Theo broke from the others and ran across the square. The cage reeked like an animal's pen. The man inside groaned. It was Las Bombas, hardly recognizable. His lips were swollen and split, a stubble of beard covered his cheeks. Theo grappled the bars. The count hunched up his shoulders and turned his face away.
"Let me be."
"It's all right," whispered Theo. "We're going to get you out."
The count shifted his position and raised his head. His voice was raw and rasping. "Who's that? My dear boy, is it you?" He put his hands through the bars and passed his fingers over Theo's face. "Merciful heaven, so it is!"
Stock and Justin had come up behind Theo. Zara followed. She crouched and peered into the cage, then wrinkled her face.
"Is this what we've come to rescue?"
"Shut up, Zara," Theo flung back. "You know Florian's plan. He wants a diversion. He'll have one. But this man's my friend, even so."
The count was pleading for water. Theo pulled the flask from his belt and passed it through the bars. Las Bombas seized it and downed the contents in one gulp. "Thank you, my boy. You've saved my life. It's gone badly with us since you left. But now that you're back again-"
"Not to stay. I'm working in Freyborg. I heard you were in trouble."
"Don't leave us again. We need you. Mickle's lost spirit, she won't do The Oracle Priestess. Nothing's worked right, not even this: The Escaping Prisoner. Nothing simpler. A sheet over the cage, an instant later I'm out, lock untouched, no key in sight. Marvelous effect. It would have gone splendidly if some blockhead hadn't made me open my mouth. They found the pick lock I'd hidden there.
"Stupid yokels! Claimed I was cheating them. They said I promised to escape and they'd leave me here until I did. Mickle tried to open the lock, but they caught her at it and threw her in jail, with Musket for good measure."
"We'll see to them now and come back for you," Theo said. "What became of Friska and the coach?"
"In the blacksmith's stable, near the barracks."
Theo glanced at Stock, who nodded agreement and set off immediately across the square. Zara stood up. "Are the two of you ready?" Theo hurried after Justin, with Zara at his heels. The jail, as Luther had told them, was at the back of the town hall. They found it easily. At the door of the guardroom, Theo halted and gripped Justin by the scruff of the neck.
"Don't act up yet," he whispered. "Wait until we're inside and see how many we have to deal with. Then start shouting your head off."
Zara stayed back. Theo tightened his grasp on Justin and hauled him through the door. One constable drowsed at a table. At a glance from Theo, Justin began struggling and protesting furiously. The startled officer jumped to his feet and seized the pistol in front of him.
"Thief!" Theo hung on to his pretended captive. "I caught him trying to pick my pocket."
"Who the devil are you?" The constable eyed him suspiciously. He waved his pistol. "You're not from around here, neither of you."
"I'm staying at the inn," Theo said hastily. "I've just come from-from Freyborg. I'd no sooner set foot in town than this fellow tries to rob me. I'll see him behind bars. Lock him up, officer. I'll swear charges against him."
"No business of mine. He's not one of our thieves." The constable frowned. "As for you, let's see your travel permit."
At this instant, Zara burst into the guardroom, weeping and wringing her hands. "Sir, that's my brother. He meant no harm. I beg you, don't take him away."
The officer hesitated, uncertain whether to 'deal first with the distraught young woman or the thief and his captor. Adding to the man's confusion, Justin broke loose and Theo made a show of trying to recapture him. The constable spun around, groping for one, then the other.
Zara chose this moment to dart behind the table. She picked up the chair and brought it down on the constable's head. The constable dropped to his knees. Theo leaped on him and locked his hands around the man's throat. "Keys! Where?"
The constable motioned with his head. A ring of keys hung on the wall beside a rack of muskets. Justin had begun ripping away the man's shirt.
"Who's with you?" demanded Theo. "Alone," gasped the officer. "Night watch. Nobody else." Theo tore off the man's neck stock and crammed it into the constables mouth. He beckoned Zara to finish trussing up the officer with the strips of shirt. He snatched the ring and raced down a short flight of steps. Iron-studded doors lined the corridor. Theo fumbled with the keys and found one to unlock the first cell. Musket was inside.
