Arcanum (110 page)

“I’ll tell them.” She composed the phrase in her mind, then spoke it. “Þér mun ekki vera þrælar. Þér vilja hafa frelsi. I’m sure I’m getting all this wrong: it’s been a long time, Master Thaler.”

“You’re doing your best. But please tell them to hurry.”

“Veldu nú,” she said to them. Her voice was dispassionate, but the horses were almost on them.

Thaler was as desperate as she was calm. It made no sense, since he’d spent all his time previously trying to kill the dwarves, but suddenly it mattered a very great deal to him whether these poor benighted creatures lived or died.

One by one, they made their choices. Those who were willing to be taken captive, to trust Thaler’s word, knelt among the tall grasses and flowerheads. There were some, even then, who would not yield. Half a dozen broke out of the main mass and started to run south, towards the notch of the valley and the forest between the mountainsides.

The first of the Franks thundered by, and those six never made it anywhere near the tree line. The other riders circled the remaining dwarves, spears down, ready.

“They’ve surrendered,” called Thaler. “They’ve surrendered to me and they’re my prisoners.”

Clovis wheeled about in front of Thaler and Tuomanen. “Master Thaler, isn’t it? For a bookish sort, you seem surprisingly martial.”

“I had expert teachers, my lord. Homer, Pliny and Caesar himself.” Thaler slipped his sword into its ash sheath. “How did it go across the river?”

“How did it go? Grimly well. There was no artistry to it: your low-born commanders live, while King Ironmaker and his lords are dead, his army destroyed and his ambitions as cold as his grave will be.” He sniffed. “Your engines of war, Master Thaler. I would like to discuss them with you later. Over a cup of wine, perhaps.”

“If you’ll call your sergeants off, I’ll happily agree.”

Clovis turned his attention to the surrounded dwarves. “They raised their arms against you with no warning or reason. Why you suffer some of them still to live is beyond me. Say the word, Master Thaler, and my men will use them for spear practice.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He screwed his walking-stick back together, and released the catch to turn the hilt back into an innocuous grip. “I have other plans for them.”

“Ah, the mines,” said Clovis. “Be sure to chain them well, and sweat the labour out of them.”

“Something like that,” said Thaler, who had no intention of going back on his word. The water courses and drains beneath Juvavum could still do with some expert attention, and yes, the mines, too, which were always in danger of flooding. But only if they wanted to work there. That was what Felix had wanted all along: a few dwarves to pass on their knowledge. It would be a legacy, of sorts.

“I’ll leave some of my men to escort your prisoners to their pen.” Clovis kicked his heels and his horse trotted away, tail up. “Hah. Beaten by a woman and caught by a librarian. These are dread dwarves indeed.”

Thaler watched him go. “I suppose he didn’t have to stay and fight with us.”

“I don’t think the Lady Sophia gave him much choice. I understand she was really very rude to him.” Tuomanen smiled. “So what do we do now, Master Thaler?”

“We pack up and we … well, carry on as we were before.” Thaler shrugged. “Perhaps we can get back to some proper work instead of blowing holes in things. There really is an awful lot to be getting on with.”

“And who will lead Carinthia?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He looked across the river, more pensive than he had been before. “I’m sure we’ll muddle through somehow.”

“Why not you?”

He baulked. “Good gods, no. Give it to someone else: I’m far too busy for that sort of thing. I have a library to run.”

She smiled again.

Seeing the mountains covered with snow was a relief that was fresh every morning. Winter was here, at last. The passes to the south were closed by deep, dense drifts, and there was no way through for either the Doge or his old sparring partner, the Duke of Milano.

Wien had collapsed under a mountain of its own: debt. The Protector had fled, and Carinthia had subtly suggested that he keep away from their palatinate. The people of Wien continued their flight from the city. Some would move into Carinthia and learn how they ran things there. After they’d overwintered with their kin, they might take their new ideas back home. That would be interesting.

