Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  It was inevitable that the only movement amid the enforced stillness of the quayside would attract attention. A bargee called after her, and another from a different boat took up the cry. In a sudden eruption of noise, the whole river bank was alive with jeers and hoots.

  Then there was the militia, who were at first amused by the spectacle, but grew concerned at the same rate as the bored bargees grew raucous. She passed them, standing in pairs, curious, half-smiling, uncertain. The first bottle from a barge arced through the air, thrown from in front of her, aimed at those behind her.

  It shattered on the stone pavement, sending shards spinning and spiralling across the quay. Sophia realised that the bargees had found a new sport and, in the time it took them to arm themselves, the sky was thick with missiles. She ran with her head on backwards, dreading to think what would happen if Cohen or one of the others was hit.

  Her escape came to an abrupt halt against the mail-shirted chest of a militiaman. She struck him full on, and fell back on her bottom before she realised what had happened.

  He looked down at her, and she up at him.

  “Miss Morgenstern?”

  It was one of the guards that the mayor had taken up the mountain yesterday. She raised her arm, and he helped her up.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she apologised, and batted at his armour as if she’d damaged it with her face.

  “Never mind that. Better get you inside while we sort this out.”

  She was outside the Town Hall, and Messinger was staring out of the wide upstairs windows. He frowned at her, shook his head and disappeared back inside. The guard ushered her through the line of soldiers that was forming up, and closed ranks with his fellows.

  There was nothing for it but to retreat up the steps and into the wood-panelled calm of the foyer, pulling her bundle after her. But if she thought that shelter would be momentary, and that she could continue her journey after order had been restored, she was wrong.

  “Sophia Morgenstern.” It was the mayor, leaning over the gallery balustrade, and she climbed the first few stairs to see him better.

  “Master Messinger.” It lacked something as a greeting, so she added. “Good morning.”

  “Are you responsible for the riot outside?” He wasn’t smiling.

  “Responsible? No.” Which also lacked something, namely the truth. “I am the cause of it, however.”

  “Gods, woman. It’s not like I haven’t got enough to do.” Messinger rolled his eyes towards the painted ceiling bosses. “Come up. Leave your washing downstairs; I doubt anyone will steal it.”

  “My … oh.” She supposed it did look like washing. She put it the other side of the banister and, to the distant accompaniment of cracking bottles and cracking heads, she slowly walked up the stairs.

  36

  “We need more castle guards, my lord.” Trommler looked in his book and frowned at the numbers. “I’ve instructed Captain Reinhardt to go and recruit an initial century of men, with another to be gathered in a month’s time.”

  “Do I have to do anything about that?” asked Felix. He rested his head on his good arm as he slumped onto the solar’s long table.

  “Only pay for them, my lord, something which we can currently manage quite comfortably. Our treasury is large, and the strongrooms are well stacked with coin.”

  “I can feel a but, Mr Trommler.” He turned his head so as to speak directly into the table.

  “Carinthia has never needed a standing army. The princes of this land could always rely on the earls to supply sufficient spear-carriers, and the real fighting was done by the Order.” Trommler ran his finger down a list of names. “We have lost a great many of our earls, and all but one of the Order.”

  “Two,” said Felix. He told Trommler about Nikoleta Agana, and the chamberlain received the news with one eyebrow raised.

  “And she left with the huntmaster?”

  “Well, sort of. More dragged away by the huntmaster.” Felix raised his head briefly. “Have I done another bad thing?”

  Trommler stroked his hooked nose. “Not one that cannot be redeemed, my lord. I’ve prepared a proclamation declaring a pardon for Master Büber; it will be a small matter to append the name of Mistress Agana. I’ll take care not to identify her as a hexmaster, however.”

  “She said she was loyal to me, and then … I don’t know what happened. After I read the librarian’s letter, something went wrong.” The prince put his head back on the table. “I can’t remember.”

  “I’ll see they come back, my lord. Now, our army.”

  “Do we have to do this now, Mr Trommler?”

  “Yes, my lord. We do. A palatinate that cannot defend itself is not a palatinate at all. There will be …” and Trommler dried up for a moment.

  “What is it?” asked Felix.

  “Can I be blunt, my lord?” Trommler looked at his figures, sighed, and closed his book with a thump.

  Felix groaned. “If you have to.”

  “My lord’s full attention would be appreciated. What I must tell you is of the utmost importance.” Trommler licked his thin lips.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the signore to return from … from wherever he’s gone?” Felix glanced around at the closed door, the empty chairs and the smouldering fire.

  “The utmost importance,” repeated Trommler, and without pause he delved inside the folds of his gown to retrieve a surprisingly large scroll of paper. He dropped it on the table; it bounced and stayed closed.

  Intrigued, Felix parted the curls with his thumbs and unrolled the sheet. Trommler placed a heavy object – his book, a jug, a small box, a plate – on each corner.

  It was a map, not just of Carinthia, but of the surrounding countries. There was the top of the Adriatic, and at the other end of the page, part of the Baltic coast.

