Arcanum (17 page)

He waited for the prince to finish his business with the woman, and come back into the line. Which he did, eventually.

Gerhard looked distracted and sombre. Framed by his helmet, his face looked curiously rigid, far from the roistering man who led his own wild hunts and never seemed afraid of anything.

“My lord,” said Büber quietly. He’d had little practice bowing in the saddle, but he made an attempt and didn’t fall off.

“What? Oh, it’s you. She” – and he flapped his hand in the direction of the only rider in white – “said you’d arrived.”

Büber kept his eyes down.

“Everything still standing when you left?”

He looked up again. “Yes, my lord.”

“At least something’s going right.” The prince grunted his annoyance. “Ride ahead. We’ll be at Simbach in the hour, and I need to know what they have there. The earl…”

“Fuchs, my lord.”

“Him. How many soldiers can he turn out, and will they stand against us? That sort of thing.”

“The toll collector was guarded by just three men, my lord. I think they’re as broke as I was told they were.”

“Good. But I still want you to go to Simbach and see if anything’s changed. Meet us on the Carinthian side.”

Büber bowed again. “My lord.” He encouraged his horse into a trot, and started to overtake the wagons. He looked in every one, but there were no more hexmasters.

So now he was a scout, a spy: weren’t the hexmasters supposed to use their crystal balls, or whatever, to view the enemies’ positions and report back? And since when had Bavaria been their enemy?

He rode on to the top of the next rise and looked ahead. The river curved around sharply, and the bridge was a black line across it. The town was hazy and brown beyond.

Then he looked behind, and saw things through Allegretti’s eyes. There was something clearly lacking. There weren’t enough troops to protect the wagons, let alone take the fight to the Teutons. Twenty horse against three hundred barbarian riders whose mothers were probably half-horse themselves. One hexmaster.

“Shit.”

He had a job to do, though. He was already known in Simbach, had identified himself as a prince’s man. There’d be no point in sneaking around, pretending. He wasn’t used to telling lies, either: trees couldn’t be fooled and the wild creatures he encountered appreciated only cunning and skill.

Büber passed through the farms on the Carinthian bank, and had got to the bridge when his horse refused.

There was nothing coming across the low arch at him, and nothing in the dark water beneath. Sometimes big birds circling overhead would spook a horse, but there were no shapes silhouetted against the low cloud.

He tried again, clicking his heels and making encouraging noises with his tongue, but the stupid animal wouldn’t take another step.

Yesterday, it had been him who was reluctant to cross. Today, it was his mount. He slipped his foot from the stirrup and slid down to the ground, groaning at the burning in his back. He stretched and grimaced, then took the reins and tugged.

No.

He tried again, but nothing would induce the horse off the road and onto the stone bridge. He didn’t hold with beating the thing, so he led it to the nearest house.

As he tied it to the fence that enclosed a well-tended garden, he was aware of being watched from the door. A child, blonde hair in coiled plaits, peeked through the gap at him.

“They won’t cross,” she called.

“Why not?”

“Don’t know.”

Büber tapped his purse, then opened it and pulled out a couple of copper pennies. “I need to go to Simbach all the same. Keep an eye on the nag for me?”

She nodded, opening the door a little wider, and he put the coins on the gate-post.

“Prince’s business, mind,” he said. “You’d better do a good job.”

“I always do a good job,” she objected.

“Then I’ll expect to find my horse when I get back.”

Büber took his sword from his saddlepack and strapped it on. He wondered about taking his crossbow, but that seemed unnecessarily provocative. He wasn’t hunting anything except information.

He started walking, and he found himself hesitating at the threshold of the bridge. It hadn’t changed. It was the same as it had been, as it had always been, since it was conjured out of thin air hundreds of years ago.

He consciously raised his right foot and pressed it against the black flagstone. Normal. Perfectly normal. He hurried across, slowing a little once he could see the far end of the bridge from the middle.

There were two horse-and-cart teams, driven by black-hatted Jews, and behind them, Bavarian carters with magical wagons. The Jews’ horses were, like his, refusing to cross the bridge, and the jam was raising both voices and tempers. The Jews couldn’t turn around with the Bavarians at their backs, and the Bavarians didn’t seem inclined to allow them space, preferring to hem them in and shout at them, shaking their steering poles threateningly.

