by Jack Yeovil
'Pardon my ignorance,' beseeched Gropius, 'but I was not aware that there was any great population of dwarfs in Bretonnia×'
'If there were, do you think they would have allowed my parents to be hostages for life. You are a very stupid man and I decline to explain further. I am not a freak to be gaped at and petted. I am a powerful individual in my own right and my abilities are of the highest. I must uphold the honour of King Charles wherever I go.'
The dancing master was properly cowed. He applied a taper to the lights that fronted the stage.
'Your prowess is indeed legendary,' he admitted, his astonishment overcome and his natural inclination to fawning and toadying returning. 'We have heard of your many um conquests.'
De la Rougierre strutted, hand on hip, dismissing the subject with a wave. He took his seat.
'And those stories about the Countess Emmanuelle,' he licked his lips, 'are they×'
'Please, I insist! There is a reputation at stake here'
namely, his own, should it come out that the countess had persistently refused his advances.
'there are matters a de la Rougierre does not discuss with a tradesman.'
The dancing master bowed and let the subject drop.
'Now,' the ambassador said, 'bring on your finest.'
'Uh, certainly, your excellency.'
Gropius snapped his fingers and said, 'Miele.' A pert, petite girl stepped out from behind the curtains and stood on the tiny stage. She simpered and danced a few steps.
'Enough,' said de la Rougierre. 'Show me another.'
Her face fallen, Miele slouched off, trailing her fur boa.
'This is Tessa Ahlquist,' Gropius explained.
A slender dancer with long, ladylike legs×adequately displayed by an immodest costume×replaced the first girl. The ambassador was more interested, but quickly tired and had her dismissed. Tessa Ahlquist stormed off in a flurry of feathers.
Angry, de la Rougierre turned on the dancing master. 'I thought I made my instructions quite clear. This is a very special function and I have very special requirements.'
Gropius paid attention, nodding like an imbecile.
'I want a big woman, you understand. Big!'
Gropius chewed his moustache. 'Ah, of course, your excellency. I understand perfectly. You want a dancer of stature.'
'Why yes, that's it exactly. Stature! The girl should be heroically proportioned, you understand. Heroically.'
A ratty smile spread across the dancing master's face.
'Milizia,' he shouted, 'would you come out and dance for the gentleman!'
The next girl appeared
and de la Rougierre fancied that he was again in love.
VI
It was the most incredible thing Luitpold had ever witnessed. And it was over in seconds.
He was just about to intervene, invoking the ancient rights of the Imperial family to save his fencing teacher, when Johann laid a hand on his arm and shook his head. The elector was right. Leos von Liebewitz would never forgive him if he were robbed of his honour that way. The viscount would rather die.
Luitpold had imagined that the duellists would step back, take the measure of each other and then join in combat. That was what he had been taught to expect.
Instead, they stepped forwards. Ungenhauer, the von Tuchtenhagen servitor who was rumoured at court to be affected by the warpstone, lunged for Leos, his arms out
Leos seemed to move casually, as he half-bent out of the champion's way. He just touched Ungenhauer's neck with his foil, then danced out of his reach, coming around behind the man.
A gigantic gusher of blood came from Ungenhauer's throat, spraying the floor in a circle as he turned. Dien Ch'ing raised the skirts of his robe and scuttled away from the mess, but Graf Volker had his boots ruined and one of the seconds got a faceful, forcing him to retire, choking, against the wall.
A roar began in Ungenhauer's chest but it came out of the new mouth in his neck, not the old one in his face.
He raised his hands, as if in triumph, and collapsed to his knees. The whole gymnasium shook.
Leos picked up Dien Ch'ing's silk and wiped off the point of his sword.
Ungenhauer toppled forwards and tiles broke under his face.
There was a moment of incredulous silence and then the applause started.
Leos was indifferent. He was busy wrapping his weapon and handing it to his second. Graf Volker was on his knees praying to Sigmar.
The Celestial raised his hand for quiet and was rewarded.
