The priest had never met this grotesque creature, but he knew him just the same. After their ineffectual courting of heathen gods had failed, the people of Bylorhof had turned to a new foolishness to save themselves from the plague. They had sent to Wurtbad for a plague doktor, one of the so-called physicians who specialised in treating the Black Plague’s victims and combating the spread of the disease. In response to their frantic call, Dr. Bruno Havemann had descended upon the town like a human vulture.
‘We are all interested in saving the boy’s life,’ Havemann’s muffled voice declared. ‘But the Black Plague needs more than prayers to defeat it.’ The plague doktor gestured with the copper-headed rod he held in his gloved hand, indicating the priest’s staff. ‘In Wurtbad and Altdorf, even the priestesses of Shallya have been unequal to the task. I fear that if the Goddess of Mercy cannot help, then what aid can we expect from the Lord of Death?’ Havemann shook his head, the beak of the mask bobbing up and down as he did so, sending the aroma of vinegar and cloves wafting about the stairway. He shifted his gaze to Rutger. ‘No, we must look to science to defend ourselves from this scourge. You did right, Herr van Hal, when you summoned me. The boy is very sick, but with proper care, it is my conviction that he may be saved.’
Rutger’s tired eyes lit up when he heard Havemann’s words. He rushed past Frederick, running to embrace the physician who had restored hope for his son. The doktor cringed from the merchant’s outstretched arms, fending him off with the point of his rod. Recalling the plague doktor’s abhorrence of physical contact, an abashed Rutger kept his distance.
‘What must we do?’ he asked in a sheepish voice.
The sight of his brother meekly deferring to Havemann brought Frederick’s blood to a boil. Angrily he slammed the butt of his staff against the steps. ‘Rudi! You’re not going to listen to this charlatan!’
The crow-faced mask shifted its stare back onto the priest. ‘Science can save the boy,’ Havemann stated. ‘Can you say the same of your god?’ The plague doktor returned his attention to Rutger. ‘I will need to prepare certain elixirs which must be given to rebalance the humours in Johan’s body. The plague is caused by black spiders, their poison is what brings the disease. It will be necessary to bleed the boy and drain the poison from his veins.’
The plague doktor paused, his shoulders sagging as a deep sigh left his body. ‘All of this will be time-consuming and expensive,’ Havemann apologised.
Rutger’s hand fell to the money pouch on his belt. The merchant didn’t count the coins he withdrew, but simply held them out to the physician. Frederick noted with bitter amusement that Havemann wasn’t so reluctant to touch his brother’s hand now that there was money in it.
‘The boy is resting now,’ Havemann said, his gloved hand closing about Rutger’s silver. The plague doktor rolled his wrist in a subtle effort to gauge how much he had been given. ‘Frau van Hal is with him. He should be given some broth when he wakes, but absolutely no meat. It might attract more spiders.’
Rutger climbed past Havemann, running through the upper hall to his son’s room, forgetting entirely the two men he left behind. Frederick couldn’t see the triumphant smile on Havemann’s face as the plague doktor continued his descent, but he knew it was there just the same. As he neared the bottom of the stairs, Havemann stared into Frederick’s face, waiting for the priest to step aside.
‘Take your money and forsake this imposture,’ Frederick warned.
‘You sound like all priests,’ Havemann sneered. ‘It doesn’t matter what god you serve, all of you resent progress and science. You allow faith to stand in the way of reason.’
‘Faith can move mountains,’ Frederick countered. The plague doktor’s eyes narrowed with anger. Using his rod, he shoved the priest out of his way.
‘How is faith at curing plague?’ Havemann asked as he stalked from the home.
Frederick turned to watch the doktor’s retreat. ‘Harm my family,’ he said, his voice a hollow whisper, ‘and you will find out what a man’s faith can do.’
Skavenblight
Kaldezeit, 1111
Megalithic in its proportions, the Abattoir was a relic of the dim past. Constructed from gigantic columns of limestone, the structure existed as a series of towering arcades piled one atop the other, circling around a central arena. In the time before the Thirteenth Hour, the structure had been at the heart of the human civilisation which once ruled over this land and had built the great city from whose ruins the decayed splendour of Skavenblight had arisen. The amphitheatre had been designed to seat tens of thousands of spectators, a testament to the power and expanse of its human builders.
What games and spectacles, what pageants and plays had once drawn crowds to the arena the lords of Skavenblight neither knew nor cared. Even the name of the structure had been lost in the dust of time. Its new masters had given it a new title, one that better reflected its new purpose. It was the Abattoir.
An arena that could seat sixty thousand humans was inconsequential to the masters of Skavenblight. Atop the stone arcades they had ordered new tiers to be constructed, rising ever higher above the limestone, each succeeding layer more rickety and ramshackle than the last. In their religious zeal, the ratlords demanded a further seven layers to be built above the arena, bringing the total to the sacred thirteen. The expansion made it possible to cram half a million squealing, squeaking skaven into the galleries. A deranged mass of braces and supports struggled to restrain the chaotic jumble of carpentry — rarely succeeding for long. With terrifying regularity portions of the wooden scaffolds would collapse, spilling hundreds of ratmen to their deaths. Twice in its history, the entire Abattoir had rumbled and groaned as all of the wooden tiers came crashing down.
Such catastrophes were taken as a matter of course by the skaven. Any disaster which affected someone else was of little concern to the individual ratman. The service provided by the Abattoir was too important to the denizens of Skavenblight to do without. For the weak and the downtrodden, the Abattoir offered an escape from the drudgery of their lives. For the more successful ratmen there was gambling and the thousand other vices that nestled close to the arena. For the Lords of Decay there was security, a novelty to distract the teeming hordes of Skavenblight and make them forget their hungry bellies and flea-infested fur.
Puskab Foulfur rested upon one of the stone seats lining the third ring of arcades. The limestone was worn smooth from generations of skaven crawling over it and the plague priest had to fight against the sensation that he would simply slide off and go careening down into the lower levels. He knew it was only a trick of the mind, that he was in no real danger. The dangerous seats were those below, close to the arena floor, well within the grasp of any beast or slave that managed to escape.
The plague priest lifted his grotesque face and scowled as a little body went hurtling earthwards from one of the upper tiers. He cringed as he waited to hear the groan of timbers and the snapping of ropes, but no such sound drifted down to him. The superstructure wasn’t collapsing — it was simply that one of the ratmen swarming about the cheap seats had taken a misstep and fallen. Or had been pushed, which was actually more likely. A network of posts and crossbeams rose above the stone arcades especially to intercept such falling bodies lest some prominent skaven be crushed by one of the hurtling wretches. The posts, however, didn’t always block a ratkin’s fall. Puskab breathed a bit better when he heard the crunch of the ratman’s body a few hundred yards to his left.
After escaping from Clan Mors’s killers and the intrigues of Vrask Bilebroth, it would be ignominious to be killed in a stupid accident. Or was that just what it would appear to be? Puskab squinted up at the wooden scaffolds, trying to gauge whether it would be possible to aim a body launched from such height with any degree of accuracy.