Arcanum (32 page)

It was a very good question, and despite having had hours to think of an answer, Thaler was momentarily wrong-footed. “I … that is we … have come from Juvavum to enquire on the status of, er.” He tried again. “Our magic has stopped working. What should we tell the prince?”

The hexmaster nodded very slowly, and planted his staff on the smooth rock in front of him. He closed both his hands over the grip and stared over the top at Thaler.

“Tell him … tell him the magic will flow again.”

The mayor seemed to be pleased with the response, but Thaler was wary.

“Master, forgive my impertinence, but you appear to have lost all your novices, and all your adepts. Are there other masters within to help?”

“Other masters?”

And at that moment, Thaler realised precisely where all the blood had come from. He decided to stick to the original question. “The prince will ask when the magic will flow again. What do we say to him?”

“Tonight. As soon as tonight.”

“That’s good,” croaked Messinger. He wanted to leave. In a hurry. “We won’t trouble you any further, Master.”

Thaler thought their departure just a little previous. He brushed away the mayor’s hand tugging at his robe. “If I may be so bold, Master Sorcerer, isn’t there something else you should be telling us to pass on to my lord prince? The magic will, as you say, flow, which is wonderful news, and perhaps that it might happen even tonight, which will certainly reassure the mind of the prince regarding the long relationship between the White Tower and the White Fortress.” He scratched at his chin, painfully aware of the forensic gaze of the hexmaster and the consternation of the mayor. “How, exactly, do you propose to accomplish this miracle?”

“There will be some …” The sorcerer hesitated, not because he was dissembling, but because he was trying to translate his thoughts from the divine to the mundane. “Cost. Yes, cost.”

“And good Master, if the prince enquires about this cost, shall we tell him to bring gold, or gems, or rare spices from the East, or else what?” Thaler feared that he already knew the answer, and his heart was beating hard in his chest as he waited for it to come.

The hexmaster had bloodshot eyes that made his blue irises all the more alarming.

“Is it children?” prompted Thaler. “Do you want more of our children?”

“It could be so,” said the master. “I believe it might not matter.”

Thaler reached out and slapped his fat hand over the mayor’s mouth before he could utter a word in response. “For sacrifice?”

One bloodied eye twitched back to look at Sophia. “For fuel.”

“My lord the prince will hear of your words, mighty Master. He might ask what the economy of this transaction is, though: before we leave, might he know how much fuel you require to restore the magic to a level of say, a week ago?”

Messinger had been rendered speechless, and Thaler let his hand drop.

“There will be a period of readjusting,” said the hexmaster. “Re-enchantment will be necessary. It is tiring. I cannot reanimate the common objects as one. Each must be ensorcelled, as it was before.”

“But the fuel, Master. How much should we send?”

“One. Two a day. Sometimes more. I will tell you as I need them.”

Thaler bowed. “Good day to you, Master. We shall leave you in peace and return only with the prince’s word.”

He started to retreat, and had to drag Messinger with him. He reversed into Sophia, who he shooed towards the path. She seemed almost drunk with horror, reeling, uncomprehending.

One last piece of information. The mayor may be neglecting his duty, but Thaler was damned if he would. He called out: “Who shall I say stands for Carinthia in its hour of need?”

“Eckhardt,” said the man. “Tell him Eckhardt waits for him.”

The bend in the road was familiar, and, slowly, the castle – his home, and now the seat of his throne – came into view. Yesterday’s rain had washed winter away, and the fortress walls were whiter than ever, set against the black of the rock escarpment on which it sat and the grey of the sky behind. The alpine mountains that framed Juvavum were purple and green, and the river that churned heavy with sediment ran almost blue.

“My lord,” said Allegretti. “Your kingdom.”

“I’m not a king, Master Allegretti. I’m a prince, like my father was.”

“And his father before him. But Alaric was king of the Goths. Perhaps it is something to be considered.” The Italian gave an off-hand gesture. “Not now, of course, but in the future.”

Felix wasn’t sure. Everything had changed, and nothing could be taken for granted any more. Last night, he had fallen asleep where he sat, in front of the farmhouse fire and, as he dozed, he had heard the earls talking quietly among themselves: snatches of conversation as he drifted in and out of consciousness, barely more than a few disjointed words at a time.

