[Angelika Fleischer 01] - Honour of the Grave

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  Angelika told Max who Lukas was, and briefly told of their exploits of the last few days. Max knew the brothers; it was he who’d sold them Claus’ pendant, and pointed them to Angelika. “You aren’t ever going to do that again, are you, Max?” she said. “Send armed men my way?”

  Max perspired. “They assured me they meant to hire you! I thought I was doing you a favour!”

  She unclenched her fist and shook her head slowly. “Never again.”

  Max nodded. “No, never, of course.”

  She turned to Franziskus. “So do the brothers know that Lukas is inside?”

  “I haven’t been able to establish it myself, though I assume so. I believe they passed by, found one of their father’s regiments, and asserted rights of command.”

  “Of course.” Realising she was too cramped on the bench, she shifted to the floor, which was covered by a worn rug from far-off Araby. “After failing to secure Lukas, they need to make good.”

  “Perhaps Davio can trade him, if they agree to attack some other border prince instead,” mused Max, placing a tin pot on top of his stove.

  Angelika screwed up her face. “I am not proud to say this…”

  “What?” said Franziskus.

  She couldn’t look at him. “We can’t let that happen. Can we?”

  “I knew you would see right eventually, Angelika.”

  “Remove that grin from your face. Even if it was right to hand him to Davio, which I now doubt, the entire idea was to protect him from his family. Now they’re about to snatch him anyway.”

  “Unless we do something about it?”

  “You stay here. I made the mistake; I can’t ask you to risk your neck correcting it.”

  Franziskus rose from the bench, careful not to smash his head on the roof. “Keep those toddies warm for us, Max,” he said.

  They jumped from the cart. The noise of the throng had sharpened. Franziskus put his hands to his face.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Orcs don’t hole up in fortresses or towns, so sieges are rare these days,” Angelika said, pushing past a toothy, furtive soldier with a live goat kid slung over his shoulder. The frightened animal gave her an imploring look. “When one does come along, everyone wants to get in on it.”

  They stepped through a group of a dozen women, with faces crudely rouged, who bent to tap tent pegs into the ground. Franziskus’ mouth fell open. One of the tent builders, a heavy-bosomed, curly-haired specimen who could have been his mother’s older sister, parted her painted lips to leer at him. “Fancy a tumble?” she asked.

  Franziskus shivered and waved his hand in front of his face. They made their way through the tents.

  “Perhaps I’m naive…” he began.

  “You are,” Angelika affirmed.

  “But these people—they are acting as if this is some kind of carnival.”

  “Better than a carnival, if you’re a woman of trade. A man’s ardour is never greater than when he thinks he might die—or after he has killed.”

  “It’s ghastly.”

  “If their presence keeps a few soldiers from taking their urges out on the unwilling, I say we pin medals on them. Though I doubt this Jurgen will be so inclined.”

  Sticking to the outskirts of the throng thereby avoiding the soldiers in the middle, Angelika and Franziskus wended past a crew of soldiers erecting a makeshift shrine to steely Sigmar, made of scrap pine and topped with a pewter-headed hammer; a hawker toting a basket of puckered, wormy apples; and a sneaky-eyed girl intently studying the purses of passersby. They smelled cooked meat, flatulence, urine, straw, perfume, wood smoke and the stink of gangrene. They heard laughs, shouts, sobs, curses, the twanging of a lute, the banging of drums and a choking noise the origin of which they could not identify.

  They skirted a checkpoint, moving upstream through the oncoming column of escapees. A shout rang out after them. They kept going; the voice grew louder and more insistent. It was a soldier, his breastplate smeared with dried mud, the creases of his face accentuated by caked-in grime. His narrow eyes huddled close to the bridge of his long nose; his open mouth revealed a conspicuous pair of buck teeth, like the chewers on a rat. “Halt, you!” he called, waving a short staff with steel-shod tip. “Come here!”

  Angelika let him come to them. When he reached them, she said, “What?”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Into the Castello. Why?”

  “Did you not see our checkpoint?” He slapped his staff into the curled fingers of his hand.