There were soldiers, too, spears waving above the mass in a futile attempt to separate them all.

Büber stopped and stared.

So it wasn’t just
his
horse. It was every horse. Which meant there was a problem with this impossible, magical bridge that leapt across the river in a single span, against all common sense.

It was clear to him that the Carinthian forces wouldn’t be going this way unless that woman could fix whatever was the matter with it. He didn’t know how likely that was.

He hesitated there, on the highest point of the arch. Gerhard’s orders had been quite clear: go to Simbach, find out how many troops the earl could raise and what their disposition was. But shouldn’t he know about this first?

He turned and faced the other way. The prince would be along soon enough, coming down the same road he’d just used.

“Fuck,” he said, and walked down the northern side of the bridge, towards Simbach.

The noise of horses and men grew louder as he got closer.

Gerhard leant forward onto his saddle’s pommel, bringing his ear closer to Büber’s mouth.

“Explain to me again, huntmaster. And this time, make it clearer than the insane babbling nonsense you gave me before.”

Büber knew it sounded mad. But telling the truth was all that was left to him.

“My lord, animals won’t cross the bridge. Horses, dogs, cats. I’ve tried all three.” He had scratches on his face and a circular bruise on his leg where some mutt he’d borrowed had turned on him and bitten into his calf.

“That’s not an explanation, man.”

“I can’t explain it! Something’s wrong with the bridge and I don’t know what. My lord.” His cheeks stung with parallel cuts that beaded bright blood every time he changed expression. “I’m not a … I’m not like her.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots.” Gerhard straightened up. This expedition wasn’t going the way he wanted. “Get back on your horse, huntmaster, and try and stay out of my sight for the rest of the day.”

Büber slunk off to where his mount was being held by a tiny blonde girl, and the prince looked around for the next person to shout at. His gaze alighted on Allegretti, and his mouth tightened into a humourless smile.

“Allegretti. Ride to the middle of the bridge and then stop.”

“My lord? Signore Büber says that it is impossible.” The Italian made no sign that he would comply with the order. Instead, he lifted down his hat and inspected it for debris, brushing at the felt with his long fingers.

“Büber is an old woman.”

“That is entirely possible, my lord, but he may also be correct regarding the bridge. I would advise we pay attention to his hard-won knowledge.” He picked off some imagined speck of dirt and replaced the hat on his head. “The man who ignores it risks being made to look the fool.”

“Which is why you’re going to ride across the bridge. You, not me.”

“As you wish, my lord, although trying every horse we have seems both imprudent and unnecessary. Either we all cross, or none of us cross, unless you wish to dilute your forces further.”

“Signore Allegretti,” started Gerhard, but to forestall any further conversation, Allegretti spurred his horse’s flanks and set off at a canter. By the time he reached the bridge, he was at a gallop.

It was almost as if he’d ridden into a wall, the horse stopped that suddenly. Digging all four feet into the dirt, it slid to a halt, while Allegretti did not. He flew, having slipped his feet from the stirrups moments before. He almost had time to wave at Felix, before curling into a ball and bouncing on his shoulder and back.

He rolled to a stop. His horse backed away from the bridge, then turned and headed down the line of wagons, ears back and tail up.

Gerhard watched the Italian lie still on the ground for an exaggerated length of time, then finally unfold himself and bat the dust from his clothes. He retrieved his hat and started to walk back.

“Anything else, my lord?”

He ought to try for himself, but he wasn’t going to. Allegretti’s demonstration was proof enough. The damn fop could have killed himself, or his horse.

“Get me the, the … hexmaster.” From what she’d told him, she knew nothing about stone forming. And that was how the bridge had been made, extruded from molten rock and shaped into a usable form, five hundred years earlier. Perhaps a proper hexmaster would know what was wrong, but this adept, this woman?

She was all he had, so he had to ask her.

“Tell me why, and whether, you can do something about this, this mummers’ farce,” he said.

