What I meant to say was that the council sounds like a bunch of wan—”
“I didn’t mean you to speak that normally.” Titus cut him off. “They are, after all, still my colleagues, although I don’t know how some of them managed it. That slimy little clerk, for example, I don’t see how he could ever have joined our ranks. I don’t even know his name.”
“It’s Corvin,” Kerr told him.
“How do you know?”
“The cook’s apprentice told me. He said he was up half the night practising reading out the charges.”
“And how did he know that?” Titus asked, curiosity getting the better of his rage.
“Apparently, this Corvin kept sending down for wine. Lennard said he looked damned nervous. It must have been the thought of facing you, eh boss?” A wolfish grin spread across Titus’ chubby features. “Nervous was he?” he asked, delighted. “And well he might be. In fact, I’ve half a mind to challenge one of the council to a duel. See how they like that.”
“Corvin wouldn’t. Lennard said that he even drank at breakfast.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Not even when it’s two bottles of claret?”
Titus roared with laughter.
“That explains why he kept losing his place on that damned parchment. Ach, to the hells with them. Why should I let them spoil my appetite? I think I’ll eat up here tonight. I don’t fancy listening to those idiots blathering on in the main hall. Go and get my supper, would you? Oh, and here.”
Kerr stopped, his hand already on the doorknob. Titus sent a coin spinning through the air towards him. Kerr snatched it out of the air, his fingers as nimble as any conjuror’s.
“Thank your friend for the information. Tell him the sharpness of his ears does him credit.”
“Will do, boss,” said Kerr, pocketing the coin. He made a half bow, turned, and left his master in the chambers behind him.
He smiled as he made his way down towards the kitchens. Even now, a month after he had fought his way off the streets and into the wizard’s service, he could hardly believe his luck. Everything about his new life, from the shoes to the clean flagstones upon which he walked, seemed almost too good to be true.
Still, what he had found with luck he would keep with cunning. He studied the coin his master had thrown him, and then slipped it into his purse. He had already paid Lennard for the information, and with a lot less than this.
He paid other informants, too. The guards he paid with meat stolen from the kitchens, the porters with the strength of his back, and the cleaners with change from the coins that Titus occasionally threw at him.
And every day he made new friends, new allies.
Kerr hadn’t needed to read the inscription carved over the college’s gates to know that knowledge was power. It was one of the truths that had kept him alive in the gutters and rat runs of his orphanhood.
His smile hardened into a determined line as he descended a winding stone staircase. Every dozen steps or so there were little alcoves containing oil lamps to light the way. His fingers itched as he trotted past them, but as always he resisted the temptation.
“Think bigger,” he mumbled as he reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped out into the hall beyond. He followed the smells and the noise through a double door at the other end of it, and found himself in the furnace heat of the rotisserie.
It was more like a battlefield than a kitchen. Dozens of men were running, screaming, fighting with roasting animals and boiling cauldrons. It was the same every night, which was why Kerr always chose this hour to scrounge around for whatever he could find.
Not tonight, though. Tonight he came as an emissary of the great wizard, Titus Braha, a man whose talents had almost been the death of them all.
“Chef!” he shouted, waving at a man whose sweating face was as pink as a skinned rabbit.
“What the hell do you want?” he swore horribly, and changed his grip on the ladle he held. The foot of steel served as badge of office, tasting spoon or weapon as the mood took him.
“My master wants to eat in his chambers.”
“What mas… Oh.”
The chef’s mood mellowed suddenly.
“Follow me,” he said, barging through the mass of frenzied activity to the table where the food was laid out for the waiters. One of them bumped into the chef. He was driven back with a whack from the ladle and a curse.
“Take a platter. Do you know how to fill it with what Menheer Titus likes? Good. The high table seem to be celebrating something tonight, so I don’t have time.”
He thrust a silvered tray into Kerr’s hands and returned to batter the chaos around him into some sort of order.
Celebrating, Kerr thought as he heaped the tray with delicacies. What are they celebrating?
Well, no matter, he’d find out soon enough.
