Chapter Eleven
Castle Sierhagen, Margraviate of Anhalt-Zerbst, 3rd Day of Ansuz
"And the rest of you!" The Margrave spread his arms, his smirk widening into a broad grin. "Welcome to Castle Sierhagen! You are my guests, and under my protection!"
Kirche suppressed a sigh of relief. She liked her father much better like this; his loud, effusive self, the self that she and all who knew him loved. She could never be quite sure whether it was his true self or an act, but she liked it too much to care.
"Professor!" The Margrave grabbed Jean Colbert by the shoulders and shook him in what was supposed to be a friendly sort of way. "I trust your flight was without incident?"
"It was, your grace." Colbert chuckled nervously. "We outran their pursuit easily!"
"You should retire and become an airship captain my good Professor!" declared the Margrave proudly. "Why settle for a simple life when you can come and go as you like? You could even work for me! I promise a man of your particular talents will not want for nothing!"
"A kind offer, your grace." The bald mage shook his head, a smile on his face. "But I like being my own man. Besides, I prefer to lend my talents to the next generation."
Kirche smiled at that. Her beloved Jan was a man of many talents. Soldier and teacher, mage and inventor, scientist and engineer. And he had taken to the profession of airship captain like a duck to water.
And somewhere along the way, he had even earned her respect.
"Ever the good magister." The Margrave sighed. "Ah, how I want your allegiance Professor. But I would not like you half as much any other way. My offer remains open, always."
"Thank you, your grace."
"And now, follow me!" He spun around and led the way into the tower. Kirche fell in behind him, glancing at her friends as they followed on.
She was amazed, and pleased, by the smiles on their faces, the looks of admiration. There were few who could resist her father's charisma.
Louise was one of them, from the looks of it. Even surrounded by the grinning and chattering Ondines, she kept her face set in that doll-like mask that was practically her trademark.
Ceremonial halberdiers of her father's House Guard lined the corridor, snapping to attention and drawing in their halberds as their master swept along. Kirche regarded them as she passed, enjoying the sight of their crimson tunics and white trousers, their gleaming cuirasses and open-faced sallet helmets. They were a symbol of her father's lofty status, and a constant reminder of the consequences.
She could have sworn Saito was staring at them, muttering to himself. She could not think why.
Her father's course led them down staircases and through yet more corridors, all of them grandly decorated. Paintings, statues, sculptures, art of all kinds from all over Halkeginia, and perhaps beyond. Kirche felt herself relax as she saw it all, remembering each corridor, each door, each nick-nack.
She was home.
They reached the great hall, entering through one of the side doors. Kirche felt warm inside as she remembered playing in there as a child, weaving in and out of the statues and suits of armour, gazing up at the stuffed animal heads set high up the wall. Sunlight streamed in through the tall, gothic windows, shining on the screens of carved wood, and the massive red eagle crest set into the wall above the dais, and the three thrones that sat upon it.
She paused, her train of thought coming to a sudden halt. There was something…something she couldn't quite place. Something was…missing.
"And now, my young friends, let us briefly talk business." The Margrave turned to face them, his grin still in place. "You are all my guests, of course. But I know you have a reason in coming here." He planted one foot on the step leading up to the dais. "I would know it."
"I would know it too."
The Margrave looked up suddenly, and all followed her gaze. Kirche clenched her jaw, fighting down her anger. She knew that voice.
A woman was approaching them. She was slender and pale, with golden eyes and hair of obsidian black, gathered around her head in elaborate braids and curls. She wore a black gown trimmed with gold, a starched white collar rising behind her head, her swan-like throat decorated with a necklace of pearls and gold. Two ladies-in-waiting, clad in black, followed with their heads lowered.
"My lord husband." The woman's voice was as cold as her mien. "I see our daughter has returned, and with guests. They were not expected."
"Lady mother." Kirche plucked at her skirt and curtseyed, forcing herself to smile. She would not give that woman the satisfaction of seeing her squirm, or pout, or rage.
"I am as surprised as you are, my lady." The Margrave stepped past his stunned guests to stand before his wife, holding out his hand. The Margravine paused a moment, as if deciding whether he was worthy of her touch, then slipped a very small, slender hand into his.
"Dear friends, I present my wife; the Margravine Antonia. She does not mean to be so unwelcoming."
All assembled bowed or curtseyed. The Margravine acknowledged their respect with a simple nod.