  “We are here.” Trommler pointed with a faintly trembling finger at the little castle that marked Juvavum, at the very centre of the map. “We control the lands to the north as far as the Enn, east almost up to the gates of Wien, south to Over-Carinthia and the mountain passes, and west where we butt against the dwarven kingdom of the Schwyz.”

  “It’s not that much land,” said Felix. Even though he’d seen maps of the region before, this was the first time he’d looked at one in earnest while being responsible for the palatinate. Also, it was the first time he’d appreciated that being at the centre of everything made the little bit he owned – highlighted with a faint yellow wash – look fragile.

  “It might not be very big, but it’s strategically placed. The same rivers and roads we use to conduct our trade can transport invaders into the heart of Carinthia just as easily. I said I would be blunt, and so I will.” Trommler pointed to the north. “The Bavarians. They have no money, their mad king having frittered it away on ludicrous buildings of no purpose. They had their own inferior sorcerers, useful only for mass actions against other, less magically inclined lands – and for protecting the royal person. I cannot imagine that the Bavarian earls won’t rise up against Leopold, if they haven’t already done so.”

  His finger moved east. “The Austrians. They can cut off our direct trade from much of the south; easier to move goods by boat than over the Alps, but what becomes of that route is anyone’s guess at the moment. The Protector of Wien is an ordinary, decent pagan who owes Carinthia a continuing debt for saving Europe from the Horde. But even then, I’d offer concessions before he forces them from you.”

  Across the peaks of the mountains. “Oh, how the Italians love fighting! They squander their lives and their money in pursuit of the slightest advantage over their rivals. The Doge of Venezia and Duke of Milano have been locked in a duel to the death before the current incumbents were even born, but if they ever made peace, they’d march north and try to empty our coffers together.”

  “What about the dwarves?” asked Felix. “What will the dwarves do?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea. I haven’t seen a dwarf for the better part of a decade.
Perhaps they’ve gone the way of the unicorns. What I do know is that every treasure-seeker and brigand will be heading their way to find out. As for any aid we might have got from them? They might be asking us to help them.”

  “And this is why we need an army?”

  “Even if it is just the appearance of an army at the start, my lord. Look at where we are.” Trommler stabbed his finger down on the parchment. “We are at one of the world’s crossroads. Know this for certain: sooner or later, someone will come across the border in force. How we meet them is of the utmost importance: do we field a rabble, which is a sure sign to our enemies that we’re ripe for picking, or do we dispatch them with typical Carinthian efficiency?”

  Felix frowned at the map as if it were alive with threats already. “But haven’t we just done that? Only just about won a battle where we should have blasted them off the …” and he looked down at the space where Obernberg would have been marked had it not been so insignificant, “off the map?”

  “My lord sees the situation with wisdom beyond his age.” Trommler bowed.

  “How long do we have?” Felix glanced out of the long line of windows. The white tops of the mountains peeked over the bailey walls.

  “It’s spring. The short summer months will follow. If we can get through those, then winter will close down the passes again. All the countries surrounding us will have their own particular problems.” Trommler tapped his chin. “We can expect skirmishes along our borders – if we decide to protect them – from now on. A major attack? Not until next year. It takes time to organise a large army, especially if most of the troops are from the levy. The soil’s warming up: seeds need to be planted now if starvation is to be avoided later. Then there’s harvest time. There’s precious little space for a proper campaign. However, my lord should consider sending spies to the other lands, and an emissary to the dwarves to gauge their intentions both plain and covert.”

  “I thought it was impossible for anyone to invade Carinthia. Surely, Mr Trommler, there are just too many of us?” Felix bent over the map, tracing the lines of rivers and mountains with his fingernail.

  Trommler pulled in his chair again and settled into it. “It depends on how many of us will fight.”

  “And if I tell them to fight? If I lead them into battle?”

  “My lord,” said Trommler, “you’ve seen what happens. The enemy might simply be stronger. The Romans regularly fought, routed and annihilated much larger forces because they were better trained.”

  “We beat them,” said Felix.

  “Even then, we had wild magic on our side.” Trommler started to remove the weights from the corners of the map. “We haven’t now. Obernberg may be remembered as the last battle fought with a sorcerer.”

  The released map rolled itself up with a snap, and Trommler hesitated.

  “What’s wrong, Mr Trommler?”

  Trommler picked up the map and stowed it away in whichever pocket it had come from. “I need direction from you as to what to do about Master Eckhardt.”

  “What …” said Felix, “…what do you want me to say?” His advisers had presented him with two contrasting responses; he couldn’t decide between them on his own.

  “You’ve directed Mr Thaler to investigate the water supply, which gives me reason to believe that simply accepting the hexmaster’s offer is something that you don’t want to do. What if Thaler comes back and says it’s impossible, or that it will take years of work?”

  “Then we’ll have to do something else, I suppose.” Felix reached out for the box. There was something inside.

  “Are there any circumstances under which you’d be willing to pay his price?”

  “One or two people – a day?” The prince shuddered. “I’d have to be desperate.”

  “How desperate?” asked Trommler gravely. “The ending-of-your-rule desperate? The sacking-of-Juvavum desperate? The-end-of-Carinthia desperate?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I never will know until I see it.”

