In the Company of Thieves

by Kage Baker

  Though Kronstadt was a big town, bursting its medieval walls, it took Golescu three trips, to three separate chemists’ shops, to obtain all the items on the list but the chocolate. It took him the best part of an hour to get the chocolate, too, using all his guile and patience to convince the confectioner’s assistant to sell him a block of raw material.

  “You’d have thought I was trying to buy state secrets,” Golescu said to himself, trudging away with a scant half-pound block wrapped in waxed paper. “Pfui! Such drudge work, Golescu, is a waste of your talents. What are you, a mere donkey to send on errands?”

  And when he returned to the camp outside town, he got nothing like the welcome he felt he deserved. Amaunet seized the carry-sack from him and went through it hurriedly, as he stood before her with aching feet. She pulled out the block of chocolate and stared at it. She trembled slightly, her nostrils flared. Golescu thought it made her look uncommonly like a horse.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve cooked any supper for me?” he inquired.

  Amaunet started, and turned to him as though he had just asked for a roasted baby in caper sauce.

  “No! Go back into Kronstadt. Buy yourself something at a tavern. In fact, take a room. I don’t want to see you back here for two days, understand? Come back at dawn on the third day.”

  “I see,” said Golescu, affronted. “In that case I’ll just go collect my purse and an overnight bag, shall I? Not that I don’t trust you, of course.”

  Amaunet’s reply was to turn her back and vanish into the wagon, bearing the sack clutched to her bosom.

  Carrying his satchel, Golescu cheered up a little as he walked away. Cash, a change of clothes, and no authorities in pursuit!

  He was not especially concerned that Amaunet would use his absence to move on. The people of the road had a limited number of places they could ply their diverse trades, and he had been one of their number long enough to know the network of market fairs and circuses that made up their itinerary. He had only to follow the route of the vardas, and sooner or later he must find Amaunet again. Unless, of course, she left the road and settled down; then she would be harder to locate than an egg in a snowstorm. Or an ink bottle in a coal cellar. Or...he amused himself for at least a mile composing unlikely similes.

  Having returned to Kronstadt just as dusk fell, Golescu paused outside a low, dark door. There was no sign to tell him a tavern lay within, but the fume of wine and brandy breathing out spoke eloquently to him. He went in, ducking his head, and as soon as his eyes had adjusted to the dark he made out the bar, the barrels, the tables in dark corners he had expected to see.

  “A glass of schnapps, please,” he said to the sad-faced publican. There were silent drinkers at the tables, some watching him with a certain amount of suspicion, some ignoring him. One or two appeared to be dead, collapsed over their drinks. Only a pair of cattle-herders standing near the bar were engaged in conversation. Golescu smiled cheerily at one and all, slapped down his coin, and withdrew with his glass to an empty table.

  “...Hunting for him everywhere,” one of the drovers was saying. “He was selling this stuff that was supposed to make chickens lay better eggs.”

  “Has anybody been killed?” said the other drover.

  “I didn’t hear enough to know, but they managed to shoot most of them—”

  Golescu, quietly as he could, half-rose and turned his chair so he was facing away from the bar. Raising his glass to his lips, he looked over its rim and met the eyes of someone propped in a dark corner.

  “To your very good health,” he said, and drank.

  “What’s that you’ve got in the satchel?” said the person in the corner.

  “Please, sir, my mummy sent me to the market to buy bread,” said Golescu, smirking. The stranger arose and came near. Golescu drew back involuntarily. The stranger ignored his reaction and sat down at Golescu’s table.

  He was an old man in rusty black, thin to gauntness, his shabby coat buttoned high and tight. He was bald, with drawn and waxen features, and he smelled a bit; but the stare of his eyes was intimidating. They shone like pearls, milky as though he were blind.

  “You travel with Mother Aegypt, eh?” said the old man.

  “And who would that be?” inquired Golescu, setting his drink down. The old man looked scornful.

  “I know her,” he said. “Madame Amaunet. I travel, too. I saw you at the market fair in Arges, loafing outside her wagon. You do the talking for her, don’t you, and run her errands? I’ve been following you.”

