by James Wallis
Hoche ducked back into the shadows and pressed himself against the wall, out of sight, until the figures had left. There was no mistaking them: those were his bags. Images and parts of ideas pounded through his brain: all that had happened today. He focused, concentrating on the conversation. They had told Frau Kolner someone was dead. Who?
Then in the distance he heard the great bell of the Cathedral of Sigmar strike once, and he thought: time. In the time it took me to walk from the docks to the Black Goat, Grey-hair could not have returned to the Knights Panther to tell them I was still alive, and then the soldiers walk to the inn. They must have left just after I did. They don’t know I’m still alive. They were talking about me. They think I’m dead in an alley.
He thought: the Knights Panther tried to have me killed.
He thought: they drugged my food, to slow my reactions. That’s why I was sick.
He thought: I have to get word to the witch hunters and the Untersuchung. Tonight. That is what the knights aim to prevent, so that is what I must do. They assume I’m dead now; but will Grey-hair have taken them the news that I’m not?
He thought: I will find out.
Hoche stopped before the end of the road, in the darkness. The vastness of the Cathedral of Sigmar lay behind him, its buttresses and spires rearing into the night sky. Ahead and smaller, though clearly built by the same hands, the headquarters of the Order of Witch Hunters brooded, cloaked by shadows. At its doorway, four uniformed men leaned in too-casual idleness. They looked bored, and armed. They were waiting for someone.
Hoche knew who. He turned and slunk away into the night.
The headquarters of the Reiksguard was a newer building, brick-built foursquare around a series of courtyards. Bohr had told Hoche about its layout. Its main doors, fifteen feet high, were closed but the man-sized wooden door cut into the right-hand one was open. Four men stood outside, lit by the breeze-tossed flames of a torch in a wall-holder. Two were in the uniform and helmets of the Reiksguard, and the others wore dark tunics of a familiar noble cut. There were other doors into the imposing compound, but they were closed and bolted. He wondered what the Knights Panther had told the Reiksguard sentries about him. A spy? An assassin? An escaped prisoner? Anything to make him sound like a threat.
He walked away slowly, studying the surrounding streets. No buildings close enough to cross from roof to roof. No watch-patrols or beggars he could use to distract the sentries or draw them away. No way to climb over the wall. The god who had smiled on him earlier this evening, blessing him with two overconfident thugs, seemed to have deserted him now.
Hoche remembered something his father had said to him many times, but most recently on the day Hoche had left to join the army before Wissendorf. The old priest had put his hand on his son’s forehead, making the mark of the hammer. “In times of trouble, ask yourself what Sigmar would do,” he said. “He was a soldier too.”
Sigmar, the warrior-king who had united the Empire two millennia ago: what would he have done? Major Sprang would have said that Sigmar would charge into every fight, giving no quarter, but Major Sprang had died at Wissendorf trying just that, and little good it had done his wife and babies. Sigmar would not have fought here, but he would have not shied away from the challenge. Sigmar faced every problem like he faced every foe: head-on.
Hoche walked to the end of the street and peered around the corner. The four guards were still there. He took several deep breaths, willed his shaking nerves into stillness and forced his fear to the back of his mind. Then he fastened his cloak tightly around him and stepped out into the main road, walking briskly towards the gate, his boots loud against the cobbles.
The guards turned towards him and he raised a hand in friendly greeting. “A fine dry night, gentlemen,” he said in his best Altdorf accent. “Tell me, is your stable-gate guarded at night?” He pointed back round the corner.
“No,” said one of the Reiksguard. “Why?”
Hoche shrugged. “Someone’s left a rope hanging over it.”
There was a second’s pause until one of the knights exclaimed, “He’s climbed in! You, with me,” and tapped a Reiksguard. The two ran westwards. I only have moments, Hoche thought. He pulled out his flask of kvas, took a swig and offered it to the knight standing by the open door.
