“Double.”
“Not more?”
“No,” Justinius cried, “as God is my witness, no.”
“And you accepted?”
“No, of course not, we—”
The sound of breaking bones was sickening. He almost fainted from the pain.
“Justinius? Are you still there? Sorry, but a good massage can get a bit rough. Did you accept his offer?”
Justinius let out an unintelligible babble. The saliva was running down his chin.
“Clearer, please.”
“Yes. Yes!”
“When and where are you to meet the dean?”
“Here,” Justinius whispered. “Please don’t hurt me anymore—Our Father, who art in heaven—”
“Oh, you know a prayer? Your piety shames me. I asked you when.”
“Soon—he should be here any minute. Please, I beg you, no more pain, please—”
The other leaned down close. Justinius could feel something soft on his back. Hair. Long blond hair. “Don’t worry, Justinius,” said Urquhart softly, “you won’t feel any more pain.”
The fingers reached his neck.
Justinius couldn’t hear the last dull crack.
Andreas von Helmerode leaned back in the water. He felt a profound disquiet. On the one hand, he wished he could take things as calmly as Justinius, who was at this moment doubtless lying on the bed in his cubicle and nothing would disturb him.
On the other hand, he was the one who had had to get them out of a jam more than once. As soon as money was mentioned, Justinius threw caution to the winds.
Perhaps it was time to turn respectable. The swindling and living on their wits had gone on for long enough, going around as false priests, exploiting the grief of simple people mourning their loved ones, the faith of those too eager to believe. The stranger’s offer had been a godsend, and one of the easiest things they’d had to do—just lie. Thanks to his own foresight they had not squandered everything. There was some money laid by, including some from the blond stranger. In fact, there was enough. Better to stop while they could.
The harpist smiled at him. Her voice rose in a sweet trill that went right through him.
It was high time that bald dean put in an appearance. Then take the money and run. To Aachen or anywhere. “Away from Cologne, that’s the main thing,” Andreas muttered to himself. He took hold of one of his feet and started to pull off some hard skin.
Someone slipped into the water beside him.
Andreas paid no attention. He studied his toes, then threw the harpist a winning smile, but she had turned to someone else. Serves you right, thought Andreas, if you go around with a long face all the time.
He slid down until he was completely underwater. Warm. Pleasant. Invigorating. What a hopeless miseryguts he was. He should go and chat up that pretty girl playing the harp. He put his hands on the bottom to push himself up.
He couldn’t.
To his astonishment he realized someone was pushing him down. For a moment he thought it was just a joke. Then he was seized with panic and started to thrash his legs.
A hand grasped his throat.
It was all over very quickly.
Urquhart closed Andreas’s eyes and mouth under the water, then pulled him up. Now he was sitting there as if he were sleeping. No one had noticed anything, they were all too preoccupied and the men in the gallery had eyes for the fair sex alone.
Without a further glance at the dead body, Urquhart got out of the water. Despite his great height and physique, he went unnoticed. He had a slightly hunched gait he adopted on such occasions, the gait of the downtrodden and dispossessed. If he wanted, he could dominate a packed room with his physical presence alone. If not, he was almost invisible, a nobody.
He picked up a towel, dried himself, went to the room where the bathers’ clothes were kept, dressed, and strolled out into the street.
Bright light greeted him. The sun was shining.
Unnaturally bright.
He put his hand over his eyes, but the brightness remained. And in the brightness he saw the child again and the iron claw plunging into the twitching, writhing body—
No! He could not allow these attacks to continue. Not now, not ever.
Urquhart filled his lungs to the bursting point with air and let his breath out in a slow, controlled exhalation. Then he held his right hand out in front of him. After a few seconds it started to tremble slightly.
Again he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This time his hand did not tremble.
His eyes scoured the street. If they were keeping to his instructions, two of Matthias’s servants ought to be somewhere nearby. After a while they came along the street, chattering away. He raised his hand in the agreed signal and went to meet them.
Jacob the Fox might cover his red mop, but they would recognize the dean. According to the description Matthias had given him an hour ago, there could only be one face like that. Jaspar Rodenkirchen would come alone or with the Fox, not suspecting that he was expected. One way or another he would fall into the trap. Then they would stay hard on his heels, unobserved.
The servants would, that is.
He himself had other plans. If Jaspar brought the Fox with him, all the better. If the dean came alone, Jacob was sure to be where Urquhart was about to go.
THE TRAP
“I’ve been thinking about your friend a bit,” said Jaspar as they went down Severinstraße together.
“What friend?” Jacob asked. He pulled the hood of Jaspar’s old habit farther down over his face. During the last couple of days he’d worn more coats and cloaks than in his whole life before. Despite the disguise, he felt horribly exposed.
“The one who wants to get you,” replied Jaspar. “Word has got around that there is someone in Cologne using strange little arrows, and we two know who it is. But what kind of weapon is it?”
“A crossbow. Didn’t I tell you?”
“You did. With that power of penetration it has to be a crossbow. Only the bolts are too small for every known type of crossbow.”
Too small? Jacob thought. True, the bolts were too small. But he knew nothing about weapons.
“Tell me again, Fox-cub, what he was carrying while he was chasing you.”
“What we’ve been talking about all the time.”
“Yes, but how was he holding it?”
“Holding it?”
“God in heaven! Just describe how he was holding it.”
Jacob frowned, then stretched out his right hand. “Like that, I think. More or less.”
“In his right hand?” Jaspar clicked his tongue. “Not with both hands?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Jacob tried to picture in his mind again what he had seen when he had turned around in the narrow alley and looked his pursuer in the face. “Yes,” he said, “absolutely sure.”
“Interesting.” Jaspar smiled. “There is no crossbow you can hold in one hand while running after someone at the same time.”
“But it was a crossbow,” Jacob insisted.
“Of course it was.” Jaspar seemed very pleased with himself.
“All right, you fount of knowledge,” said Jacob, sighing, “what is it you know this time that no one else knows?”
“Oh,” said Jaspar, putting on a humble expression, “I know that I know nothing. A man in ancient Greece said that. It appeals to me. Now Platonic forms, would you like to hear—”
“Oh, no, not another of your lectures!” Jacob protested.
“You’re not interested in learning? Your loss. But I know a lot about the Crusades as well. You may have noticed. I’ve read eyewitness accounts and heard the stories of various poor wretches who made it back home. I know the odd secret of the Orient—Al Khwarizmi’s algebra, Rhazes’s medical writings, Avicenna’s Canon medicinae, Alfarabius’s powerful philosophy—although I can’t remember as much as I should and I’d like to know more. But the key secret of the Muslims is well known to me. It’s called progress. In many ways they’re a good bit ahead of us.”