Arcanum (44 page)

He turned away quickly and walked stiffly to the door. He held it open for Felix.

“My lord. Your final duty to your father is ahead of you. Have courage, and don’t be afraid.”

“Mr Trommler, are you …?” Felix didn’t have the words.

“I am your servant, my lord.” Trommler bowed. “We really must go.”

Felix left the solar and walked down the nearest set of stairs to the ground floor. He thought of his growing up as the only royal child in a castle. His half-brothers and sisters were significantly younger than him, and he hadn’t had much in common with them.

He would give them titles and see them make marriages – he knew that much was expected of him – and in return, they would owe him fealty. What did that even mean? They were just children, and so was he. But he had the Sword of Carinthia on his belt, carefully cleaned of the muck and gore it had collected in his father’s hand at Obernberg.

It was no longer a magical blade, one that would cut through wood, leather, chain and plate with little more effort than it would cleave flesh. It was, however, still potent. As long as he held it, he could claim the palatinate as his. There might be some point at which friend, or even foe, would pry it from his cold, dead hand. By then, he’d be past caring.

Unlike his father, though, he’d go to meet the gods in full knowledge that his mother had been left to die because of something that someone else had done when she was still a baby. Having ordered Allegretti to go and kill Eckhardt, he wished now that he’d gone to kill him himself.

The honour guard, sitting around the courtyard, were called to order by Reinhardt. Felix hadn’t thought he had that many soldiers left, and from the way that the captain growled and kicked at them as they formed up, he suspected that some of them weren’t part of the garrison at all, but were cooks and porters and stablehands pressed into ill-fitting armour and handed unfamiliar weapons.

They mostly looked the part, though, and it was dark. The first stars showed in the northern sky, and a crescent moon was low to the south-east. When the torches were lit, the effect would be complete, as long as no one dropped anything or tripped up over a spear-haft.

Trommler fussed about, making sure everything was ready as tradition demanded. Felix’s stepmother appeared from another part of the keep: her children huddled around her, their expressions ranging from pensive to uncomprehending. They had lost not only their father, but their home too. Perhaps, thought Felix, they blamed him for that. He hoped their mother would explain.

“My lord,” she said formally.

How was he to reply? Trommler leant in and whispered in his ear.

“My lady,” said Felix, adding, for want of anything better to say, “Are you well?”

“We’re going to Ischl in the morning. They’re expecting us there.” She wore a dress so dark in its redness it appeared almost black.

“Hello, Ulf,” he said to the boy by her side, almost lost in the folds of her skirt.

“Mother says I’m to call you my lord now,” he said.

Felix crouched down, sword scabbard scraping against the flagstones. “I don’t mind if you still call me Felix. Otherwise I’ll have to call you Earl von Ischl.”

“Are we going to say goodbye to father?”

“Yes. That’s what we’re going to do. Did Mr Trommler tell you what’s going to happen?”

Ulf nodded. “He said there would be a boat, and a big fire, and the boat would sail away with father and take him to Valhalla.”

“Then we come back here.” Felix felt the first pricking of tears. “Can I come and visit you in your new house? Not straight away, but soon?”

“Of course you can. We can go riding and hawking and fishing, though I don’t know the best places yet. There’s a big lake, and Mother says sometimes the spirits come up and talk to you.”

Not any more. “That would be lovely.” Felix patted the boy’s mop of golden hair and straightened up. “I think we’re ready, Mr Trommler.”

The chamberlain called for Gerhard’s body to be brought out of the Great Hall: the doors were flung open, and the bier was carried out by the few remaining earls. The black, red and gold cloth, covering both the shrouded body and the wooden frame, rippled with movement, but nothing came untucked. Trommler had seen to everything, even making sure that the colours of Carinthia had been tacked at the corners.

At his signal, the torches were lit, and fire bloomed from dozens of sources, the flame being passed from one to another until the courtyard was alive with leaping shadows and twisting flames.

He recalled watching as Obernberg burnt, flames consuming the whole town like a handful of dry twigs. He’d had the signore with him then to steady him, and the Italian’s absence gnawed at his guts. Where was the man? Why hadn’t he returned?