The man held up a hand. “No thanks, I—”
Hoche thrust the flask at him, splashing the strong spirit into his face. He staggered back, his hands on his eyes. Hoche was through the door before the remaining guard had moved, forcing it shut with his entire weight. A body crashed into it from the other side. Hoche pushed back, slamming it closed again.
He ran a hand down the outer edge of the door until his fingers hit the cold iron of the bolt and rammed it home. Then he was running across the courtyard on the other side, leaving the noise of swearing and hammering behind him, mouthing thanks to Sigmar under his breath.
There was the passageway that led towards the stable-block. Hoche followed the directions Bohr had given him, what felt like a lifetime ago. The passage emerged into a second courtyard full of the smell of hay and manure. The only light came from the moon, but there was enough for him to count the doors in the north wall. There, the third one. He reached it, pushed and it swung open. He closed it behind him.
Inside, down a pitch-black corridor and up a flight of stairs, was a second door. Hoche pushed it, but it was solid oak reinforced with iron nails and didn’t budge. He knocked, banging his fist against the wood. The timber resounded with deep, funereal thuds that reverberated into silence.
Hoche listened for movement on the other side. Nothing. He realised he had no idea if there would be anyone to let him in. Perhaps these were day-offices and the Untersuchung’s members slept elsewhere. Perhaps it was all a fake, nothing behind the door except a hayloft, tack-room or armoury. Perhaps Bohr and Duke Heller were in on the cover-up, trying to arrange his death. Perhaps the Untersuchung would hand him straight to the Knights Panther. Perhaps Sigmar’s sense of humour was as hard as his legendary warhammer.
Outside, he could hear alarms being raised.
Hoche knocked again, harder this time. Still no response. The wood seemed to absorb the energy of his blows, sapping his strength. Why had he assumed there would be someone here? It was past midnight. He hadn’t thought his strategy through, he had failed, and he deserved it. He leaned against the door, feeling the pattern of square nail-heads through his stolen cloak, and let himself slide to the floor, overcome by the exhaustion and stress of the day. He felt drained, empty, helpless.
There were sounds from the stableyard outside: shouts, running feet, banging on doors. It didn’t matter. Everything would be over soon. He just wanted to lie here and sleep. He didn’t care what happened. He was out of his depth.
Behind him a muffled voice said, “The sun is in the seventh house.”
Hoche said, “What?” Below, he heard the outside door opening. “Bring a torch!” someone said.
“The sun is in the seventh house,” the voice repeated testily.
“I don’t know the password. But I have a letter for the Untersuchung,” Hoche said, scrambling to his feet.
“Oh, for Sigmar’s sake,” said the voice. “Move away: the door opens outwards.” It swung towards him. On the other side he could see a long room filled with desks, lit by a single candle. A man was silhouetted against it. “Get in here,” he said.
Hoche did. The man closed the door and slid two bolts across it. “Sit,” he said, and Hoche did. Heavy thuds came from outside, and a muffled voice shouting. Hoche watched the man, who looked back at him, his face an expressionless mask. Hoche guessed he was in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair, white at the temples. The unforgiving candlelight didn’t hide the deep lines on his skin and around his eyes, or the scars. It was a face that didn’t smile much.
The man counted off ten seconds on his fingers, then slid open a small panel on the door. “The sun is in the seventh house,” he said
. Hoche couldn’t hear the response from outside, but from the tone it was a demand.
“I know who you are. No password, no entry,” said Salt-and-pepper, not taking his eyes from Hoche.
Another demand from outside.
“Absolutely not.”
An angry command.
“You have no jurisdiction here, and you know it. Go and bang on someone else’s door.” The man slid the panel closed, listened for a moment to the guards’ oath and retreating footsteps, then turned to Hoche.
“So you’re the man who has the Knights Panther in a muck sweat,” he said.
“I’m afraid I am,” said Hoche.
“Captain Gottfried Braubach of the Untersuchung,” the man said. He was holding out his hand. Hoche moved to shake it, but the officer stepped back, making the candle-flame flicker. Light scattered across the room, revealing the small flintlock pistol he held. It must have been there since he opened the door. It was trained on Hoche.
