Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris

by Tim Willocks

  ‘Fresh and tasty morsels are my trade.’

  ‘The Châtelet moved some heretics out of the market and they won’t be coming back. There’ll be an auction for the deeds, but the goods are available tonight. Rody’s the man.’

  ‘Tasty enough. But where’s your appetite?’

  ‘We’ve filled the carts twice already. And Mam’s feeling sickly.’

  ‘Never trust a man who doesn’t care for his mother.’

  ‘This next is small beer, but Rody also said the Châtelet are looking for some chevalier of Saint John. I forget the name. Mattias. Something foreign.’

  Paul studied him again, then said, ‘That matter’s been taken well in hand.’

  Grymonde didn’t feel so brazen any more. Here it was, at his feet, but he didn’t know how to pick it up. Don’t be too clever. Aye. Clever alone would do. His gut urged silence. He ignored it.

  ‘Anything in it for me?’

  ‘It’s in hand. And your mam is sickly.’

  There was a movement behind Grymonde. He turned.

  The little green turd was walking away down the bar.

  ‘There’ll be music later!’ called Paul. ‘Superior harpist with a lovely voice!’

  The visitor left by the door. Grymonde chewed his tongue. He wondered if the minstrel was real or some kind of cipher. With Paul you could never tell.

  ‘No more patience than manners, that sort,’ said Paul. ‘You missed a good purse.’

  Grymonde turned back. ‘For what?’

  ‘The chevalier’s head. No small matter to kill a member of the Religion. They’d take it to heart. And they’re vengeful. I’m not sure it’s ever been dared. But they reckon this chevalier can be tarnished, his name blackened, so his brethren couldn’t act.’

  Grymonde stared at him. He didn’t know why Paul was telling him all this.

  ‘Blackened?’

  ‘Tannhauser – that’s his name, by the way – went mad, it seems. Murdered his wife and half a dozen witnesses. He may well have dumped her body in a cesspit.’

  Grymonde’s brain felt hot. It throbbed in time to his heart.

  The Juggler was more than afoot. He was all but dancing on Grymonde’s grave. Pope Paul did not gossip. His every word – his tales of shit, his every quip – had purpose. He moved pieces around a chessboard with a thousand squares. The heat surged to a boil inside Grymonde’s skull; but his gut was clear. For Carla he’d bring the roof down on the lot of them. Without turning he recalled the room behind him. A dozen men or so; three, four, who needed to be taken seriously. No women. Paul couldn’t abide their wheedling and their chatter. Grymonde’s skin sensed the locations of his pistol and his various knives. Maurice and his mate first. He rolled his shoulders. Even before he spoke, he saw something in Paul’s eyes that he’d never seen before. Fear.

  ‘Don’t play with me, Paul. Or I’ll end the game now.’

  It occurred to Maurice that for the first time in his career as Paul’s arse-wiper he might have to risk his life and that, if so, would lose it. He shifted and glanced at his mate.

  ‘Maurice, keep still,’ said Paul. ‘Od, you too. You’ll get us all boned like codfish.’

  The guards stood rigid. Paul looked Grymonde in the eye.

  ‘Peace, Grymonde, peace. Of course I play with you. I couldn’t sing a lullaby to a babe without making a play. You might as well tell me to lose weight. And you are playing, too, my friend. You didn’t come here for gold. You came to learn what I am telling you.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘That’s my business. Other pieces, other plays.’

  Paul leaned closer, as best he was able.

  ‘You can kick our board over, and I know you’d do it. That’s what makes you the Infant. When you decide to stamp your feet, the earth trembles. But the game never ends. The others will just play on without me. And without me, you’ll lose.’

  ‘And with you?’

  ‘You still might lose. That’s what makes it a game.’

  ‘And your wager covers either winner.’

  ‘That’s what makes me the Pope.’

  ‘Then tell me what you will tell me. But tell me no lies.’

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I told a lie. I can’t remember the last time I had any use for one. A dull blade at best and always brittle. That’s the beauty of living in a world of lies: my blades are so keen you don’t even feel the edge when it cuts your throat. And it’s true: three hundred people will fill a wagon with shit in a single day.’

