“Why did they leave?” Magdalena asked.
“That’s none of your business,” Joseffa snarled. “And now shut your mouth and listen when I explain the work to you.”
The well-worn staircase continued on to the upper levels, but Joseffa opened a door on the second floor. Magdalena was startled by the intensity of the noise that hit her. Along the walls of a long room, about twenty girls sat in front of looms and pushed their shuttles through the vertically stretched threads. The young women wore simple linen dresses, the outlines of skeletal arms and shoulder blades clearly visible underneath. A handful of pale boys, none older than ten, scurried back and forth between the looms with bales of silk yarn, which they wound around quills. Hardly any of the workers looked up when Magdalena and Joseffa entered the room. Most kept their eyes lowered, looking afraid. Magdalena quickly glanced around the room, hoping to spot a girl matching Eva’s description, but the young women looked almost identical in their work dresses. In the center of the room stood a large chair like a throne, padded with numerous thick cushions. Magdalena guessed Mother Joseffa supervised the workers from there.
The older woman pointed at an empty loom on the left. “That’s where you’re going to work!” she shouted against the noise. “I’ll show you how it’s done. But only once. If you haven’t got the hang of it by tonight, you’re out.”
They walked over to the loom, and Mother Joseffa sat down on the seat. She picked up an oblong piece of wood with a quill set in it that carried the silk yarn. “You have to pull this shuttle with the filling yarn through the shed in the warp yarns,” she explained. “To create a shed—that’s the opening between the vertical warp yarns—you push the right pedal with your foot. Like this . . .” The pedal made a clicking noise, and some of the vertical strands were pushed forward, others back, creating a kind of tunnel in between, through which Joseffa now threw the shuttle. She caught it on the other side and pushed the fill yarn she had just laid down with a batten until it sat tightly. Then she pushed the pedal again and sent the shuttle flying in the other direction. The shuttle moved back and forth so fast that Magdalena soon struggled to follow.
“It’s not hard,” Joseffa said. “Even the stupidest women can handle it.” She stood up and handed the shuttle to Magdalena. “Now show me that you’ve paid attention.”
Under Joseffa’s watchful gaze, Magdalena slipped the shuttle with the filling yarn back and forth through the sheds, straightened the yarn with the batten, and pushed the pedals. She focused, and found that it was indeed easier than she’d first thought.
“If you continue to weave at this speed, your cloth won’t be ready in a hundred years,” Joseffa grumbled. “But not bad for the first time.”
“And where does all this beautiful silk come from?” Magdalena asked. “Is it spun here at the manufactory?”
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your nosy questions to yourself?” Joseffa gave her a slap on the back of her head. “You’re here to weave silk, nothing else. Now get to work before—”
She turned when a man entered the weaving room from an adjoining chamber and slammed the door noisily behind him. He was tall and haggard, with a long, lightly powdered face and bulging eyes. The frayed periwig on his head looked like a wet dog. His silken coat, his fashionably baggy trousers, and his pointed shoes made him look like a wealthy man at first, but at a closer glance, Magdalena saw that his clothes bore food stains and ripped seams. He held a walking stick with a silver knob, swinging it about loftily.
The man moved through the room like a snake. Magdalena noticed that the girls worked even faster when he was nearby. He stopped behind one of the girls, a young, pale thing of about fifteen years, who was strikingly pretty. He brought his stick down on her back with a smack, and the girl cried out.
“Do you call that weaving?” the man spat. “Hmm? Do you think I can sell such shoddy work at court?” He pulled at the fabric until it tore with an ugly noise. “The thread was crooked here, and this patch is rougher than that one. I’m going to take this cloth out of your wages.”
“Please, Herr Uffele,” the girl whimpered. “I need the money. My little brother—”
The stick came down for the second time. “How dare you talk back to me?” Uffele cried. “Is this how you thank us for dragging you out of the gutter?”
“Leave her alone,” Joseffa said. “You know we still need the wench.”
The man lowered his stick again. “You’re right, damn it,” he conceded. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself.” He turned to the girl again, his voice calm now. “Start again with new warp threads. I hope you at least know how to put those up.”