"Go to the marketplace!" cried Theo. "Stay with the count."
The dwarf asked no questions. He took to his heels and dashed up the steps. Theo snapped open the lock on the next cell. Mickle stared at him. Her face was dirty and haggard. Straw from the cell floor clung to her hair.
He held out his arms, but Mickle gave him a haughty glance and drew away. "Come out! Hurry!" Theo shouted. "What's wrong with you?"
"Don't touch me," Mickle flung back. "You went off without a word! Not a word to me! You can go to the devil, for all I care."
Seizing the girl by the shoulders, Theo pulled her from the cell and sent her stumbling up the stairs ahead of him. Outside, he clamped a hand around her arm and half dragged her, still in icy silence, toward the square.
A shot rang from the direction of the barracks. He glimpsed Justin and Zara beside the cage, along with Musket. More shots rattled through the still air and the clatter of hooves. He glanced back. Friska was galloping into the marketplace, the coach jolting behind her. Stock, upright on the box, was roaring at the top of his voice. By now, Theo judged, the Nierkeeping garrison must be awake and tumbling out of the barracks.
This was the moment Florian and his company had counted on to break into the arsenal holding the garrison's store of weapons. Theo had given Florian his diversion. Now he could turn his efforts to setting Las Bambas free and rely on the others to help him. Whatever else happened, Florian had ordered them to get clear of the town and rejoin him at the farm.
Mickle twisted away and ran to the cage. Swearing furiously, she struggled with the lock. Meantime, Stock had pulled up Friska. He jumped down and went toward Zara. The dressmaker, like Justin, carried two muskets, seized from the rack in the guardroom. She tossed one to the poet.
"To the wagon!" shouted Stock. "If the lock won't open, we'll drag him out, cage and all."
Mickle's face was streaked with grime and sweat. "I can't do it without tools. Hanno knew how, but I don't. Damn him for getting himself hanged!"
Stock rummaged in his pockets and brought out a penknife. He threw it to the girl. Mickle set to work again. The blade snapped in two. She spat and flung it away.
Soldiers from the garrison had begun pouring into the marketplace. Mickle jumped to her feet and ran to Zara. She tore at the dressmaker's shawl.
"This should do it." She seized Zara's brooch and slid the point of the pin into the lock. She turned it deftly, one way then another. The cage opened. Mickle crowed in triumph.
Theo and Musket sprang to haul out the count, who was barely able to crawl from his narrow prison. Las Bombas threw his arms around Mickle. "Bless you for a housebreaker!"
"Go, the rest of you," Theo ordered Zara. "Get out of here. We'll catch up with you."
Las Bombas had slipped to the cobbles. Even with the help of Mickle and the dwarf, Theo could scarcely put the count on his feet and heave him into the coach.
Stock and Zara had already started off, with Justin following. After a few paces, Justin suddenly halted and turned back.
He had unslung one of his muskets. His eyes shone with a terrible joy. Before Theo could stop him, Justin flung himself to the cobbles and began firing at the soldier.
"You fool!" shouted Theo. "Get in the coach!"
That same instant, Theo caught sight of horses milling through the rear ranks of the troops. He thought, first, that cavalry had joined the fray. Then he saw they were riderless and unsaddled. Florian had not only stormed the arsenal. His company had bro
ken into the stables to send the animals galloping in panic among the soldiers.
The ranks broke and scattered at the threat of being trampled. One officer, bawling for his men to advance, beat at them with the flat of his saber until he managed to lead some of them clear of the stampede. The officer ran toward the coach. Justin fired again. He missed his mark. The man was on top of him in a moment. Justin scrambled to his feet. He tried to fend off the saber stroke with his musket. The force of the blow knocked the weapon from his hands. By the time Theo reached him, the officer had brought up his blade again. Had Theo not pulled Justin aside, the saber would have struck him in the throat. Instead, it laid open the lad's forehead and cheek. The man braced to make another attack.
"Kill him!" Justin turned his bloody face to Theo, violet eyes blazing. "Kill him!"