Pausing only to slip two bottles of wine into his satchel and another into his tunic, Kerr staggered back out of the heat of the kitchen.
Titus’ platter, as full as a trough, took all of his attention as he staggered back up the winding stairs. By the time he reached the wizard’s chambers, he was damp with sweat, and he set the platter down for a moment to regain his breath before entering the room.
As he did so a scream echoed down the corridor.
It was shrill enough to be a woman’s, but Kerr doubted that it was. They weren’t allowed up here. For a moment, he considered going to investigate, but only for a moment. If he went to investigate every scream that he heard in the college, he’d never get any work done, and with that comforting thought he got back to the task in hand.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a clear night. The heavy clouds that had earlier threatened to drench Altdorf had melted away, leaving in their wake nothing but the black immensity of the sky and the shining face of Mannslieb.
The moon rode low tonight, its silvered face peering between the gothic spires and steepled roofs of the city. Most of the citizens welcomed it. It shed a rare light on the perilous streets, and painted the buildings that glowered above them with a false elegance.
Most of all, the citizens welcomed Mannslieb, because it was not the other, more terrible moon. Morrslieb was mercifully absent from the sky tonight, and for that all men were thankful. When it rose above the city there were always those who succumbed to its influence. The Chaos moon could devour a weak man’s humanity as surely as maggots could devour his brains. It always left streets stained red, lunatics still at large, and crimes too numerous to count.
But not tonight: tonight’s moon was as cool as a hand on a fevered brow, and although vice still flourished beneath it, it lacked the feverish intensity that Morrslieb brought.
In fact, it was this very lack of intensity that was causing the row between the two men who had slipped, unnoticed and uninvited, into the garden of Morr.
“What’s wrong with that spade?” Staufman whispered, unable to contain himself any longer.
Schnell, whose turn it was to dig, looked up from the hole he was in.
“What do you mean?” he whispered back, blinking away the yellow glow of their hooded lamp.
“I mean,” Staufman hissed, “it doesn’t seem to be working. We’ve been here an hour already, and you’re hardly half way down.”
Schnell’s eyebrows furrowed in anger.
“Do you want to do it?” he asked, offering the short handled spade to his partner.
“Oh no,” Staufman recoiled, “not tonight. It’s not my turn.”
“Maybe you should shut up and keep a look out then.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up,” Staufman snapped. “Just dig faster, will you? It’ll be light soon.”
“Don’t be daft, and keep your voice down. Do you want to get caught?”
“
You keep your voice down,” Staufman muttered as Schnell turned back to the grave. It shouldn’t have taken him this long. They were in the poorer section of the burial ground, and there was usually little more than a smearing of mud over the bundled bodies that were left here.
The grave robber turned and looked around nervously. If the keeper had started burying his charges properly, might he have also started guarding them? It didn’t seem likely, but then…
“What was that?”
Staufman jumped, and looked back down into the grave.
“What was what?”
“I thought I heard something,” Schnell said, his face drawn with suspicion.
Both men fell silent, ears straining to catch a sound. There wasn’t much to hear: distant noises from the city beyond the walls and the occasional call of a nightjar.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Staufman breathed after a long, tense moment.
Schnell shrugged.
“Must have been the soil moving beneath me,” he muttered.
“That’d make a change,” Staufman said bitterly, and turned away before his partner could start arguing again.
A forest of wooden posts stretched away on all sides, marking the graves of the dispossessed. There were enough of them in this city: the starving, the homeless, and the broken. Their corpses dotted the streets on most mornings, and on most mornings Staufman and Schnell would have plucked one from there.
Today, annoyingly, there hadn’t been a single one. At least, not one that had met with their customer’s specifications. A woman he wanted, and the younger the better. The two grave robbers hadn’t asked him why. They had more sense. Instead, they’d taken his coin and promised to have the corpse by tonight.
This afternoon, wandering through the wooden grave markers, they had found her: Grisolde Klempman, she was called. She had died in childbirth not three days before, which meant that she was perfect. She couldn’t have been more perfect if she was still warm.
“Staufman!”
The Corrupted Page 2
