Arcanum (41 page)

“As soon as you’re outside, down to the quay and across the bridge: take the road to Wolfgangsee, past Ischl.”

“I know the way, and I can always ask if I’m not sure.” She gave him the rock, and picked up the blanket by the straps. “I don’t want to run away. I want to stay and explain what’s going on. I haven’t even told you everything yet, and you need to know.”

“There’s no time, Sophia.” Morgenstern lifted the latch with difficulty and pulled hard. The door opened a crack and caught jarringly on the step. He went to push his fingers into the opening, but she put her hand against the door.

“No. You have to hear this. You have to tell the Beth Din, because I know them: they won’t listen to me. We met a hexmaster,” she said, “probably the last hexmaster because he seems to have killed all the others. He offered the mayor and Mr Thaler the chance to bring the magic back.”

Her father eyed her cautiously. “Go on.”

“Necromancy. Human sacrifice. And when he said it, he looked straight at me.” She pulled the door open herself, and dim light from the narrow alley filtered in. “If the Germans want their magic badly enough, then that’s what’s going to happen.”

“What did Messinger say?”

“He didn’t say anything to the master then. But we all went together to tell the prince what the offer was, and since the prince has given permission to Mr Thaler to try and get the water flowing again, then I imagine they don’t want to accept. But,” she continued, as she bent down to take hold of the blanket, “that doesn’t mean they won’t. And it won’t be Germans they’re sending up to the White Tower.”

“No,” said her father sourly, “I don’t suppose it will.”

“Get rid of those books. Especially if they’re from the library. Give them back to Mr Thaler, or just throw them in the river.”

“Sophia!” He clutched at his chest as if he’d been run through the heart.

“I don’t care. Just do it. I’ll send word when I’m safe. Now get this door shut.” She leant forward and kissed her father on the top of his head, then stepped out into the alley. There was no one around, and she spun away, hefting her bundle on her back. The door slammed shut behind her, and the bolts began to grind into position. She walked to the end of the alleyway, where it faced out onto the river, and looked for a moment at all the tied-up barges, their crews idling away their time on deck.

They were staying, she was running away. She couldn’t remain in Juvavum: certainly not in her house, that much was obvious, and no one else would take her in. Going to some distant relative’s house deep in an alpine valley where no one would hear of her transgressions was – for a time – a good solution.

Yet it still felt wrong. Yes, she’d followed Thaler up Goat Mountain, but good had come of that. Yes, she’d gone to the fortress and ended up with a dagger at her throat, but she’d talked to the prince, and more. Yes, she’d taken Thaler to the mikveh, but she hadn’t known what they were going to do.

What, exactly, was she running from?

Other people. Other people who didn’t respect her or think her worthwhile anyway, something they made abundantly clear every time they addressed her.

Where was she running to?

A community that was even more conservative than the one she was leaving, and that would look on her educated, book-reading ways and unmarried status even more severely than her neighbours already did: they were a whole new group of people she’d inevitably disappoint.

As choices went, neither was particularly palatable.

Then, as she stared into the distance at blue-white mountains, she heard a shout which was unremarkable on a busy quayside, except that it contained her name.

She looked around so fast, her neck clicked.

Coming down the quayside from the direction of the Witches’ Bridge, was the rabbi and the rest of the Beth Din, their black hats and coats instantly recognisable. They weren’t outside her house any more: they were here.

She started walking away from them, and the four men quickened their pace. After a few steps, she started to run, and after a moment’s hesitation, so did they.

None of them were dressed for a prolonged chase. She was carrying a heavy, lopsided bundle that banged against her legs; they were hampered by their long coat-tails and the broad-brimmed hats they had to hold in place.

If she dropped her load, she’d get so far ahead of them they’d give up. But then what? She’d have nothing save what she stood in.

It was inevitable that the only movement amid the enforced stillness of the quayside would attract attention. A bargee called after her, and another from a different boat took up the cry. In a sudden eruption of noise, the whole river bank was alive with jeers and hoots.

