“Berries? You mean that poison?” Hegel smiled as he realized what his brother was about. “Clever as a crow, you are!”
Martyn swooned as he too understood what had unfolded, and his own part in it brought a massive weight pressing down on his chest. Being the only one of the three who spoke Italian he had quickly grasped that the men of Mertes-the river town across the lagoon from Venezia-intended to swindle the Grossbarts and he had done nothing to stop them, thinking it a fine come-uppance for the twins’ arson of the neighboring village. Martyn realized he should have known the Grossbarts would turn the mischief into something worse, and had he but warned either party those four dishonest but likely not murderous boatmen would not be rowing away with a venomous jug of schnapps. His greed to reach a proper city and be done with the whole affair had blinded him, and the realization brought stinging remorse to the priest’s eyes.
“Can’t all be-Where’s she goin?!” Manfried broke off mid-gloat as he noticed the woman disappear at the top of the stone steps leading away from the small dock.
“After the feedbag!” Hegel tore up the stairs with Manfried hot after him.
Cresting the stair, Hegel reeled backward and would have fallen had Manfried not been right behind him. The woman waited for them on a narrow road that sat like a ledge between the tall buildings and the canal. She tapped her foot in the most universal gesture imaginable but the Grossbarts, deciding she had no intention of flight, first went and retrieved their food, schnapps, and priest from the dock. Manfried helped Hegel lash the schnapps cask to his back and then hoisted the provisions.
Their pace and zeal greatly impeded, the trio gained the stairs where the woman waited. Despite the glow seen from the lagoon very few lights burned in this part of the city, and to frustrate them further clouds had blotted out the sky-clouds that appeared meaner than a riled Grossbart. True to its visage, the sky let them advance only a short distance before a deluge crashed down on them.
Canal and road meandered in their course, and then they saw a faint light spilling from a side road. While the woman waited in the road with her veiled face turned toward Heaven, the Grossbarts and Martyn stepped under the overhang of the covered alley. A campfire burned forty-odd paces down the tunnel, a small crowd squatting around it. Hegel and Martyn kept their eyes trained on this lot while Manfried stared at the woman, wondering how long he could bear the music of the rain alone.
“What say-” Hegel noticed his brother’s distraction, and resolving to make good after his previous blunder regarding their passage, advanced on the fire alone. “All a yous, listen up! We’s lookin for the Bar Goose.”
Gray eyes under a filthy cowl flickered up from the fire, intrigued to be addressed in the barbaric tongue of the north.
“I’ll say it once more,” said Hegel, in no mood to be ignored. “Any a yous tell us where a man name a Bar Goose has his home you might find yourself better for the honesty.”
The crutches were snatched and the gambit made.
Hegel turned back to Martyn and his brother to suggest they hurl the lot of rude beggars into the canal and commandeer their campfire. Then he noticed a loping figure had left the circle and was approaching him. Several others were lazily taking their feet, and Hegel put his hand on his pick.
“Barousse!” the beggar called, hurrying toward them. “Barousse!” again, followed by a string of foreign gibbering.
“He say Bar Goose?” Manfried asked his brother, turning back to the alley.
“And that he works for him,” said Martyn, his eyebrows creasing.
“That what he said?” asked Hegel, a report of thunder deafening him.
“Barousse!” the man shouted again, and drawing closer, he spoke in their native language. “I am a humble servant of Barousse, how may I assist you gentlemen?”
The other beggars began moving as a pack down the alley, and they all took up the call of Barousse. These shouted that they too worked for Barousse, and they should be the ones to assist. Hegel drew his pick and Manfried his mace, which stopped the gang in their rag-swaddled tracks. An especially grimy old dodger braved their wrath and shoved the man who had originally addressed them.
“Don’t trust that Arab cunny! I work for Barousse!” The new beggar shouted in passable German as his rival toppled into a puddle.
“Arab?” Hegel squinted through the rain and saw the first man’s cowl had fallen away, revealing a dark complexion and a wispy red mustache. “You an Arab?”
