The town lay on flat land, and from Angelika’s vantage point, it was hard to judge just how big it was. It had to be seven or eight times the size of the Castello, at the very least.
Paired towers flanked the south gate, topped with shingled, pyramidal roofs; soldiers stood watch beneath them, and peered through spyglasses. At the bottom of the walls, a miserable assortment of refugees, undoubtedly from the Castello, huddled, shivering against the wind. When they saw the column approach, a few ran out, shouting unintelligible pleas. They held out clawed hands in supplication. A grimy-haired woman held up a wailing baby, crying mercy in Shallya’s name. But when they saw the black and yellow uniforms, the displaced shrank back, averting their wretched faces. Above, a trio of callow bravos in brocade doublets gathered, laughing; they rained the contents of a chamber pot down on the refugees and leapt about in delight and mutual congratulation.
At the procession’s head, a soldier bugled out a few discordant notes on a battered brass horn, and another held aloft the Black Sabre banner. The gate’s massive oaken doors immediately began a deliberate, drowsy swing inwards. By the time the formation had reached the entrance, it was able to pass through without slowing. A pair of fleet-footed evacuees made a dash for the gate and slipped in, disappearing into the city.
The gate opened onto a square, paved with stone that matched the walls. The stones had been quarried skillfully, and were clearly well maintained; none were uneven or missing, and the horses clopped easily over them. Vendors had arranged their carts and colourful canvas stalls along the inner walls, but now, in anticipation of the coming storm, they were scurrying to stow their wares. A stone statue stood on a bronze plinth in the middle of the square, depicting one of Count Leitdorf’s recent ancestors. He held a sword and shield out before him. A bronze nameplate on the plinth identified the stony warrior as Parzival Leitdorf. Weathering had already softened the statue’s features, and pigeons had been at it, making it look as if it were crying chalk-white tears.
Though she’d skirted Grenzstadt’s walls a few times, Angelika had never ventured inside them. The town looked grander than she’d thought it would. She’d expected gloom and decay; her image of the place had been all teetering structures and peeling paint. Instead, she beheld carefully tended buildings that stood with impeccable posture. It made sense, now that she saw it; she knew that the town’s coffers bulged with coin. Everyone knew that Grenzstadt was the bulwark between the Empire and the borderlands, and that it served as way-station for all troops mustering for southward campaigns. It supplied quartermasters with bread and sausage.
The people here repaired breastplates, sharpened swords, and filled gun barrels with shot and powder. Here, soldiers who were waiting to fight and die spent their meagre pay on rum, dice games, and the momentary company of painted women.
Angelika knew that the town had money because most of the things she found on dead soldiers made their way here, to be resold. Her prime customer, Max, kept a shop somewhere in the town. Many of the people who bought from him were soldiers themselves. Sometimes she wondered, when plucking a gold chain or jewelled ring from a slain gunner or halberdier, whether she hadn’t already liberated the exact same piece from a previous dead man.
She savoured this reassuring cynicism, then moved on to consider the greater importance of the town. It would be very inconvenient indeed if the orcs took Grenzstadt, seeing as it stood as the Empire’s final line of defence against the green-skinned marauders. Angelika knew her history: more than once, the orcs had made their howling way all the way up the pass, butchering their way through one Imperial regiment after another, only to fall before the town’s stout walls, and the cannons bristling from its ramparts. Without Grenzstadt, the whole of the Blackfire would become orcish territory, and the battle lines would move far to the north. She might find herself plying her trade near the scorched ruins of Averheim, or even Nuln itself. On second thoughts, this was not unlike the situation now. It would just be a matter of plying her trade in another location—so long as she wasn’t in the town when it fell. She tested her manacles, only to find them as secure as ever.
The procession of Sabres continued out of the square into a wide lane, past a succession of barracks and garrisons, sprawling and low-slung. Lanterns marked out the edges of their shuttered windows. Narrower lanes, lined by tall, gabled structures, intersected the wider road they travelled on. Some of the buildings would be shops, with cramped living quarters on the floors above them. Others would be the manses of wealthy burghers and minor nobles. The townsfolk had deserted the streets, and for good reason: cold, hard drops of rain had begun to pelt down, like a scouting party for the deluge to come.