Theo swung up his arm and leveled the pistol. He hesitated an instant. Justin was screaming for him to shoot. Theo cried out as the explosion echoed through his head. A look of bewilderment froze on the officer's face. He staggered and fell. Theo stared at the weapon in his hand. His finger had not moved on the trigger.
He glanced up to see Florian. He was on horseback, a smoking musket across the saddle bow. His long hair hung matted, smears of gunpowder blackened his cheeks. His gray eyes fixed squarely on Theo. He half smiled, as if observing a child fumbling to tie a shoe.
Florian motioned with his head toward Justin. "See to him."
He wheeled his horse back across the square. The rest of his company had galloped into the marketplace in the wake of the riderless mounts, driving them toward the outskirts of the town. The soldiers, regrouping, sent volleys of musketry after the raiders, who sharply returned their fire. Florian's men pressed their retreat, leaving half a dozen of the garrison sprawled on the cobblestones.
Theo flung away his pistol. Mickle was beside him. Between them, they dragged Justin into the coach. Friska plunged forward.
Part Four The Garden of Cabbarus
18
Out of respect for his position, the chief minister allowed himself certain small luxuries. One of these was a private garden that yielded, in all seasons, blossoms of information. Cabbarus fertilized it with generous applications of money. The harvest was always more plentiful and usually more accurate than the labored, vegetable like reports of provincial constables and police spies. Cabbarus earnestly believed his rank entitled him to this higher quality of produce. Since he cultivated his garden personally, he saw no reason to share it.
As in the most carefully tended gardens, the occasional weed sprang up or plant withered. Cabbarus had his disappointments. The individual he counted on to deal with Torrens had not thrived. This in itself did not trouble the chief minister. As a precaution, the man would have been pruned, in any case. What nettled Cabbarus was that he had no inkling of the doctor's fate.
Torrens and his opponent might have killed each other. Cabbarus found that unlikely. The court physician might have fallen from the embankment and been borne away on the tide. But no corpse had surfaced. The chief minister's informants could report only that Torrens had vanished. Cabbarus was not pleased to accept this. No one truly vanished except by the chief minister's order.
Nevertheless, until he learned otherwise, Cabbarus counted Torrens as dead-if not in fact, for all practical purposes. The king required his urgent attention. Augustine was presenting difficulties.
First, the king had no recollection of banishing Torrens and called for the court physician to attend him.
"He grievously offended Your Majesty," said Cabbarus. "Your Majesty had no choice but to dismiss him."
"No matter. I desire him back again."
Cabbarus assured his monarch it was impossible.. For some days, however, Augustine continued to demand the presence of the physician. Finally, he let the matter drop. But he refused the services of any other doctor, even those whom Cabbarus highly recommended. The king's health improved alarmingly.
His mind, too, grew somewhat clearer. Cabbarus blamed this on the occultists, necromancers, and spiritualists; rather, on the lack of them. What had been a constant procession dwindled to a handful.
"The reward is still not adequate," Augustine de-dared. "I direct you to double the sum."
"As Your Majesty commands." Cabbarus bowed his head. Since he was sure the reward would go unclaimed, he had no objection to doubling, or even trebling it. "It shall be so proclaimed."
"You shall add one thing further to the proclamation. As we offer a reward for success, we judge it fitting, as well, to impose a penalty for failure."
"I do not entirely understand, Sire. A penalty? Of what nature?"
"These men have claimed spiritual powers, but they have disappointed me beyond bearing. Nevertheless, they have been enriched by their failures. Now it is my command: If they accomplish nothing, they are to be paid nothing."
"As Your Majesty so aptly expresses it, this is only fitting. They shall not be paid."
"That is not the penalty."
"What then, Sire?"
"If they fail," said the king, "they shall be put to death."
"Majesty," exclaimed Cabbarus, "a penalty of such severity-"
"A severe punishment for severe disappointment," said Augustine. "Proclaim it, Chief Minister. I command you to do so."