Schenk had said: “We’re lost. Carinthia with us.”

And von Traunstein: “Bavarians. Wiennese. If they unite…”

Ludl: “We can save something, surely?”

Felix couldn’t comprehend losing Juvavum. How did someone lose a town? How did they lose a palatinate? An invading army, yes, he knew that. He knew about siegecraft, and what that meant to a population trapped inside the city walls – but say the Bavarians turned up with five thousand soldiers, an unimaginable number not seen since the days of the Horde. There were three times that many people in the town, and what was the number of Carinthians within a day’s ride? An army like that would be surrounded and overwhelmed in days.

It was simply impossible to invade Carinthia. Many of his earls had been lost, it was true, but he still had some, and the land would provide more. He was now their lord, and they needed to serve him.

He had these moments of clarity, times when he could concentrate on what he should be doing, now that he was supposed to be in charge, rather than on the past, his father’s body, and the numbness that threatened to swallow him whole.

A boy ran out of a farmyard, still carrying a bucket. He stood at the wall, barely tall enough to see over it, gazing up at Felix. Perhaps he’d seen them ride past on the way north: the horses and the men and the wagons. What did he make of them now? So few, so bedraggled.

Felix tried to keep looking forward, ignoring the child, who had climbed up the wall and was now hanging over it, bucket and all, mouth open with incredulity. As he drew level, however, Felix couldn’t help but turn his head, and stare at the boy, who was maybe only a year or two his junior, even as the boy stared back.

Eventually, his horse took him away, and he was forced to break the contact. The bucket fell. Feed – light-yellow barley grains – spilt out. The boy showed his heels as he ran pell-mell towards the house, shouting for his father, his mother.

Something that he, Felix, could not do.

“My lord?”

“Please, signore. Not now.” He’d never wanted to become prince like this. Someone else should do it.

“You must think about your entry into Juvavum. We need to set the right tone. Seven days of mourning, and then the funeral.”

That wasn’t what he wanted either, but every time he tried to say so, the words caught in his throat. As far as he knew, the Carinthians didn’t mourn their dead: they built a massive bonfire, burnt the body, and drank themselves unconscious. Allegretti was suggesting his customs as the only way things would be done properly.

“In Roman times,” the Italian continued, “those of high rank would lie in state for a week, and the great would pay their respects. It will mean that your coronation will take place on the eighth day when all are assembled.”

He didn’t need some stupid ceremony. He was the Prince of Carinthia already. Everything that was his father’s was his. Of course they’d expect him to sit on a throne and then everyone would bow to him, but that wouldn’t make him anything that he wasn’t.

“I don’t care, signore. I really don’t care.” His shoulder hurt. His heart hurt. “Whatever you say.”

And with that, he climbed stiffly off his horse, giving a small cry of pain as he landed heavily on flat feet.

“My lord, what are you doing? A prince must not walk like a commoner. Mount up.” Allegretti started to dismount also, then checked himself. “We are expected to ride.”

Felix took the reins of his horse and patted the animal’s neck. The earls were behind him, and they stopped too, wondering what the matter was.

“Can we all just get off?”

“My lord,” said Schenk, and heaved himself from the saddle. “What is it you want?”

“I want my father honoured,” said Felix. He bit at his lip.

Schenk bent low, his moustache twitching. “And he will be, my lord. He will be.”

“Bring him here.”

The earl glanced up at his fellows. Von Traunstein shrugged and nodded. He too dismounted and went to the back of the column. In the distance, the farmer, his wife, their son, and another man stood at their gate, watching.

Ludl climbed off too, and soon all the horsemen but Allegretti were standing on the via.

Von Traunstein, head bowed and face set, led the horse bearing Gerhard’s body forward. Felix took the reins from him, and gave him his own horse to lead.

“Signore,” he said, “walk with us. We will walk, while my father rides. One last time.”

Allegretti was caught out, and he quickly swung down. “Of course, my lord. This is a noble and gracious gesture you accord to him. The people will love you.”