A shout rang out from the head of the column, as it turned into a cobbled courtyard, through an open, iron gate in a waist-height slate wall. A towering manse of black oak and stucco loomed up from its centre; a pair of stone barracks stood on either side of it. At the back of these buildings, Angelika noted, was a stable complex and a collection of sheds, all made from planks that still bore the colour of fresh pine.
A duo of servants with stooping shoulders, in black velvet livery, scuttled quickly to clang the gates shut as the last of the horsemen passed through. Their cuffs and collars, which would be laced and frilly in most households, were made from coarse animal fur, perhaps a bear’s.
The Sabres at the front and rear broke formation and dismounted, but those around Angelika and Franziskus remained in place. Benno and Gelfrat approached; the first held himself at a remove while his bigger sibling strode up beside Renald’s horse. With an attitude of bored impatience, Gelfrat wiggled the fingers of his gloved right hand at the men. In response to this, the soldier closest to Angelika seized her by the collar of her tunic and yanked her sideways, off the horse. Arms out and feet spread wide, Gelfrat caught her without apparent effort and set her roughly on her feet. Renald, who had unsaddled himself, knelt before her to shackle her ankles once more. Franziskus received the same treatment—shoved, caught, and chained—and then the two of them were prodded toward the manse with the butts of spears. One of the soldiers took particular relish in jabbing Angelika between the shoulder blades, even when she moved as quickly as her shackles would allow. She memorised his doughy features, for future reference.
They shuffled across the cobblestones around the manse, until they reached a servants’ entrance on the other side, where a trio of unpainted wooden steps led up to an unornamented steel door. Benno tugged sharply on a bell-pull. After a minute or so, the door opened. Impelled onward by sharp prods to their backs, Angelika and Franziskus stumbled inside and, hindered by the shackles, had to fight their way up a set of shallow, well-worn wooden stairs. From there, they were nudged into a great hall, with vaulted ceilings braced in rare black elfwood, that were at least twenty feet high. The walls of the rectangular chamber were done in the timelessly fashionable beam-and-stucco style, and were decorated with oversized, ornamental silver serving trays. The cavernous hall extended for a hundred feet or more, and Angelika counted more than two score of these expensive plates. She sometimes found smaller display plates on the corpses she looted, and had learned a thing or two about them: even a cursory glance told her that many of these pieces were relics of the ancient civilisations, and would command high prices. All told, the collection would be worth many thousands of crowns.
A polished oaken table, perhaps eighty feet long, stood right at the centre of the chamber, confidently asserting its owner’s affluence. Two dozen chairs, their backs intricately carved with scenes of aristocratic hunters spearing boars from horseback, sat to attention along each of the table’s sides. Furnishings were beyond Angelika’s expertise, but it did not take a sage to know that these were also pieces of great value.
She looked at Benno and Gelfrat, and saw that they beheld the high ceilings and silver plates and intimidating dining set with a slack-jawed awe that dwarfed even hers. This was not the kind of place, it was plain to see, where they were norma
lly made welcome. The only jaded eye in the room belonged to Franziskus; he sniffed, taking in the display of wealth with a look of mild distaste.
With delicate care, Benno took one of the chairs and moved it out for Angelika to sit on. After a moment’s hesitation, she obeyed. He then did the same for Franziskus, who slid his chair up to the table just as a tall, confident figure appeared on a landing, at the head of a staircase on the room’s far side.
He held his shoulders regally aloft, and swept down the steps, a plain black half-cape flowing behind him. He stood six-foot-three, with a wide chest, narrow hips, and long, sinewy legs. He wore a black shirt beneath a black, collared coat, chased with silver braid and buttons. His trousers were black, his boots were black, and his buckles silver. With his deep, wide jaw and pockmarked skin, his face reminded Angelika of a ship’s prow, pitted by generations of barnacles.