His ashen-faced stepmother stepped up beside him. It was a well-meant gesture, but he shook his head. “Stay with the children. I’ll walk with Mr Trommler.”

She nodded, patted him on his good shoulder, and shepherded the boys and girls together at a respectful distance. Trommler came and stood next to Felix, his hands clasped around a walking-stick.

“My lords,” he said, “if you please.”

It began. The earls carried Gerhard at shoulder height towards the Hel Gate, with everyone following according to their rank, and the soldiers taking up the rear. Servants carried the torches along beside the procession, the hiss and crackle of their tar-soaked wood just as loud as the murmuring of their feet.

At least they could still make the torches, thought Felix. We haven’t forgotten everything.

“Has there been anything from Mr Thaler?” he whispered to Trommler.

“No, my lord. Neither is now the time to worry about that.”

“Oh.”

They walked through the echoing gatehouse and down between the high crenellated walls, across the bridge and along the path to the Chastity Gate. The fortress was a huge presence above them, and there was still further to go – down to the outer wall and through the Wagon Gate.

Then into the maze of deserted alleys and houses, dark and silent except for them, their boots and their burning.

Felix had never heard the collective hush of thousands of people, just waiting. They were lined up on both sides of the river, downstream from the bridge, a black mass that strained and shifted like a living thing.

The prince hesitated, and Trommler’s hand came out to steady him.

“Remember who you are, my lord.”

I am twelve years old and an orphan. And the Prince of Carinthia. I faced down a charging Teuton horseman and killed him, even though he broke my shoulder. I killed another, even though my shoulder was already broken. The battle was won, in part, because of me.

He took a deep breath and carried on.

The bier was carried onto the bridge. He followed, and everyone followed him. A small barge, loaded with firewood, was anchored under the bridge between the piers. The ropes holding it in the midstream flow creaked with the effort.

Trommler halted the bier, and stevedores attached ropes to it as the sweating earls stood back. Then, slowly, carefully, Gerhard was lowered over the side. The bier swung, was steadied, and arrived on its final resting place with little more than a bob of the boat.

Felix looked around once more, to see if Allegretti would emerge from the crowd, or perhaps Thaler, or even, possibly, Sophia. All he got was the Gothi, in white and green, ceremonial hammer at his belt. The old man held up a ram’s horn, and gave it to the prince.

The mead was sticky, sweet and potent. Whether or not it had been diluted was of little matter: he would have had to drink it even if it had been liquefied goose fat.

The first few mouthfuls weren’t too bad. It was harder after that, but he forced himself to swallow all but the last few drops. Those he poured over the parapet, onto the banner and his father’s body.

A servant passed Trommler a torch, which was so heavy he struggled to hold it. Felix had to take it from him quickly. His head buzzed, and his own fingers felt fat and unresponsive.

This was it. He held the fire up, feeling its dirty heat on his hand and face. The river was ahead of him, Trommler behind. He reached out, and let the torch fall.

It burnt brightly as it fell, then almost disappeared as it dropped between the gaps of the stacked logs. A distant, obscured flicker shone through the pyre for a moment.

Then the fuel caught. Flames leapt out, and the flag glowed at its edges. Felix stepped back as the first sparks rose into the air. The ropes holding the barge were paid out, and it started to drift downstream. The earls took torches and hurled them towards the flames. His stepmother cast hers with a strong and practised right arm. After that, he lost sight of quite who did what: everything became a teary blur of flames and reflections.

But he could hear. The solemn stillness suddenly broke with an incoherent shout, and the murmur that ensued rose and rose until it became a howl. The people of Juvavum were mourning their lost prince, giving voice to their grief.

Trommler gripped his sleeve. “My lord, look.”

Felix wiped his eyes.

“Look,” urged Trommler. “The White Tower.”

A cold spark, blue-white and intense, was descending from the peak of the mountain. It was so bright that it shone through the trees and picked out the new green leaves, as if the moon itself had descended to Midgard and was coming to meet them.

He checked in the sky, an involuntary movement: the horns of the crescent moon were still wheeling towards the western horizon. He watched the light, neglecting to follow the course of his father’s pyre that was still aflame mid-river.