And Bavaria? Standing before Kossler, Lord of München, had been more than a little embarrassing, given that he’d so nearly met his end at the point of a dagger wielded by one of Ullmann’s agents. Her apology had been heartfelt, and she’d assuaged the man’s anger – and turned away the possibility of a war that neither of them wanted – by telling him that she’d killed Ullmann herself. It had become quite beery after that, and Kossler had drunkenly agreed to Carinthia keeping both Rosenheim and Simbach.

When he’d sobered up, she’d reminded him of his promise. She would remind him again when she saw him later.

Carinthia was safe for now, until next spring at least. They’d had a harvest, good enough to last them through, even with the extra mouths to feed, and with some to spare for their neighbours.

All of this, everything from affairs of state to the fullness of a pig farmer’s stomach, was now officially going to be her concern. It served her right, really, for being so competent.

She could have refused. She’d talked it over with Thaler, her father, and Wess, and they’d all urged her to accept, though she hadn’t been able to tell whether Thaler was encouraging her to do so to ensure that no one would ask him.

She hadn’t talked to Peter Büber. She didn’t have to. She knew what he’d say.

There’d be no coronation. She wasn’t nobility, and her father was vague enough as it was about his genealogy without trying to work his way back to King David. Knowing her luck, she’d be related to Herod Antipas instead.

So she wouldn’t be their queen, nor their princess. Some might have hoped for that, but their prince was gone, and that was the end of it. They’d burnt his head, and what she’d been assured was the rest of his body, on a barge in the middle of the Salzach.

In the end, picking a title had proved more difficult than picking the person to fill it.

Thaler had suggested all sorts of impractical names based on offices from Athenian democracy. She was not, absolutely and definitely, going to be an archon, no matter how much sense it made in an Athenian context. She pointed out, and pointedly stuck to the idea, that this was Carinthia, and Athens had flourished and dwindled some two thousand years before them.

Instead, they were going to install her – which made her sound like a piece of furniture – using the title of provost. She would be someone who’d been placed in charge of the palatinate. She hadn’t inherited it, or seized it. She’d been given it by the only people qualified to do so: the Carinthians themselves. And she wouldn’t be ruling on her own. There’d be an assembly in the spring, after the snows melted, and two in summer, and, oh, everything would be fine: she’d hardly ever have to make a decision on her own, though she’d kept the title strategos. Just in case.

Her spatha, old and battered when she’d worn it, had been retired to over the fireplace in the solar. She turned around to see it held against the stonework by two wire brackets, thin enough so it looked as if it was floating there. If she ever needed it, she knew where it was. Today, they’d present her with the Sword of Carinthia: Felix’s sword, and Gerhard’s before him, along with all the others who’d wielded it since it had been forged and enchanted, and disenchanted again.

She turned back to the windows, and the snow was still there.

They’d survived. The Germans thanked their gods with more equivocation than she thanked hers. Then again, HaShem had never promised them magic.

There was a knock at the door. She was used to that: the knock, the creak, the unnecessary bow or curtsy, the fumbling conversation and almost always the entirely obvious answer. The door stayed closed this time, and she was distracted more by that than by an announcement that Clovis, King of the Franks, had arrived, or some other dignitary.

“You can come in,” she said, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door.

The latch clicked, the door creaked, Büber stepped in.

“I … hello. Is this a good time?”

“Peter. It’s always a good time.”

“I can come back later,” he said, halfway out of the doorway.

“Peter. Come in. Close the door.”

He did so, albeit reluctantly. He looked as if this room was the last place on earth he wanted to be, and she the last person he wanted to be with. She sympathised with that, and wondered if he knew just how much she shared those sentiments.

He’d scrubbed up. If it hadn’t been for the scars, the part-missing ear, the shaved head and the stubbled cheeks, he’d almost be handsome. Not that she cared any more, but she cared on his behalf, because he was always so painfully aware of how he looked. Of course, she had her own scar now, a reminder of a time that could have ended so very differently. His clothes were clean, if tired, and she wondered if he’d ever owned anything new.