“You said you had an important letter,” he said.
“Yes,” said Hoche.
“But you are more important than it is.”
“Possibly.”
“Start at the beginning,” Braubach said.
Hoche started.
The candle had burnt down two inches, long streaks of wax down its side. An empty wineskin lay beside two empty wine-cups, the crust of a loaf of bread and the remains of some cheese, scattered across stacks of papers. Hoche’s bloodstained clothes were piled beside his chair and he sat back in his shirt and hose, laces undone, his body relaxed for the first time that day. Across the desk, Braubach leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists, looking intently at the young officer. The pistol had been put away. Behind them, the long room stretched into silent shadow and darkness.
Mostly Hoche had done the talking. Occasionally Braubach had stopped him, asking precise, focused questions. He had demanded to know the exact position of the hearts on the altar, and had made Hoche draw the bodies of the sacrificed men, to show their wounds and the symbols carved into their backs. He had asked Hoche to speculate on the direction and depth of the knife-cuts. Then they had moved through the events after he returned to the camp, his journey to Altdorf, and the evening’s happenings.
Hoche reached for his cup and drained its last dregs. There was silence.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“You told them far too much,” Braubach said.
“The Knights Panther?”
“Yes. They’re mad if they think they can brush this scandal away, but making you disappear would buy them time to make plans, limit the potential damage. If you’d told them less they might have thought you were less of a threat.”
“I’m a threat?”
“Very much,” said Braubach. He lifted his cup but it was empty. “Hold a moment.” He rose to his feet and moved to another desk, opening a drawer. “Messner usually has some of that Estalian stuff in his… here we go.” Brandishing a dark glass bottle, he returned to his seat and poured a dark, pungent liquid into their cups. “Where was I? Yes, you’re a threat. They couldn’t let you bring your news to the witch hunters or us. Word would have been all over the city by noon. And what is a regiment like the Knights Panther if not its history and reputation? Your news strikes at their heart. Of course they want you dead.” He paused. “Stupid of them,” he said. “Predictable, but stupid.”
Hoche sipped the Estalian spirit. It was strong but smooth, making rivers of fire down his tired throat. “What happens now?” he asked.
“The Panthers will do everything they can to stop the word getting out. We’ll investigate, but we’ll do it subtly. The witch hunters—that depends. If you’d reached them first there’d have been an almighty fuss, but if I was a betting man—I’m not—I’d lay odds one of the generals you met has already seen their Lord Protector, Lord Gamow, and asked him to tread softly.”
“I meant for me,” said Hoche. “What should I do?”
Braubach lifted his head and gazed across the desk. “You?” he said. “You’re a dead man.”
“What!”
“Seriously. You’ve made powerful enemies, and not just among Chaos cultists. Whoever it was who told you to visit the Knights Panther first, they signed your death warrant. Who was it? Duke Heller?”
“It was a man called Bohr,” Hoche said. “He gave me a letter for you.”
“Ah yes,” said Braubach, “the letter.”
“Actually it’s addressed to the Untersuchung’s commanding officer,” said Hoche, “but under the circumstances…”
Braubach smiled. “Flexibility is an important lesson. You’re learning.”
* * *
Braubach put down the letter. He looked puzzled.
“The mystery deepens,” he said. “It’s a letter of introduction. Completely normal. ‘This is to introduce Lieutenant Karl Hoche of the Fifth Reiklanders, distinguished in battle and high in honour, who has information et cetera et cetera.’ Boilerplate stuff. But you told me a man called Bohr wrote this?”
“Yes. Johannes Bohr, the general’s aide.”
“Wrong. He’s called Gunter Schmölling, and he works for us.” Braubach turned the piece of paper and pointed at the name printed neatly under the duke’s seal. It was in Bohr’s writing, but it didn’t say Johannes Bohr.
