Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  Jurgen leaned forward and hissed: “Not here, you idiot!” The thief flicked his eyes toward the barkeep, who was standing too close, steadily ignoring the impatient cries of thirsty patrons and cleaning an already spotless glass. The noble’s smile tightened, but he nodded to the private booths at the rear of the inn and strode towards them purposefully. Jurgen followed cautiously, quickly checking that the knives secreted throughout his person were accessible.

  Both men seated themselves in the enclosed booth and once again appraised each other. There was a moment of charged silence, broken first by Jurgen: “So who are you? Who’s your ‘master’?”

  “My master wishes to remain anonymous, and who I am is not important.” The habitual smirk returned to the face of the young man. “You may call me Randolph.”

  Jurgen suddenly realised where he had seen the stoop-shouldered look that this Randolph possessed: it was common among the students of Nuln’s famous university. Being wealthy and unused to manual work, they quickly became hunched when forced to lug about huge tomes of lore. Perhaps this Randolph was also a student at the university; this would explain his pale complexion—the more diligent students barely saw the light of day, spending their time endlessly studying books in the huge university library.

  “Alright, ‘Randolph’. What’s the job?”

  “My master has long wished to acquire a certain object, which recently came to his attention as being in the possession of a local merchant specialising in exotic artefacts,” Randolph paused, and fished a small pipe from his pocket. “However, the dealer was not willing to part with the piece, much to my master’s sorrow. Now we must resort to more discreet methods of obtaining the painting.”

  “A painting?” Jurgen asked, incredulous. “You want me to steal a painting?”

  “It’s not an overly large piece; you should be able to carry it alone. Once you have the painting out of the place it’s stored in, you’ll only need to move it a short distance to where we can take it off your hands,” Randolph filled the pipe with a pinch of herbs, and pulled a flint from his pocket.

  “What are you offering,” Jurgen grimaced as the lit pipe began to emit sickly sweet fumes, “assuming I accept this job?”

  “Oh, you’ll accept. One hundred gold crowns now, and nine hundred more once we have the painting.” Randolph paused for a languid draw from the pipe. “The amount is non-negotiable.”

  Jurgen felt his jaw go slack. This fee was totally out of his league; the old gang would have been happy to pull two hundred crowns for a job. Sigmar! Jurgen thought. Just who does he think I am? Jurgen recovered himself and found Randolph studying him, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “S-sounds fair… Hmm.” Jurgen did his utmost to appear casual.

  “You accept the commission?” Randolph arched his eyebrows.

  “Uh… Of course,” Jurgen smiled weakly.

  “Very well. Here’s your advance,” Randolph said, rising from his seat and nonchalantly tossing a bag bulging with coins onto the table. “The merchant is Otto Grubach, of Tin Street, in the Merchant’s Quarter. The painting lies within a safe inside his office.”

  “What’s the painting?”

  “The piece is titled The Blessed Ones, by the artist Hals,” Randolph said. He carefully extinguished his pipe and replaced it in a pouch by his side. “I shall meet you in two days, here, to discuss delivery. That’ll give you time to examine the premises.”

  “Fine.” Jurgen grasped the bag and weighed it in his hands. “Uh, look: what made you choose me for this?”

  “You came highly recommended by a previous employer—a man known as Hultz.” Randolph flashed a knowing grin and strode purposefully from the booth.

  Oh Sigmar, Jurgen thought, as his insides lurched with dread.

  Getting inside Nuln University was no problem for Jurgen, who had a carefully nurtured friendship with the regular gate guard. It had been some time since he’d last had cause to visit the academy, but the feeling of discomfort he experienced with each visit returned on cue. It was more than just the intellectual and social snobbery of the university’s inhabitants which set Jurgen on edge: there were the stories, whispered in the dark corners of taverns throughout Nuln, concerning terrible and secretive goings-on within the academy walls. Of course, Jurgen was too much of a sceptic to believe even part of most of the tales he heard, but he was also cautious enough not to dismiss them out of hand. As the old saying went, Where there’s smoke there may well be dragons…

  Jurgen was here this time, within the musty dormitory complex, visiting an old friend, Klaus von Rikkenburg II. Klaus was the third-in-line to the Rikkenburg family fortune, built over centuries from the local wine trade. Klaus rejected the traditional third son profession of priest and elected instead to study at Nuln’s famous university, a decision his family welcomed.

