by C. L. Werner
‘A sound suggestion,’ Prince Sigdan approved. ‘If I may expand upon it, I say we send messengers not only to Graf Gunthar, but to each of the neighbouring provinces. Count Artur has left Altdorf to return to his own lands.’
‘That could mean either Nuln or Wissenburg,’ Hartwich pointed out. As both Count of Nuln and Grand Count of Wissenland, Artur maintained palaces in both cities.
‘We send a knight to intercept Count Artur in both cities,’ Count van Sauckelhof stated. ‘Wissenland’s support will be vital to keeping the river trade routes open to us once Boris has been deposed. If Count Artur intends to stand by Boris Goldgather, then it is in his power to starve Altdorf.’ Sadness crept into his voice as he added, ‘It will be some time before Marienburg can fulfil its old position as provider.’
‘Knights must also be sent to Averland and Stirland,’ Baron von Klauswitz said. ‘We are no friends of Boris in Wurtbad, and there is no cause for Averheim to love him either.’ He shot a sharp look at Mihail Kretzulescu. ‘We can forward any appeal to Count von Drak if we think his inclusion is necessary.’
The Sylvanian dignitary smiled sourly. ‘On behalf of the voivode, I thank you for your courtesy.’
‘We must not forget Talabecland,’ Duke Konrad said. ‘The grand duke will surely support any move against Goldgather now that the Imperial Army is moving against him.’
‘Why stop there?’ Erich asked. ‘Why not send word to the Reiksmarshal? He is an honourable man, a soldier who understands the difference between a just and an unjust war. If we approach him, he may side with us.’ He could see the dubious looks on the faces of those around him. Defiantly, he returned those stares. ‘There is nothing to be lost in trying,’ he said.
‘And much to be gained,’ Prince Sigdan conceded. ‘Very well, we shall appeal to both the grand duke and the Reiksmarshal. Perhaps the first fruit this conspiracy will bear is the prevention of a useless war.’
‘That alone, your highness, would be enough to justify our cause,’ Hartwich said.
‘This is all well and good, my lords,’ Meisel said, ‘but we need men inside Altdorf. We need soldiers here and now, not away in Middenheim and Nuln. With the Imperial Army away, there will be no better time to strike!’
‘What about the Bread Marchers?’ Erich asked. ‘How many of you can we count on?’
Meisel sighed. ‘Not enough, I fear. We’ve been able to contact most of those who escaped the massacre, over four hundred men. But they’ve been hiding in the worst slums and shacks in Altdorf, constantly on the move to escape Kreyssig’s spies. A lot of them are sick.’ His eyes became like chips of ice. ‘The plague,’ he hissed, almost choking on the word.
‘We don’t need an army,’ Prince Sigdan said. ‘The right men in the right place will serve us better than a thousand swords. What we need is someone close to the Emperor. Someone who can get inside the Palace and inform us first-hand of his plans. There will be a time when it will be right to strike, when even a few men can seize the Emperor.’
‘Then perhaps I can be that man,’ Princess Erna said. The statement brought a grunt of amusement from Duke Konrad.
‘Boris would have to be blind to take you for a man,’ Konrad quipped.
Princess Erna scowled at the Drakwalder’s jest. Before her temper could rise, Baron Thornig came forwards, placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.
‘Hear her out,’ he said, his words heavy with regret and shame. ‘There may be a way to slip one of our own into the heart of the enemy camp.’
Erna gripped her father’s hand. Taking a deep breath, knowing that she wouldn’t have the courage to repeat what she had to say, the princess hurried to make her proposal. ‘For some time, Adolf Kreyssig has attempted to court me. He has spared no effort to secure my father’s blessing, from the most vile threats to the most tempting gifts. At any time, my father could pretend to be swayed by Kreyssig’s demands. As the wife of that monster, I could be the eyes and ears of this cause.’ She could see the disgust on the faces of the men listening to her. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me do this, let me make this sacrifice. All of you are willing to risk your lives, your names, your very legacies to depose a despot. Is what I risk so much more precious?’
‘Your highness, you cannot allow this?’ protested Erich. ‘You cannot sacrifice this lady’s virtue and honour this way!’