  ‘So the assassins are out in cry, for Tannhauser.’

  ‘The best I could find. War veterans. Five of them.’

  Grymonde blew his lips.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Paul. ‘Money’s no object. Take no chances, they said. They want the chevalier alive, if possible, they said, but that’s a chance I doubt those lads will take.’

  ‘Depends on how big a bonus they’re paying.’

  Paul sat back and smiled, to indicate that there was such.

  ‘Where will they take him? Or his head?’

  Paul jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘They’ll keep him in the backyard until he’s collected.’

  Grymonde waited without saying more.

  ‘They do want that woman with a passion,’ said Paul. ‘They didn’t say why, but whatever the reasons they had this morning, they’ve got even more now, haven’t they? This is how intrigues come unravelled – when heads that didn’t expect to start to fall. Who knows what stones this lady from the south might upturn? They can’t let her get away. And now they know you’ve got her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘When her body didn’t show, there were questions. Rumours. My faith in you didn’t wholly reassure them. Your cesspit tale confirmed their suspicions.’

  Grymonde felt rain and sweat and grease slide down his brow. He didn’t wipe it.

  ‘The little green turd. You staked me out for him like a goat.’

  ‘Not so, my friend. You didn’t have to take Carla home. You didn’t have to come here now. You didn’t have to tell lies that even Maurice might have smelled. And I did warn you quite loudly he was an eavesdropper.’

  Grymonde’s gall rose. Pope Paul’s truths were sharp indeed. Grymonde felt his own knives, the ones he better trusted, tingle afresh against his skin.

  ‘Who’ve you sent against Carla?’

  ‘No one,’ said Paul. ‘They didn’t ask me to. I wouldn’t have known who to send if they had. No one good enough to stand a chance would be fool enough to dare Cockaigne. Hirelings don’t like risks; that’s why they get paid to take them. And I don’t know where your woman is, so how could I tell ’em?’ He read Grymonde’s expression. ‘I don’t know how to find Cockaigne. I never needed to. My Land of Plenty is here.’

  ‘You know people who do know.’

  ‘Very likely the little green turd knows, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t ask me where to find her,’ said Paul. ‘They must have other resources besides me. Considerable resources, too.’

  Truth, lies, intrigue. Grymonde stopped trying to think. Listen to the gut.

  ‘Rody.’

  ‘A collector of fines.’

  Grymonde shook his head. He made clear his meaning.

  ‘The Châtelet.’

  ‘I don’t know for certain, so let’s say I’ll field no conjectures.’

  Paul had no love for the Châtelet and its commissioners, their greed and hypocrisy, their insatiable bite. His game became clearer. If Grymonde could hurt the Châtelet, with no fault attaching to Paul, the fat pig would quiver with delight. If Grymonde went down, Paul had done his bit to help them. They wanted Tannhauser alive; and they were still in pursuit of Carla, despite the general riot.

  ‘You and five assassins don’t add up to an official investigation.’

  ‘Since when were most of the Châtelet’s antics official?’

  ‘Cut their tits
off, you said. Someone’s squatting on a dunghill of hate.’

  ‘There’s an abundance of that to go round. Even more stupid than lying.’

  ‘Who’s the turd?’

  ‘A lickspittle. Christian Picart, a functionary in the Louvre. A writer.’

  ‘A writer?’

  ‘He once penned a play that no one ever saw, now he turns out hate tracts for one of the militant confraternities. The Pilgrims of Saint-Jacques. Petit Chris, they call him, on account that his cock will fit into a thimble and still leave room for his thumb.’

  ‘So it was the turd who hired me.’

  Paul shrugged, always the lawyer he’d started out as.

  Grymonde pondered his dilemma in like manner.

  If he kept all this knowledge to himself, he could tell Carla – without a lie – that he knew not where her husband was. A lawyer’s truth. And perhaps the five assassins would get lucky; and that would leave him alone to be Carla’s protector. Yearning rose through his bloated heart. He didn’t need to share her bed; wouldn’t even try to. Carla would accept him, if he foreswore evil, and he would. He already had. His mother’s face swam into his mind, her eyes, grey as the wind, looking into his. He saw her love. He saw the pain of her boundless disappointment.