  “You must have me confused with some other handsome fellow,” said Golescu.

  “Pfft.” The old man waved his hand dismissively. “I used to work for her, too. She’s never without a slave to do her bidding.”

  “Friend, I don’t do anyone’s bidding,” said Golescu, but he felt a curious pang of jealousy. “And she’s only a poor weak woman, isn’t she?

  The old man laughed. He creaked when he laughed.

  “Tell me, is she still collecting trash for the Devil?”

  “What Devil is that?” said Golescu, leaning back and trying to look amused.

  “Her master. I saw him, once.” The old man reached up absently and swatted a fly that had landed on his cheek. “Soldiers had looted a mosque, they stole a big golden lamp. She paid them cash for it. It wasn’t so heavy, but it was, you know, awkward. And when we drove up to the Teufelberg to unload all the goods, she made me help her bring out the lamp, so as not to break off the fancy work. I saw him there, the Devil. Waiting beside his long wagons. He looked like a prosperous Saxon.”

  “Sorry, my friend, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Golescu. He drew a deep breath and plunged on: “Though I have heard of a lord of thieves who is, perhaps, known in certain circles as the Devil. Am I correct? Just the sort of powerful fellow who has but to pull a string and corrupt officials rush to do his bidding? And he accumulates riches without lifting a finger?”

  The old man creaked again.

  “You think you’ve figured it out,” he said. “And you think he has a place for a fast-talking fellow in his gang, don’t you?”

  Taken aback, Golescu just stared at him. He raised his drink again.

  “Mind reader, are you?”

  “I was a fool, too,” said the old man, smacking the table for emphasis, though his hand made no more sound than an empty glove. “Thought I’d make a fortune. Use her to work my way up the ladder. I hadn’t the slightest idea what she really was.”

  “What is she, grandfather?” said Golescu, winking broadly at the publican. The publican shuddered and looked away. The old man, ignoring or not noticing, leaned forward and said in a lowered voice:

  “There are stregoi who walk this world. You don’t believe it, you laugh, but it’s true. They aren’t interested in your soul. They crave beautiful things. Whenever there is a war, they hover around its edges like flies, stealing what they can when the armies loot. If a house is going to catch fire and burn to the ground, they know; you can see them lurking in the street beforehand, and how their eyes gleam! They’re only waiting for night, when they can slip in and take away paintings, carvings, books, whatever is choice and rare, before the flames come. Sometimes they take children, too.

  “She’s one of them. But she’s tired, she’s lazy. She buys from thieves, instead of doing the work herself. The Devil doesn’t care. He just takes what she brings him. Back she goes on her rounds, then, from fair to fair, and even the murderers cross themselves when her shadow falls on them, but still they bring her pretty things. Isn’t it so?”

  “What do you want, grandfather?” said Golescu.

  “I want her secret,” said the old man. “I’ll tell you about it, and then you can steal it and bring it back here, and we’ll share. How would you like eternal youth, eh?”

  “I’d love it,” said Golescu patiently. “But there’s no such thing.”

  “Then you don’t know Mother Aegypt very well!” said the old
man, grinning like a skull. “I used to watch through the door when she’d mix her Black Cup. Does she still have the little mummy case, with the powders inside?”

  “Yes,” said Golescu, startled into truthfulness.

  “That’s how she does it!” said the old man. “She’d put in a little of this—little of that—she’d grind the powders together, and though I watched for years I could never see all that went in the cup, or what the right amounts were. Spirits of wine, yes, and some strange things—arsenic, and paint! And she’d drink it down, and weep, and scream as though she was dying. But instead, she’d live. My time slipped away, peering through that door, watching her live. I could have run away from her many times, but I stayed, I wasted my life, because I thought I could learn her secrets.

  “And one night she caught me watching her, and she cursed me. I ran away. I hid for years. She’s forgotten me, now. But when I saw her at Arges, and you with her, I thought—he can help me.

  “So! You find out what’s in that Black Cup of hers, and bring it back to me. I’ll share it with you. We’ll live forever and become rich as kings.”