He gave the loom a kick before walking over to Magdalena and Mother Joseffa.
“Ah, a new girl,” he said, looking Magdalena up and down. “Any good?”
“Remains to be seen,” Joseffa replied. She grinned. “Perhaps we’ll also use her elsewhere.” She winked at the man and nudged Magdalena. “You curtsy when the gentleman talks to you. Lukas van Uffele is your most generous benefactor, the director of the manufactory. His word is law. And just like me, he tolerates neither laziness nor gossiping.”
“Speaking of gossiping,” Uffele said to Joseffa in a lowered voice. “The damned investors are asking for money again. Pfundner and the others must have talked among themselves. We’ll have to appease them somehow. And we need to talk about Eva. I think we should get rid of the problem for good.”
“What do you mean?” Joseffa snapped. “Isn’t it enough to—”
A warning glance from Uffele silenced her.
“I’m just going next door with the gentleman for a moment,” Joseffa said loudly into the room. “Don’t start thinking you can slack off. My hearing is perfect, and I’ll notice if your shuttles slow down. Understood?”
She followed Uffele through the low door into the chamber. Magdalena picked up her shuttle and tried to push it through the warp yarn like before, but this time, it kept getting stuck.
“You’re pushing the wrong pedal,” a husky voice said next to her. It belonged to an attractive black-haired woman who seemed a little older than the other girls. Her cheeks were hollow, and she kept coughing. Dark rings lay under her eyes, but Magdalena guessed she turned the heads of many men despite her illness. She threw the shuttle back and forth with nimble fingers. “You have to push the pedal at the right moment, or you’ll keep getting snagged,” she explained. “Like this, see.”
Magdalena copied her and soon found the work easier.
“Thank you,” she said and smiled at the woman. “I’m Magdalena.”
“I’m Agnes.” The black-haired woman coughed again. She pulled out a filthy kerchief and spat into it. “You’ll see, it’s not that bad here. Most girls cry for the first few nights, but it gets better. We have a roof over our heads and don’t freeze to death. And you can earn a bit on the side . . .” She gave Magdalena a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll be gone by the summer, anyway.”
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t know.” Agnes shrugged. “Maybe the Palatinate, where I’ve still got a sister. But then again, maybe I’ll find a rich husband first.” She laughed, but then started coughing again. “When I left my hometown, I thought I’d find work as a maidservant in Munich,” she wheezed eventually. “But they don’t let you work in the city. Now they even keep out beggars and day laborers. There’s no future in Munich for me, anyhow. Nor here in Au.”
“I met Eva a few days ago,” Magdalena said, trying hard to sound casual. “She said I could find work here, just like she had. Do you know her?”
“Eva, you say?” Agnes suddenly seemed suspicious. She cast a cautious glance around the room. “What did she tell you about the manufactory?”
“Nothing, really. Just that they were hiring.”
“Well, Eva no longer works here,” Agnes replied coolly. “And now you better focus on your shuttle.”
Agnes looked down and resumed her work, and Magdalena followed h
er example. Her thoughts were racing. Could Eva have been thrown out after speaking with Magdalena’s father yesterday? She had hoped to be able to talk to the girl—and now it seemed she was too late.
Mother Joseffa and Uffele hadn’t returned. Two looms up from Magdalena, the girl the director had beaten was still busy tying her new warp threads. She was crying silently. Suddenly the quill with the warp yarn slipped through her fingers and rolled across the floor. Magdalena jumped up and caught the quill. When she handed it back to the girl, she stroked her dirty, straggly hair.
“It’s going to be all right, dear,” she said, trying to soothe her. “You’ll see. Tomorrow is another day.”
The girl nodded, but then another crying fit shook her. “It’s just that I need the money for my brother,” she said, whimpering. “He’s only five and sleeps in a stable by the Au creek. He needs to eat. And Mother Joseffa doesn’t want to employ him, because he’s too young.”