  “You’re checking people coming out. We’re going in.”

  “This whole area is under Imperial aegis.” His tongue clicked against the backs of his rat-teeth. “You can’t just come and go—in either direction.”

  Twin fabric epaulets, flared and feather-shaped, hugged the shoulders of his tunic. Franziskus seized them, jerking Rat-Teeth’s face into his own. “You idiot!” Franziskus hissed, through bared teeth. “Do you not know who I am?”

  The soldier’s eyes darted fearfully across Franziskus’ face in search of an answer. His lips worked silently up and down.

  Franziskus pulled the man closer. “I asked you a question, you useless chunk of dung!”

  “I—I—”

  “Tell me, soldier, who I am!”

  “Ah, you are—you must be—you are one of them, aren’t you, ah—sir!”

  “One of them?” Franziskus thundered. “One of them who?”

  “Oh—ah—oh—ah—oh sir, you know. Please don’t make me say. I’m sorry sir—oh, so sorry. It’s all so confusing here, this press of people.” He altered his tone, dropping the officious clipping of his consonants in favour of a porridgey peasant accent. “I’m just a poor lowly muck-tramper, please, I don’t deserve no flogging! Besides, you want us to challenge everyone, yes? This is a test, yes? You don’t want any people who aren’t supposed to be getting through, getting through, do you?”

  “You presume to tell me what I want from you?”

  “Oh, ah—no, no, oh sir, no. No. Please don’t…”

  Franziskus pushed him away. The soldier’s boots skidded backwards and squished into the cold muck. “Then go about your business,” Franziskus growled, “and consider yourself lucky I’m in a merciful mood!”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” he said, still backing away. He returned to his station, deliberately looking anywhere but at them as they continued through the crowd.

  “Well,” said Angelika, as they dodged a pair of short, stubble-faced men in knit caps, carrying a rolled-up carpet. “I see you have quite the talent for the cowing of underlings.”

  “Mrm,” Franziskus replied.

  “Your breeding comes to the fore, hmm?”

  Franziskus said nothing.

  When they got to the town gates, they saw that they were propped wide open. The bottlenecked crowd groaned with collective complaint as some of its members squeezed through, laden with property. Once free of the crush, Angelika spotted the guardsman, old Halfhead, leaning against a wall, an upturned bottle of rotgut glugging down into his mouth. She waved, and Halfhead rubbed the dribble from his lips. He held the bottle out to her. Smelling his breath, she declined.

  Angelika watched the crowd struggle its way past the gates and said, “I had no idea there were so many people in this louse-ridden town.”

  “Me neither,” Halfhead answered. He offered a swig to Franziskus, who held up a hand of polite refusal.

  “You’re staying to fight?” Angelika asked the gatekeeper.

  “I got nowhere better to go. And nobody I’d sooner stick my sword into than the type of swine who’d swear themselves loyal to von Kopfs’ ilk.”

  “Well, I know a thing or two about the Kopfs the prince ought to hear. Can you take me to him?”

  Carefully he set the bottle down on the ground, propped against the wall. He made sure it was steady before turning to leave. “I’m not supposed to leave my post, but right no
w, what does it matter?”

  Halfhead threaded them through the winding lanes of the town. Finally they approached a large structure, jutting out from the rock face that formed the Castello’s only impenetrable wall. The manor of Prince Davio Maurizzi teetered three storeys high; it was built of black and weathered timber. Wooden steps led up to a large porch, decorated with railings of thick and crudely worked iron. Plaster gargoyles, their once-hissing faces chipped and flattened, sat together in peevish disarray, piled in a far corner of the porch. A roughly stitched ensign hung from an awning; it depicted the walls of a fortress silhouetted by a setting sun. Wrought-iron gates separated the prince’s manor from the rest of his town; they encircled a dismal expanse of dead grass inhabited by a broken fountain, and by a quartet of old statues, which depicted naked ancients, seated on plinths, bereft of heads, arms and privates.