  “Will I betray the woman I love?” said Golescu. “And I should believe such a story, because—?”

  The old man, who had worked himself into a dry trembling passion, took a moment to register what Golescu had said. He looked at him with contempt.

  “Love? Mother Aegypt? I see I have been wasting my breath on an idiot.”

  The old man rose to his feet. Golescu put out a conciliatory hand. “Now, now, grandfather, I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, but you’ll have to admit that’s quite a story. Where’s your proof?”

  “Up your ass,” said the old man, sidling away from the table.

  “How long were you with her?” said Golescu, half rising to follow him.

  “She bought me from the orphan asylum in Timisoara,” said the old man, turning with a baleful smile. “I was ten years old.”

  Golescu sat down abruptly, staring as the old man scuttled out into the night.

  After a moment’s rapid thought, he gulped the rest of his schnapps and rose to follow. When he got out into the street, he stared in both directions. A round moon had just lifted above the housetops, and by its light the streets were as visible as by day, though the shadows were black and fathomless. Somewhere, far off, a dog howled. At least, it sounded like a dog. There was no sign of the old man, as far as Golescu could see.

  Golescu shivered, and went in search of a cheap hotel.

  Cheapness notwithstanding, it gave Golescu a pleasant sense of status to sleep once again in a bed. Lingering over coffee and sweet rolls the next morning, he pretended he was a millionaire on holiday. It had long been his habit not to dwell on life’s mysteries, even fairly big and ugly ones, and in broad daylight he found it easy to dismiss the old man as a raving lunatic. Amaunet clearly had a bad reputation amongst the people of the road, but why should he care?

  He went forth from the hotel jingling coins in his pocket, and walked the streets of Kronstadt as though he owned it.

  In the Council Square his attention was drawn by a platform that had been set up, crowded with racks, boxes and bins of the most unlikely looking objects. Some twenty citizens were pawing through them in a leisurely way. Several armed policemen stood guard over the lot, and over two miserable wretches in manacles.

  Catching the not-unpleasant scent of somebody else’s disaster, Golescu hurried to investigate.

  “Am I correct in assuming this is a debtors’ sale, sir?” he asked a police sergeant.

  “That’s right,” said the sergeant. “A traveling opera company. These two bankrupts are the former managers. Isn’t that so?” He prodded one of them with his stick.

  “Unfortunately so,” agreed the other gloomily. “Please go in, sir, and see if anything catches your fancy. Reduce our debt and be warned by our example. Remember, the Devil has a stake in Hell especially reserved for defaulting treasurers of touring companies.”

  “I weep for you,” said Golescu, and stepped up on the platform with an eager expression.

  The first thing he saw was a rack of costumes, bright with tinsel and marabou. He spent several minutes searching for anything elegant that might fit him, but the only ensemble in his size was a doublet and pair of trunk hose made of red velvet. Scowling, he pulled them out, and noticed the pointy-toed shoes of red leather, tied to the hanger by their laces. Here was a tag, on which was scrawled FAUST 1-2.

  “The Devil, eh?” said Golescu. His eyes brightened as an idea began to come to him. He draped the red suit over his arm and looked further. This production of Faust had apparently employed a cast of lesser demons; there were three or four child-sized ensembles in black, leotards, tights and eared hoods. Golescu helped himself to the one least moth eaten.

  In a bin he located the red tights and skullcap that went with the Mephistopheles costume. Groping through less savory articles and papier-mâché masks, he found a lyre strung with yarn. He added it to his pile. Finally, he spotted a stage coffin, propped on its side between two flats of scenery. Giggling to himself, he pulled it out, loaded his purchases into it, and shoved the whole thing across the platform to the cashier.

  “I’ll take these, dear sir,” he said.

  By the time Golescu had carried the coffin back to his hotel room, whistling a cheery tune as he went, the Act had begun to glow in his mind. He laid out his several purchases and studied them. He tried on the Mephistopheles costume (it fit admirably, except for the pointy shoes, which were a little tight) and preened before the room’s one shaving mirror, though he had to back all the way to the far wall to be able to see his full length in it.