The king held to that point in spite of the chief minister's protests. Cabbarus, for all his influence, could not move him to revoke it. Cabbarus devoutly believed in punishment, but in this case he saw the consequences immediately. There were rogues aplenty who would venture anything for gain. There was an even greater number of fools. Finding a combination of the two was another matter. No rogue would be foolish enough to risk his neck attempting the impossible. The penalty for failure ended all visitations.
Worse, the court physician had been right. Without the daily arrival of charlatans to feed his obsession, Augustine recovered some of his former calm. Cabbarus fumed inwardly. The proclamation showed that Augustine was regaining some of his wits. For the good of the kingdom, Cabbarus wished its ruler would suffer a relapse. But wishes, Cabbarus knew, seldom came true without enterprise on the part of the wisher. Throughout his private garden, he planted word that he required a fresh supply of necromancers. The seed did not sprout. For several weeks, the chief minister showed every sign of cheerfulness. In the same way that he cloaked his pleasure in frowns, he wreathed his fury in smiles. His good humor astonished the courtiers. As usual, only Pankratz appreciated how matters really stood. A smiling Cabbarus was a dangerous Cabbarus.
Pankratz, therefore, dealt very gingerly with his master. Cabbarus, in private, made little attempt to hide his feelings. Not long before, over some inconsequential failing, Cabbarus had struck his councilor full in the face. Pankratz merely rubbed his jowls and bowed his way out of the minister's chambers. The Minister's Mastiff accepted that dogs were made to be occasionally beaten. He respected his master all the more for it, and passed along the chief minister's bad temper, in kind, to his own underlings.
Nevertheless, Pankratz held himself at arm's length one evening when he announced that a certain individual desired a private audience. Cabbarus, in his apartments, had just finished sup per and it was not sitting happily with him. In any case, he disliked conducting business directly with his creatures. It made him feel that he had put his fingers into something disagreeable: a task better entrusted to Councilor Pankratz. Cabbarus shook his head.
"I do not wish to see him. Let him discuss the matter with you."
"Excellency, he insists." Pankratz half bowed and spread his hands in a gesture both deferential and defensive. "It has to do with-what Your Excellency has been inquiring about."
The chief minister's eyes flickered an instant with excitement. He kept his face impassive. "I doubt that he offers much of value. However, as he insists, you may send him to me." He motioned with his head. "Below."
Cabbarus put on his robe and made his way without haste to one of the cellars of the Old Julia
na. It had once been a torture chamber. None of the instruments remained. They had been dismantled during the reign of Augustine the Great-a wastefulness Cabbarus would never have allowed had he been in office at the time. Iron rings and staples, however, had been left in the walls. In one corner, a wooden trapdoor covered an opening somewhat larger than the girth of a man. It was the mouth of a deep well, roughly faced with stones and mortar.
Although the bottom of this well was too heavily shadowed to be seen, a torrent of water could be heard. The shaft tapped into an underground stream whose course had never been fully traced. Presumably it flowed to join the Vespera. It once had served as a means of disposing of prisoners or portions of them. The flagstones around the trap sloped inward, making it easier to wash down the chamber floor and send the sweepings into the shaft.
The present Augustine had commanded the well to be bricked over and sealed at the same time he had ordered the Juliana Bells to be silenced. The latter order had been carried out, but not the former. Cabbarus had taken it on himself to ignore it. The chief minister found it pointless to destroy such a useful feature merely because of the king's hindsight.
Awaiting his guest, the chief minister stood by the trapdoor, studying it thoughtfully. When Cabbarus granted a rare personal audience, he always chose this chamber. There was no mistaking what it had been, and it impressed his visitors with the seriousness of their endeavors.
He glanced up as Councilor Pankratz ushered in the man, then went to sit behind a heavy oaken table. Pankratz discreetly vanished. Cabbarus did not invite his guest to be seated, and eyed him silently for several moments.
The man was short and stout. Perspiration filmed his plump cheeks. Cabbarus noted the fur-trimmed cloak and the gold chain around his visitor's neck.
"You have, I see, bettered your station in life," said Cabbarus. "I believe you formerly went about as a tinker."
Westmark Page 9