“Through no fault of my own!” the Arab responded, standing wearily with the help of his crutches and then lashing out at his attacker with disarming speed. The Arab feigned a punch only to kick the man in the back of the knee, and the surprised Grossbarts saw at once that instead of the usual flesh-and-bone variety the Arab possessed a wooden leg. The usurper fell to the gutter with a shout, and the one-legged Arab broke one of his crutches over the man’s back while balancing on the other.
“Come on, Arab!” Hegel laughed, marveling at their good fortune.
“Rest a yous gone.” Manfried hefted his mace at the small mob. “Get shy right quick fore we get feisty on you.”
The scrawny Arab pursed his lips in dismay at the loss of a crutch but his prone adversary’s groans were a bit of recompense. Hegel and Manfried moved in on their guide to get their first gander at a real Arab. The fellow reeked like a sick sow’s discharge, and Manfried took a healthy swig of schnapps to clear his mind and nose. The black-toothed Arab grinned at him, shuffling closer and reaching for the bottle. He knew enough to not request such boons from his betters but doubted these bristly bastards were that.
“Keep your stink to yourself,” said Manfried, “lest you wanna lose a hand in the bargain.”
“You think I… no, no, no, honest mistake, I would not presume, never, not once in all my life would I deign, in front of God and all, no, no, no.” The Arab held up his stained palms defensively, the crutch protruding from his armpit.
“Where’s the Goose roost?” Hegel asked.
“At his estate, I would imagine. Or is this a riddle? I do love-”
“Damn it, where’s his house? Estate or whatnot.” Hegel already regretted being taken in by the beggar, and vowed to Mary if he led them anywhere but to the Goose’s nest he would throttle him slow.
“Perhaps we will wait out the storm?” The Arab peered around at the torrent obscuring the alley’s mouth just behind them. “With your persuasion it is beyond the doubts of such as I that those miscreants could be enjoined to quit their fire to better allow our usage of it.”
Martyn brightened and took a step forward but Hegel stepped in front of the priest, eager to be done with the whole affair. Shaking his head, which annoyed Manfried even more than it did Martyn, Hegel motioned the rank beggar closer still. Lowering his voice, he said curtly, “We’s set to get there now-ish if it’s all the same to you, friend.”
“Hold a tic,” Manfried muttered in their code, “warmin fore the fire mightn’t-”
“No sense gettin warm just to get wet and cold again,” Hegel cut him off. “Let’s get to step.”
“If we are away in the wet,” the Arab sighed, “then let us away, for no boats will be found at this late and damp date, and by foot it is some distance. Back the way you have come, I fear.”
Their guide led them back into the street, pausing beside their thoroughly drenched female companion. Under Manfried’s careful scrutiny he tarried no further and set off in his strange gait. Passing the dock where they had landed, the Arab led them only a short distance down the street before turning inland-or so they thought. After winding through several narrow, dripping alleys they appeared before another canal. This waterway resembled the former enough for the Grossbarts to mutter back and forth about what they might do if this scoundrel was as honest as he had thus far appeared.
They crossed a bridge, and then more serpentine passages brought them to another canal, and eventually another bridge. They trudged on, only Manfried noticing tha
t the woman would have outpaced them all if Hegel’s blocky form had not impeded her. No more smiles or songs were granted him, and he wondered what her fate would be once they delivered her.
The Arab talked incessantly of the necessity of staying quiet due to the temperament and crossbow prowess of the local populace but not even Martyn could be coaxed into conversing. The priest’s arms felt number than usual, his feet throbbed, his head might be bleeding from a fall he had suffered on the dock, he had sinned to such an extent that several boatmen might find themselves at Judgment instead of their beds come morning, and he was now being chatted up by the Infidel. Father Martyn was in a bad way.
At long last they arrived at the narrowest, darkest passage yet, a tunnel disappearing into the city. After their previous encounters with those of foreign extraction the Grossbarts were ready for treachery. It struck them as conceivable if not outright likely that the Arab had led them in circles while his associates prepared an ambush.
“You tryin to get slit?” said Manfried, snatching the Arab’s hair and pressing a dagger to his throat.
