So it was that Vido attended Konniger himself, putting him to bed and treating his injuries in accordance with the directions of the carefully-chosen medical guides that Konniger kept at hand for just such an eventuality. It was not the first time that Vido had had to see to his master’s physical well being. He was a quick learner, and reckoned himself something of a fair amateur physician by now. Indeed, Konniger had once remarked that the halfling was probably a more able physician than a great many of the learned members of the College of Surgeons, although Vido took this more as yet another example of Konniger’s scathing opinion of Altdorf’s physicians than as any real vote of confidence in his own skills in the healing arts.
Nevertheless, he coped as best he could. Cleaning and stitching Konniger’s head wound and then applying a poultice to it. Mixing up remedies and sleeping draughts using the contents of Konniger’s extensive herbal and alchemical larders. Carefully following the guidelines in the medical volumes, many of the formulae written there amended or annotated in Konniger’s own hand.
On the first day, Konniger mostly slept. By the second day, his formidable recuperative powers were already on display, and he was sitting up in bed and issuing orders and instructions. Vido knew the routine here. Each day at least a dozen or more messages arrived at Konniger’s residence, delivered by messengers as varied as official Imperial couriers and common street urchins, and containing not just replies to Konniger’s regular and prodigious stream of correspondence with a wide range of acquaintances all over the Old World, but also reports, missives, communiqués and encryptions of all kinds.
Konniger’s main currencies were knowledge and information, and nowhere was this more true than in the troubles he took to study and learn the daily goings-on in Altdorf itself. Each day brought a veritable landslide of information to Konniger’s door. Copies of the City Watch reports; accounts and tax revenue figures from the city’s counting houses and mercantile exchanges; customs house tallies and harbourmaster lists; courthouse verdicts and judgements from the Imperial assizes; idle palace gossip and criminal underworld rumours and whispers. These were mostly delivered through the army of street urchins that Konniger used as unofficial messengers and spies—the “Altdorf Irregulars”, Konniger had once referred to them in one of his lighter moments—and Vido emptied a full coffer of copper and silver coins to pay for their services on that one day.
On the second day, Konniger rested in bed, reading the reports as they arrived and scribbling off secretive replies and requests for further information. Incapacitated as he was, Konniger assimilated all the information that came to him, and from it he drew a mental picture of the ever-changing face of the busy Imperial capital. There were messages too from Vesper Klasst, delivered by a series of increasingly sinister-looking characters.
Konniger replied to the first of these, a brief written answer scribbled, Vido noticed, with the greatest of disdain. After that, when more despatches from the crimelord arrived, Konniger told Vido in no uncertain terms that he was too unwell to continue any further correspondence with Klasst, and that his messengers were to be turned away at the door, their messages undelivered.
On the third day, the sage-detective rose again, his return to rude health announced by the bellowing shouts from upstairs as he called to Vido to fetch his cloak and boots.
“We’re going out today?” queried Vido, looking in astonishment at the man who, only two days ago, had been lying unconscious and feverish, rambling incoherently to himself and maybe even partway on the one-way journey into the realm of Morr.
“Summon a coach, Vido, and instruct a messenger to send word ahead to this address, informing those there of our imminent arrival,” said Konniger, carefully putting on a skullcap to cover the mark of his head-wound as he handed Vido a small, wax-sealed parchment roll.
Vido studied the address written there. “Reikhoch Prachtstrasse? What business do we have there?”
“We’re making a house-call.” answered Konniger. “Now go find my best brocaded garnache and cloak. The one with the silver embroidery, I think. When calling upon nobility, Vido, it always pays to look one’s best.”