  They were less impressed when he proceeded to almost completely ignore his official studies in order to pursue regular extensive studies into the quality of his “family” vineyard produce, and its market competitors, alongside much research into the anatomy of local womenfolk. His family concluded Klaus had “fallen in with bad sorts”, which—as Klaus proudly pointed out—his association with Jurgen was testimony to. Jurgen considered Klaus a good friend, one that had not hesitated in the past to use his influence and intelligence to help him out of not a few tight spots.

  “It’s good to see you again, old man.” Klaus, having fixed his guest a drink, swept the clutter from an ancient-looking chair and seated himself. “Where in Ulric’s name have you been these last few months?”

  “Uh, you know, saving the Empire and all that.” Jurgen glanced around the small dormitory room and shifted awkwardly; he’d made a seat of a low, over-stuffed cushion and was beginning to regret it. “Well, I suppose I’ve been in a bit of trouble actually.”

  “Really? Jurgen, I am shocked,” Klaus grinned, raising a mocking eyebrow.

  “That’s not important. I wanted to ask you about someone.”

  “Yes?”

  “I got approached by this young aristocratic-looking man who wanted me to do this job, right? Only he wouldn’t tell me his real name, or who he was working for.” Jurgen paused for a quick sip of the spicy-sweet wine Klaus poured for him. “Thing is, I reckon he looked a bit like he could be a student of the university, so I thought you might know him.”

  “There are a lot of students at this university, Jurgen,” Klaus paused to gulp down a half-glass of wine. “Well I suppose it’s worth a try. What’s he look like?”

  “About my height, pale, dark eyes, blond hair down to his shoulders—”

  “You just described half of the student population,” Klaus smirked.

  “Smoked some horrible sickly-sweet weed, smirked a lot, bit of a fool. Come to think of it, he reminded me of you.”

  “This tobacco, it smelt a bit like rancid perfume? I don’t believe it!” Klaus seemed genuinely surprised. “That sounds… Tell me, did he walk around like this?” Klaus stood and did an impeccable burlesque of Randolph’s haughty demeanour.

  Jurgen laughed loudly, almost spilling wine all over himself. “Yeah, that’s the one. Then again, all you aristocrats look that way to us common folk.”

  Klaus grinned. “It sounds like Eretz Habemauer; he was in my art history class. He’s been smoking that disgusting Araby weed ever since he took up with Count Romanov last year.”

  “Who’s he?” Jurgen leaned forward, carefully setting his wine on the floor.

  “Lives on the Hill. There are some odd stories about him. There used to be a lot of big parties in his manor, but they stopped because many of the noble families didn’t approve of the things happening at them.”

  “What do you mean? What was going on?”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure. But some say that they were taking riffraff—if you’ll pardon the expression—off the street and, well, using them for entertainment.” Klaus paused while he carefully refilled his glass. “Eventu
ally all the bodies began turning up and people started asking questions, so his little soirees stopped. Or perhaps the count has been more discreet since.”

  “By the gods…” Jurgen leaned back, exhaling slowly. “So what’s Habemauer to Count Romanov?”

  “Romanov seems to have taken him as his protégé, and now it seems Eretz shares the count’s mania for exotic intoxicants and obscure relics. He really is a clown.” Klaus snorted with derision. “Did he really ask you to do a job?”

  “Yeah. He offered a heap of money, on behalf of his ‘master’, for me to steal a painting. By someone, Halls or something—”

  “Hals?” Klaus demanded sharply.

  “Um, I think—”

  “Not The Blessed Ones?” Klaus stared at Jurgen intently.

  “Yes. What do you know about this?”