"I would be more welcoming, had I time to prepare the castle," she retorted coldly. "But those whom my lord husband welcomes, I welcome likewise."
"That's the best you're going to get," the Margrave cut in, his grin returning. "My dear you will not guess whom Kirche has brought back. This is…"
"Louise de la Valliere." The Margravine drew her hand from her husband's and stepped forward, her eyes fixed on Louise. Louise stood still, the Ondines edging slowing away from her. Only Saito remained at her side, staring watchfully at the Margravine, who made no show of having noticed his existence.
"You are the spitting image of your mother," she said, looking down her nose at Louise. "How is the Duchess these days?"
"Well, your grace." Louise's reply was as stiff and cold as the question. The Margravine passed narrow eyes over her companions, few of whom wanted to meet her gaze. Kirche thanked any god or goddess who happened to be listening that Tiffania had remembered to wear her hat, and Suleiman the strip of cloth that concealed his elven ears.
"I see you continue in your usual course, Kirche" the Margravine said, her tone icy. "Bringing trouble into our house." She turned to glare at her daughter.
"This time it's a matter of honour, mother," retorted Kirche. She would not show weakness, not to that woman. "A dear friend of mine, Tabitha, has been captured by King Joseph and imprisoned. We mean to rescue her."
"Oh you do, do you?" replied the Margravine sourly. "You mean to stroll into Gallia and take her back?"
"If you knew who she really was," replied Kirche sternly, "you would not mock me so easily, madam."
"I would hear her out," declared a voice from along the corridor. "It might just be important."
All turned to see another man striding along the corridor towards them. He was tall as the Margrave but slimmer, with long black hair and a short black beard. He wore a cloak of dark red over a doublet and pants of dark blue, tucked into tall black boots.
"Uncle Klaus!" cried Kirche, her heart leaping at the sight of him. She hadn't seen her uncle in years, not since she had first left for Tristain.
"Well, look what the manticore dragged in," quipped the Margrave. "Everyone, this sour creature is Klaus von Steinbeck, Landgrave of Osthausen, and my brother-in-law."
"How pleased you sound, Benedict," replied Klaus, opening his arms to receive Kirche's ecstatic embrace. "One would hardly think we were allies, let alone kin."
The Margrave gave him a weary smile, and clasped his wrist. Kirche felt warm inside as she watched them, glad that at least those two had managed to reconcile. One glance at her mother, at the fists clenched at her sides, told of a slight yet unforgiven.
"I assume you're staying for dinner," said the Margrave.
"Why else do I ever come here?" replied the Landgrave, smirking.
"Why else indeed. Wilhelm! Where is Wilhelm!?"
A young man in servant's livery came striding into the hall. He halted, and bowed stiffly in the Germanian fashion; his right arm held at a right angle over his waist, the left in the same manner behind it.
"Wilhelm, tell the kitchen dinner will be in the solar tonight. The Landgrave, my daughter, and her intimate companions."
He shot Kirche a meaningful look, which she translated as "not all of them." She smiled and nodded in understanding.
"As you wish, your grace." Wilhelm bowed and strode away.
"Well, in the meantime, you might as well have the grand tour!" declared the Margrave. "Then we'll get you settled, and you'll be just in time for dinner!"
Tiffania was amazed.
The room Kirche had led her to was unlike anything she'd ever seen. It was bigger than her room at the academy, dominated by an enormous four-poster bed and a vanity table with a mirror as big as the one in Queen Henrietta's chambers in Tristain. There was even a bathing room, with a huge bath and, wonder of wonders, a toilet. A toilet that could be flushed by pulling a chain.
But what truly amazed her was the luxury of the place. The place was dripping with decoration; rich curtains and elegant drapes, a thick carpet into which her feet sank like quicksand, gilt ornamentation and fine wood carving on everything.
She had not lived like this in the forest. Even Henrietta did not live quite like this. She wasn't sure whether this was a sign of wealth and sophistication, or of excess.
She stood before an enormous triple mirror, examining what she saw. She supposed she was beautiful, for others seemed to think her so. That long golden hair, milk-white skin and blue eyes, all so much like her mother's. Her…bosom too, though she was quite sure her mother had not been built like that.
Tiffania sighed wearily. She still couldn't understand why they had become so enormous, or why they seemed to affect people the way they did. Boys stared, girls glowered. Of the girls, only Kirche had not looked upon them with jealousy, though hers were fairly substantial too. Of the boys, only Suleiman's gaze had not…unsettled her, in a way she could not quite explain.