Then there was the militia, who were at first amused by the spectacle, but grew concerned at the same rate as the bored bargees grew raucous. She passed them, standing in pairs, curious, half-smiling, uncertain. The first bottle from a barge arced through the air, thrown from in front of her, aimed at those behind her.

It shattered on the stone pavement, sending shards spinning and spiralling across the quay. Sophia realised that the bargees had found a new sport and, in the time it took them to arm themselves, the sky was thick with missiles. She ran with her head on backwards, dreading to think what would happen if Cohen or one of the others was hit.

Her escape came to an abrupt halt against the mail-shirted chest of a militiaman. She struck him full on, and fell back on her bottom before she realised what had happened.

He looked down at her, and she up at him.

“Miss Morgenstern?”

It was one of the guards that the mayor had taken up the mountain yesterday. She raised her arm, and he helped her up.

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologised, and batted at his armour as if she’d damaged it with her face.

“Never mind that. Better get you inside while we sort this out.”

She was outside the Town Hall, and Messinger was staring out of the wide upstairs windows. He frowned at her, shook his head and disappeared back inside. The guard ushered her through the line of soldiers that was forming up, and closed ranks with his fellows.

There was nothing for it but to retreat up the steps and into the wood-panelled calm of the foyer, pulling her bundle after her. But if she thought that shelter would be momentary, and that she could continue her journey after order had been restored, she was wrong.

“Sophia Morgenstern.” It was the mayor, leaning over the gallery balustrade, and she climbed the first few stairs to see him better.

“Master Messinger.” It lacked something as a greeting, so she added. “Good morning.”

“Are you responsible for the riot outside?” He wasn’t smiling.

“Responsible? No.” Which also lacked something, namely the truth. “I am the cause of it, however.”

“Gods, woman. It’s not like I haven’t got enough to do.” Messinger rolled his eyes towards the painted ceiling bosses. “Come up. Leave your washing downstairs; I doubt anyone will steal it.”

“My … oh.” She supposed it did look like washing. She put it the other side of the banister and, to the distant accompaniment of cracking bottles and cracking heads, she slowly walked up the stairs.

“We need more castle guards, my lord.” Trommler looked in his book and frowned at the numbers. “I’ve instructed Captain Reinhardt to go and recruit an initial century of men, with another to be gathered in a month’s time.”

“Do I have to do anything about that?” asked Felix. He rested his head on his good arm as he slumped onto the solar’s long table.

“Only pay for them, my lord, something which we can currently manage quite comfortably. Our treasury is large, and the strongrooms are well stacked with coin.”

“I can feel a but, Mr Trommler.” He turned his head so as to speak directly into the table.

“Carinthia has never needed a standing army. The princes of this land could always rely on the earls to supply sufficient spear-carriers, and the real fighting was done by the Order.” Trommler ran his finger down a list of names. “We have lost a great many of our earls, and all but one of the Order.”

“Two,” said Felix. He told Trommler about Nikoleta Agana, and the chamberlain received the news with one eyebrow raised.

“And she left with the huntmaster?”

“Well, sort of. More dragged away by the huntmaster.” Felix raised his head briefly. “Have I done another bad thing?”

Trommler stroked his hooked nose. “Not one that cannot be redeemed, my lord. I’ve prepared a proclamation declaring a pardon for Master Büber; it will be a small matter to append the name of Mistress Agana. I’ll take care not to identify her as a hexmaster, however.”

“She said she was loyal to me, and then … I don’t know what happened. After I read the librarian’s letter, something went wrong.” The prince put his head back on the table. “I can’t remember.”

“I’ll see they come back, my lord. Now, our army.”

“Do we have to do this now, Mr Trommler?”

“Yes, my lord. We do. A palatinate that cannot defend itself is not a palatinate at all. There will be …” and Trommler dried up for a moment.

“What is it?” asked Felix.

“Can I be blunt, my lord?” Trommler looked at his figures, sighed, and closed his book with a thump.

Felix groaned. “If you have to.”

“My lord’s full attention would be appreciated. What I must tell you is of the utmost importance.” Trommler licked his thin lips.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the signore to return from … from wherever he’s gone?” Felix glanced around at the closed door, the empty chairs and the smouldering fire.