  Grymonde clenched his fists.

  ‘Are any of the yard gangs paid to turn against me?’

  ‘No,’ said Paul. ‘But in the circumstance, I’d reckon that small comfort.’

  The Châtelet. The confraternities. The Louvre, too.

  He had to get Carla out of Paris.

  He remembered her wager.

  He realised she wouldn’t go. Not without Mattias.

  He stood up. Maurice and Od jumped.

  ‘Where’s Tannhauser?’

  Paul pursed his lips.

  ‘The game’s late,’ said Grymonde. ‘Would you play me as a rook or a pawn?’

  ‘The five carry my commission.’

  ‘From what I know of this chevalier, I’d be saving their filthy lives. And your reputation with ’em. Maybe your fat skin, too.’

  ‘The Infant is scared of him?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’m not relying on these two to keep me alive.’

  Paul flapped a hand and Maurice bent low to hear his whisper.

  Maurice left by the back door. Paul smiled.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to see my Infant prosper, and you have. I’ve pulled more than a few strings for you, without you knowing it. I even suggested you might step around this particular job. Remember?’

  ‘’Twas you who offered it.’

  ‘You were requested, particular. I don’t know why. I didn’t ask. Clients don’t like to be asked. But I knew these were deep waters. Deeper than any the Infant has waded before.’

  ‘Better to drown in deep waters than a pool of piss.’

  ‘There’d be good money in it,’ said Paul. ‘To turn Carla over.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘For both of us. Petit Chris would pout, but he’s not paying. These people ransom each other all the time. That’s why they don’t get killed in all these battles: there’s money in it. It’s no crime to squeeze your assets. I thought that was your ruse in taking her – I thought “my Infant’s learning” – until you asked for the whereabouts of the husband.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Let me utter a word I utter rarely: why?’

  Grymonde couldn’t tell him the truth. He groped for an answer.

  He said, ‘In the place where there are no men, be a man.’

  For the first time in their long acquaintance, Grymonde saw shock in Paul’s eyes. He hadn’t thought the man capable of even so much as surprise, except when faking it.

  ‘You didn’t find that pearl lying in the Yards. It was her, wasn’t it?’

  Grymonde didn’t answer him. Paul leaned forward again.

  ‘As you say, my Infant, the game runs late. The hirelings have been out since early afternoon, lying in ambuscade, at a chapel. Sainte-Cécile, on the Rue du Temple.’

  ‘How can they be sure Tannhauser will come?’

  ‘The chevalier believes he will find his wife at the chapel. In a coffin.’

  Grymonde sucked on his tongue.

  He recalled the obscenities he’d left behind at the Hôtel D’Aubray. By instinct, he understood. Tannhauser believed Carla was dead. He had seen enough of the carnage to assume it was so, but hadn’t dared look for her body. The thought of seeing Carla thus spoiled turned Grymonde’s stomach, too. No husband would choose to look at that.

  Grymonde turned to leave.

  ‘What happened to my mighty Infant?’

  Grymonde walked towards the door. Paul’s voice followed him.

  ‘Hate? Power? Greed? Why not? But love?’

  Grymonde kicked open the door and stepped into the street.

  The rain had stopped.

  To the east the sky was dark as gun metal.

  To the west a day of damnation waned red as shame.

  A night of damnation would rise with the full of the moon.

  The hounds would bay for Carla’s blood.

  He hesitated.

  He cared for her, not some damned knight who’d left her in peril.

  They couldn’t take Cockaigne. No one had ever even tried to. The name alone was a bulwark. He had time. And Carla had drawn the cards and made her wager.

  The Judgement. The Fire. Death.

  Grymonde headed east towards the chapel of Sainte-Cécile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Symbol

  TANNHAUSER FOUND A stable near Irène’s and there he stowed the cart and harness, and had Clementine watered and fettled. He was tired. He ached. For an hour on the heaped straw he would have paid a ransom. He thought of Grégoire.

  He remounted and took up the spontone.