Suleiman.
Once again, he had refused to share her room. Tiffania found it curiously disappointing, another strange feeling she could not explain. Kirche had risen to the occasion, providing a room directly adjoining hers. But even so…
"Tiffa? Can I join you?" A rapping at the door accompanied the voice.
"Uh, yes!" Tiffania called out. The door opened, and Kirche stepped in. She had exchanged her uniform for an elegant black gown, and her red hair was elegantly done up.
"How do you like your room?" Kirche swept across the room towards her. She was evidently used to wearing such fine clothes.
"It's wonderful, thank you." Tiffania looked down at herself, feeling suddenly awkward in the presence of such elegance. "And…thank you for lending me this gown."
Kirche had lent gowns to all of the girls, who had not had time to bring anything suitable with them. Tiffania's was a dark wine red, narrow at the waist and flaring out to the ground like a bell, with puffy sleeves hanging just off her shoulders. Tiffania had arranged the dress as best she could, but her experience was limited.
"Think nothing of it!" Kirche beamed, and Tiffania noticed that her face was made up; her lips reddened, her cheeks and eyelids highlighted. "Oh, but you haven't laced it right! Here, let me!"
Kirche spun Tiffania round, and began fiddling with the laces of her bodice. Tiffania let out an eep as her bodice suddenly tightened, setting her bosom in even sharper relief.
"Ah! Kirche!" protested Tiffania. "My, my…!"
"You have to show them off!" insisted Kirche, half-giggling. She stepped around Tiffania to admire her handiwork. "There! Much better to show off your assets!"
"But…" Tiffania whimpered, covering her bosom with her arms.
"Oh calm down!" Kirche gave her an indulgent smile. "You've nothing to fear from my father, or my uncle. And as for Saito…and Suleiman…"
"But…it's immodest…"
"The best things in life are. Now come over here." Kirche hustled over to the vanity and sat her down. She grabbed a brush from the table, and set to work on her hair.
"You want those two to see you at your best," Kirche went on, brushing her golden hair with long, smooth strokes. "And put the other two to shame while you're at it."
"Who?" Tiffania was confused.
"Louise and Montmorency!" Kirche giggled. "You'll die laughing when you see what I loaned those two! Why does Tristain breed such tiny girls?"
Tiffania did not reply straight away, uncertain of what Kirche meant. Then she sighed as her thoughts wandered.
"I…don't know what to do," she said sadly. "I admire Mister Saito…but…the way he looks at me…"
"Lust, Tiffa dear," replied Kirche. "Men love women they lust for, women lust for men they love. One of my mother's better pearls of wisdom."
"Then…he only wants my body?"
"I wouldn't go that far." Kirche's tone was sympathetic. "Some men are like that, but Saito isn't. He likes you as a person too."
"But…what about Louise?"
The long and the short of it. She could not help but notice Saito's interest in her. But what of his feelings for Louise? And hers for him? She knew they shared the same room, the same bed even. And it was always being put about that the two of them were lovers. So then, why?
"Lust again, Tiffa." Kirche tutted. She sounded like she found it all very funny. "Oh, they love each other, no doubt about it. But men can't help themselves, not completely."
"I see."
"Oh?" Kirche's face in the mirror took on a vulpine smirk. "You're planning to steal Saito away from Louise?"
"Oh! No no no!" pleaded Tiffania, panicking. "I wouldn't…I would never…"
"I jest!" Kirche patted her shoulder, laughing aloud. "But if you're really worried about coming between them, there's always Suleiman."
That gave Tiffania pause. What did she mean?
"But Suleiman…"
"Yes?"
"Suleiman…is my familiar…my friend." She smiled, a warm feeling curling softly around her heart.
"And you love him?"
"Yes I…" Tiffania trailed off. "I…I didn't mean…"
"Oh stop worrying!" Kirche put down the brush, and opened a gilt box on the table. It was full of small, fine-tipped brushes, and what looked like small pots of paint.
"In Germania we say, when all you've got is a pile of stones, build yourself a castle." She picked up one of the brushes, and began dabbing it in a pot of red paint. This done, she stepped around and bent down in front of Tiffania.
"Time to build you a castle, Tiffa."
The evening meal was certainly a lively affair.