'By the rules of chivalry, honour is restored. The life of Graf Volker von Tuchtenhagen is the property of Viscount Leos von Liebewitz, to be disposed of as he sees fit'
Von Tuchtenhagen was crawling towards the viscount, incoherently begging for forgiveness. Doglike, he licked Leos's boots.
'Call for a cleric,' Leos told Dien Ch'ing, 'and a barber. I will not kill a man who is unshriven, much less unshaven.'
'It is confirmed, Lector,' said Ruhaak. 'A messenger has brought the news from the docks.'
Mikael Hasselstein was preoccupied. His junior repeated what he had just said. It sank in. He rolled the facts around his mind and worried at them.
'I did not doubt it, Siemen. Miss Ophuls has an extraordinary gift.' He could not keep his thoughts on the murders. Last night had been a bad one. At the von Tasseninck ball, Yelle had been threatening to break it off, had been insistent. It had taken all his persuasion and all his skills to bring her round. That, and a quick coupling in an antechamber, made all the more exciting by the possibility of imminent discovery. But his attachment was becoming a nuisance. It was affecting his work.
Ophuls sat in the corner, knowing everything and keeping it inside. Hasselstein resented the girl. How simple his life would be if he were able to read thoughts.
Yelle had changed him, he realized. Loving her was draining him, leeching time from his days that he could not afford to spare.
Ruhaak waited for orders. He was a fine instrument, but had no initiative. The Grand Theogonist had not been the same since his bastard Matthias was killed and the whole burden of the Cult of Sig-mar had descended upon the shoulders of Mikael Hasselstein. Until now, they had been broad enough to stand it, but the strain was pressing him close to the ground.
Being the Emperor's confessor was a unique privilege, but the sins Karl-Franz worried and fretted over were so paltry, so insignificant. Hasselstein envied the Emperor his uncomplicated nature. He was a truly good man and truly unselfconscious about it. Not so the cleric who gave him absolution. If the Emperor could unload his sins on Mikael, who was there for Mikael?
Yelle was such a harlot, too. There had been other men even when things were good between them. Too many other men. He had even seen her making up to that grey-faced toad, Tybalt.
Hasselstein tried to look as if he were pondering the problem of the Beast, not wrestling with his own heartaches. Ruhaak was respectfully silent, but Ophuls was near to fidgeting. How much did the witch know?
Perhaps he should take the girl as his confessor. She could see his sins anyway, he was sure. They might as well formalise the relationship. No, she was a woman. She reminded him of Yelle. All women were harlots. Even the novices of the Sisterhood of Sigmar were always clustering around the Knights Templar, showing their ankles and bending over on any flimsy pretext. Vixens, harlots and temptresses, the lot of them. Sometimes, Hasselstein thought women were all creatures of Chaos, their bodies shaped by the warp-stone to taunt men, their hearts those of daemons, their instincts essentially cruel.
If only Ophuls were a man, like Ruhaak or Adrian Hoven or Dien Ch'ing. Then they could use her gift together. But these witches were always women. In past centuries, the cult had branded them as creatures of Chaos and sought to burn them. That had been a waste. Even if uncontrollable, Rosanna Ophuls was of great use to the cult.
'Miss Ophuls,' he said, 'do you have any more bright thoughts?'
She was surprised to be consulted befor
e Ruhaak and took a moment to put the words together.
'Nothing immediately, lector'
But there was something. 'Yes?'
'Yesterday, at the site of the last killing, I met with Johann von Mecklenberg.'
'The Elector of Sudenland?'
'Yes. He was taking an interest in the Beast. I don't know why. He is a rare type. He was unconsciously screening his thoughts.'
Hasselstein thought about von Mecklenberg. He was a handsome young man, with just the right amount of roughness to take the boyishness out of his face. He was Yelle's type. Had they been lovers? He didn't know if they even really knew each other, but there was something furtive about the elector, something not quite right.
'Screening his thoughts? That suggests he has something to hide.'
'Not necessarily. I do not think he was deliberately trying to keep me out. Nor was I setting out to read him. I just noticed his mental shields and was curious.'
'You've done well, Miss Ophuls. This is interesting news.'
