by Simon Morden
“You’re a virgin, Frederik, and a good man. You’re not going to die.” Büber saw off the rest of his liquor. “And, despite not being either, neither will I.”
“What happened to the … body?”
Büber shrugged again, like it was a thing of no consequence. “Wasn’t there. No blood, or hair. No signs of butchery. Or even a hunt. A bit of trampled undergrowth, a day old. And that, sitting in the middle. Like it was thrown away with the rubbish.”
Thaler leant back and looked over his shoulder out of the window. Everything seemed normal out there. Townsfolk were walking past, both ways. A small cart, over-enthusiastically guided by a boy and his steering pole, propelled itself the other way. Voices were raised between him and the owner of a foot he’d run over.
No, the Old Town seemed much as he’d left it. It was only in the beer cellar that things had changed.
“Do you know how much that’s worth?” asked Thaler.
“To the right sort of buyer? I’ve a fair idea.” Büber took control of the satchel and fastened it tight. He placed it on the floor against the leg of the table closest to Thaler.
“It’s worth more than either of our lives, that’s for certain.” Thaler knew that as contraband, a whole horn could empty a treasury. “Take it back to where you found it. Tell the Order and let them deal with it like before.”
“There might be a problem there.” Büber scraped his fingers at his cheeks, where the stubble was starting to show white. “Once. Yes, I can accept that. I’ve seen all sorts in the forest, some really strange shit that you only get to read about in your books. Twice? That’s starting to be a pattern. I might not be able to write, and can barely read my own name, but I know signs. I know the sun and the wind. I know the rocks and I know the rivers. I know the peaks and the plains and, above all, I know the forest. And the hexmasters know that much about me. Though they look down on me and pity me, if I tell them about this second one they will come and kill me to keep me quiet.”
Thaler had to concede that the huntmaster had a point, but still felt a duty to argue. “They wouldn’t. You’re a prince’s man.”
“The prince rules because it’s beneath the Order to rule. Come on, Frederik. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
He was right, and Thaler gave in with a slump of his shoulders. “So what – or who – is taking them?”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell you what it looked like: as if the animal had curled up to go to sleep, and then simply melted away like snow.”
“Leaving the most valuable part of it behind.” A whole beast, blood and skin, valuable of course, but dwarfed by the riches the horn commanded. It didn’t make sense.
“I’m scared, Frederik.” Büber looked across the table at Thaler. His eyes were big and bright and blue. “I’ve been scared before. By bigger beasts than this. But this is the Order.”
Thaler shivered, then steadied himself. “There has to be an explanation for this. Someone, somewhere will know. They’ll have written about it.”
“So you think the answer is in that vast pile of books you call work?”
“Yes.” It was as close to a creed as Thaler would go. “It will be.”
“What,” said Büber, “if it’s not? I’ve never heard of anything like this before. And neither have you, admit it.”
“No, but that’s the point of books, Peter. People write things down so they don’t have to remember it all in their heads and it isn’t lost when they die.” Thaler realised he was banging the table with his fist, and he self-consciously wrapped his fingers around his mug to stop himself doing it again. “You should talk to a scribe: get him to write down everything you know. Or at least take an apprentice.”
“I work better alone.”
“And when you die, everything you know will have gone.” Thaler opened the lid of his mug and swigged emphatically. “All that lore. All that craft. What a waste.”
Büber chewed at the stump of one of his missing fingers and said nothing.
“Leave it with me,” said Thaler. “I can hide it somewhere in the library – where no one will find it, obviously. As to what it means, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be as discreet as I can.”
“I never said I wanted your help,” said Büber, raising his head.
“Of course you didn’t. Proud man like you? Even your scars all face forwards.” Thaler’s beer had almost gone. He finished it off and flipped the lid closed. “Why would you need the help from some inky-fingered book-lover who’s never done a real day’s labour in his soft, comfortable life?”
“You want me to apologise?”
“No. I want to know why I had a messenger hammering on my door at an hour when a gentleman like myself was bound to be either in bed or at breakfast.” Thaler waited. He was good at waiting. So was Büber, but it was the hunter who cracked first.
“Because …” he started, and pulled a face.
“Because?”
“There’s no one else I can trust. That I know I can trust absolutely and won’t sell me to the hexmasters for big bag of shiny coins. There? Better?”
“They could offer me books.”
“Please don’t make me beg, Frederik.”
Thaler held up his hand. “I swear by all the gods—”
Büber interrupted. “Your word is enough. It’s always been enough. No vows. How long have we known each other?”
“Twenty years. I can’t even remember how we met.”
“I do,” said Büber, with a curious passion. “You were a wet-behind-the-ears junior librarian and my old huntmaster wanted my profession on the town’s register. You put a line through the word ‘apprentice’ so that it just read ‘huntsman’. We didn’t even speak.”
“But …” A memory flared bright in Thaler’s mind.
“You reached out and shook my hand.”
“So I did. And after that there was the faerie-lore.”
“And I told you I couldn’t read.”
“So I read the whole damn book to you.” Thaler sat back and stared out of the window again. “Was that really twenty years ago?”