Magdalena swallowed. Then she pulled a stained coin from her skirt. “It’s not much,” she said quietly. “But it’s enough for a piece of bread.”
“God bless you.” The girl smiled and accepted the coin gratefully. Then her face darkened again. “I heard you and Agnes talking about Eva. Don’t believe a word Agnes says. She’s just scared, like all of us. They all lie. Eva isn’t gone.”
“Is that so?” Magdalena asked, astonished. “And where is she?”
“Uffele locked her up,” the girl whispered. “Somewhere in the basement. I heard her cry when I went to fetch the raw silk for the spinners. I bet the scoundrel beat her. It happened after Eva talked to that big man yesterday.”
My father, Magdalena thought.
“And why did they lock her up?” she asked hoarsely.
“Because she knows too much. Eva has been here for a long time. I think they want to kill her because—”
Just then, the door to the chamber opened and out came Mother Joseffa. When she spotted Magdalena beside the girl, her eyes narrowed.
“Didn’t I tell you I don’t tolerate laziness?” Joseffa hissed. “Just you wait, I’ll take the rod to both of you.”
“It . . . it was my fault,” Magdalena implored. “I forgot which pedals to push, and she showed me.”
Joseffa hesitated, then nodded grudgingly. “All right, just because it’s your first day and I’ve got other problems.” She raised a finger. “But if you’re still here tomorrow, I won’t let you get away with anything like this again!”
Like a spider in her web, Joseffa sat down in her chair in the middle of the room and watched the girls do their work.
Magdalena returned to her place and continued to weave, frantically trying to think of a way to get down to the basement of the manufactory. Down where Eva awaited her fate.
Something was telling Magdalena that she didn’t have much time.
Gingerly, Simon walked along one of the many small, slippery walkways across the Anger stream. It was still early, but the noises of hammering and grinding, people shouting, squeaking wagon wheels, and whinnying horses were everywhere. The city had woken, and it already grated on his nerves.
Simon hadn’t slept well the night before. He was worried about Magdalena, who had left at dawn to investigate the Au silk manufactory for her father and Michael Deibler. On top of that, his original plans for his stay in Munich appeared ruined. A meeting with the famous physician Dr. Malachias Geiger seemed out of the question, now that he was forced to search for a barking mutt. Since Simon had no idea where to start looking for the electress’s pet dog, he followed Deibler’s suggestion and was on his way to the Munich dogcatcher, Lorentz. He muttered a curse. How had he gotten himself into such a mess? He might as well burn his treatise or throw it into the stinking city stream right here.
The stream ran underneath the city wall, not far from the executioner’s house, then branched into several side arms through the Anger Quarter to the cattle market and on toward the Residenz. Here in the Anger Quarter, Munich’s biggest quarter, the countless streams formed the veins of the city. Numerous mills and the dyers’ house were situated here, but also the slaughterhouse and the home of the knacker. For the tradesmen in the quarter, the streams were where they disposed of their garbage. Now, in February, the stench was bearable, but floating in the dark, icy water below Simon were plenty of objects, and he didn’t really want to know what they were—or used to be. Unbidden, an image came to his mind of the dead woman from the Rossschwemme, who had washed up like a piece of trash.
After Simon crossed another rickety bridge, he had almost reached the destination of his short walk. He followed a narrow path alongside the stream toward a crooked house that looked as though it wouldn’t make it through the next winter storm. A bunch of street children were playing in the dirt outside the house, fishing with a stick in the murky water for rags that they were probably going to sell to one of the paper mills.
“Is this the house of the dogcatcher, Lorentz?” Simon asked the boys.
They looked at him and giggled. Evidently, they didn’t often see someone with a halfway-clean coat, vest, and hat in this part of town.
“If sir is looking for his lapdog, he’s in the wrong place,” one of the boys jeered. “Lorentz probably already killed and ate it.”
“I think I’ll go find out for myself,” Simon replied with a thin smile.
