The world was crumbling all around him. Everything Walther had known and believed had been turned upon its head. It seemed impossible that such a chaotic upheaval could come about in so short a time. The luxurious greensward around the Universitat had been overrun by refugees, transformed into a mire of tents and shacks. Count Artur, the bold ‘Lion of Nuln’, the city’s great master and benefactor, had forsaken his home to remain at the Emperor’s palace in Altdorf. The dwarf sewers, that wonder of engineering which kept the city pure and clean, had become a breeding ground for hordes of vermin, vermin that were unafraid of man.
It was all madness! Nothing made sense any more! Walther tipped back his stein, draining the last dregs from the cup. He started to wave to Bremer, then noticed Zena standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His cheeks flushed with shame. She wasn’t some prudish Verenan, but just the same she didn’t approve of a man who drank in some deluded effort to escape his troubles.
Anger flared up inside the rat-catcher. Who was she to disapprove of him! What else was there to do except drink! Drink and forget! Drink and forget.
Walther waved to Bremer, motioning for another stein. Zena stepped over to the bar and retrieved it from the taverneer, carrying it over to the table.
‘No lash of the tongue?’ Walther grunted when she set the beer beside his hand.
Zena stared down at him, pain etched across her face. Walther became sober almost at once. She started to speak, but he pressed his fingers to her lips. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. If he didn’t hear it, then it wasn’t real. It he didn’t know what had happened, then it didn’t happen.
Hugo! He’d been a stupid, naive boy, something of a country bumpkin. But he’d been brave and loyal, and Walther had owed his life to him.
The rat-catcher pushed the stein away and closed his hand around Zena’s. He looked up at her with eyes that had no hope in them, only a terrible emptiness. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I should never have asked… never have risked…’
Tears rolled from the woman’s eyes. ‘He saved your life,’ she sobbed. ‘I was indebted to him too.’
Walther felt his chest swell. Old Night could take the rest of the world, if it would only leave him and Zena alone. He’d allowed himself to agonise over things that were beyond him, he’d allowed himself to be distracted by his sense of obligation to Hugo. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman he loved and making sure she was safe.
‘Zena, I…’
The rat-catcher never finished what he was going to say. At that moment, the tavern door burst inwards. A squad of men in the rough brigandine armour and yellow sleeves of the Hundertschaft came rushing into the Black Rose. The few patrons tending drinks at this late hour cried out in fright and cowered before the menace of the soldiers’ halberds and swords.
Captain Fellgiebel sauntered into the Black Rose like a wolf trotting through a flock of sheep. There was a merciless, vengeful smile on his lean face when he spotted Walther. He glanced over the other occupants of the room, frowning when he didn’t see Aldinger the Reiklander.
‘Herr Captain!’ Bremer cried out, circling out from behind the bar. ‘What brings the Hundertschaft to Lord Plessner’s establishment?’ It was seldom that Bremer invoked the name of his liege-lord, the nobleman in whose service the taverneer operated the Black Rose and paid a portion of the profit. For him to resort to such a tactic was evidence of the fear pounding through Bremer’s veins.
Fellgiebel raised a gloved finger, making a warning gesture for Bremer to keep quiet. The captain turned and waved his hand at the stuffed rat. ‘Remove that abomination and burn it,’ he told his men.
Walther leapt to his feet and stormed towards Fellgiebel. ‘You can’t do that!’ the rat-catcher snarled.
‘Ah, the charlatan,’ Fellgiebel hissed. He nodded and one of the watchmen drove the butt of his halberd into Walther’s belly, knocking the wind out of him. As the rat-catcher doubled over in pain, Zena rushed towards him. A snap of Fellgiebel’s fingers sent a guard to restrain her.
‘You’ve been a busy dog, haven’t you?’ Fellgiebel sneered. He turned and watched as more of his soldiers marched into the Black Rose. There was a third man walking between the two guards, a man with a bloodied face and the torn remains of a long linen cloak. Walther groaned when he recognised the garment. Though he had never seen the man’s face before, he was certain the prisoner was the plague doktor who had visited Hugo. Belatedly, Walther recalled the lone beggar who stayed out in the cold. Doubtless a spy for Fellgiebel, charged with watching the tavern.
‘This establishment is hereby placed under quarantine!’ Fellgiebel declared, removing a parchment proclamation from his sleeve. He shook the parchment at Bremer. ‘You will nail this to your door and daub a red cross over every entrance and exit to this building. There has been plague in this place. No one here is allowed to leave for a period of thirty days. If any of you are seen upon the streets, my men have orders to cut you down on sight.’
Fellgiebel dismissed the entreaties and protests that followed his declaration. Still smiling, he watched his men remove the giant rat. Then he turned and stared down at Walther. ‘You will return to the watch station with us,’ he said. ‘There are… questions that need asking.’
A cry of horror rose from Zena’s throat. She struggled to free herself from the guard. ‘It was my idea! All mine! Hiding Hugo was my doing!’
‘Don’t lie to him,’ Walther coughed. ‘He knows it was me. I’m the only one he wants.’
Fellgiebel’s eyes were more snakelike than ever as he stalked towards the rat-catcher. ‘Very sensible,’ he said. The captain shifted his gaze to the frantic serving girl. ‘We are only interested in the rat-catcher. She can stay.’
The watch captain’s eyes became even colder as he hissed into Walther’s ear. ‘She can stay… for now.’
Altdorf
Vorhexen, 1111
The mangled body slammed down against the old oak table, causing the legs to creak and sway. Gasps of startlement and shock coursed through the dingy room, the basement of a candle maker who had been stricken with the plague. No one’s shock was greater than that of Erich von Kranzbeuhler. The features on the corpse’s pale face were ones he had seen many times before. Konreid of the Reiksknecht had fought his last battle.
‘Where did you find him?’ the captain asked the man who had brought the body into the hideout. The morbid courier was a rough-looking man with a military swagger, one of Engel’s Bread Marchers. He stared uncertainly at Meisel, the Nulner who in Engel’s absence had assumed leadership of the dispossessed Dienstleute. Meisel nodded, motioning for the peasant to forget his suspicions and answer the nobleman.
‘He was in the sewers,’ the dienstmann said. ‘The rats had been at him, but it was a Kaiserjaeger dagger that did for him.’ He reached into the grimy wool tunic he wore and tossed a steel knife onto the table, its hilt bearing the heraldry of Kreyssig’s enforcers. The dienstmann withdrew another item from his pocket, handing it to Meisel despite the man’s lack of letters.
‘He had that clenched in his hand,’ the dienstmann reported. ‘It looks like it was torn off.’
Meisel handed the scrap of letter across the table to Baron Thornig. The hairy Middenlander studied the murky ink, struggling to make sense of the faded letters. The muck of the sewer had effaced most of the writing, but he was certain it didn’t match the message the conspirators had sent to Reiksmarshal Boeckenfoerde. Then he uttered a sharp curse. Down near the bottom of the letter, partially effaced, was the general’s signature.