Reikhoch Prachtstrasse one of the finest addresses in the city, was typically quiet, even at a time when the rest of the city was going about its noisy, quarrelsome business. Situated on a steep, cliff-top hill overlooking the banks of the Reik and affording fine views across the city and the countryside beyond, it was home to the elite of Altdorf. Here, elector counts kept their Altdorf residences for those times when the affairs of empire called them away from their provincial seats of power to the Imperial capital, and here too the nouveau riche merchant classes and old, genteel Altdorf aristocracy found themselves uneasy neighbours, one jealous of the other’s noble titles and venerable lineage and the other casting secret, envious eyes at their upstart neighbours’ flamboyant wealth and money-making enterprise and vigour.
Vido stepped down from the couch, suspiciously sniffing the air around them. He knew the Reikhoch of old—there had always been rich pickings amongst the villas and townhouses here for a skilled and enterprising thief—but he had never liked the place. It was too quiet, too… clean, not at all like the rest of the noisy, rambling, rambunctious city stretched out below. Still, it was a nice view, Vido admitted, looking out across the city at the lofty battlements and towers of the Emperor’s residence on the opposite bank of the Reik. No doubt some of the inhabitants of the Reikhoch liked to gaze out upon the same scene and imagine that they were looking across at the Imperial palace as near-equals rather than mere ordinary subjects; these two promontory peaks dominating each side of the river and lording it from on high over the rest of the city.
A sharp cough from Konniger called Vido back to the business at hand. “Reminiscing over old times, Vido? If you want to case these fine residences with a view to making a possible resumption of your former career, you’ll have to do it in your time, I fear. Come, we have business here, remember.”
Suitably chastened, Vido hurried on to join his master. They were standing in front of a tall townhouse built in an audacious over-regal style popular a half-century or so ago during the flamboyant if ruinous reign of Emperor Dieter IV. The townhouse was in one of the less grander parts of the Reikhoch, situated near the area’s venerable and now disused cemetery. Once a residence in such close proximity to the last resting places of so many famous aristocratic heroes of the Empire might have been considered a positive boon, but ever since the Wars of the Vampire Counts, when the undead overlords of Sylvania had called forth the dead from their graves to fight in their armies, the Empire’s inhabitants had developed a quiet dread of graveyards and cemeteries. So it was that the house was in one of the more decayed, less popular parts of the suburb, assuming a term as squalid as “decayed” could ever be applied to an area as prestigious as the Reikhoch.
Adding to the place’s air of polite abandonment, the house’s windows were closed and shuttered, although this was possibly nothing unusual in the Reikhoch, which had more than its fair share of reclusive and eccentric old aristocrat families. The door into the front of the building was firmly shut, and there was an air of distinct neglect about the place.
“This is the same address I sent that message to?” asked Vido, doubtfully.
“The very same,” replied Konniger. “The townhouse residence of the von Tallen family, who have long ago returned to whatever unimportant and Sigmar-forsaken corner of the Ostermark it was that originally gave rise to them. Having fallen upon hard times, the von Tallens have been forced to make their former residence available for rent, which is why we now find it home to the elusive and mysterious Lady Contessa Eleanora Daria di Argentisso, formerly of Tilea but now resident here in Altdorf these past two weeks.”
“Perhaps not for very much longer,” commented Vido, pointing towards the scene in the courtyard at the side of the building, where they saw a pair of large, shaggy-maned Stirland carthorses standing tethered to a wagon.
> A group of dark-robed figures worked in eerie, unsettling silence loading a series of heavy crates and boxes onto the rear of the wagon. Two more strange figures in dark, monklike robes stood in the shadows of the leeway of the building, directing the others’ labour with an occasional silent gesture.
“Then it would seem that we don’t now have a moment to lose,” said Konniger, as he strode up to the two figures, cheerily humming the tune of a notoriously scandalous riverman’s song. The pair apparently in charge of the operation turned slowly at his approach, and Vido saw two sallow, pale faces staring sullenly out at Konniger from beneath cloaked hoods, each of them regarding Vido’s master with a deadening and dispassionate lack of curiosity.