So Gimli thought, as he sat at the high table, some way along from the empty throne at the centre. As a noble and a guest he warranted that honour, along with his fellow Ondine Knights. The floor in front of him was covered with long tables and benches, at which sat the servants, guards, and hangers-on who had the right to dine at the Margrave's expense.
There must have been hundreds of them down there, and Gimli knew for a fact that not all were present. Servers squeezed through the gaps between the tables, clearing away empty plates and trenchers, and replacing them with new ones filled with food. A dull roar of conversation and the clatter of cutlery hovered over them, broken every now and again with barks of laughter, and punctuated with the bangs and parples of the brass band ensconced in the minstrel gallery.
It was strange to him. Not unpleasant, for the atmosphere was festive and for the most part welcoming, but nevertheless strange. So many nobles and commoners eating like this in the same chamber; it would never go down in Tristain or Gallia, and probably not even in Albion.
He had long heard that Germanians were more easygoing on such matters; and here was the proof of it.
Gimli glanced along the table. His fellows seemed happy enough, especially Malicorne. Few hosts ever fed him quite as much as he liked, and here in Sierhagen castle the food seemed neverending.
Irukuku was enjoying herself too, he could not help but notice. The blue-haired girl sat a couple of seats down from him, clad in a blue gown Kirche had found somewhere, taking great bites out of what might have been half a sheep. When she wasn't eating, she was babbling happily to whomsoever tried to engage her in conversation.
Gimli didn't know what to think about her. She was undoubtedly beautiful, and he sensed no malice in her, but...her story just didn't add up. How could she, with a body that rivalled Kirche's, be Tabitha's younger sister? And that wasn't the only anomaly. Asides from a certain similarity in appearance, and in appetite, the two had nothing in common.
The most glaring difference by far was in personality. Unlike the quiet, self-restraining Tabitha, Irukuku acted like a child; and an untutored one at that. She had gotten hungry shortly after they had been shown to their rooms, and Gimli had heard her stomping and griping. And when Kirche had brought her the dress she was wearing, Irukuku had glomped her like an excitable little girl, squeaking that strange squeak of hers all the while.
Little wonder that Kirche had not included her in the private dinner up in the solar. Gimli had been a little surprised that Montmorency had been included, since she was only really a hanger-on, but now he suspected it had been an act of mercy. She would have hated having to eat down here in the hall, with all the noise and smells, and all the rich food that would play havoc with her teeth and complexion, not to mention her figure.
Gimli sighed. He had sort-of liked Montmorency once, but it hadn't come to anything. His family were middle-of-the-road nobles at best, and not all that rich at the moment, while hers were magnates of the realm; albeit also in straightened circumstances. Even when she was trying to aggravate Guiche, she was exceedingly picky about whom she flirted with. A bespectacled mid-ranker like him stood little chance.
He sighed again, and took up his goblet. It was very fine pewter piece, polished to near-silver sheen, and unfortunately empty. He held it up, and a waiting servant obliged him by filling it with rich red wine; a Germanian red, if he was any judge.
And undiluted.
He took a small gulp, then set the goblet down. He didn't want to get drunk, not yet anyway. Something had been bothering him.
"Reynald?"
His friend Reynald turned to grin at him. He had already drunk at least two full goblets of the wine, and his face was reddening a little.
"Gimli! What a night! These Germanians know how to live!"
"Reynald, can I ask you something?"
Reynald paused, seemingly mystified by the question.
"Of course."
"Did you see much of Irukuku during the flight?"
Reynald' smile faltered, and he seemed to be thinking very hard.
"Now that you mention it, not much at all." He glanced at Irukuku, who was still eating. "In fact, I didn't see her at all until...around about when Sylphid dropped Maxwell off."
"Exactly!" Gimli spoke up. "She just vanished not long after we left the academy. When I saw her later, she was usually fussing over Maxwell."
"Eh?" Reynald shot him a grin. "You've been playing close attention, Gimli."
"Uh, no!" Gimli waved his hands frantically. "It's not like that!"
"You like her, don't you!" Reynald leant over and patted him on the back. His breath smelt of wine. "You finally fell in love!"
Gimli sighed, and took up the goblet again. His concerns would have to wait.
In spite of everything, Saito had to admit that he was enjoying himself.
The solar was nothing like as large as the great hall, but it was every bit as grand. The walls were encrusted with decoration, the windows tall and framed in gilt, large enough to make the room bright and airy in the daylight.