“Eckhardt,” he whispered; then, to Trommler: “What are we going to do?”

“It depends what he wants …” started the chamberlain, but Felix shook his head firmly.

“No. We know what he wants. He’s just fed up with waiting.” He found his hand dropping to his belt. “Wherever the signore is, we need to stop Eckhardt now.”

“You have to get to safety, my lord.” Trommler spread his arms wide and started to usher him back. “Guards! To arms!”

“Mr Trommler, I am the Prince of Carinthia. If I have to do this myself, alone, then that’s what I’ll do.” He hauled his sword out and held it aloft. “To me, Carinthians. To me!”

Trommler tried one last time. “My lord, now is not the time for bravery.”

Felix disagreed. “Now is always the time for bravery. Get my stepmother and her children back to the fortress. Go, Mr Trommler, go.”

The first by his side was Earl Hentschel. “A hexmaster?”

“The last,” said Felix.

“But I thought the magic had gone.”

“Almost gone.”

“Isn’t that wonderful news?”

“Wond …? No. You don’t understand. This isn’t good.”

“But the Order has always been for us, my lord.” Hentschel was jostled by one of the castle guard, whom he pushed roughly away. “Watch where you’re going, man.”

“My lord Hentschel, I’ve learnt today that the Order has always been for itself. As for Master Eckhardt, he’s become a necromancer. Do you know what that means?”

The funeral barge kept moving with the current: it was past the city wall, beyond the houses on the north bank. Its light was dwindling, the flames settling to a deep red glow, while the sharp, uncomfortable light coming from Eckhardt was growing.

People began to move.

The crowd on the quay on the far side started to thin as they chose to meet Eckhardt coming down. Those on the southern wharf had to cross the bridge to join them. They numbered thousands, and no militia would be likely to hold them back.

“We have to hurry,” said Felix. “We have to get to him first.”

The press of bodies was like a rising flood, slow, strong and irresistible. Those who’d formed the funeral procession were forced across the bridge, and those servants that Trommler had dressed up as guards didn’t know what to do.

Felix couldn’t control them. He’d lost contact with the earls, and Reinhardt was somewhere else, somewhere he couldn’t see. Some of the guards broke and ran. Others lowered their spear-points and tried to hold their ground.

A trained man would have known what was going to happen, but Felix only realised too late. The order to pull back died in his mouth, just as the first of the crowd, frantically trying to evade the lowered spears, was shoved forward.

They screamed, and the guard let go of the haft, scrambling backwards, but there wasn’t enough room for the impaled man to fall. The spear-haft waggled onwards.

In that moment, the guards became frantic, and the crowd became a mob.

Felix found his voice. “Off the bridge. Off the bridge.” He lifted his sword again, and led the running, stumbling retreat to the relative safety of the far quay. The fight midstream was over by the time he looked, and the people of Juvavum were pouring noisily over the stone bridge and up towards the blue star that appeared to have settled on the road to the novices’ house.

His father’s pyre was now invisible – either sent to the bottom of the river and extinguished or around the bend and out of sight. The only light was the cold glow created by Eckhardt, and Felix realised he simply couldn’t compete.

He could hear what they were saying. “He can bring the magic back.”

What was left of his retinue gathered around him, no more than a dozen men. He couldn’t tell in the dark who was there, and who had been swept away, or consumed by madness, or caught up in the mob. But despite them being mostly pot-carriers and door-openers, they closed around him and did their best to shelter him.

It had taken three days for his rule to be overthrown. Three days for rioters to chase him off the streets. Three days of dark nights, no water, no transport, no ploughs or mills or grindstones or lathes to turn calm, law-abiding Carinthians into a disorderly rabble who’d follow the merest hint of an enchantment. Even as his father’s body burnt, they’d lost their reason.

“My lord.” It was a familiar voice in his ear: Reinhardt. “We have to retreat to the fortress. We have to go now.”

The bridge was almost clear.

Felix pushed out between adult shoulders to see better. “Where’s my stepmother? Where’re the earls? Where’s Ulf?”