Prince Sigdan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘The very horror of the idea is what tells me Princess Erna is right. The enemy will never suspect her. She will be privy to confidences we should never be aware of otherwise.’
‘But to ruin a lady’s reputation?’ the knight persisted.
Erna smiled at Erich’s chivalry. ‘When the moment comes, you may avenge me upon my husband,’ she told him. ‘The person of the Emperor may be inviolate, but a scheming creature like Adolf Kreyssig deserves only a nameless grave. Send him there, my dashing knight, and give all of his victims justice.’
Erich’s hand tightened about the hilt of his sword. ‘I will,’ he vowed.
Frost clung to the stone walls of the cellar, twinkling in the glow of Kreyssig’s rushlight as he descended the stairs. An angry squeak from the shadows reprimanded him for leaving the light unshaded. The commander of the Kaiserjaeger grinned at the distempered vocalisation. It was always a good thing to remind his sneaking friends of their place.
‘What have you learned?’ Kreyssig snarled, arresting his descent at the foot of the stairs. He didn’t like being even this close to his subhuman confederates. They were useful, but that didn’t change how disgusting they were.
‘Prince-man meet with other-more traitor-meat,’ a nasally voice hissed from the darkness. Kreyssig could just pick out the scrawny shape with its hunched shoulders and hooded face. Even that much left too vivid an impression upon him. Only once had he gotten a good look at his slinking associates, an incident that continued to haunt him in his nightmares. The Sigmarites were right to burn mutants if such horrors as what he had seen could spring from a collusion of corrupt souls. He promised himself that once these vermin had ceased to be useful to him, he would hunt them down and destroy their lairs.
‘They spread-bring plague-cough,’ the voice said. ‘Make many-more sick-die. Weaken city-place, then make attack-slay!’
Kreyssig nodded as he heard his informant’s statement. Useful spies, these skulking mutants, and they had provided him with the information that had made him the most feared man in Altdorf. There was no one they had failed to dig up dirt on, no secret they had failed to uncover for him. The revelation that Prince Sigdan was moving against Emperor Boris, and that the rebels were behind the plague, was something Kreyssig had long suspected.
‘You can bring proof of this?’ Kreyssig demanded. In the shadows, he could see the mutant’s hooded head bobbing up and down emphatically. ‘Bring it then. Whatever support the prince thinks he can count on will wither and die if he is shown to be the source of the plague.’
‘More-more,’ wheezed the mutant. Kreyssig’s hair stood on end as the creature uttered a titter of ghastly laughter. ‘Saw-scent Sigmar-man meet-seek traitor-meat. Haart-witch, say-called.’
Kreyssig’s smile broadened. Arch-Lector Hartwich conspiring with rebels? It was almost too good to be true. For years he had struggled to find a way to put the temple of Sigmar under his thumb. Evidence of what had happened in Nuln hadn’t seemed enough for what Kreyssig needed, but combined with evidence of a more recent scandal it would be just the lever he needed to bring the Grand Theogonist down to his level.
‘Well done,’ Kreyssig told his spy. ‘Your Emperor thanks you for your service.’
A titter of inhuman laughter sounded from the darkness, then the mutant spy was gone, vanished back into the subterranean depths from whence he came.
Kreyssig turned and ascended the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. It was an effort not to run, to flee back into the clean world of light.
Yes, once these vermin had served their purpos
e, he was going to take extreme delight exterminating them.
Nuln
Ulriczeit, 1111
Walther leaned against the counter inside the Black Rose, a pleased smile on his face. The tavern was a bedlam of activity, people clustered about the tables, gathered about the bar or simply squeezed into any corner where there was room enough to stand. Every fist was filled with the handle of a tankard. The rat-catcher had it on good authority that Bremer had been forced to send to other taverns in the neighbourhood for more beer and Reikhoch to replace what he’d sold.
It made sense. Nuln was in the grip of plague. There was no denying that fact now. Panic had settled upon the city. There had been a crazed culling of cats and dogs after a rumour started that the plague was being spread by the animals. Walther had lost his two ratters to a mob of terrified peasants, helpless to do anything but watch while the wretches beat his dogs to death – all the while crying out to Shallya to preserve them from the plague. In their fear, none of them bothered to consider that all life, even that of a little dog, was sacred to the goddess of mercy.