  “She can’t object to this,” he said aloud. “Such splendor! Such classical erudition! Why, it would play in Vienna! And even if she does object...you can persuade her, Golescu, you handsome fellow.”

  Pleased with himself, he ordered extravagantly when he went down to dinner. Over cucumber salad, flekken and wine he composed speeches of such elegance that he was misty-eyed by the bottom of the second bottle. He rose at last, somewhat unsteady, and floated up the stairs from the dining room just as a party of men came in through the street door.

  “In here! Sit down, poor fellow, you need a glass of brandy. Has the bleeding stopped?”

  “Almost. Careful of my leg!”

  “Did you kill them both?”

  “We got one for certain. Three silver bullets, it took! The head’s in the back of the wagon. You should have seen...”

  Golescu heard no more, rounding the first turn of the stair at that point, and too intent on visions of the Act to pay attention in any case.

  So confident was Golescu in his dream that he visited a printer’s next day, and commissioned a stack of handbills. The results, cranked out while he loafed in a tavern across the street in the company of a bottle of slivovitz, were not as impressive as he’d hoped; but they were decorated with a great many exclamation points, and that cheered him.

  The Act was all complete in his head by the time he left Kronstadt, just before dawn on the third day. Yawning mightily, he set down the coffin and his bag and pulled out his purse to settle with the tavern keeper.

  “And a gratuity for your staff, kind sir,” said Golescu, tossing down a handful of mixed brass and copper in small denominations. “The service was superb.”

  “May all the holy saints pray for you,” said the tavern keeper, without enthusiasm. “Any forwarding address in case of messages?”

  “Why, yes; if my friend the Archduke stops in, let him know that I’ve gone on to Paris,” said Golescu. “I’m in show business, you know.”

  “In that case, may I hire a carriage for you?” inquired the tavern keeper. “One with golden wheels, perhaps?”

  “I think not,” Golescu replied. “I’m just walking on to Predeal. Meeting a friend with a private carriage, you know.”

  “Walking, are you?” The tavern keeper’s sneer was replaced with a look
of genuine interest. “You want to be careful, you know. They say there’s a new monster roaming the countryside!”

  “A monster? Really, my friend,” Golescu waggled a reproving finger at him. “Would I ever have got where I am in life if I’d believed such stories?”

  He shouldered the coffin once more, picked up his bag and walked out.

  Though the morning was cool, he was sweating by the time he reached the outskirts of Kronstadt, and by the time he stepped off to the campsite track Golescu’s airy mood had descended a little. Nonetheless, he grinned to see the wagons still there, the horses cropping placidly where they were tethered. He bellowed heartily as he pounded on Amaunet’s door:

  “Uncle Barbu’s home, darlings!”

  Not a sound.

  “Hello?”

  Perhaps a high, thin whining noise?

  “It’s meeee,” he said, trying the door. It wasn’t locked. Setting down the coffin, he opened the door cautiously.

  A strong, strong smell: spice and sweetness, and blood perhaps. Golescu pulled out a handkerchief and clapped it over his nose. He leaned forward, peering into the gloom within the wagon.

  Amaunet lay stretched out on her bed, fully dressed. Her arms were crossed on her bosom, like a corpse’s. Her skin was the color of ashes and her eyes were closed. She looked so radiantly happy that Golescu was unsure, at first, who lay there. He edged in sideways, bent to peer down at her.

  “Madame?” He reached down to take her hand. It was ice-cold. “Oh!”

  She just lay there, transfigured by her condition, beautiful at last.

  Golescu staggered backward, and something fell from the bed. A cup rolled at his feet, a chalice cut of black stone. It appeared at first to be empty; but as it rolled, a slow black drop oozed forth to the lip.

  “The Black Cup,” stated Golescu, feeling the impact of a metaphorical cream pie. He blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. It was a moment before he was able to realize that the whining noise was coming from the cabinet under Amaunet’s bed. Sighing, he bent and hauled Emil forth.

  “Come out, poor little maggot,” he said.