  “I studied the finer arts once, mainly to annoy my parents, and gave a dissertation on mythological art: ancient pieces which are legendary, despite the fact that nobody can be sure they even exist. The Blessed Ones, by Hals, was one such piece: rumours of its whereabouts keep turning up but the painting’s never been found,” Klaus pondered his wine glass for a moment, swirling the contents gently. “The thing is, well, this old painting was supposed to grant the possessor, erm, eternal life. So, well, naturally, many people are interested in finding it.”

  “Then this could be big…” Jurgen was standing abruptly to leave. “Klaus, I’d better go. Do you think you could find out anymore about this painting, or Romanov?”

  “I can try.” Klaus sat forward but did not rise. “So this painting is in Nuln?”

  Jurgen offered a guarded shrug of his shoulders by way of a reply. “Thanks for all your help, Klaus,” he said, before briskly turning to leave.

  “Not at all, friend,” Klaus called as Jurgen hurried out of the door, slamming it shut behind him. The impact stirred up motes of dust coating the ancient door frame. “Not at all.”

  Jurgen dodged his way across the city, hurrying through dingy lanes and twisting back alleys. Few knew Nuln as Jurgen did, which was the only reason he had managed to evade Pharsos’ men when the last operation had blown up in their faces. Jurgen would be sad to leave this place, but he suspected his departure from this corner of the Old World was long overdue.

  As he raced through Nuln’s filth-strewn streets, already choked with the first leaves of autumn, Jurgen’s mind sped. He knew Hultz was out for his blood, so being hired at his advice could only mean this job was, in one way or another, a death sentence. His every instinct told him to stay away from this strange employer and his obscure artwork. And yet… if this priceless painting really lay within the merchant Grubach’s shop, then a solution to Jurgen’s cash-flow problems could be at hand.

  Jurgen slowed as he reached the end of an unkempt alley, stepping over an unconscious drunkard, to find himself facing the small merchant’s house lying at the end of Tin Street. Ducking back into the alley, he squatted down against a broken crate. Fishing a small hand-mirror of beaten brass and a tiny wooden box from the pockets of his jacket, Jurgen proceeded to apply the contents of the box—a pair of dark eyebrows and a styled goatee—to his face. He carefully moulded these new features until he was satisfied they appeared authentic.

  Jurgen contemplated his rather shabby clothing for a moment, reflecting that it was a pity he could not afford the time to purchase a more appropriate outfit. Or the money, of course.

  Taking a deep breath, Jurgen assumed the bearing of a servant on an important errand and strode purposefully from the alley. He stopped smartly before the narrow, two-storey building, adorned with worn, leering gargoyles. The building was flush with its neighbour on one side, with an alley on the other. Approaching the double front doors, he heard faint sounds from within. He rapped briskly on a solid door.

  The noises inside ceased for a moment, then cautious heavy footsteps approached. The clunk of a beam lifting was heard from within, and the door opened slightly to reveal a thick-set man. His face—a jigsaw of scars—held an expression of extreme annoyance, which only deepened at the sight of Jurgen.

  “We’re closed,” the man growled. Jurgen quickly shoved his foot into the small space. He had to suppress a howl of pain as the man slammed the door on to his leather boot.

  “Take your foot out of the door, now, or you’ll be carrying it home in a sack.” The scarred man’s voice dripped with malice.

  “My master would be most disappointed if I returned without having spoken to the merchant Grubach,” Jurgen contorted his voice into the whining-yet-superior speech common to the servants of nobility.

  “You ain’t hearing too good,” the man snarled, and pushed his face closer to Jurgen’s. “We’re closed. Begone, you worm!”

  Jurgen struggled to maintain his composure as he felt the man’s hot breath on his face, and was about to back off when he heard the faint shuffle of a second figure behind scar-face. Jurgen stretched to peer around the thug’s head at the interior of the store, and was rewarded with a glimpse of a rather pudgy figure peering at him from round the corner of an ornate dresser. The figure immediately ducked back behind the antique.

  Jurgen raised his voice: “A pity! Lord DeNunzio will be most upset. I had come to lay a considerable bid for—”

  “Lord DeNunzio sent you?” The pudgy figure said, emerging cautiously into the light. Jurgen resisted the impulse to smile; the invocation of the name of one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the city rarely failed to gain the attention of those of a mercantile persuasion.