“Gunter is one of our deep-cover agents. A man of rare ability, following his own discretion on a long-term mission. Actually,” Braubach paused and coughed, “I thought he was in Marienburg. An excellent fellow, witty, diplomatic and charming.”
Hoche thought of Bohr, with his sleek features, vulpine smile, hard blue eyes and supercilious manner. It did not sound like the same man. He remembered what Braubach had said about saying too much, and said nothing. He was learning.
“So,” Braubach took a sip of the spirit in his cup, then stood and walked to one of the bookshelves that lined the room, “you can assume he knew about the Chaos worshippers you discovered. Your observant nature and clean-hearted desire to bring evil to justice has probably laid waste to years of investigation. This signature tells me all that, but wouldn’t have given the Knights Panther anything. A cunning man, Gunter.” He ran his finger across the spines of the leather tomes.
“I see.” Hoche swallowed hard, his throat dry. Earlier he had felt over his head; now he felt he was sinking, dragged down by the weight of things he barely understood. The room fell silent. Braubach sipped at his cup.
“Why are you trusting me with this information?” Hoche asked. “Why give me the name of one of your agents?”
“Because you’re a dead man,” said Braubach cheerily. Hoche flinched as he did.
“Please stop saying that.”
“I can stop saying it, but it won’t stop being true.” Braubach selected a book and pulled it off the shelf, carrying it back to the desk in both hands. He opened it and began leafing through the hand written pages. “What do you think will happen to you when you leave here? Now the Panthers know they can’t cover things up, you’re the person who brought shame on their regiment. You’ll get it in the neck. My bet is they’ll sink your corpse in the Reik. Or feed your body to the regiment’s hunting dogs.” He stopped and focused on the page in front of him, his brow furrowed.
“I refuse to accept this fate,” Hoche said. “They can’t kill me. This is the Empire. I’m a soldier of the Emperor. There are laws.”
Braubach looked up and shrugged. “Maybe they won’t kill you, but they can guarantee your life as a soldier ends. Not that you were going to rise much higher—senior officers are sons of nobles, not sons of priests from Grünburg—but they can finish your career simply by making it known you’re out of favour in Altdorf. Which you are now.”
“Won’t you protect me?” asked Hoche.
“Why should we?” Braubach asked. “You have no ties to our division, you’ve already given us all your information, and you appear to have wrecked one of our long-term investigations. What’s more, protecting y
ou would put us in a difficult position.”
“Put you in a difficult position?” Hoche echoed. He felt sick.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
Braubach sighed, or possibly yawned, and flipped more pages. “You’re a soldier, you think of the army as a united force. Well and good. That’s the way it should be in the field, even if sometimes it goes differently.”
Hoche nodded. “The battle of Bechafen, General Roland switching allegiance after the Kislevite charge.”
“I was thinking more of thirty Knights Panther turning out to be Khorne worshippers,” Braubach said. “But that’s by the bye. On the battlefield, things are simple. Here in Altdorf, it’s different. You can’t get promoted by proving your worth in battle so you do it by undermining your superiors or back-stabbing your fellow officers. Regiments spend their time trying to do each other down, recruiting their rivals’ most promising officers or breaking their legs in tavern brawls, spreading slander, gossip and lies. It’s a political pit-fight. Everyone’s competing for status, prestige, resources. Power.
“Yes, we could give you sanctuary. That would make us a political target; it would give the Knights Panther and every other regiment and Imperial agency a reason to demand our budget be slashed, our responsibilities reallocated, our work stopped. So no, we won’t protect you. Why should we?”
Hoche raised his head from thoughts that had led nowhere. He was exhausted, physically and mentally. “What can I do?” he asked.
“Well,” Braubach pursed his lips, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, where shadows from the candlelight swayed and twisted. “As I see it, you have two choices. You can resign your commission in the army, return to Grünburg, start a job that will keep you away from soldiers for the next five or six years…”
“Or?”
“Or you find allies or a new patron. Someone with influence, someone in Altdorf. Duke Heller is too far away to do you any good.”