It wasn’t why Felix was doing it, though. He just wanted the townsfolk to be able to see their prince. He took a deep breath, and started off.

The noise behind him told him the others were following: he compared the sound with that they’d made as they’d rode out. A bright clattering of hooves, a solid beat of marching, a sustained creak of wheels.

They had won the battle, but if there’d been another half-dozen Teutons, they would have lost, witch or no. And hadn’t his huntmaster – his former huntmaster – killed that number when they’d fought over the barge? Felix wondered where Büber and the mistress were, and whether his own raw grief and obvious confusion had made something really very stupid happen without his intending it.

They were approaching the north quays, and there was already a line of people standing either side of the road. The houses that overlooked the river were slowly emptying: more came from the tied-up barges. Every word was whispered.

He led his father on, towards the bridge, which cleared ahead of him. He kept looking straight ahead, not seeing individual faces, just an unfocused blur. He reached the south side, and there were even more people, standing silently.

He continued along the whole length of the quay, the white walls of the castle growing closer and higher. Did his stepmother know? His half-brothers and sisters? It wasn’t for anyone else to tell them but him: your husband, our father, is dead. Or were they on the Bell Tower, watching the sorry procession?

As he pulled the horse’s head around to make the sharp turn up the road to the Wagon Gate, he happened to see what was going on behind him. There were his earls and the other horsemen, each walking their mounts. Following them, the surviving infantrymen, and then the camp followers: wagon drivers, cooks, armourers and squires.

And then a great mass of people, everyone he’d passed. They’d all fallen in step as the last man had passed, farmers and porters and tradesmen and bakers and makers, and not only that, women and children and old men and babies quietened at their mothers’ breast. A great, silent mass was caught up in his wake, flooding the quay with bodies, overflowing into the surrounding streets and alleys, ready to break against the fortress.

He stumbled, either catching his toe against a tipping flagstone or simply because his legs were failing him. A sound like a sigh – a collective intake of breath – reverberated between the eaves and the gables. Allegretti was the first to reach him and hold him up.

“Courage, my lord. See how they loved your father.” He pulled him to his feet again. “If you had ridden, you would not have fallen. No matter: what is done, is done.”

Allegretti stood beside him, and the moment of Felix’s weakness passed. He put one foot in front of the other, and the rest seem to follow naturally enough. The doors of the Wagon Gate creaked open to reveal the crow-black figure of Trommler. The chamberlain carried his silver-topped staff of office, rather than his appointments book.

The castle knew, then. There was no hiding place, no dark corner of the fortress in which Felix could pretend. Trommler came to meet him. At the sight of the body of the old prince he had served so faithfully, bound and wrapped in stained cloaks, his face trembled, and he looked all of his years, and then some more.

“My lord, Prince Felix of Carinthia.” Trommler bowed as low as his back could manage. “Take the throne prepared for you, as you have been destined to do since you were born.”

“Chamberlain. Mr Trommler. I … I’m sorry.” It wasn’t his fault, but he still felt the need to apologise. Perhaps he was apologising for coming back alive when so many had not. “There was nothing I could do.”

“I will make the arrangements, my lord. It will be my duty and my joy.”

Felix glanced nervously at Allegretti, who was watching the chamberlain with studied care. “Do you know how these things are done?”

“There is a book which details every funeral of every Prince of Carinthia since the time of Alaric. I have called for it from the library.” Trommler straightened up and, despite the heavy lines on his face, looked for the briefest of moments like he was smiling. “Valhalla will surely have opened its doors wide, my lord, and received your father to a high place at the table. What we do now is for our own comfort: right or wrong ceremony matters little when you are already feasting and drinking with the gods and your ancestors.”

He reached out and patted Felix on his good shoulder.

“Thank you, Mr Trommler.” The weight of expectation lifted ever so slightly from him. “I’m sure whatever is done, will be done well.”

“Your stepmother’s inside. She wants to see you.” Trommler raised his head to view the crowd that was now spreading out along the lower flanks of the spur of rock that held the fortress. His thin lips drew back into a grimace. “Are you aware of our changed circumstances? The magic?”