  He rode past the plundered shops and the reeking pyramids of dead on the Pont Notre-Dame. He crossed the Place de Grève, where wine flowed and a jongleur turned cartwheels. Where shade was to be had militiamen stuporose with heat and drink sprawled on the ground by their weapons. He saw little sign that they’d been active in the killing. The militants would be elsewhere, stalking the labyrinth, beyond all discipline short of running out of hate. As if to assert that they were doing their best, a wagon stacked to the raves with recent victims clattered towards the Seine. Blood leaked through its seams and brimmed in intermittent gouts from the flatbed, fore and aft. Method had been applied to the stacking, for the upper layers were largely composed of infants and children.

  Tannhauser pressed on.

  At the Rue du Temple, Hervé the plasterer was not to be seen, nor was any surrogate. The chain hung coiled from its iron hook in the wall. Pillaged houses stood where this morning they had not, and bodies in bleeding stacks lay awaiting the dead wagons. Perhaps La Fosse had drawn up a fresh list. As he approached the chapel of Sainte-Cécile the burden of his next duty added its weight to that of the afternoon heat. The thought of being civil to La Fosse disheartened him further. He was glad to have a reason to delay the chore. The dead had patience. Carla’s body could wait.

  The doors of the chapel stood open and as he rode by he slowed and glanced inside. Candles burned in two rows at the top of the aisle. Between them, trestles draped with a white sheet supported an open coffin. The gloom was otherwise empty. Tannhauser felt numb and was glad of it. He rode on to the Hôtel D’Aubray.

  The only change in its shattered façade was in the state of Symonne D’Aubray’s corpse. She still hung by her ankle from the golden cord, her flesh the colour of candle wax marbled with blue. Her arms and fingers had swollen into purple tubers. Colonies of flies shimmered green on her wounds and orifices. Her head looked like that of a bedraggled Gorgon. Tannhauser urged Clementine closer to the door and bent to peer across the threshold.

  The black pudding that coated the hallway was ploughed by footprints and seethed with winged insects laying eggs. Altan Savas had not been moved. Rats were feeding o
n the exposed grey meat of his limbs. Tannhauser saw no means to soon bury him. A warrior’s grave would have to do.

  Tannhauser dismounted.

  He recited the Salat al-Janazah.

  By the time he had finished, he was still alone. He called out.

  ‘Grégoire.’

  He called a second time. He got no answer. He walked down the alley to the garden at the rear. The stains on the back door were baked to the texture of pitch. He called again, in vain.

  At least three hours had passed since Grégoire had parted from Juste. Tannhauser did not believe the boy had abandoned him, despite he had every right to. Beyond that, any explanation for his absence was possible, most of them grim. Tannhauser’s mind felt filled with mud. He couldn’t think of a reason to move. A woman’s lamentations drifted through the rank humidity. He wished them silenced and at once they were gone, as if her voice had escaped from a dream only to be recaptured. Had Carla screamed thus? Of course she had. He’d heard such screams all over the world; they would never stop. He was sick of grief. Grief was as common as dirt and worth even less, his own included.

  He was tired.

  He saw Altan’s palliasse.

  He left Clementine to graze the cabbage and dragged the straw mattress to the rear wall of the garden. He lay down in the shade and his body groaned its thanks. There was a thin chance he’d get his throat cut, but as long as it was done neatly the prospect was not without allure. He closed his eyes.

  Tannhauser awoke because Clementine had stopped eating. He rolled to his hands and knees, dagger clenched, and looked across the garden. There was no one there. He followed Clementine’s gaze to the mouth of the alley.

  The grotesque dog emerged in his gold braid collar. Grégoire followed. His bare feet and legs, and the once-red breeches, were caked in Paris mud, as was his shirt. He grinned and his face gaped open and Tannhauser mastered his urge to turn away. He returned the grin and meant it. He stood up.

  ‘Welcome, Grégoire, back from the wars.’

  Grégoire ran and stood before Clementine’s chest. She nuzzled his head.

  Tannhauser carried the spontone to the house and propped it against the wall.

  ‘How goes Juste?’ asked Grégoire.