The prudent folk of Nuln had taken to barricading themselves inside their homes, hoping that by sequestering themselves they could avoid contact with the disease. Others, without the affluence or temperament to be prudent, had thrown themselves into a frenzy of licentiousness, determined to indulge to excess before the shadow of Morr fell upon them. It was to such grimly exuberant clientele that the Black Rose and a hundred other taverns now catered, each struggling to capture the dragon’s share of the wilfully reckless libertines.
Thanks to Walther’s contribution to the Black Rose’s ambiance, Bremer was taking in the dragon’s share. The rat-catcher looked across the crowd, his eyes lighting upon the oak stand where the giant had been mounted. In a bit of irony, the brute had been stuffed by a tanner from Tanner’s Lane. The tradesman must have possessed a touch of the thespian about him, for he had posed the giant rat in an attitude of such ferocious aggression that the first impulse of all who saw it was to recoil in alarm, ready to defend themselves from the snarling monster.
The rat was well and truly dead, of course. Scattered on the stand about its feet were the bones of its skeleton. The tanner had improvised a wooden frame to support the rat’s skin, using only the creature’s skull when he stuffed it. Two bits of ruddy copper served the thing for eyes, shining sinisterly whenever the light hit them just right.
The effect was a bit spoiled by the crude sign hanging about the rat’s neck. Somehow a rumour had been started that rubbing the monster’s fur was a charm against the plague. In an effort to protect his new attraction, Bremer had placed the sign around its neck. It didn’t do any good. Most of his patrons couldn’t read and those who could, mostly students from the now closed Universität, ignored it anyway. A few spots on the monster’s hide were starting to look a little thin from the constant attention.
‘I tell you this is too important to simply be relegated to being a freakshow attraction!’
Walther took a slow sip from his beerstein before deigning to continue his conversation with Lord Karl-Joachim Kleinheistkamp. The professor stood at his elbow, his brocaded hat clenched in his white hands, beads of sweat on his wrinkled brow. The rat-catcher savoured the desperate quality in the nobleman’s expression.
‘The Universität will pay… three crowns for the specimen,’ Kleinheistkamp said, holding up his fingers. ‘Three gold crowns,’ he chuckled.
Walther joined in the professor’s chuckle, clapping the old man on the shoulder. Kleinheistkamp frowned at the overly familiar gesture, but quickly forced a wide grin on his face. ‘Three gold crowns. How many rats would you need to catch to earn that much?’
‘One,’ Walther said, taking another sip from his stein. He pointed across the tavern to the crowd circling about the stuffed giant. ‘That one,’ he elaborated. ‘That beauty is bringing them to the Black Rose in droves and I get half of the profit. Now, if I had a similar arrangement with the Universität – whenever Count Artur decides it is safe to reopen, that is – then perhaps we might come to terms. You are going to charge admission, aren’t you?’
All geniality faded from the professor’s face. ‘I want that specimen for scientific study, not for a bunch of peasants to gawp at!’
Walther shrugged his shoulders. ‘Too bad. It looks like I’ll make more leaving my monster right where it is.’ A hard edge crept into his eyes as he watched Kleinheistkamp angrily turn away and order a fresh drink from Bremer. ‘Be careful, your lordship,’ Walther said. ‘I’m afraid you’re paying for the drinks this time.’
Laughing at the baleful look Kleinheistkamp directed at him, Walther pushed his way through the crowd. Maybe it was the professor’s ire, but suddenly it felt a bit cold inside the tavern. The rat-catcher was eager for the warmth of the fire. As he walked through the busy room, he found himself cheered and toasted by the patrons. Perhaps not quite as renowned as the monster he had killed, Walther had nevertheless become something of a local hero. For the rat-catcher, accustomed to being shunned even by the lowest dregs of society, all of the attention was more exhilarating than anything Bremer kept behind the bar.
The patrons gathered about the Black Rose’s hearth cleared a spot for Walther. A big, broad-shouldered man with a warrior’s bearing and a distinct Reikland accent even offered the rat-catcher a drink. Politely declining, the local hero nestled close to the fire and tried to warm the chill from his hands.