Slitted eyes hid behind suspicious ridges of bone. Deep creases ran up his cheeks from just above his jaw. His hands were large—the size of paddles; he took a prolonged moment to ostentatiously crack his blocky knuckles. Spine erect, movements graceful, he stepped down the precise centre of the staircase. No announcement was required: this was Jurgen von Kopf.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, examining Angelika and Franziskus. His large hands floated to his belt, where, without breaking stride or taking his eyes from his prisoners, he located a pair of black gloves and rolled them on. Boot heels clicked on the clay tile floor as he theatrically traversed the length of his great hall, to seat himself across from Angelika.
“You know where my son is,” he said. His voice was low, and rumbly; it was flecked with steel. He clipped the ends of his words, as if any other manner of speaking would be profligate.
“As I told your other sons, I don’t,” Angelika replied. “Though I enjoyed your grand entrance. Very dramatic; were you an actor at one time?”
He curled his upper lip, showing sharp white teeth. He nodded to Gelfrat, who placed his palm on the back of Angelika’s head and pushed it down until her face was pressed hard against the polished surface of the table. Despite herself, she gasped in pain.
“Tell me where my son is,” Jurgen said.
“Flattening my face won’t give me miraculous oracular powers.”
Gelfrat pushed harder.
She made choking noises until he eased off. “I’m no fool. I don’t want to be tortured. If I knew, I’d say.”
“I know some of what has transpired. Benno had a message relayed to me.” He pronounced his bastard son’s name with a notably chilly tone. Angelika regretted that she couldn’t see Benno’s reaction. “You claim that one of those so-called princes of the borderland has him.”
“The one whose town you had flattened—Davio Maurizzi.”
“On another occasion,” Jurgen said, “I might meditate upon the irony of a guttersnipe such as yourself daring to reproach the actions of a Jurgen von Kopf. However, at present, I am permitted no such luxury. You will fully recount the extent of your interactions with the boy, and then tell me how we might go about laying our hands upon him.” He tapped the tops of his fingers into the palm of his left hand. When Gelfrat failed to interpret the meaning of his gesture, Jurgen cleared his throat.
Gelfrat removed his hand from her head and stepped back.
Angelika sat up, rubbing her face. Her chair creaked. She could think of no good reason to deceive von Kopf, aside from the good feeling it would give her, so she told the truth. She began with her discovery of Claus’ body, and concluded with her capture by Benno’s men. Her best touch, she thought, was the light and offhanded manner in which she described the battle with the Chaos creatures. Even Jurgen had to raise an eyebrow at that.
When it was clear that she’d finished, he asked, “So you persist in your contention that you have no idea of his present whereabouts?”
“No. But if you let me and Franziskus go, we have a better chance of finding him than you and yours. I’ll consider doing it, for a fee of six hundred crowns, and a pledge that no harm comes to him.”
Jurgen’s laugh sounded like crinkling paper.
“Five hundred crowns, then.”
“You give a curious account of yourself,” Jurgen said. “A looter with a conscience. Or part of one, at least.” He stood, placing the tips of his fingers on the rich wood of his table-top. “The contradictions and hesitations with which you salt your tale lend it the odour of truth. Though I am inclined to believe you, I must be certain. I cannot help noticing that an array of scars and contusions mars your rude beauty. Perhaps, then, you already know what it is like to be tortured.” His smile called only on the muscles closest to his mouth; the rest of his face remained stonily immobile. “Before I have my experts proceed with you—”
A commotion arose behind a set of tall, carved doors at the end of the room. Remembering the mansion’s layout, Angelika knew that they would lead into the foyer. Jurgen turned toward the sound, flushed with annoyance. The sounds stopped, and he turned back to her, opening his mouth to speak. Then the doors swung open.
A servant, balding, a snowy ruff of hair around his ears, slipped through the doors and then closed them again. With downcast eyes, he snivelled into the room, trembling. Before he was more than ten feet across the long chamber, Jurgen barked at him, and he halted.
“You have been warned that this meeting was not to be interrupted,” Jurgen said.