The Arab let out another volley of assurances and pledges of loyalty, but he did not seem as frightened as Manfried would have liked. They continued down the alley, Manfried holding tight to the Arab’s shoulder, and rounding a bend they saw a house as big as a monastery looming behind a thick wall. The Arab wished another lightning flash would make their arrival even more impressive but the storm had gone. Manfried released him and whistled, Martyn clucked at the uncharitable display of wealth, and Hegel farted, trying to conceal his awe.
A large metal gate separated the massive house and its property from the alley, and through the bars they saw two figures beside a small fire. They must have heard something, quickly pointing crossbows into the darkness where the Grossbarts stood. Before Manfried could further chastise himself for trusting a known Arab one of the guards shouted, bringing five more stout individuals running from somewhere inside the walls. These men also carried crossbows, all of which soon pointed into the alley.
Several of the guards were barking in Italian and Martyn quickly stepped into the light as he responded in their language. The woman moved forward beside him but Manfried did not notice, busy as he was gripping one of the Arab’s arms while his brother held the other. In their free hands each held his favored tool, and Manfried put the question to the Arab:
“You in on this?”
“Never. No no no.” The Arab shook his head vigorously.
“Time to test his honesty,” Manfried told his brother and brazenly dragged him into the light. Not about to doubt his brother now, Hegel stepped in tandem with him, and they emerged from the darkness. The guards became even more agitated at the sight of two burly men with weapons detaining a very excited beggar and a veiled woman clad in a soaking dress.
“Fine welcome,” Hegel said, more to the men than to his brother.
“Suppose we could take our company to more accommodatin climes,” said Manfried, spitting a clod of phlegm at the guards.
The banter dried in Manfried’s mouth at the realization that, in the event this indeed proved home to the Goose, he might never see the maiden again. If it got him closer to Gyptland it could not be helped, but to be fleeced of her after all the trouble they had gone through would not be tolerated. His grip tightened on both his captive and his weapon. The Arab and Martyn went conspicuously silent but Hegel’s voice rose in direct proportion to those of the men gibbering at him in their tongue.
“I hear one a yous say Ennio? Yeah, I knew the cunt. He’s dead. Dead, you jabberin fucker!” Hegel stood proud while Martyn squatted down until his forehead and bandaged arms brushed his thighs in mock prayer-out of the line of crossbow fire, he hoped. The Arab squirmed enough that the Brothers released him of their own accord, and he lamented his folly for not demanding payment in advance.
“You say my brother’s dead?” A new man stepped forward and opened the gate, his clothes clean and colorful. In one hand he held a thin sword and in the other a bottle.
“Yeah, sad to say, but he died better than he lived,” responded Hegel, put off by the man’s fancy dress but heartened by his mastery of the proper tongue. They held eye contact for a long time before the man looked away.
“Difficult to believe.” The man took a pull from his bottle, said something unintelligible, and waved his sword in front of the guards’ crossbows. They lowered their weapons and the man lowered his head, rubbing his brow. “Too much to hope Alphonse and Giacomo stopped to drink before coming here?”
“Dunno why you’d hope such worthless trash as they’d survive a ordeal what kilt a better man,” said Manfried.
“Worthless?” The man raised his head, glaring at Manfried.
“Can’t speak with equal authority on the other, but old Poncey good as gutted your brother. Al Ponce paid his price, though, and as the other’s kin a his, no water oughta be leaked on his account, neither.” Manfried crossed his arms.
“He killed Ennio?”
“Had he three blades he would a tried to plant’em in each a our backs,” Hegel explained. “Too weak to do it himself, tried to make a deal so’s we’d get ours but he wouldn’t get his.”
“Lies,” the man spit.
“Callin us liars?” Manfried stepped forward. “Us? Watch that mouth a yours, grapesipper, or I’ll put it where you can better mind it.”
