He looked around at the rows of glassy eyes that surrounded them. “I inherited the Unknown House from my great grandfather, Johannes Wolff. I know very little about him, but I believe he may have shared the same desire for strength and glory that burns in the two of us. I’m not sure of his profession, but his house was full of oddities even before I took possession of it, and I also inherited many of its odd guests. They continued to arrive, unannounced, long after Johannes had died, still expecting an unquestioning welcome at the house of a Wolff.” He shrugged. “So, in exchange for various gifts and pieces of information, I let them keep coming. This house has countless rooms and half of the time I couldn’t tell you who’s staying in them. But my guests have proved to be an invaluable source of knowledge. Many of them have travelled from the furthest corners of the Old World and are prepared to provide me with the most incredible artefacts in exchange for nothing more than hospitality and discretion. My one condition is that only the most interesting people are admitted. If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s a dullard.”
Fabian leant across the table towards Jonas, his eyes wide with excitement. “Share your learning with me, uncle, I beg you. I’ve already spent long hours in the library at Berlau, reading of the days before Sigmar. I know much about the Old Faith that preceded our current church.”
“There are things I could show you,” conceded Jonas. “There are certain techniques and methods that might help you realise your ambitions.” He took a silver chain from around his neck and placed it in Fabian’s hand. Fabian recognised it as being identical to the one he saw around Isolde’s neck. In the hazy light of the dining room, however, he could now discern the small figurine that hung on the end of it: it was the head of a wolf, carved intricately from a piece of bone. Jonas closed the boy’s hand over the pendant and squeezed, until the icon pressed painfully into the flesh of his palm. “You must swear an oath of secrecy, though, Fabian,” said Jonas, gripping even more tightly. “And if you ever break this oath, a curse of the most violent, terrible magnitude will come down on you and your family.”
Fabian did not hesitate for a second. “I swear,” he said. “I swear I would never tell a soul. Even if it meant my life or the life of my parents.”
Jonas gripped Fabian’s hand for a few seconds longer, peering into his eyes as though looking for something. Then he nodded, withdrew the pendant and hung it back around his neck. “Do not take that oath lightly, my boy,” he said, with a deep sigh. Then, after finishing his tea, he rose to his feet. “You should probably bathe and get a little sleep,” he said, in stern, serious tones. “We may only have a few days before you leave and there is much to learn before then.”
Fabian did as he was instructed. Isolde made him a hot bath and showed him to a small attic room that looked out over a noisy, wooden dovecote and a sunlit yard at the back of the house. He was exhausted from the night’s exertions, but he still only managed to sleep for a couple of hours. His dreams were filled with visions of his uncle’s brutal acrobatics; but it was his own face that was muttering the strange words as he plunged a glinting rapier into the bodies of countless, reeling foes.
He awoke well before midday and leapt from his bed, tingling with excitement at the thought of what awaited him. Jonas was in his study, reading a letter. He didn’t look up at Fabian’s approach, but acknowledged him by beginning to read out loud. “The Arch Lector would like to consult a few of his brethren before making a firm commitment, but as you can imagine, we are all very proud that Jakob would even be considered for ordination at such a young age. It is a great honour for our family. As a result of this good news, the Arch Lector has graciously invited us to stay in the cathedral for another week or so. I hope Fabian is not making too much of a nuisance of himself, and look forward to seeing you and making the acquaintance of your wife. Yours, etc, etc, Hieronymus Wolff.”
As he reached the end of the letter, Jonas looked up from his cluttered desk. “Good. We have a little longer than I expected then. There’s something I’d like us to discuss with Puchelperger this evening at the Recalcitrant Club, but before then I think I should introduce you to a few basic martial concepts.” He shook his head. “It was undoubtedly brave of you to defend me from those Tileans last night, but I’ve no idea what you thought you could achieve by throwing yourself at them like that.”