She looked at him, her face neutral. “My lord.”

At least she had the wit to dismount first, and hand her reins to one of the knights, before she approached the bridge.

She looked carefully at the runes on the bridge’s parapet, walked cautiously up the first part of the rise, and even managed a little series of jumps, her feet stamping down as she landed. She walked back and stood in front of the prince’s horse.

“I know what the problem is,” she said.

“And?” sighed Gerhard. The Teutons were getting further away every moment they stood there, on the wrong side of the river. He needed to strike back at them, hard and fast, so that he could return to Juvavum and have a long, not entirely cordial chat with the Master of the White Order.

“The bridge has vanished. It’s no longer there.”

He looked at the bridge, at its black solidity, then at her. “Are you, are you all, out of your minds?”

“The bridge exists as an act of faith only. Animals do not have that capacity, so they think they are being led across a river on nothing but a ribbon of air. So, naturally, they refuse.” She rested her hands on her hips and looked across to Simbach.

Gerhard dismounted and went to stand next to her. The bridge, the stone, the arch. It looked solid enough.

“It’s like what you said last night, isn’t it?”

“The magic that keeps it there is an echo. We remember what it was, so it still appears to us. When our faith in it to carry us across fails, so will the bridge. Poof. Gone.”

“That’s…”

“The way it works, I’m afraid. We never really understood where magic came from, only that it was there and we could manipulate the world using it.”

“But you still can.”

“Perhaps I just believe in magic more than everyone else.” She stooped down and picked up a pebble, which she threw underarm high into the air. “The stone has no memory, no experience, no expectations.”

They watched as the dirty yellow pebble fell onto the bridge and vanished. A moment later, a ring of ripples formed beneath the arch.

“It doesn’t know that the bridge should be there. We give the lie meaning because of our belief.” She dusted her hands clean.

Gerhard shook his head. “This … this whole thing. It’s mad.”

The adept twisted a strand of her hair between her fingertips. “I take it there are other ways across the river.”

“Not here. Downstream. There’s both a ford, and a bridge – a real bridge – at Obernberg. About fifteen miles away.” Gerhard started to rub his face, and again encountered the cold chain-mail that protected his palm. “Farm tracks. It’ll take the rest of the day to get there.”

“The farmers use them. Why should it slow us down?”

“The last thing I expected of the Order: a practical sorcerer.” He half drew his sword to see whether it still had the dark shine about the blade. “Is this it then? Is this how it begins?”

“So it appears, my lord.”

Gerhard slammed his sword back and looked around pensively. “It’s a strange sort of Ragnarok. I expected more, well, giant wolves and fire.”

She was startled. “Why mention Ragnarok, my lord?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps if the gods bring magic, their passing takes it away. Do you believe in the gods, Adept? We celebrate the festivals and offer the required sacrifices, because we’re good Germans, but how many of us see Ostara as just an excuse for a massive piss-up and a chance to slip one to the neighbour’s wife?”

He wondered what the Order’s attitude to the gods was. Did they encourage worship, tolerate it, or try and beat it out of the novices? It wasn’t anything that he’d ever been in a position to ask before.

“I have no opinion to offer,” she said. “If there are gods, then I’ve never met one. I would suggest that we turn back, though. That’s as much advice as I feel qualified to give.”

“We’re not running away.” He wheeled his horse around, and caused her to skip back. “Carinthia does not run away.”

“No one is suggesting that we run, my lord. But if this is happening here, what’s happening back in Juvavum?”

He stared down at her, and growled. “I can only deal with one fucking thing at a time, Adept. Go and ride with Büber. Women together.” Then he raised his voice: “East. We go east.”

He kicked down hard with his spurs and his horse clattered its hooves on the stone via, before finding enough grip to head in the new direction. His earls followed, and then the infantry. The wagons were laboriously turned and set on their trundling, one-speed way.

Gerhard glanced behind him once to check that all was in order, and didn’t look back after that.

He had the river to his left, and it ran more or less directly east. The road was what he expected: beaten soil and stones. More than good enough for the wagons. He rode on in splendid isolation, and the column straggled out.