“Is this the residence of the Contessa di Argentisso?” asked Konniger. “My name is Zavant Konniger. I sent word this morning seeking an audience with her ladyship. Perhaps—”
“The mistress is indisposed,” said one.
“She does not wish to be disturbed,” said the other, equally dispassionately, its voice as drained of all semblance of human emotion as the face from which that voice came.
“How regrettable,” said Konniger, in a pleasant, matter of fact tone. “Is there no way that she could be persuaded to see me? The matter I have come here to consult her on is one of quite considerable urgency.”
The two men glanced slowly at each other. There was a pause before either answered. Perhaps too long a pause, and both Konniger and Vido received the impression that the pair weren’t so much pausing out of uncertainty or to consider what their answer should be, but rather as if they were both waiting to receive mysterious, unspoken instructions from some hidden, unseen third party.
“The mistress is indisposed,” repeated the first again.
“She regrets that she is not able to grant your request,” said his companion, “but she is leaving this city soon, and must attend to certain important matters before her departure.”
“Of course. I understand,” said Konniger, bowing in polite farewell. “Please convey my disappointment to the Contessa but tell her that she has my best wishes for her homeward journey. In these dark days, the roads and caravan routes can be dangerous indeed, but I thank the Lord Sigmar that here in the Empire we have many brave, holy warriors to protect innocent travellers from the servants of evil.”
Konniger paused, behaving as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I am, in my own small and humble way, not without some influence in certain circles. If the Contessa wishes, I could possibly arrange for her and her servants to be escorted on their journey by an Imperial witch hunter or perhaps even a company of Templars or Knights Panther. Perhaps I could even arrange for these holy warriors to visit the Contessa here today, before her departure from our city. To discuss the arrangements for her safe escort,” he added with a knowing smile.
At that, Konniger bowed again and turned and walked off. He had taken maybe five steps—one more than he had anticipated—before he was interrupted by the voice of the first of the Tilean noblewoman’s servants.
“Wait,” it called out, a note of authoritative command creeping into its dead voice. Or, rather, into the voice of whoever was speaking through it.
“You are the sage,” added the other. “The one called Konniger. We have heard of you.”
“Very well, wise man,” continued the first. “We accept your invitation. Expect us to visit you tonight at your residence.” It smiled, and the effect of a smile on those slack, dead-faced features was truly chilling. “We look forward to meeting you properly this time, sage.”
Konniger bowed again, deeper and more sincere this time, and walked away, watched by the sullen group of figures standing round the crate-laden coach. Vido risked a quick glimpse into the open doors of the cellar, seeing only more heavy wooden crates, before the cellar doors were suddenly slammed closed.
“A brief meeting,” Vido ventured as he rejoined Konniger in climbing back up into the waiting carriage. “This Tilean countess has a strange choice of household servants, but why are we so interested in her?”
“The Contessa Eleanora Daria di Argentisso,” said Konniger, savouring every nuance of the sing-song inflection of the typically Tilean-sounding words. “Widow, it would seem, of the famed Count di Argentisso of Scozzese, a small independent city-state allied to Pavona. A fascinating man, the Count of Argentisso. He travelled widely to Araby and beyond, opening up new and highly lucrative trade routes into the hitherto unknown territories of the Southlands. He was also the only man trusted by both sides in the Fifth Remas-Luccini War and succeeded in brokering a peace settlement, bringing to an end almost three centuries of unremitting hostility between the two great trading rivals.”
Konniger looked out of the window, watching the grand townhouses and spacious-gardened villas give way to a more ramshackle and crowded architecture as they left the Reikhoch eyrie and descended once more into the familiar stew of the city’s main streets. Beside him, Vido fidgeted in ill-concealed boredom. All too often, asking his master a seemingly simple question led off into some rambling discourse or lecture on the finer points of the history, culture and politics of yet another far-distant and—from Vido’s point of view, at least—completely dull and obscure region or people.