“I assure you I utterly understand sir, but there is an arrival of an urgent—he would not be deterred, and he asserted, asserted considerable—”
“Who dares?” Jurgen demanded.
The doors opened. A short, potbellied man stood behind them. He watched them move as if surprised that putting pressure on hinged doors causes them to swing open.
A light dusting of powder whitened the man’s face; rouge, judiciously applied, brightened his cheeks. Most of his eyebrows had been plucked away, and replaced with thin, elegantly curving lines drawn with a grease pencil. The same pencil emphasized a beauty mark northwest of the intruder’s straight and unobtrusive nose. In contrast to his round, generous torso, his face was gaunt; his chin receded and his cheeks, beneath the make-up, were sunken. His hair had achieved a purity of blackness possible only through prolonged dyeing; a trio of ringlets, curled like the tails of baby pigs, lay against his forehead. A velvet chapeau, in blue and gold, angled itself across his head; it was like a pill hat, but with an upturned brim, trimmed in lace. He wore a jacket of sky-blue silk, intricately embroidered with golden thread, over a golden vest with trim that matched the jacket. His trousers, which terminated just below the knee, matched his vest; even his stockings were adorned with twin ribbons of blue and gold. Angelika could not help but compute the resale value of the dozen carved-ivory buttons that decorated his coat, or the diamond-inlaid silver buckles on his thick-heeled leather shoes.
“Brucke,” Jurgen said, by way of greeting. He’d drained the anger from his voice, but Angelika saw that his left fist, which was held behind his back, stayed taut inside its leather glove.
This Brucke, whoever he was, cast a bored but questioning look in the direction of Angelika and Franziskus. “Ah,” he said.
“My man here will escort you to the drawing room,” said Jurgen, “where, when I have disposed with some business here, we may discuss whatever it is you wish to—”
Brucke threw up manicured hands. “I refuse to inconvenience you.” He drew a chair from the table’s corner and sat himself in it. He plunked his meagre chin into his hand and gazed vacuously at one of Jurgen’s display plates. “Please, continue.”
Jurgen glared at him.
After holding von Kopf’s attention for what felt to Angelika like a full minute, Brucke dryly smacked his lips and said, “It’s just that I heard that a procession had come into town. I thought I might be the first to congratulate you on the safe return of your dear son, Lukas.”
“He is not here.”
“Oh,” Brucke said, but not in
a surprised tone.
“Let us not discuss this in the presence of inferiors.”
Brucke waggled dismissive fingers at this notion. Jurgen’s jaw stiffened. Brucke stood up and approached the two prisoners. “These are witnesses, then? Perhaps they can help you find him? Oh, but I see they are shackled.” He gazed deeply into Franziskus’ eyes. “You did not bring the boy to harm, I hope.”
Franziskus, looking past the interloper’s shoulder, read Jurgen’s ever-stiffening expression, and declined to reply to the powdered man.
“Brucke,” Jurgen said, “if you’ve come to hear a report on the progress of my efforts, I’ll of course tell you all that you wish to know. Any fact pertaining to my absent son is, however, strictly within my private purview—it is a household matter.”
Brucke moved, lowering himself into the chair Jurgen had just vacated. He folded his wrinkled hands together. He faced Angelika, but looked through her rather than at her. “But while the count is indisposed, and you prosecute the war for him, your reputation and that of Averland are inseparable,” he said.
Von Kopf coughed. “Here is your war report, dear Anton. By example, the border princes have been taught the folly of their double-dealing. Now they will assuredly do their best to impede the orcs when they make their main push north. In the meantime, our own forces are regrouping after the victory at the Castello del Dimenticato. Though it is only half likely that the orcs will come close to us, I’ll soon deploy a triple regiment a hundred leagues into the mouth of the pass, ready to repel their weakened onslaught with ease.”
Anton Brucke sniffed, and removed a lacy handkerchief from the breast pocket of his vest. He dabbed at the area beneath his nose. “You’ll agree, naturally, that your present role requires you to maintain popularity with the troops, as well as the citizenry in general.”
[Angelika Fleischer 01] - Honour of the Grave Page 21