“Twenty summers, twenty winters. I lost fingers, toes, my hair and my good looks.” Büber ran his hand over his shaved scalp. “And you got fat.”
Thaler poked his own belly with a rigid forefinger. It was true. It was the beer. And the pastries. And the books. His stomach had grown large and round, not exactly like a dumpling, but close.
“I’ll find you some answers, Peter.” He held out his hand, just like he had before. “You have my word.”
Büber’s claw came across to grasp it. There. Done.
3
Prince Gerhard stared down over the battlements at the procession coming up the road to the Chastity Gate. Two columns of spearmen barely seemed to contain the one shaggy-coated barbarian they were escorting. The Teuton was big, with a long-handled axe strapped across his back, and his horse, led behind, was a massive, ill-tempered brute that needed two men just to keep its head down. The prince jutted his chin. The same damnable farce every year: a different face to be sure, but their sheer stiff-necked belligerence was a race trait.
“Felix. I want you to attend this audience.”
The prince’s son had to lean further over the bastion wall to get a good look at the Teuton commander, and Gerhard felt a moment of weakness, a cold wash in the blood that made him reach out to grip the back of the boy’s tunic.
Oblivious to the drop and his father’s reaction, Felix wriggled forward more, and lay on his stomach on the rough stone. “You think he’ll fight you? That doesn’t seem very wise.”
“What have you learnt about the Teutons?” As the guard disappeared under the gatehouse, he increased his hold and pulled the boy backwards. He couldn’t lift him like he used to, but the child was still small for his age.
“The Teutons are a barbarian people from the north where the land is poor and marshy. They lack all honour and hire themselves out as mercenaries to whoever has the coin to
afford them. They fight mainly as heavy cavalry, and are brutal and ill-disciplined in battle. They call their hexmasters shamans, but their battle-magic is very limited.”
“A little short on detail,” grunted Gerhard, “but good enough for now. Do we give them leave of passage to join the armies of the south?”
“No, Father.”
“Why not, boy?”
“Because,” and Felix’s voice became uncertain, “they are untrustworthy? And no one deserves having the Teutons set on them?”
“Maybe you should address this barbarian horseman: you’ve a decent enough appraisal of the situation.” He placed his hand on the boy’s head and buried his fingers in the dark hair. So like his mother. “We need to get ready. What do the Teutons fear most?”
Felix took his cue and glanced back down at the gatehouse. The man was back in sight, now without his horse and his axe. The way he leant forward, attacking the slope, showed his intent.
“They fear looking weak.”
“So we must strip him of everything, while reminding him of our strength. I’d rather not have that bunch of savages within a hundred miles of a Carinthian boundary stone, but that’s not in my gift. I can keep them out of my lands though – that’s something that the Protector of Wien can’t take for granted.”
Gerhard removed his hand from his son’s head, and they walked along the battlements to the next tower. The town – his town – sat happy and warm in the spring sun, and outside the walls, so did the farms and the forests and the mines. All at peace, all prosperous, all content.
“Father?”
“Yes, Felix?”
“Do we fear looking weak, too?”
“Carinthia is never weak. This is the thing, boy: I could raise an army if the need arises, but that’s not where our strength lies.” Gerhard waited while the turret door was opened for him. The servant following him around was all but invisible until he was required. The pause was long enough for the prince to look across the river, to the steep wooded hill that squatted opposite both the crag the fortress sat on and the town that clung to its skirts.
On top of the hill was a tower, tall, black, glistening.
Felix followed his gaze. “Then why are we …?”
“Because our Teutonic friends need reminding. Every year, those that can head south for the fighting season, and none of them return. If they live, they invariably stay, given the choice between going home to a frozen swamp that’ll be in perpetual twilight for the next six months, and warming their toes in the Mittelmeer while Italian girls peel them grapes. So every year I have to re-educate the sons-of-bitches that they should leave my palatinate free of their stench.”
Even if Felix didn’t yet understand the attractions of the girls, he could see the point. “So they don’t love their home?”
“Gods, no. Why would they? It’s a miserable shit-hole fit only for little bitey flies and eels.” Gerhard waited again, and the door opened out into the courtyard. “And for some inexplicable reason, your stepmother doesn’t like me swearing in front of you.” He tapped the side of his nose.
A man, talking with men, needed to be free with his language. They needed to know their leader was someone who knew a good two dozen names for his manhood, and who wouldn’t faint if he heard the gods being cursed.
Perhaps it was time to take more of an interest in the education of his heir. Not his only heir any more: thanks to his new wife, he had spares, but all the same … Felix was thirteen this year. It was about time he was weaned off the milk his tutors gave him. More riding, more hunting, more of the martial disciplines – that Genoese fop Allegretti could stay because of his ability to make an edge sing – and more of the civil arts too. Starting now.
“Dress plainly, boy. But put some steel on your belt. Something you know how to use. No point in turning up with some great pig-sticker you plainly can’t lift.”
“Signore Allegretti has been teaching me to use two swords at once. He says the style is very popular in the south,” ventured Felix.
“Has he indeed?” Gerhard thought it sounded like a dangerous affectation. “Can you beat him yet?”
Felix scowled. “Not yet.”