Konniger glanced back at him, reading the unspoken and impatient question in his manservant’s eyes. “What does any of this have to do with us or with the events of the past few days? Let me tell you, Vido. The Count di Argentisso died almost two hundred years ago, the victim of an outbreak of the Red Pox, and his line died out with him.” Konniger paused, savouring the look of distraught alarm on his halfling manservant’s face, before continuing.
“There are dark forces in this world, Vido. They play games amongst themselves, and see humanity as little more than pawns to be used in the secret wars they wage against each other. Some of them move more or less freely amongst us, and wear human faces and assume purloined human names and titles when it is convenient for them to do so, but we must never make the mistake of thinking that there is still any trace of humanity left in their Dark-damned souls. We saw the terrible, inhuman face of one of them two nights ago and tonight we shall see the human-looking face now worn by the same creature.
“Afterwards, with Sigmar’s blessings and protection shielding us from harm, we shall be able to judge for ourselves which of these two faces, the monstrous or the human, is the creature’s true self.”
He paused, gazing out of the carriage window again, lost deep in thought. “Inform the coachman to make greater haste. We must return with speed to our residence, Vido. There is much to be done before we are ready tonight to receive our distinguished visitor.”
Konniger sat alone in his study that night, working by the light of a solitary candle. Vido was gone, unhappily despatched on a late night but vital errand, and the sage-detective as ever savoured the solitude and peace necessary for his studies.
He had abandoned his previous work—the notes on Marco the Malicious’ spurious philosophical considerations—and now they too would join the ill-kept library of scattered research notes, half-finished treatises and incomplete scholarly projects that filled most of the floor above to near overflowing.
Konniger had no doubt that this immense collection of tantalisingly incomplete material would provide future generations of academics, bibliographers and biographers with a veritable lifetime of work, but to him it merely represented his greatest and most secret frustration. He had faced death many times and was not afraid of it, but a man could only live so long, and there were still so many books to be read and dissected. Still so much to be explored and understood. Still so many secrets and arcane riddles to be uncovered and solved. He had striven to do what he could with his life to turn back the darkness of evil and ignorance and shine the cold light of truth on the things that lay hidden in those shadows, but how much good could one man do in one brief, mortal lifetime? And what would happen—who was there to take up the torch and continue his work—on
ce he was gone?
As if summoned by this gloomy train of thought, a chill night breeze sifted through the room, even though Konniger knew that the windows were securely closed. He deliberately waited a few moments, pausing to finish the sentence he was writing. When he looked up, she was there in the room with him.
She was sitting opposite him, reclining comfortably in the plushly-upholstered divan seat that he had carefully placed there earlier this evening. She sat watching him, a slow smile playing across her crimson lips, her dark eyes as deep and tempting as a moonlit desert oasis. She wore a plunging scarlet and sable velvet brocade gown, and looked somehow timeless, as if she had just stepped living out of a portrait of a cruel and proud goddess-queen of some long-ago vanquished and forgotten civilisation. Even though he had left the holy Church of Sigmar years ago, Konniger was still a practising celibate whose only mistress was the pursuit of knowledge. Nevertheless, watching her sitting there, seeing the way she draped her long, languid form across the divan, studying the way the soft candlelight played across her pale, bloodless skin, even he understood something of the forbidden stirrings that such creatures excited in their prey.
“I assume I have the pleasure of addressing the Contessa Eleanora Daria di Argentisso?” asked Konniger, his voice calm and even.
She smiled. “That is one name which it suits me to use on occasion, but merely one amongst many.”
“So I gather,” replied Konniger, indicating the piles of yellowed manuscripts and worn-covered books on his desk. “Please excuse the shoddy and hurried nature of my research, but, as you can understand, I had little time to prepare for our meeting here tonight.”
He sifted through the scholarly debris, quickly finding what he was looking for: a piece of parchment covered in his own scribbled notes from his night’s work. Scanning his eye down the list, he began to read.
[Warhammer] - Zavant Page 12