He knew dogcatchers often had an even-worse reputation than knackers and executioners. In smaller towns, the dirty task of knocking stray dogs over the head was often part of the knacker’s job description, but in Munich, the number of strays had increased so much that a few years ago, a post had been especially created. Sometimes the city even employed a whole team of laborers who roamed the streets with cudgels for several days.
Reluctantly, Simon knocked on the door of the crooked house. When no one opened, he walked around the corner, where a narrow path between high walls led him to a courtyard filled with crates and cages. The moment Simon entered the yard, an infernal racket set in. He hadn’t noticed the dogs in the cages; they were now throwing themselves against the metal bars, barking and snarling at him.
Just when the medicus had recovered from his fright, an enormous mastiff came running toward him. Underneath its slobbering jowls gleamed two rows of huge, sharp teeth. Simon gasped. Another one or two leaps, and the beast would be upon him! He grabbed a ridiculously small rock and raised it, preparing for the inevitable.
And so ends the career of a promising doctor and scholar. As dog food . . .
Just as the mastiff was about to pounce, someone whistled loudly and then shouted, “Wastl, sit!”
The huge dog obeyed instantly. He cowered down and whimpered, but eyed Simon intently, as if he hoped the command would be withdrawn any moment.
A broad-shouldered man emerged from the back door of the house, his hair so dirty that Simon couldn’t make out the color. The man had grown a wild beard, but it didn’t cover the poorly healed scar that ran across the right side of his face. In his hand he swung a heavy, polished club.
Simon raised both hands. “Uh, I did knock!” he shouted over the barking of the dogs. “But no one opened!”
The man looked at him blankly. Clearly, he couldn’t hear a thing over the noise.
“I said, I—” Simon started again.
“God damn it, be quiet!” The man’s roar was even louder than the barking, and he brought down his club on one of the iron cages at the same time. The clatter was deafening, but afterward, everything was silent, apart from a few soft yelps.
“Looking for any dog in particular?” the man asked without preamble. Simon assumed he was Lorentz, the dogcatcher. Now he walked slowly toward Simon, and even though he had lowered his club, he looked no less menacing.
The medicus nodded with relief. “I am indeed. I’m looking for a small spaniel, black with white spots, and a blaze from the forehead to his nose.”
“Hmm, let me see.” Lorentz walked along the crates and cages. Then he bent over
one of the boxes and lifted the lid.
“There we go, here’s your little runaway,” he said. “And in pretty good condition, too. One silver penny and he’s yours.”
Grinning, Lorentz held up a whimpering spaniel by the scruff of its neck, black with white spots. Simon couldn’t believe his luck. He had found little Arthur on the first try! Beaming, he walked toward Lorentz and the dog, searching his pockets for the right coin.
“What a happy surprise,” he said. “I really didn’t expect—” He faltered when he noticed one small detail.
“Oh, that’s a female,” he said. “I’m looking for a male. His name’s Arthur.”
Lorentz shrugged. “Just call him Arthura from now on. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
Simon squinted and took a closer look. “And this dog doesn’t have a blaze, either—not one that goes all the way to its nose, anyway.”
“I can paint it on, no problem at all.” Lorentz held the squirming and yelping spaniel under Simon’s nose like a smoked sausage. “Do you want it or not?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Simon replied with a sigh. “The dog I’m looking for belongs to a highborn lady. She’d soon notice the deceit, and I’d lose my head.”
“I see.” Lorentz nodded and put the whimpering dog back in its crate. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, then.”
His hope dwindling, Simon looked around the courtyard. A shed stood at the far end, probably containing more cages. Several dogs started to bark again, while others yelped or growled at one another. The large mastiff was still lying in the dirt on the ground, watching Simon with its small, murderous eyes.
“Are these all the dogs you have?” Simon asked with despair.
“These are all the dogs worth keeping alive for a little while,” Lorentz replied. He ran his hand across the scabby scar on his face. “They’ve been looked after, so someone might claim them or I might be able to sell them. Anything else I knock over the head and take to the knacker. At least that way I get a few kreuzers for them.”
Simon winced. “Perhaps you knocked the spaniel over the head, too,” he said wearily.
The Council of Twelve Page 18