  “You need to think very carefully about that, my lord.” Trommler looked away. “There will be some, perhaps even many, who’ll reach the point of desperation long before you do, over much less. There might be irresistible pressure to accept Eckhardt’s plan, simply to make people’s lives more comfortable.”

  “Wait, Mr Trommler, are you saying that the people, my subjects, would have their neighbour killed by a … a necromancer, just to provide them with running water?”

  Trommler hung his head. “Oh, my lord, water is worth rioting over. As are healing spells for your sick child or wife. And how about wheels that turn by themselves, rather than having to be turned? Or lights that don’t need lighting and never go out? Or all the other everyday tasks we used magic for just three days ago? I appreciate that you’re lighting your father’s pyre tonight…”

  “I know,” said Felix through gritted teeth. “I know.”

  “It would be very much easier for you if you could mourn your father’s death properly and decently, and not have to worry about affairs of state for a few months. It’s a luxury you don’t have, because these are not normal times.” Trommler walked to the window, and leant heavily on the sill. He suddenly looked very old indeed, his whole body sagging under the weight of worries. “If you’re to survive to your thirteenth birthday, you need to act quickly.”

  Felix rubbed his sore shoulder through the cloth and bandages. “You said we might have until next year.”

  “And so we will. My lord, your neighbouring princes are not the immediate threat.” The chamberlain turned around slowly, almost shuffling. “It’s your own people. And while I’m being completely candid, if there was no hope of going back to the old ways, they would find the transition very much more palatable.”

  Felix screwed his face up and thought through the consequences. “Are you suggesting it would be better if there were no hexmasters at all?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. And I would go up Goat Mountain myself and do it, but I’m afraid my lord finds me at a time of life when words are significantly easier than actions.” Trommler held up his trembling hands. “You should find someone who’ll do it for you, quietly and quickly.”

  “But what if we need him, as horrible as that might be?” Felix dragged his fist across the table. “Not today, but some other time?”

  “Accepting his offer will tear the palatinate apart: initially neighbour would turn against neighbour, and eventually the demand for foreigners to be given to Eckhardt will become overwhelming. Perhaps my lord needs to consider where we would get such a steady supply of sacrifices, especially if we weren’t going to scour our brother princes’ lands for captives.”

  “I understand,” mumbled Felix, and his face coloured up.

  Trommler continued. “Rejecting Eckhardt and letting him live would be just as bad, because he would become a standard about which dissenters will gather. No prince can survive having a murderous band of brigands on their doorstep, getting stronger with every victim they take. As unpleasant as this choice is, I advise you to have it done now, before word of Eckhardt’s proposal ever reaches the populace. Master Messinger and Mr Thaler’s testimony indicates that it is more than likely he killed the other hexmasters.”

  “Can’t we press him?”

  “A hexmaster? If we can’t get a blade between his ribs without him knowing, we’re all in a great deal of trouble.” The corner of Trommler’s mouth twitched. “Huntmaster Büber would have been an ideal choice: magic tends to look the other way where he’s concerned. Nadel died at Obernberg. There are other hunters; they’re all away from Juvavum at the moment, but I expect them at tonight’s ceremonies.”

  Felix had a thought. “What about the signore? He’s the best swordsman in Carinthia. He’d do it if I asked.”

  “My impression,” said Trommler, “is that he believes you should consider Eckhardt’s offer seriously.”

  “But I agree with you, Mr Trommler. I can do that, can’t I?”<
br />
  “You can, my lord. All that your advisers should do is point out the consequences of each of your choices before you decide. The decision will always be yours alone to make.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to the signore this morning, and I’ll order him to …” Felix thought about the word he should use. He was an honest German, though, and had been brought up to call something what it was. “To kill Master Eckhardt.”

  37

  The tunnel was more or less featureless, and more or less straight. Having left the huge mill-wheels under the fortress behind, the only thing they’d discovered was the depth of their willingness to suffer in the cold and the wet and the dark for mile after mile. They lost all sense of time, and only had Prauss’s word as to how far they’d travelled.

  It had long since stopped being wonderful, and was now just a slog. Thaler felt as though he’d lost inches of fat around his middle: perhaps that was why he’d become so very cold. He’d lost feeling in both his fingers and toes, and the end of his nose had grown pale and waxy.

  Their direction of travel was difficult to ascertain, though it appeared to be mostly southerly. They were certainly somewhere well outside the city walls and deep in the Carinthian countryside, in a region known for its lakes. They’d had to discuss the possibility that the tunnel might end under one.

  If a rock fall had blocked the inlet, and only the steady but small river that passed over their feet could get through, what if they dislodged something critical? They’d die, drowned or smashed against the machinery further down the tunnel, assuming they lived that long.

  Not an appealing prospect, thought Thaler. And if their way was blocked at the far end, would they have enough light to make it back down at least to the fortress?

  But if his resolution wavered at all, it was bolstered by remembering the look on Eckhardt’s face as he’d talked about people as merely fuel.

  So they splashed on in weary silence; sometimes slipping, sometimes falling on their knees, and sometimes ending up face-first in clear alpine water barely above freezing. They helped each other up, and after a nod to show they were still capable of continuing – what else could they do? – they carried on.