  Two men in mismatched armour of hardened leather paced the length of the porch. Halfhead gestured for Angelika and Franziskus to remain at the gate, and went up to confer with them. The taller of the two guards shrugged fatalistically, and Halfhead beckoned for Angelika and Franziskus to approach. The tall guard disappeared through the oversized front door, hammered out of iron, with stylised lion faces marked out with nails and studs. Soon the door popped open again, and they were ushered into a tiny foyer that smelled of old leather and damp socks. From there they entered a large chamber dominated by a long oaken table and a dozen chairs, all splendid, but each of a different design.

  “Sit down,” said the guard, leaving the room to trudge up a creaking staircase of unfinished planking. Halfhead, it seemed, had already departed.

  Angelika took a seat, next to the table’s head. Franziskus surveyed the contents of the room. Its walls were decorated in brocaded fabric, most crimson or burgundy in colour. It hung from the ceiling mouldings on short lengths of wire. Burning wood glowed white and orange in a fireplace, framed by a mantle of iron. Franziskus approached a towering cabinet of pale polished elfwood, and toyed with the handles of its cupboards, wondering whether to open them.

  “So—you have news for me,” came a smoke-soft voice from the foot of the raw and splintering staircase. “Of the von Kopfs, was it?” His Tilean accent was subtle, and could be heard mostly as a drifting lilt behind his words.

  Angelika had never seen the prince before, but from his bearing, she could tell that this was he. His elbows stuck out, adding majesty to his narrow frame. Downy hair, the colour and length of a mouse’s, covered his wide-crowned head. Round ears angled out and forward from his skull; they should have seemed humorous, but instead suggested a pinprick alertness. Well-earned lines had etched themselves around the comers of his mouth and nose. Despite the weary semi-circles beneath them, his grey eyes shone piercingly at Angelika. For Franziskus, he spared only the briefest of glances.

  He wore a fox-trimmed coat that draped down to his ankles, over a long shirt covering him to mid-thigh. It was wrinkled, and Angelika surmised that he’d just been sleeping in it. Velvet slippers, in royal purple, swaddled his feet, which were big and shaped like the paddles of oars. He stepped further toward the room but stopped at its threshold, leaning against its doorless archway. He bobbed his narrow chin at Angelika, bidding her to speak.

  “I’ve spent the past few days,” she said, “on and off, in the company of two Kopfs, who were undertaking a mission for their father. But maybe you know of this, already.”

  He blinked and shook his head. Angelika admired his skill as a liar; most men made too great a show of their denials, but Davio’s was both bland and plausible. “Perhaps you can begin by telling me who you are.”

  “I am Angelika Fleischer. This is my assistant, Franziskus.”

  “Please feel free to continue.”

  “When I agreed to help the Kopfs, I was unaware of their hostility toward you. Over these past few weeks, this place has been a good and congenial home to me. I’ve no wish for Jurgen’s sons to turn it into a pile of tindersticks.”

  He seemed to make a decision, and entered the room, moving to the cabinet. “Brandy? I have a bottle from Angoumelle, just north of Chalons Forest. It is very fine.”

  “Yes, please,” Angelika said.

  “And you?”

  Franziskus refused, pulling out a chair from the foot of the table and sitting in it. The prince curled his lip mournfully. He pried off the cork and poured generous portions into two clay cups. He handed the first to Angelika and watched solicitously as she tasted. Her eyes widened in appreciation. Then Davio sat, downed his entire cup, rose, refilled it, and sat down again.

  She leaned in toward him. It was as if he exerted gravity on her.

  “I am glad for your concern,” he said, “but I assure you the Castello is in no danger whatever.”

  “The hundreds of people fleeing your town seem to disagree.”

  “It is mere politics. The Averlanders, they wish to squeeze us, and they will—a little. They must be seen to act. It is all a show, for the other princes. Prow-faced Jurgen will pursue his siege for a season, at the most. When he finds our shells harder to crack than he expected, he’ll declare his objectives met and he’ll withdraw. Sooner or later, the bright light of reason will crack through even his sturdy Imperial skull.

  “We have stores in abundance. Those who now flee, to be fleeced by the black and yellows, they will learn that they were fools. Even the Kopfs aren’t mad enough to waste men and munitions, with the orcs about to come steaming up from the south. It is surely a bluff.”