With a swish of a sword the crossbows were raised and the Arab stepped behind the distracted Hegel. Ennio’s brother yelled in his language at them, his face bright red. Finishing, he panted and stared, the only noise the fire guttering in the wind. Hegel sensed things might worsen if perspective was not reestablished, and, too involved to notice what the Arab was about behind him, he shouted back at the man:
“Listen! We done what we could for your brother and if it weren’t enough that’s the Virgin’s business! But we did come all the damn way to deliver this Goose’s property, and that’s what we done, so any pigshit you wanna stir in the mix can wait til we’s compensated. My hair’s gone, priest’s been shot full a more shafts than a fair-haired whore come harvest, and we’s in no mood to explain our own righteous fuckin actions at arrowpoint, so calm your dogs! Mecky fuckin gratitude for us what killed a demon in the name a savin your brother!”
“Then get called fuckin liars for stickin the blame on the mecky sap what let the demon in!” Manfried added, nodding at his brother.
“Property… you mean…” The man spoke slowly, his burgundy cheeks fading to a pearly yellow as he finally took stock of the woman standing patiently beside them. “This is her?”
“Course she’s the one, you thick clot,” said Hegel. “Don’t think we wasted weeks comin down here just to get on your teats!”
The man said something in what the Brothers finally realized must be Italian and swayed slightly before shaking himself and straightening his shoulders. After a pause he again flicked his sword and the crossbows sagged, the men grumbling to one another. He turned and walked under the gate before sitting heavily on the ground. While he sat there cradling his head in his hands, the Grossbarts carried on in their private tongue.
“What you make a this?” Hegel asked.
“Bunch a shit.”
“Yeah, but what kind?”
“The worst sort. This one’s more a ponce than his brother,” said Manfried.
“But not so much’s Al Ponce.”
“Never should a come here.”
“Yeah, I bet you’d have other plans for that feedbag.”
“Sure turned out to be a feedbag, alright. Thanks for remindin me whose idea it was to come here!” Manfried elbowed Hegel.
“Keen on, the dandy returns.”
“Tonight you stay here,” the man said. “Clean yourselves and sleep, and tomorrow we determine exactly what you are due. Come inside with what is yours, I will see the lady to her place. I am Rodrigo, and I will have your names before you enter.” Rodrigo’s eyes drifting back to the woman,
he spit an order at one of the least grungy guards, who in turn hurried around inside the gate.
“Manfried,” said Manfried.
“Hegel,” said Hegel.
“Grossbart,” they said together.
“Father Martyn,” said the priest, finally reentering the conversation now that it had calmed.
“Al-Gassur Abu-Yateem Thanni ibn Farees,” said the Arab, appearing from behind Hegel and the Grossbart-mounted schnapps cask, from which he had filched while the debate raged.
“What are you doing back, you miserable sandrat?” Rodrigo demanded, too put out to revert to the lingua Italia. “When we dismissed you onto the street instead of into a canal it was a boon circumstantial on your not returning.”
“I would never offend you or your master, and will leave as soon as payment is received for my efforts,” Al-Gassur hiccupped.
“Payment?” Hegel turned to the Arab. “You said you’s the Goose’s servant.”
“I serve him by bringing you here, just as you serve him by coming. If I am correct in comprehending your statements, dear Grossbart, if you request recompense for your toils then is it not only honest that I receive them for mine?”
“A matter to be taken up with the Goose, not us, as we ourselves will do stead a pesterin others in the same predicament,” observed Manfried.
“Away, Arab, before your presence brings my wine back to the open air.” Rodrigo flicked his fingers at Al-Gassur.
“Course,” Manfried said, “comin into our employ wouldn’t be too difficult, say a bottle a fortnight to be our servant?”
“Agreed, oh charitable masters.” Al-Gassur sneered at Rodrigo.
“What game are you at?” said Rodrigo, asking Hegel’s question for him.
Manfried shrugged. “Our business is our own.” When torn between infuriating a ponce and a beggar he would choose the ponce every time.
“He sleeps with the swine,” said Rodrigo. “The rest of you will meet with me on the morrow. Go with him, now.” Rodrigo gestured to a gaunt old man who had returned with the guard he had earlier sent off.
The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart Page 22