All present sat at a great long table, much like the one Saito had seen in the dining room of Chateau Valliere; during his first and only visit. The Margrave sat at the head, his wife at the opposite end, Kirche to his right and the Landgrave Klaus to his left. Next to Kirche sat Tiffania, then Louise, then Montmorency. Next to Klaus sat Colbert, then Guiche, then Suleiman, then Saito himself
Next to Montmorency sat Alice la Durant; who had satisfied her pride by giving her parole to the Margrave in person, and thus been released. Whereas the other ladies all wore gowns, she wore what she had revealed was the formal uniform of a Knight of the Eastern Roses; a doublet and breeches of pale blue cloth, the doublet emblazoned with a white rose, a crimson sash tied over her sword belt.
They had spent the past hour making their way through the first few courses, washed down with the finest wines in the Margrave's cellars. The food was served by uniformed servants, who then left the room until the Margrave summoned them; ringing a bell with a wave of his wand.
For all the tension hovering in the air, Saito was enjoying himself. At least he was actually allowed to sit at the table, to eat and drink and be treated as a guest.
It was better than that time at Louise's family home, when he'd had to stand by the wall with the servants while Louise at in silence with her mother and sisters, the tension so thick that he could barely breathe. There he had been a familiar, a mere servant, of no interest or concern to any of them.
He glanced at Louise, and had to fight hard to keep a stupid grin off his face. Louise looked like a porcelain doll, and not merely in her manner. The dress Kirche had loaned her was a pink, a vision of ribbons and frills that would not have looked too much out of place in Akihabara. The little white ribbons she had tied in her hair just in front of her ears only added to the effect.
Saito had not known what to make of it; even as he resisted the urge to glomp her. He supposed he couldn't blame Louise for being in a foul mood; having to wear such a childish outfit while Kirche and Tiffania showed up in tight-waisted gowns that showed off their assets in all the right ways. The official explanation was that Kirche had nothing else that fitted, but he had little doubt that Kirche was finding it all most amusing.
"Saito Hiraga, isn't it?"
Saito realised that the Margrave was looking straight at him; as were the others present.
"Ah, yes, your grace." Saito smiled nervously.
"Kirche has mentioned you a great many times!" the Margrave went on cheerfully. "So you're the one who stopped seventy thousand men by himself. I would never have thought it to look it you!"
"Ah...how kind, your grace." Saito didn't know what else to say. Louise shot him a sour glance.
"Don't be mean, father," admonished Kirche, half-laughing. "It's hardly his fault for not being seven feet tall, or not shooting lighting from his eyes and fireballs from his...posterior."
The Margrave let out a barking, bellowing laugh. Saito wished he could sink into the floor and disappear.
"Don't worry about it lad!" he went on. "Your legend is getting ahead of you, and like any good story it grows in the telling. By the time it reaches Lusatia it'll be a hundred thousand men and a thousand dragons."
"Ah, I see."
Saito sighed. The legend he had acquired since he took on the Reconquista army just outside of Saxe Gotha had caused him no end of embarrassment. He wondered when, if ever, people would start to forget about it.
"How I wish I could have seen it!" declared the Margrave, sounding almost like he meant it. "Seventy thousand men, Albion's last hope! The swords, the spells, the gunfire, the arrows! The dragons breathing fire, the giants stamping and griping!" He pumped his fists in the air as he warmed to his tale.
"In your calloused hands the sword Derflinger, blade bright as the moon! Cutting them down like wheat before the scythe! Their hearts filling with fear, making helpless babes of grown men! Ah, you should hear the songs they sing of you in the taverns and the barracks!"
"I...daresay, your grace."
Saito was completely at a loss. There had been nothing glorious about that night, not like how he described. All he remembered was pain and fear, and a terrible rage that seemed to lift him out of his body, as if he was not really there, and it was not he who was driving Derflinger through human bodies, even as bullets and arrows tore at his flesh.
"It's true, partner." Derflinger rose from his scabbard to speak. "You're going up in the world, and no mistake."
"Even the sword thinks so!" proclaimed the Margrave, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Ah, would that we could have been there, eh Klaus? What a swathe we'd have cut to reach his side!"
"Such wistfulness, my lord husband," the Margravine cut in sourly. "Yet when his Majesty raised an army to go to Albion, you pleaded poverty and prior commitments."
"Founder's bones, woman!" bellowed the Margrave. "Can't a man dream of glory in his idle moments?"
