“I couldn’t say. I wonder, though, who else he’s hired, and for what.”
“Have you...” Duffy began. “Have you run into any odd types, besides common murderers? Stranger... things... that pay uncalled-for attention to you?”
The hunchback stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Aren’t murderers enough? What kind of ‘things’ do you mean? Lions? Wolves?”
“Yes,” said the Irishman quickly. “Wolves. I’ve been plagued by them.”
Bluto shook his head. “No. But then we’re coming from different directions. Wouldn’t be likely to run across the same sorts of beasts.”
“That’s true,” assented Duffy, letting the discussion drop. That’s odd, though, he thought. Bluto has apparently seen no supernatural creatures at all. Why have I seen so many?
At midafternoon their horses’ hooves clattered on the Leitha Bridge, and by sunset they had reached the high, stone, battlement-crowned walls of Vienna.
“God, she’s big,” Bluto remarked as they rode up to the Carinthian Gate. “Have you ever been here before?”
“I used to live here,” Duffy said quietly.
“Oh. Can you tell me where I could spend the night? I want a bit of rest before I present myself to the city council.”
Duffy frowned. If there’s one thing I don’t want right now, he thought, it’s company. But he’s a decent sort, and if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have this horse. “I imagine they’d give you a room at the Zimmermann. Aurelianus owns it. Did he give you some kind of letter of introduction?”
“Yes. Sealed with two fighting dragons.”
“Well, show that seal to the innkeeper. I doubt if he’d even charge you any money.”
“Good idea. I’m much obliged to you.”
They rode under the old stone arch and clip-clopped at a leisurely pace up the Kartnerstrasse. Duffy breathed deeply, enjoying the smoky smell of the city. Damn my eyes, he thought, it’s good to be back. I remember riding down this very street sixteen years ago with Franz von Sickingen’s knights, to go push the French away from the Rhine. Yes, and I remember coming back, too, blind and half-paralyzed by a sword-cut in the base of the skull. The physicians told me I’d never again be able to get out of a chair unaided, much less fight. Hah. Brandy, my Irish blood and Epiphany made liars of them. I was reading, walking with a cane and giving fencing lessons a year later; and by the time I was thirty-three, and had let my hair grow over my collar in back, you wouldn’t know I’d ever taken a wound.
“Where is this Zimmermann Inn?” asked Bluto, peering around.
“Up this street a bit farther, just off the Rotenturmstrasse.”
“How are the accommodations?”
“I don’t know. In my day it was a monastery. But they’ve always made great beer—even back in the days when it was a Roman fort, I understand.”
People on the street paused to stare at the two barbarous-looking riders; Duffy tall, burly, and gray, and Bluto gnarled and hunchbacked, his long sword-hilt thrusting up from behind his shoulder like a cobra whispering in his ear. In the courtyard of St. Stephen’s Cathedral children pointed at them and giggled.
And off to our port side, Duffy thought grimly, silhouetted by the sunset, is St. Peter’s Church, where Epiphany married Max Hallstadt in June of ’twenty-six. I haven’t seen her since that afternoon, when she told me I’d behaved disgracefully at the wedding. She was right, of course.
And here I am home again, three years and a few scars later. Returning in dubious triumph to keep bums from throwing up on the Zimmermann’s taproom floor.
The sky was darkening fast now, and clear for the first time in several nights. Duffy winked a greeting at the evening star. “We go left here,” he said.
Three blocks later the Irishman pointed. “That’s her, on the left. As I recall, the stables are around back.” It was a long, two-storeyed, half-timbered building with an overhanging shingled roof and three tall chimneys. Yellow light gleamed cozily in nearly all the windows, and Duffy was looking forward almost carnally to a big mug of mulled Herzwesten ale and a real bed.
The stable boys reeled a little, and smelled of beer, but Duffy told the hunchback this was to be expected in the stables of any fine inn. They left the horses there and strode—rolling a bit from the hours in the saddle—back up the alley to the street and the front door.
They paused in the vestibule, under a ceiling fresco depicting an unusually jovial Last Supper. “You want to see the innkeeper,” Duffy said, “and I’ve been told to report to the brewmaster. God knows why. So I may see you later tonight, or I may not.”
Bluto grinned. “Got a little girl or two you want to get re-acquainted with, hey? Well; I won’t tag along. In any case, I know now where to come for the best beer in Vienna, right?”
“That’s right.” They shook hands, and Bluto pushed open the public room door while Duffy stepped through the one marked Servants.
A thin-faced woman gasped when she saw him, and nearly dropped her tray of beer mugs. “It’s all right, daughter,” Duffy told her, reaching out to steady the tray. “I haven’t come to rape the help. Can you tell me where I’d find—” he glanced at the envelope, “—Gambrinus? The brewmaster?”
“Certainly, sir,” she quavered. “He’s in the cellar—down those stairs at the end of the hall—testing the spring beer.”
“Thank you.” Duffy walked down the hall to the indicated archway, and descended the dark stairs slowly and noisily to avoid giving a similar fright to the brewmaster. There were many steps, and when he finally stood on the damp flags of the floor he figured he was about thirty feet below ground level. The air was steamy and rich with the smell of malt, but for the moment he could see nothing in the dimness.
“What can I do for you, stranger?” came a deep, relaxed voice.
“Are you Gambrinus?”
“Yes. Will you have a cup of new schenk beer?”
“Thank you, I will.”
Duffy could see dimly now, and sat down on an upturned bucket, dropping his knapsack beside him. A clean-shaven old man with thick white hair drew a cupful of draft beer from a keg nearby and passed it to him. “We won’t make any more schenk this year,” he said gravely. “When these kegs are empty we’ll open the bock.”
“Well, fine,” Duffy said. “Look, I met a man named Aurelianus in Venice a few weeks ago, and he said I should give you this.” Here he handed him the somewhat travel-stained letter. Gambrinus broke the seal and scanned the writing. He must spend a lot of time down here, Duffy realized, to be able to read in this darkness.
The Irishman looked around, interested. I’ve poured down gallons of Herzwesten beer, he thought, but this is the first time I’ve seen, however dimly, the cellar where it’s brewed. The ceiling was lost in shadow, but scaffolds were braced around copper tubs that stood an easy twenty feet above the floor, and long pipes slanted into and out of several of the old brick walls. Bell-shaped oak kegs lay everywhere; full ones were stacked narrow-side-down several layers deep along one wall. Gambrinus was sitting on an empty one, and other empties were scattered about as if someone had used them for bowling pins in a particularly wild game. The large tun-tubs in which the actual fermentation took place were not visible, and Duffy assumed they were behind one of the walls.
Gambrinus looked up at Duffy curiously. “He seems to think you’re the man we’re looking for,” he said. “And I guess he’d know. Here.” He scribbled in red chalk on the back of the letter. “Show this to the innkeeper and he’ll give you your money.”
“All right.” Duffy drained the cup and got to his feet. “Thanks for the beer.”
Gambrinus spread his hands. “Thank God for it.”