  “Yes, Herr Grubach. His Lordship was most interested in a piece you have acquired.” Jurgen did his best to speak confidently; not easily done with the thug snarling into his face.

  “Well, of course!” The merchant’s manner changed, a congenial tone entering his voice, although he still appeared extremely nervous. “Come in, do! Please allow the poor man in, Hans.”

  Hans scowled, but stood back from the door and gestured impatiently for Jurgen to enter. Jurgen stepped smartly into the store, then proceeded to make a show of smoothing down his clothes and examining his boot for scuff marks. Hans’ scowl deepened. Jurgen took this opportunity to quickly scan the cluttered store.

  “DeNunzio’s page boys are lookin’ pretty shabby these days,” Hans rumbled sarcastically.

  Jurgen ignored him imperiously, as did Grubach. “Which piece was your master interested in?” The merchant wrung his hands, and glanced about distractedly. Jurgen got the feeling that Grubach wished to get rid of him as quickly, though as politely, as possible.

  “A certain vase. Milord provided me with a detailed description… Ah! I believe that is the very piece there,” Jurgen indicated a large vase, which stood at the head of some stairs to the rear of the shop.

  “Ah… I’m terribly afraid that piece has been, hmm, sold.” The refusal came haltingly from Grubach, and Jurgen could see he was cursing himself for selling for what must have been a far inferior price to that which would be offered by one of the wealthiest men in Nuln. “Still, I should think Lord DeNunzio would have nothing to do with such… such an inferior piece. Perhaps he would be more interested in something like this?”

  Jurgen was led through the cluttered store to examine various vases, urns and other assorted containers. Grubach became increasingly agitated, casting nervous glances about each time he ushered Jurgen to the next piece. Hans, by contrast, was like a rock, unflinchingly inspecting Jurgen’s every move.

  A section of the second storey had been cleared of artefacts, and a large tub half-full of water had been placed beneath a leaking section of ceiling. “Must be quite a hazard in this business,” Jurgen commented pleasantly. Grubach assented, grumbling that the roof repairer was due but had not yet shown.

  It took less than twenty minutes for Grubach to show Jurgen every piece of glassware and pottery in the place. Only one section of the shop remained unseen: a door to the rear of the building, which judging by the layout of the building l
ed to a fairly small room.

  “Anymore pieces through here?” Jurgen asked casually, knowing he was pushing things.

  “No! Em, no, just my office.” A look of panic crossed Grubach’s eyes for a moment, before he brought himself back under control.

  Hans placed a heavy hand on Jurgen’s shoulder, gripping it tightly: “You’ve seen all the pieces that are for sale,” he said, talking slowly and deliberately, “and I think it’s time you left to consult with your master. Don’t you?”

  It was Grubach, strangely, who answered the somewhat rhetorical question. “Er, yes,” the merchant appeared rather distressed, caught between the need for politeness to the servant of a powerful man, and his need to be rid of the same, “I do have some pressing tasks to attend to, so if that’s all…”

  “More than sufficient, thank you,” Jurgen began moving towards the front doors, though in truth he had little choice since he was being bodily propelled towards them by Hans’ vice-like grip on his shoulder, “Lord DeNunzio will be most grateful for your time.”

  Jurgen was shoved onto the street, tripping and falling into the dust at the final push from Hans. The door slammed shut, and the heavy bolt slid loudly back into place. Jurgen rose and dusted himself off, thinking hard. He was sure from the way Grubach had behaved that the painting was present, and the theft actually seemed relatively simple. There were obviously complicating factors: he would be working alone, for one thing. Grubach’s nervous manner did not bode well either. Romanov had probably alarmed him with suspiciously large bids on the painting, Jurgen suspected that if the burglary was not performed immediately—which meant tonight—the piece would most likely be transported to a safer location. That did not leave long to arrange matters…

  Jurgen strode off briskly down the street, remembering to retain his servant’s poise until he was some streets away.

  From the alley opposite the house, a dark figure emerged, looking decidedly sober now. The figure paused to make sure it was not seen, then skulked off after Jurgen.