Jonas looked around at the crowded shelves that lined the room. Skulls, books, leering painted masks and jars of pale, cloudy liquid filled every available inch of space. “There’s a lifetime of study in this room, Fabian,” he said, rummaging in the drawers of the desk, “which can make it a little hard to track things down. Ah!” he exclaimed, spotting a small wooden box sat on the desk in front of him. “Just the thing.” He handed the box to Fabian and turned to look inside a large trunk next to his chair. “Put it on,” he said, with his head buried in the chest.
Fabian sat next to the fireplace in the same chair he’d used the night before and carefully opened the box. He sighed with pleasure as he saw a silver chain just like his aunt and uncle’s, complete with the same wolf’s head pendant. He placed it over his neck and relished the feel of the cold metal on his skin.
Jonas’ head popped up again and when he saw the chain in place he peered anxiously at Fabian, as though waiting for some kind of adverse reaction. Then he nodded. “Good, good,” he said and rose from behind the desk with a long needle and a bottle of ink in his hand. “Now, take off your right shoe.”
“My shoe?”
“Yes, your shoe child—as quick as you like.”
Fabian could not help but feel a little nervous as his uncle crouched before him and took his foot in his hand.
Jonas dipped the needle in the ink and held it a few inches from the sole of Fabian’s foot. “This may hurt a little,” he said before piercing the tough skin of his heel. The old man muttered something under his breath as he worked the ink into Fabian’s flesh. It sounded like some kind of tune, but as Fabian winced in discomfort, he could not quite make out the words. “There,” said Jonas after a few minutes, rising to his feet with a wheeze and a creak of protesting joints. “All done.” He stepped up to a terrible portrait of Isolde, which hung behind his desk and moved it to one side, revealing a small safe embedded in the wall. He unlocked it and withdrew a sheaf of papers. Then, after closing the safe and sliding the painting back in front of it, he sat down at the desk again.
“Let me see,” he muttered, leafing through the crumbling old parchments. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he found the one he wanted. “Right,” he said, taking a stick of chalk from his desk and stepping into the middle of the room. He kicked aside a rug to reveal the dusty floorboards beneath. Fabian noticed that a palimpsest of faded chalk marks covered the wood, where dozens of geometrical symbols has been drawn, erased and redrawn. Jonas crouched down with the chalk in one hand and the paper in the other, and began to transcribe an intricate series of shapes from the parchment to the floor. The symbols and numbers were mind-boggling in their complexity, and Fabian felt the first stirrings of doubt.
“Uncle,” he said, frowning at the shapes.
“Yes?” replied Jonas, with a hint of irritation in his voice as he concentrated on the drawing.
“Is all this, well…” Fabian stumbled over his words as his uncle looked up at him. “Well, there’s nothing heretical about what we’re doing, is there?”
“Pah!” snapped Jonas, returning to his work. “Such words are open to interpretation. Your parents would no doubt think so—and your brother too by the sounds of him. But such prejudice only reveals the paucity of their education—and its blinkered, narrow focus.” He climbed to his feet and gestured to the grotesque scrawl he had created. “This is science, lad, nothing more, nothing less. But it’s a wisdom that stems from an older, more holistic world view than the simple, crude tenets of the Sigmarites.” He pointed to a circle in the centre of the drawing. “Place your right foot there, and don’t move it until I say you can.�
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Fabian did as his uncle ordered and noticed that a mixture of blood and ink began to mingle with the chalk marks. After just a few seconds a peculiar warmth began to spread across the sole of his foot. He looked at his uncle in surprise, but the old man simply gave him a brusque nod, before turning to rifle through his books. The heat spread quickly up his legs, though his groin and into his stomach, where it grew in strength and rushed through his chest and into his arms and head. The heat was not unpleasant, and something about Jonas’ calm, matter-of-fact demeanour infected Fabian so that he remained unconcerned, even as the chalk marks began to smoke slightly. Fabian beamed as he felt a fierce vitality rush through him. He flexed his muscles and sighed with pleasure as he felt a new strength blossoming in them. He suddenly felt as though he could tear the whole house down with his bare hands if he wanted to.
Jonas heard his sigh and turned away from the bookshelves. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Fabian’s broad grin and the smoke trailing up around his legs. “That’s enough,” he snapped. “Step back, Fabian.”