  “Though endearing, your faith in your opponent’s good sense is perhaps misguided.”

  “Mere alarmism,” he mumbled, laying his arms out on the table and slumping his head sleepily onto them. A strong urge overcame Angelika to pet the fur of Davio’s collar, and to run her hands along his muscular back.

  “We’ve interrupted your slumber?” she asked him.

  “Pay me no heed,” he said, straightening himself back up. “Ever since this foolishness began, I have drifted unpredictably between sleep and waking. But you have taken the trouble to come and see me. Please unburden yourself of your tidings.”

  Angelika started as he suddenly jolted to his feet. He refilled his cup and topped off hers. “It is about Lukas von Kopf,” she said.

  “Lukas?” He sipped his Angoumelle. “There are so many of them, it is hard to keep track.”

  “You know—the one you ordered to be kidnapped.”

  She had never seen anyone raise an eyebrow as slowly as Davio did then. “I had some person abducted? No one informed me of this.”

  “Your hirelings say otherwise.”

  “Which hirelings would these be?”

  “The elf and the two halflings.”

  “I have neither elves nor halflings in my employ. You’ve been led astray.” He inhaled imperiously.

  “You don’t need to deny it to me. The last thing I intend is to give him over to the Kopfs. All I want is to get him out of here and far away from them. As you know, they’ll kill him, if they get him.”

  He peered into her face. “You are a lovely creature but you baffle me, utterly.”

  “And you are handsome, but there’s no time for your denials. Take me to him, and you have my word I’ll never tell anyone of your part in this.”

  Prince Davio twisted in his chair, to appraise Franziskus. “We have much to puzzle out. Is there a reason why your assistant should be here for the rest of this conversation?”

  “He’s more trustworthy than I am, if that’s what worries you.”

  “No offence, my friend,” he said to Franziskus, “but I find your presence inhibiting.” He turned to Angelika. “An even rarer vintage of Angoumelle waits for us in my chambers, upstairs. Perhaps you would like to sample it?”

  Franziskus scraped his chair angrily across the clay tile flooring. The sound made Angelika wince.

  She rose. “I believe I will,” she said.

  She moved to the doorway. Franziskus pulled her back into th
e room. She removed his hand from her arm. Assuming a sheepish expression, he stepped back.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “What it looks like I’m doing.”

  “Is anything wrong?” Davio asked, with extreme mildness.

  “My dogsbody has forgotten his place,” Angelika said, brushing past Franziskus. “But it’s nothing to concern ourselves with.” Head high, she ascended the stairs. Davio sneaked a glance at Franziskus before following her.

  Candles of various heights appointed the princely bedchamber. They stood on tall sticks of brass or terracotta, on nearly every surface: on a bedside table, a desk, a squat liquor cabinet inlaid in the old Nulnish style. Brocade curtains hung around Davio’s bed, from a frame of copper piping. The room smelled of burnt wax and perspiration.

  Fire burned in a small iron stove; Davio used it to light a taper. He lit the candles. When he had finished, Angelika came up from behind him and pulled his coat from his shoulders, letting it drop into a pile at his feet. She wrapped her arms around him and ran the tips of her fingers along the tight muscles of his chest. He caught her right hand by the wrist and pulled it to his mouth. He kissed the wrist, her palm, the back of her hand. He gently bit her fingers.

  She turned him around and pulled the shirt over his head.

  Franziskus paced. He looked up at the ceiling. He heard the creaking of floorboards. He tried to guess where the bed might be. He decided he did not want to hear any more. He stormed out onto the porch.

  The guards were laughing, rudely gesturing: clearly, they were speculating about what precisely was happening upstairs. Franziskus summoned up all of his aristocratic authority and disdain, and his throat. They stopped, looking suitably abashed.

  “Tell Angelika, when she asks for me, that I have gone to the Painful Coffin.”

  They nodded. He proceeded down the porch and over the garden stones until he reached the gate. He disengaged it from its latch and stepped through it. Behind him, he heard blunted, throaty laughter.