‘Then I would pay you double. For it would be twice as useful.’ I did not know where this extravagance sprang from, or how I would ever honour it; I did not care. My mind glowed hot with the sudden promise of this new idea. All I wanted was to begin it.
Andreas Dritzehn laid the mirror I had given him on the table. ‘And these are to be sold to pilgrims in Aachen?’
‘Do you know the Aachen relics?’
‘I have heard of them.’
‘They are the holiest relics in the empire. The blue dress of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The bands that swaddled Christ in the manger, and the cloth that covered his modesty on the cross. Also a piece of fabric which is said to have wrapped the head of John the Baptist after Herod cut it off.’
‘A complete wardrobe,’ said Kaspar.
‘Once every seven years, they are taken out of their chests and displayed. So great is the number of pilgrims that the whole city can barely contain them. The priests mount a scaffold between the cathedral towers: every street, every square, every rooftop and window becomes an observatory.’
Andreas frowned. ‘It must be hard to see anything.’
‘Exactly.’ I leaned forward, brimming with excitement. ‘The pilgrims carry mirrors – like this – to capture the light of heaven which radiates from the relics.’
‘Is it visible?’
‘Only to God,’ said Kaspar piously.
‘But the holy mirrors capture it. The pilgrims wrap the mirrors in cloths and take them home. Then, when they are in need, they can unveil the mirrors and let the holy light cure their afflictions.’
‘How many do you intend to make?’
The idea had settled since I blurted out the first number that entered my head to Stoltz. I had done some research, ascertained the facts and established a more realistic basis for my estimate.
‘Thirty-two thousand.’
Dritzehn almost dropped the mirror on the floor.
‘There must be over a hundred thousand pilgrims in Aachen when the relics are shown. All of them need mirrors, or the pilgrimage is in vain. Ours will be better quality than our rivals’, and cheaper. As I said, this happens only every seven years. The next pilgrimage will take place in some twenty months. Time enough for our work.’
‘But what of the Aachen goldsmiths? Surely their guild will not allow you to flood their market with your wares, at their expense?’
‘The Aachen goldsmiths forfeited their rights long ago. They cannot make enough of the mirrors to meet the demand. Some years ago there were riots: pilgrims who could not obtain mirrors fought in the streets with those who had. Several died. Since then, the privileges of the Aachen guilds have been suspended for six months each year that the relics are shown.’
Dritzehn clasped the mirror to his chest and murmured something indistinct. I waited for him to repeat it.
‘How can I be part of this enterprise?’
‘The housing and the mirrors will be manufactured separately. We need someone to polish the mirrors.’
‘I can do that.’ He furrowed his face. ‘But not as a servant. If I am to be part of this, it must be for a share of the profits.’
‘The profits will be very great,’ I agreed, almost as if it were cause for concern. ‘For that reason, this endeavour must be a close secret. If knowledge of our art spreads, there will be no advantage.’
‘I can keep the secret.’
I glanced at Drach, who played his part and looked doubtful.
‘I am sure of it,’ I said. ‘But we must keep the circle small – no more than half a dozen men. Half the profits will accrue to me and Kaspar, as the inventors of this art. It follows that any man who invests must buy at least a quarter share of the remainder.’
‘How much is that?’
‘Eighty gulden.’
Dritzehn was a merchant: he could do his sums. ‘Thirty-two thousand mirrors – you will sell for how much?’
‘Half a gulden.’
‘Sixteen thousand gulden. Half to you, eight thousand. A quarter of the remainder to me: two thousand.’
He whispered the number like a man who has beheld God. I knew how he felt. Even now, the magnitude of the project awed me.
‘Can this be true?
‘We have the art and – you behold – the ambition. All we want is capital.’
‘Nothing can go wrong,’ Drach assured him.
‘Is this what you have been concocting in my basement all these months?’
‘A part of it.’ I changed the subject. ‘But you must decide quickly. There are many others who would happily take your place.’
Dritzehn wiped his brow and stared into the fire. Kaspar looked as though he was about to say something, but I tapped him under the table to stay quiet.
‘I will take the share you offer.’
‘It cannot be yours until we have the money,’ Kaspar warned.
‘You can have fifty gulden tonight. The rest I will fetch tomorrow.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You will sign a contract that this is to be used only for the good of the enterprise?’
‘Of course. But I must have absolute control.’
Dritzehn went to a chest by the wall. He fetched paper, a writing box and a heavy bag that clinked when he set it on the table. I tried not to stare.
He uncorked the bottle of ink and dipped in the pen. In the firelight, the ink dripped off the nib like drops of gold.
The fire had burned low and the servants were asleep. Dritzehn ushered us downstairs to the door himself.
‘Be careful on your way home,’ he warned me. ‘It is not safe carrying bags of gold through the streets.’
‘Nothing will happen to it.’
We crossed the road and walked around the corner. At that hour the streets were almost empty – but not quite. Two men stood in the shadows under a baker’s sign. They stepped out to block our path as we approached. One was tall and stocky and leaned on a thick staff; the other short and thin.
‘Did he agree?’ Stoltz asked.
I handed over the bag Dritzehn had given me. Stoltz hefted it in his hands, then passed it to Karl. The one-armed man struggled to hold it and the staff at the same time.
‘It’s all there,’ I said.
‘If it isn’t, you will soon know.’
The two men disappeared down an alley. We watched them until they were out of sight.
‘Is that for the good of the enterprise?’ Drach asked.
My conscience was clear. ‘If it keeps me from having my legs broken, it is certainly for the good of the enterprise.’
Stoltz had been wrong about money. It was not like a plough or a pair of bellows, to be hired out and returned. It was water driving the mill of endeavour. It did not matter where it came from or where it went. So long as it kept flowing.
XLIX
France
They abandoned the car in a car park. Nick left the windows open and the keys on the front seat. Hopefully someone would steal it before the authorities found it. Then they went to the rail station.
Nick slept most of the way to Strasbourg, clutching his hand across his chest where he had the book tucked under his coat. When he woke, he saw the day had got darker. Flakes of snow whirled past the windows, while the sky promised more to come. On the opposite seat he saw Emily watching him.
‘What time is it?’
‘Almost noon.’
A hunger pang ripped through his stomach. ‘I’m starving.’
Emily reached in her purse and pulled out a paper bag. ‘I got you a croissant.’
Nick ripped off the end and stuffed it in his mouth. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week. ‘You’re a godsend. I don’t suppose you’ve got a cup of coffee in there as well?’
Emily slid a paper cup across the table between them, together with a pile of sweeteners and creams. He emptied three of each into the cup and swirled it with a plastic spoon while he devoured the rest of the croissant.
‘Did you sleep at all?’