Fabian reluctantly lifted his foot out of the circle, but to his delight a vestigial glow of the heat and strength remained in his muscles as he stepped back. He had to stifle the urge to punch something.
“Stand by the door,” said Jonas, seeming slightly annoyed, “and we’ll get down to work.” He grabbed a pair of foils from the wall and stood next to Fabian with a large book in his hand. “If you’re ever going to make something of yourself, you must learn to master the Circle of Defence and the geometrical principles propounded by the Old World’s greatest swordsman, Agilwardus.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” said Fabian, frowning at the intricate diagrams his uncle was holding up to him.
“Of course you haven’t. He was burned as a heretic three hundred years ago, simply for being a little ahead of his time. There are only three copies of this wonderful treatise still in existence and they’re all in this room.” Jonas placed the book on a lectern, gave Fabian one of the swords and raised his own into an en garde position. “Remember,” he said with a lupine grin, “this will hurt me a lot more than it will hurt you.”
As they set out towards the Street of a Hundred Taverns, Fabian was moving even slower than his elderly uncle. He carried bruises on almost every part of his body and the fire in his muscles had been replaced by the dull, throbbing ache of exhaustion. They had trained until well after nightfall, without even a break for food or water, and all he wanted to do now was to collapse onto a bed.
The streets were just as crowded as on the previous night, but Fabian was blind to the figures that swarmed around them. His mind was spinning with a wealth of new information. As his uncle had lunged and parried, he had yelled out a stream of commands. Some of them in languages Fabian never heard before: musical, lilting phrases, or harsh, guttural barks, but he had understood the meanings behind them quite clearly. The energy from the chalk marks had not just filled him with strength, but also a strange intuition. As his blade flashed back and forth in a desperate attempt to fend off Jonas’ attacks he had felt his skill growing with each word his uncle hurled at him. When they finally stopped sparring, both of them had collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath and covered in sweat. Fabian had crawled up into a chair, feeling like his head was some kind of strange pupa, bulging and writhing as it struggled to contain an entirely new Fabian, who was straining to burst free from behind his eyes.
Now, as he stumbled after his uncle, Fabian still felt the mass of information twisting somewhere in his head, but it seemed to be biding its time, waiting patiently at the back of his thoughts until it was called upon. He felt its presence as clearly as he felt the weight of the rapier his uncle had tucked in his belt as they left the house.
Jonas left the boy to his thoughts as they made their way to the club, but every now and then he would cast a discreet sidelong glance at him, as though watching for something.
“It’s good to see you again, Captain Wolff,” said the flame-haired butler as he welcomed them in out of the heaving throng.
“Thank you, Vogel,” said Jonas, handing him his hat and cloak. “Has Puchelperger arrived yet?”
Vogel shook his head with a cheerful grin. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon though. I passed on your note myself, and he seemed delighted at the prospect of spending another evening in your company.”
“Very good,” said Jonas, stepping into the lounge and taking the same table as on the previous night. “Strange,” he said, taking a sip of the drink that appeared before him. “Puchelperger is usually here well before midnight.”
Fabian gave no reply, still struggling with his thoughts as he took a deep, grateful swig of his own drink.
They waited in a tense silence for nearly an hour, with Jonas drumming his fingers angrily on the table and sighing every few minutes.
“Terrible business with those Tileans last night,” said a ruddy cheeked, whiskery old general, pausing at their table.
“How do you mean?” asked Jonas, a little nervously.
The general shrugged. “Shouting like that, in the club. It’s really not what one expects in an establishment of this quality.”
“Oh,” said Jonas, visibly relieved. “Quite.”
“If I had my way, anyone as ill-mannered as Calderino would be barred.” He sniffed disdainfully. “I saw the villain this morning, actually. Practically knocked me over he was in such a hurry.”
“Really?” asked Jonas, taking another sip of his drink and trying to look uninterested.
“Yes. I was leaving Puchelperger’s house and the blackguard barged past me on the way to the gate.” He shook his head in disapproval. “What a scoundrel. He didn’t even acknowledge me.”