“You look—”

“Like a pile of shit,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“I was going to say respectable. They – whoever they are – seem to believe I have to wear something suitable for the occasion. I should, perhaps, have let them fight to the death as to what suitable means.” She raised her arms to show that her sleeves were slashed to show the material underneath, and her intricately embroidered cuffs were shot with gold thread. “Black and yellow really isn’t my colour.”

She let her arms fall back, and he shuffled his feet. She seemed to blind him, and he looked away.

“I won’t be there when they, you know…”

“Make me provost?” She nodded, and almost choked on the dryness in her mouth. “I’d guessed you might not be. You can change your mind, whenever you want. Up to the moment they do it, of course. After that, it’s too late.”

“I …” he said, and he appeared to be having as much difficulty with his words as she was. “I’m not a ceremony sort of man.”

“Neither am I,” she said, and she managed to get a wry smile from him, even though he was staring at the toes of his worn boots. “But we do what we have to, Peter.”

“I wanted to wish you luck. Do you believe in luck?” He scratched the back of his down-turned head. “I don’t know.”

“We don’t. Not really. Mazel doesn’t mean …” She stopped, and walked across the room towards him. When she was close enough, she cupped his chin and got him to actually look at her. “You can wish me luck if you want. I won’t be offended.”

He stepped away from her, just out of reach. He put the back of his hand to his jaw as if she’d burnt him with her touch.

“Good luck, then. Not that you’ll need it.”

“HaShem orders everything except our choices,” she said. “Peter, what are you going to do?”

“I had thought about running away. When I took Felix’s message to Farduzes, I intended to keep going. Reach the ocean. I’ve never seen the sea before.” Büber took the opportunity to move further from her, towards the window where he’d be able to see the snow covering the mountains. “This is all I’ve ever known. I should really go and have a look for myself at what else is out there. Vulfar the Frank wants to try his latest river barge out before the rivers ice up. I might even get all the way down the Donau.”

“There’s a sea there,” said Sophia. “And another beyond it.”

“Then perhaps that’s what I’ll do. Go and explore for a while.”

“For a while? How long?”

Büber’s breath condensed white on the cold glass of the window. “I don’t know. How long were you thinking of being provost?”

“Five years? They should be bored with me by then.”

“Five years. It’s a long time to be away from home. Long enough to lay some ghosts to rest, for certain.”

“We both have things we need to forget. Things we need to be forgiven.” She hadn’t told him what she knew about Ullmann. She wasn’t going to, either: that was one of the choices she’d made. She didn’t need any other explanation than Ullmann’s cowardice on the battlefield for what she’d done, and, unsurprisingly, no one thought to dig any further. “Will you need anything? Money? Letters? Weapons?”

“I’ve got a good sword. And I want to see the world, not find new things to kill. I’ve got money.” He shrugged. He was now staring at the window, rather than through it. “Letters are a bit of a waste of time for me. I’ll manage without.”

“So there’s nothing I can give you?”

He was quiet for a while. She watched him reach his hand to his mouth and chew at one of his knuckles.

“Peter?”

“Will you …” he said, “…will you wait?”

“Yes,” she said.

He nodded, and left the room, leaving nothing but his breath on the window pane.

She shivered, even though the room was more than warm enough.

The door was still open, and a hand reached out to tap on it.

“My lady?”

She steeled herself. “Master Thaler.”

He stepped in uneasily, and she realised that she wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with her costume.

“Is that what they’re making you wear?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes it is. Apparently, it’s traditional for the master librarian to look like a pig trussed up for the Yule roast.”

“We should really find out who they are and banish them from the palatinate for crimes against comfort and utility.”

“I’d vote for that.” Thaler glanced behind him at the open door. “Was Peter all right? He seemed” – and he frowned – “almost happy.”

“I told him I wasn’t going to insist on him coming to the investiture.” She realised that she had that lost inflection to her voice. She glanced to the window, to the diamond-shaped pane that was now perfectly clear.

“Ah, that would do it.” Thaler seemed content with the explanation. “They were going to send someone to get you. I said I would come myself.”

“Is everything ready then?”

“People are making their way down to the field. By the time we get there, yes. If you’re still going to insist on walking, that is.”