“And does the signore hit you with the flat of his blade when he wins?”
“Yes. Sometimes twice if I’ve been stupid.”
“Good.” It had been years since Gerhard had been thrashed by his old sword-master, but the lessons had stuck, both in his body and in his mind. Nothing fancy for him: just a longsword, light and strong, one-handed, two-handed, hews and blocks. If he had to, he could take that fat, greasy barbarian in single combat. Using a magical sword, naturally. “Go and get ready. Hurry.”
Felix ran into the fortress ahead of his father, and Gerhard walked at a more measured pace through the doors and corridors and into the Great Hall at its centre. It was a big space, lit by both daylight and bright globes of enchanted crystal. Look up and, after the dimness of the entrance, a visitor would be blind.
At the far end of the hall was a raised platform. On feast days, the high table would be set out there: his lady on his right, his favoured men with him. Today, there was nothing but a single high-backed chair.
And Trommler. There was always Trommler.
“My lord.”
“You know what we should do?” Gerhard stepped up onto the dais and slumped into the throne.
“What, my lord?”
“Send the hexmasters up to the Baltic coast and get them to turn it into glass. That’d solve a few problems. And” – the prince wagged his finger – “half of Europe would thank me.”
Trommler stroked his white beard with his fingers. “The Order wouldn’t trouble themselves with a matter so trifling as the Teutons.”
“Hah! Trifling or not, we’ve one at our gates, and another three hundred on our borders.”
“They’re camped near Simbach. The Bavarians have moved them quickly through.”
“Who paid who this year? These calculations can be so difficult.”
“Not that my lord would ever have to worry about that, but I understand not a single penny changed hands. The Teutons were granted forage, and a thousand spearmen ensured they went at such speed they could barely graze their horses.” Trommler clearly agreed with the Bavarians’ tactics, judging by his thin grin.
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or just a little bit angry. Are those spears still poking at them?”
“The last I heard, they are, my lord.”
“Send word to the captain of the Bavarian spears, and impress on them that the Teutons are to march through Austria and Styria. If he lets them cross the river before Passau, I’ll have his bones mixed with those of the Teutons and dumped on the north bank. You might want to send that message to Mad Leopold too, just in case he feels led to countermand me.”
“As you wish, my lord. I’ll let the Order know.”
There came the sound of running footsteps and the jingling of metal rings. Felix skidded to a halt in front of the dais and presented himself for inspection. As he’d promised, he wore two swords: a longer one on his left hip, a short one on his right. It would have looked better if the child had actually grown. Something he could always talk to the hexmasters about, for certain. A leader needed to be at least as tall as the men he commanded.
“Good enough, boy. Come up here and stand at my left. Listen to what I say, and watch the Teuton carefully. Don’t speak, even if he tries to goad us. Remember that we’re better than he is: stronger, richer, more educated and more civilised. We have every advantage that he doesn’t.”
“Yes, Father.” Felix jumped up and took his place.
“We’re doing this not because we enjoy it, but because we rule. Our subjects need to be protected from these creatures.”
The doors at the far end of the hall clattered open. The light from outside darkened as the doorway was filled with figures. The Teuton strode in, and behind him, the guards, spears lowered for the threshold and then raised
upright again.
The man was even more impressive close up. Tall, strong, pale, bear fur slung over his shoulder and mail on his chest. A man of note in his homeland, then.
Gerhard remained seated. He would have risen for an equal or a friend.
The Teuton’s bow was poorly executed – nowhere near enough bend on that front leg – and his insolent eyes stared at Gerhard, not the ground. When he rose again, he crossed his arms in front of him and stood with his legs a shoulder-width apart.
Gerhard leant forward a little. The chair creaked behind him.
“What’s his name?”
Reinhardt, the captain of the guard, started to approach the dais, but the Teuton shouldered him aside and announced himself.
“Walter of Danzig,” said the Teuton. If he’d hoped his fame had spread beyond the fly-bitten north, it hadn’t made it quite as far as Juvavum. Unlike his stench, which was primal.
“So, Walter of Danzig. What do you think Prince Gerhard of the Palatinate of Carinthia can do for you?”
“I have a hundred horse to take over the mountains. I’ve come ahead to see there are no delays on the road.”
Gerhard considered having the man executed on the spot and his body sent back to his companions in quarters. He looked to his right, where Trommler was as stony-faced as he always was at meetings like this, giving no sign of any emotion above bored detachment – perhaps having seen it all before, he was genuinely bored. To his left, Felix’s tense fidgeting showed he knew the Teuton had shown total disregard for any form of civilised behaviour, but also that his father’s warning was still uppermost in his mind.
There was no reason why Gerhard should let this Danzig off quite that lightly. A bit of play first, then.
“Let me consider this suggestion for a moment.” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them, seemingly deep in thought. Then he straightened up. “No.”
The Teuton stiffened. “What do you mean, no?”
“I would have thought the meaning to be self-evident, Walter of Danzig.” Gerhard smiled warmly. “We appear to be able to talk to each other with some measure of understanding, so a simple ‘no’ ought to be easily comprehended by such an exalted person as yourself.”