Jonas lowered his glass carefully to the table. “Are you sure it was Calderino?” he asked.
The general frowned. “I may be retired, Wolff, but I’ve not lost control of my faculties just yet. It was Calderino, I tell you. Whoever recommended that man for membership must be a bloody fool.”
“Well, General Rauch, it’s always a pleasure, but I’ve just remembered I promised Isolde I’d get the boy home a little earlier tonight.” Jonas drained his glass and stood. “Come, Fabian,” he said striding towards the door.
Fabian smiled apologetically at the general as he rushed after his uncle.
As soon as they were out in the street, Fabian let out a groan of despair. “This is bad,” he muttered, hobbling away as fast as his old legs would carry him. “Very, very bad.”
“Do you think Calderino meant to harm Puchelperger?” asked Fabian, taking his uncle’s arm and trying to support him a little.
Jonas looked at Fabian in disbelief. “I think you could probably answer that yourself, don’t you? General Rauch is exactly right—the man’s a scoundrel. He’s too afraid to approach me after what happened last night, so he’s turned on my friends.”
Jonas led the way through a baffling sequence of lefts and rights until yet again Fabian had absolutely no idea where they were. They eventually emerged on a wide moonlit avenue, lined with tall plane trees and large, handsome townhouses. Most of the windows were filled with light and the elegant silhouettes of Altdorf’s great and good, but there was a house near the end of the avenue that was utterly dark and lifeless. It was this house that Jonas rushed towards. As they approached the spiked iron gate, they saw that it was swinging on its hinges, and as they rushed up to the front door, Jonas pushed it inwards with a gentle shove. “Unlocked,” he muttered. As the door swung open, the moonlight washed across the polished floorboards and picked out a large crumpled shape lying at the foot of a grand, sweeping staircase.
They rushed towards the prone figure, but before they had got within a few feet of it, they could see the ink black lake that had pooled beneath it.
“Ah, old friend,” groaned Jonas, lifting the corpse’s head and revealing an ear-to-ear gash beneath Puchelperger’s rolls of fat. “Whatever you may have done, you did not de
serve to die like this—at the hands of a petty criminal.”
Fabian looked nervously up the gloomy stairs. “Do you think he might still be here?”
Jonas shook his head as he climbed slowly to his feet. “No, there’s no need to be afraid, boy. He’s long gone. Probably on his way to butcher someone else dear to me.” Jonas’ eyes widened and he staggered backwards, as though someone had slapped him. “Oh, by the gods,” he muttered. “Isolde.” He clutched his face in his hands and let out a terrible wail of anguish. “I’m probably already too late. He knows what time I leave for the club.” He grabbed Fabian’s shoulders and looked desperately into his eyes. “You might make it though boy,” he hissed. “Run as fast as your young legs will carry you.” He saw the doubt in Fabian’s eyes as he pictured himself fighting the Tilean swordsman. “It will all come back to you,” hissed Jonas. “Everything I showed you today—even the strength from the sigils, it will all come back when you need it most. But you must be quick,” he cried, pushing him back towards the door.
“But which way do I go?” yelled Fabian in reply. “I’ll never find my way back alone.”
Jonas’ face twisted into a mask of fury and for a second Fabian thought he would strike him. Then he took a deep breath to calm himself and looked around the house. His eyes came to rest on the pool of blood that surrounded them. “Hold out your hand,” he said, stooping to the floor and dipping his finger in the cold, thick liquid.
“Left at the top of this avenue,” said Jonas, drawing a crimson line across Fabian’s palm. “Then a right, then two lefts, two rights and another left.” He stepped back and looked at Fabian with desperation in his eyes. “Go, I beg you.”
Fabian looked at the crude, sticky map on his hand, and nodded once, before turning and dashing from the house. Fleet with fear, he pounded across the flagstones: barging past drunks and leaping over walls and hedges. As he ran, the map trailed across his skin, gradually losing all its definition and finally, with one turn still remaining, the lines of Puchelperger’s blood blurred into a shapeless smear.
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