"You could have had all the glory you wanted," the Margravine went on, undeterred. "Instead you let his Imperial Majesty hand the honour of command to the Margrave of Handenburg."
"Yes, madam." The Margrave's tone was terse, testy. "At your insistence, I might add. You seemed to think getting packed off to Albion with an army of mercenaries would be a singularly bad idea."
"And for once you took my advice. And the Count Palatine did not plunder your lands in your absence. Nor did the Duchess de la Valliere."
She shot a hard, appraising look at Louise. Louise returned it with her usual porcelain coldness.
"I was surprised, madam," the Margravine went on, "to hear that your parents took no part in the war. As you could imagine, it raised certain suspicions as to their intentions."
It was quite warm in the room, but Saito could not stop himself from shivering. He knew that Louise's family had wanted nothing to do with Queen Henrietta's invasion of Albion, and had done their level best to keep Louise out of it too. But he never knew why, and Louise had not told him either.
"Your grace." Louise's tone was icy. "Please be assured that my mother intended no treachery against Anhalt-Zerbst."
The Margravine's gaze was intense, unflinching, as it regarded Louise.
"You are very much your mother's daughter, madam," she said. Saito could not make out whether she meant it as a compliment.
"Too bad she isn't her mother's son!" the Margrave cut in, his bonhomie returning as suddenly as it had disappeared. "We could have married her to Kirche and solved all our problems!"
"Father, really!" Kirche giggled behind her hand. "Saying such things!"
There was a tittering of nervous laughter around the table. Louise's face reddened, though whether with embarrassment or anger, Saito could not tell.
Toulon, Kingdom of Gallia
The ship burned, a bonfire on the waves.
Flames licked up the masts and along the spars, consuming the furled sails. The deck was a lake of fire, red light shining through the portholes and gunports.
The docks swarmed with people, sailors and dockworkers abandoning their work, drinkers swarming out of the taverns, all to gape and stare at the sight.
Not one of them noticed the dark shape emerging from the water beneath them. They did not see it move slowly along the docks, nor haul itself slowly and carefully up the anchor cable of a fluyt that had arrived from Tristain only that morning. The sailors and dockers that should have been loading her, readying her for the return journey, were entranced by the blaze.
Kurt Abendroth shivered, soaked to the skin, the night air chilling him to the bone. But he forced himself to move, hurrying across the docks and onto the deserted street. It wouldn't be all that long before someone noticed him, and wondered why he was soaking wet.
He hurried through the dark, winding streets, already misty with fog. He ignored the chill on his skin, the pain of his bare feet as they slapped on the cobbles. His safety, his only chance, lay in getting well away from the docks, and into a place of safety.
There it was. A simple tavern, wedged into the slums of Toulon, one of dozens that served the docks. Aside from the slightly better construction of the frontage, and the cleaner windows, the only thing that set the tavern apart was the name; painted in big letters over the door, in a neighbourhood where few could read.
L'imbecile Noye. The Drowned Fool.
The interior was all but deserted as Kurt stepped inside. The only light came from flickering candles on the tabletops, and along the back of the bar. The barman turned to regard him as he approached; a great fat man with big meaty arms and a balding head. He grinned as his beady eyes fell on Kurt, showing a few missing teeth.
"Must be trouble on the docks," he said, conversationally. "None of my regulars are in, as you can see."
"There's a ship on fire," Kurt replied, seating himself on one of the wooden stools lining the bar.
"You don't say." The barman looked him up and down, his eyes shrewd and suspicious. "Rum, monsieur?"
"Beer." Kurt fingered in the pouch at his belt, almost praying that he hadn't manage to lose its contents.
He hadn't. The coin came up, and Kurt dropped it on the bartop. The barman looked at it, then him, then back at the coin.
"Been a long time since I've had one of you in here," he said in a low voice. "Let alone two."
Kurt was taken aback, wondering for a moment what he meant.
Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar profile seated in one of the booths lining the wall.
"Name's Maurice, by the way," the barman went on. "You must be as cold as a Varangian whore. If you need it, I've space downstairs past the wine cellar. Not exactly fit for Royalty, but you'll be warm and out of sight."
"Thank you monsieur."
The barman took a flagon from the back of the bar, and set about pouring his beer. Kurt picked up the coin, its head emblazoned with two crossed swords. Even men like Maurice did not know its true meaning, vital though they were to the order's functions. He only knew that he was to offer help and protection to any person who showed that coin, and who asked for beer when offered rum.