Rosanna Ophuls was a dangerous dog, Hasselstein thought. She could turn and snap at her master as easily as she could tear out the throat of an enemy. But she was a strong dog all the same.
'I shall send you to help the Dock Watch again,' he said. 'If von Mecklenberg shows up again, get close to him, find out what you can. This business keeps leading back to the palace.'
And Yelle, he added silently. But silence was still too loud. Ophuls wrinkled her brow, as if trying to catch a misheard name.
Hasselstein tried to shut up his mind tight.
Deliberately, he addressed Ruhaak. 'Simeon, get Adrian Hoven back. I want an escort ready to accompany Miss Ophuls and I want more men ready to put on the streets. The watch have had their chance and it is time that the Cult of Sigmar intervened. The Beast will be brought in under our banner.'
Milizia danced for the funny little creature, the dwarf who acted like a Bretonnian, until her breasts and belly were tired of jiggling.
De la Rougierre was clearly delighted with her performance and she knew how to take advantage of that. She leaned close and let him stare at her, his stubby fingers curling his moustaches. She knew what she looked like from beyond the footlights. Melons in a sack. But some men made such a fuss.
Gropius was standing back, marking time with his long forefinger. There was no music, but she knew the pieces she danced to so well that she could do without it. She was accompanied only by the slapping of her bare feet on the stage, the discontented mumbles of the other girls and the strange little noises de la Rougierre kept making.
The ambassador was enchanted and his eyes followed her every movement. There was spittle in his beard.
Finally he could bear it no more and asked her to stop.
'My dear,' he said, 'you are truly a magnificent creature. Seldom have my eyes beheld such such ample beauties'
Backstage, Tessa, Miele and the others were complaining. Big, ridiculous Milizia, with her big ridiculous tits, was showing them up again. Usually, when she stepped on a stage, the customers thought that not all of her was real. However, after a few of the scarves had come off, they changed their opinion and were astounded.
'you will be richly rewarded,' the dwarf babbled, 'in gold crowns. I shall have a carriage call for you.'
She bowed gracefully and thanked him. Gropius pursed his lips, but nodded his approval. He would take a cut, of course. If this worked out, Milizia might look for new management, or even handle her career herself. Perhaps de la Rougierre might offer her a permanent position, as a dancer or as something else.
The ambassador walked out of the theatre, striding as if his legs were as long as Tessa's. Turning as he got to the door, he doffed his hat to her, scraping the floor with its feathers. Winking and kissing his fingers, he left.
Gropius looked up at her and told her to put her clothes on.
VII
Sam Warble was impressed.
He had taken the uncomfortable barge journey to Altdorf×a thing he was loth to do×only on the condition that he be paid in advance. He had asked for a higher fee even than usual, firstly because his employer could well afford it, and secondly because the commission had sounded deeply boring.
He had not expected to see Toten Ungenhauer killed. And to get a front row seat. Even if it meant dressing up as a footman and wearing a false beard, the entertainment was worth the price of admission.
He remembered when Ungenhauer was the chief enforcer for the Marienburg Fish. Warble visited his friends' graves whenever he could and that kept putting him in mind of the big thug-for-hire. The Marienburg Fish had tactfully expelled Ungenhauer when it became too much trouble to saw off his horns every month and keep pretending he was a real human being.
He looked around the gymnasium for his employer. Sure enough, the marquess was there, recognizable by the big nose that stuck out under her veil. He nodded subtly to her and she did everything but get up, bare her buttocks and blow him a kiss. Rich widows were all fools.
Von Tuchtenhagen was in one corner with a cleric of Verena, either delivering a lengthy and detailed confession or begging to be spirited out under the divine's robes. He had ignored the viscount's suggestion that he take advantage of some skilled barbering and meet the deity of his choice in a presentable manner. Warble sympathised with the man. When you were dead, nobody gave a plugged pfennig for hair-oil and perfume. You could ask Ungenhauer, even if you weren't going to get much of an answer.