A different chill crept into his body when he noticed the object nailed to the back of the hearth, almost hidden by the roaring flames. The jawbone of a hog, its tusk black with soot. Folk medicine from the days of the Old Faith, a talisman against evil spirits and disease. There were many hearths decorated with such talismans these days, but the one in the Black Rose was there for a specific reason. There was a specific sickness the talisman was intended to alleviate.
Walther stared into the flames, his thoughts turning away from the busy crowd, from the congratulatory cheers. He was thinking of the little room down in the tavern’s cellar and the man entombed there. The rat-catcher looked away from the fire, wondering if the Reiklander was still around and if the offer of a drink was still open. Instead he found himself looking into Zena’s pretty face. His pleasure at seeing her looking for him quickly faded. There was a fearful look in her eye and a tightness about her mouth. Over the last few days the chores of the tavern had increasingly been taken up by the other serving girls. Zena’s attentions had increasingly been needed elsewhere.
Walther didn’t speak, simply grabbing Zena’s elbow and guiding her towards the kitchen. His retreat with the shapely serving wench brought jovial catcalls and lewd gestures from some in the crowd, but they ignored the rude humour of Bremer’s patrons. Some things were too serious to bear distraction.
‘Why did you leave him?’ Walther demanded once they were in the kitchen. Zena cast a worried look at the cook and the kitchen boys. Catching the suggestion, Walther drew her into the larder and lowered his voice. ‘You should be with Hugo,’ he accused.
Zena winced at the anger in his voice. ‘I can’t do anything for him,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘It’s not that,’ Walther growled. ‘Ranald’s purse! Do you think I’d ask you to look out for him if it was that! It’s just a fever, an infection from that damn rat bite!’
Zena placed her hand against Walther’s neck, drawing his face close to her own. ‘It’s more than that,’ she whispered. ‘He’s getting worse. It’s more than fever now.’
Walther pulled away, uttering a pained moan. His fist lashed out against a sack of potatoes, disturbing an ugly grey rat that was hiding in a cranny behind the bag. Squeaking, it scurried off to find a new refuge.
‘He saved my life,’ Walther said. ‘When that thing turned on me, I couldn’t move. I froze. I just stood there. If Hugo hadn’t attacked it…’
The woman’s arms closed around him, hugging him to her body. ‘You’ve done
all you could for him. If he has the plague, there’s nothing you can do.’
‘I can get him a doktor. I have enough gold for that, even with Bremer cheating me on my cut. I’ll get him a doktor.’
‘And you think Bremer will sit still for that?’ Zena scoffed. She jabbed her thumb at the door. The murmur of the tavern crowd was just audible. ‘You think he’ll risk losing the business you’ve brought him? How many of those people would be here if there was a red cross daubed on the door? They might scoff at death, but they won’t go courting it!’
‘Hugo saved my life! I won’t abandon him! I’ll find a way!’ Walther reached beneath the fancy new tunic he’d bought, retrieving a fat purse stuffed with coins. ‘Take these. Find a physician who will be discreet. We can do this without Bremer getting wise.’
Zena shook her head, but couldn’t refuse the purse when it was pressed into her hands. Walther leaned down and kissed her. ‘If you haggle, maybe there will be enough left for a new dress.’ The remark brought a smile to her lips. Her eyes looked up into his. For a moment, all worry and fear was forgotten. There was only hope and love.
A harsh knock at the door broke the moment. Walther and Zena pulled apart as Bremer’s frantic voice sounded from the kitchen.
‘Schill!’ the taverneer cried out. ‘I need you! There’s an idiot out here saying your rat is fake!’
Walther pressed Zena’s hand. ‘Take the money. Get Hugo a doktor.’ He didn’t wait for her to answer, instead turning and opening the door. A flush-faced Bremer stood just outside.
‘You need to stop this idiot, or our agreement is off!’ Bremer threatened.
Walther glared at his partner. ‘Hans and Schultz are the roughs!’ he snarled back at the taverneer, naming the two bouncers who had been hired on when business increased. ‘Have them kick the fool into the street!’