“The utmost importance,” repeated Trommler, and without pause he delved inside the folds of his gown to retrieve a surprisingly large scroll of paper. He dropped it on the table; it bounced and stayed closed.

Intrigued, Felix parted the curls with his thumbs and unrolled the sheet. Trommler placed a heavy object – his book, a jug, a small box, a plate – on each corner.

It was a map, not just of Carinthia, but of the surrounding countries. There was the top of the Adriatic, and at the other end of the page, part of the Baltic coast.

“We are here.” Trommler pointed with a faintly trembling finger at the little castle that marked Juvavum, at the very centre of the map. “We control the lands to the north as far as the Enn, east almost up to the gates of Wien, south to Over-Carinthia and the mountain passes, and west where we butt against the dwarven kingdom of the Schwyz.”

“It’s not that much land,” said Felix. Even though he’d seen maps of the region before, this was the first time he’d looked at one in earnest while being responsible for the palatinate. Also, it was the first time he’d appreciated that being at the centre of everything made the little bit he owned – highlighted with a faint yellow wash – look fragile.

“It might not be very big, but it’s strategically placed. The same rivers and roads we use to conduct our trade can transport invaders into the heart of Carinthia just as easily. I said I would be blunt, and so I will.” Trommler pointed to the north. “The Bavarians. They have no money, their mad king having frittered it away on ludicrous buildings of no purpose. They had their own inferior sorcerers, useful only for mass actions against other, less magically inclined lands – and for protecting the royal person. I cannot imagine that the Bavarian earls won’t rise up against Leopold, if they haven’t already done so.”

His finger moved east. “The Austrians. They can cut off our direct trade from much of the south; easier to move goods by boat than over the Alps, but what becomes of that route is anyone’s guess at the moment. The Protector of Wien is an ordinary, decent pagan who owes Carinthia a continuing debt for saving Europe from the Horde. But even then, I’d offer concessions before he forces them from you.”

Across the peaks of the mountains. “Oh, how the Italians love fighting! They squander their lives and their money in pursuit of the slightest advantage over their rivals. The Doge of Venezia and Duke of Milano have been locked in a duel to the death before the current incumbents were even born, but if they ever made peace, they’d march north and try to empty our coffers together.”

“What about the dwarves?” asked Felix. “What will the dwarves do?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I haven’t seen a dwarf for the better part of a decade. Perhaps they’ve gone the way of the unicorns. What I do know is that every treasure-seeker and brigand will be heading their way to find out. As for any aid we might have got from them? They might be asking
us
to help them.”

“And this is why we need an army?”

“Even if it is just the appearance of an army at the start, my lord. Look at where we are.” Trommler stabbed his finger down on the parchment. “We are at one of the world’s crossroads. Know this for certain: sooner or later, someone will come across the border in force. How we meet them is of the utmost importance: do we field a rabble, which is a sure sign to our enemies that we’re ripe for picking, or do we dispatch them with typical Carinthian efficiency?”

Felix frowned at the map as if it were alive with threats already. “But haven’t we just done that? Only just about won a battle where we should have blasted them off the …” and he looked down at the space where Obernberg would have been marked had it not been so insignificant, “off the map?”

“My lord sees the situation with wisdom beyond his age.” Trommler bowed.

“How long do we have?” Felix glanced out of the long line of windows. The white tops of the mountains peeked over the bailey walls.

“It’s spring. The short summer months will follow. If we can get through those, then winter will close down the passes again. All the countries surrounding us will have their own particular problems.” Trommler tapped his chin. “We can expect skirmishes along our borders – if we decide to protect them – from now on. A major attack? Not until next year. It takes time to organise a large army, especially if most of the troops are from the levy. The soil’s warming up: seeds need to be planted now if starvation is to be avoided later. Then there’s harvest time. There’s precious little space for a proper campaign. However, my lord should consider sending spies to the other lands, and an emissary to the dwarves to gauge their intentions both plain and covert.”