It was well within the viscount's rights to kill the graf. Nobody was going to argue with that. There was also no question in Warble's mind that von Tuchtenhagen deserved to die. He had read Yefimovich's Beasts in Green Velvet and knew that enough of it was true to make him believe the anecdote told about Graf Volker, the three shepherdesses, the missing cufflink and the pit of quicklime.
Leos wasn't even being especially impatient. He had put away his gentleman's sword and selected a common garrote for the task.
Most of the audience had gone. This wasn't the show, this was a distasteful but inevitable aftermath.
Finally, even the cleric had had enough and left the grovelling von Tuchtenhagen to Leos.
The Celestial, whom Warble didn't like the look of, held the graf by the shoulders while Leos looped the garrote around his neck, making sure there was silk between the wire and the flesh. That was the privilege of a gentleman. Not to be touched by the thing that killed him.
Von Tuchtenhagen gave everyone a chance to see what he had eaten for breakfast.
Then, with a swift move, Leos yanked the noose tight and let the graf fall next to his champion.
Smiling, he stood back. The Celestial checked von Tuchtenhagen's pulse and breath. The green velvet scum was dead.
Everyone packed up and got ready to leave.
'You,' a full-size human servant said to him, 'shorty.'
Warble reached for his dagger but realized it was in his other pair of boots. He was dressed as a servant and servants in the palace weren't armed unless they wanted to be tortured as suspected assassins.
'Help me clear this mess up.'
Warble shrugged. Harald Kleindeinst wasn't the only one who got stuck with all the filthy jobs.
Unseen and yet aware, the Beast smelled blood and knew that it would prowl again tonight
'This is Rosanna Ophuls,' said Elsaesser. 'She's from the Temple.'
Harald acknowledged the girl's presence and hoped she wouldn't get in the way.
'Don't worry, I won't,' she said.
'Rosanna is a scryer.'
'So I see.'
The body had been dragged out of the water by a couple of Schygulla's dockhands, and laid out on a table in the warehouse of the Beloved of Manann. Dickon, still sulking about the return of Harald Kleindeinst, was busy shepherding official investigators through his ring of guards while keeping out trouble-makers. It was the most useful thing Harald could think of for him to do. It wasn't really demeaning enough, he reflected. Now he had some Imperial autho
rity over his old captain, he wanted to settle a few old scores.
Revenge was an ignoble and fruitless pursuit, but he was just a weak-willed human being and couldn't be held responsible for his base impulses.
If he wanted suspects, this place was full of them. Schygulla, the manager, used to run with the Hooks. Most of his employees were familiar faces from Harald's pilferer-rousting days. But, come to that, few of them had as many unsolved crimes to their credit as the watchmen on this case. Walking through the crowd of bystanders, Harald had felt his stomach going again.
He looked at the eyeless, faceless corpse and knew he wasn't after an ordinary criminal. The Hooks and the Fish often mutilated their kills if they wanted to make a point to the dead men's comrades, but even the gangs' berserkers didn't do this sort of thing to women.
'Scryer,' he said, 'what can you tell me?'
The girl didn't want to touch the dead thing, but she laid her hand on the flayed flesh of the victim's forehead.
'Wolf,' she said.
'A wolf did this?'
She shook her head. Her eyes closed and her whole body shook. She turned her head on the axis of her neck, as if straining for a sound or a scent.
'Wolf,' she said again. 'That's the word that was on her mind.'
'Wolves don't usually hunt in the city,' he said, 'and they usually eat at least part of their kill. An animal wouldn't have rolled her off the jetty, but left her in case he wanted to come back for another meal.'
'Not a wolf. Wolf. I think it's a name.'
She took her hand away and wiped it off on her dress. She was not nervy about this business. She didn't want to stick her fingers into human meat, but if it had to be done she wasn't going to complain. Rosanna Ophuls was all right.
'There's a famous Wolf,' said Elsaesser. 'Wolfgang Neuwald.'
'Neuwald? That's a familiar name. Ah, you mean Wolfgang von Neuwald.'
'That's right, captain. He's in Ferring the Balladeer's songs about the hero, Konrad. They say he wears a wolfs face tattooed over his own.'