A necessary precaution. He had little notion of the fate that might await him if the North Parterre or the Inquisition were to find out. And even if they used truth potions on him, he could tell them nothing useful.
Maurice set his flagon on the bar in front of him, then headed off into the back room. Kurt sat there for a while, then sighed, picked up his flagon, and headed for the booth where the cloaked figure sat.
"Don't I get a simple hello?" asked the figure, as Kurt sat down. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
"We're not friends, Wolfric," Kurt replied sternly.
"Ever the stoic!" Wolfric von Hiller laughed as he pulled down his hood. The face hidden under it was darker than Kurt's, with a shock of spiky white hair and a pair of narrow, feral eyes.
"I saw your little display out there," he went on, taking a long swig from his flagon. "Very showy, I must say. I'd almost think you had a flair for the dramatic, bruderchen."
"You're supposed to be in Romalia," retorted Kurt, sipping his beer. "On a mission."
"All done, yesterday night, in Verona." Wolfric smirked. "I spent a day on horseback to get here in time."
"You didn't have to."
"I like to watch you work, bruderchen."
Kurt suppressed a rare shiver of anger. He and Wolfric were bound to the same order, sworn to the same oaths, trained by the same masters. But beyond that, they could not be more different, and never more so than in their attitude to their work.
"What was it?"
"My mission?" Wolfric sat back in his seat, casually glancing across the tavern to see if anyone was listening.
"Adrian Farnese, Papal Nuncio to the Count of Oberfranken." He leaned in close, his smirk widening. "He took a fancy to the Count's son, and was offering to pay his father's debts in return for having the boy committed to the Church. Well, you can guess what kind of scandal that would have caused, so I did as the Imp said and settled it, for the good of Germania and all that."
Kurt understood. The Grand Master had explained it when last they met. Germania was a powder keg, and even something as petty or ridiculous as that could prove the fatal spark.
He only wished Wolfric would stop calling the Grand Master Imp. It was almost as irritating as being called bruderchen.
"There were no problems?"
"None. I splattered his brains all over Brimir's holy book. Four hundred mails, bruderchen. I was on all day lining it up."
Wolfric was proud of his marksmanship. He had already been a Freischutz when he'd joined the order as a youth, and the masters had honed his talents to perfection. Of all the Schattenschwert, none could handle bow or gun half as well as he could.
"So then, what was yours about?" Wolfric actually sounded interested.
"Nobles from the Palatinate and Lusatia," replied Kurt. "Meeting to plot against Prince Frederick and Princess Elizabeth, under the cover of a drunken pleasure cruise along the coast."
"Plots and schemes, huh?" Wolfric sighed. "Why do you get all the interesting missions, bruderchen?"
"I do as the Grand Master orders."
"As do we all."
They sat in silence for a while. Kurt finished his beer, and prepared to leave. He was bone-tired, and wanted little more than to sleep.
"If you're going..." Wolfric reached under his cloak and handed over a sealed letter. "I don't normally play messenger, but this came by courier just before I left Verona. Apparently it's important."
"Thank you." Kurt took the letter. "Heilige Germania."
"Heilige Germania, bruderchen."
Following Maurice's direction, Kurt headed down a set of narrow stairs, and through the wine cellar to a room at the back, bare but for a candle and some cots. Kurt took a few moments to strip out of his damp clothes and lay them on the floor to dry, then sat on the bed, looking down at the letter. The seal was a seemingly common escutcheon, likely belonging to some Germanian merchant family with pretensions of nobility. To anyone who might happen to see it, it would be of little interest.
Unless that someone was a Shadow Sword.
He opened it. The message inside was a letter from some German merchant to a business partner, full of gossip and meaningless verbal bric-a-brac. He read it forwards and backwards, left and right, right and left, teasing out its meaning.
Go to Anhalt-Zerbst. Meet with Klaus, Landgrave of Osthausen. Receive instructions.
He held the letter to the candle flame, and watched it burn down to ash. He lay down on the bed, willing his weariness to overtake him, and draw him into the peace of sleep.
But his weary mind was racing. Why had the Grand Master gone to the trouble of sending a courier to Verona? If Wolfric was telling the truth, the message was less than two days old. What could be so important?
And what was it about Anhalt-Zerbst that pricked at the back of his mind?