Arcanum (81 page)

“Yes,” she said, “if it’ll mean our sons and husbands come back safely.”

“Go on, then. We’ll meet down by the wharf within the hour. Quietly, mind. Fuchs’s men mustn’t know what’s going on until we’re ready.” Ullmann pushed himself back from the table and left her to get on with it. He found his way into the back room, and to the staircase.

“Gods, Max. You know how to take a risk, don’t you?” Horst still looked sceptical.

“Remember the stories, Horst, about when we fought the Romans to a standstill on the banks of the Rhein? About how the women used to line up with the men in the order of battle and fight shoulder to shoulder for their tribe and their land?” Ullmann gathered up the spears and passed half of them to Horst. They made ungainly bundles, but they only had to carry them down to the yard below which was filling with the soft murmur of whispering voices. “The Romans made us different. We crushed them in the end, broke their walls and burnt their temples, but we so envied their civilised ways, we ended up adopting their attitudes.”

“Not a bad thing, Max. We don’t sleep in thatched huts in among the animal shit any more, do we?” Horst looked down into the little dark yard, struggling to keep control of his armful. “Gods, have you seen how many there are?”

“That was a thousand years ago, and we didn’t need to take on Roman ways along with their stone buildings, did we? Sometimes I wonder who really won.” Ullmann joined Horst at the top of the stairs. “Good. Let’s get down there and start handing these out.”

There were plenty of willing hands to relieve them of their load, and there were still unarmed men left over. It would be enough, surely, to take and hold the wharf.

“Right: Horst, Mr Metz. Back to the barge, as quick as you can and guide it down here. Go. The rest of you, follow Mr Kehle down to the river.”

It was simple enough: the quayside was a series of wooden boardwalks and a couple of short jetties. A single large river barge was moored there, the whereabouts of its crew unknown: the half dozen smaller boats that should have had been tied up had, one by one, found their way to the Carinthian side until only a flat-bottomed skiff remained.

Fuchs had placed a guard on the boards to prevent its theft, or more likely, its use in transporting yet more people across the river in the dark. He was one man only, though, proving to Ullmann’s mind that Fuchs was an idiot.

“What do we do about him?” asked Kehle, ahead of a knot of fifty men hiding in a side street. “Do we rush him?”

“He’ll call out for certain if we do, Mr Kehle, and while I doubt any of his friends will hear him, I’m not going to say they won’t, either.” He lifted a few shillings from his purse and put them in his hand, also taking his dagger out of his belt and hiding it up his sleeve. “Let me do this.”

He walked out into the open, but it took a while for the guard to spot him: a man in dark clothing, in the shadows, on a dark night.

“Hey there. Who’s that?”

Ullmann affected a gruff voice to cover his own alpine-valley accent. “Don’t let the others know. I’ve got coins, just for you.” He rattled them together in his closed fist.

“You’ll be after the boat then, eh?” The guard rested his spear point-down on the wooden quay. “The price has gone up since yesterday, mind. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ullmann drew closer, remembering to hesitate, to look over his shoulder. When he was within arm’s length, he dropped the money into the proffered hand. The guard looked down to count the silver shillings, and all Ullmann had to do was take another step and drive his blade into the man’s guts, in and up.

Air rushed from the guard’s mouth as if he’d been punched, and Ullmann shoved him backwards over the edge of the boardwalk and into the river. Coins tinkled and bounced, and the body splashed into the water. The spear fell to the quay.

It felt a lot cleaner than when he’d stabbed Nikoleta. Easier, too. Where would they be now if he hadn’t done that?

A black wet shape surfaced downstream, breaking the moonlit ripples, and floated slowly away. It was done. He turned and beckoned the Bavarians to join him.

“We wait for the barge now, so we need to put our own guard in place.”

Kehle was the first to speak. He sounded incredulous, and not a little lost. “You killed him.”

“This is not a game, Mr Kehle.” Ullmann fetched out the piece of white cloth still tucked in his belt and wiped the dagger. “You’re in the grip of a tyrant, all of you. Did you think you’d be free of him by asking nicely?”

“But you didn’t even give him a chance.”

“A chance to call all his friends from the beer cellar? No, because I don’t want to have them descend on us mob-handed before everything’s in place. Mr Kehle, that man, that neighbour of yours, made his choice: he chose Fuchs. He’s seen Fuchs take hostages, take your property, take your money, take your livelihoods and your dignity, and he didn’t just go along with it, he wanted it to happen. And he was still here, doing what Fuchs wanted, even when all his mates are somewhere else getting pissed.” He bent down and scooped up the fallen spear, thrusting it butt-first at an unarmed man. “This is yours.”

Kehle leant in with another objection, before realising it was futile. Their path was set and he was one of the reluctant revolutionaries. He turned to face his neighbours, and started to organise them into groups.

Ullmann looked over the wrecked beer cellar, the broken furniture, the sharp shards of pottery and crystals of glass. The odour was of blood and beer, and both had soaked into the wooden boards.

They hadn’t surrendered. Quite the opposite: they’d come out fighting drunk and, being more used to casual violence than the spear-holders, had caused a number of casualties. Only weight of numbers and rising anger had driven them back inside, and then, of course, they’d had to go in and get them.

It had been disconcertingly messy, a brawl in a bar with lethal consequences. It turned out that Vulfar’s bargees were actually very good at that sort of combat, where a spear had limited use, but a cosh, a cudgel or a fist came into its own.

Gods knew what the survivors from Fuchs’s over-merry band would be like when they sobered up. All Ullmann knew was that they weren’t going to be his problem. When they’d finally been subdued, they’d been trussed up like boars, knots tight and straining tighter.

He kicked half a stoneware mug aside and watched it spin into an overturned table, as Horst clumped down the stairs from the street.

“That’s the last of them. They’re in the barge, with Vulfar’s lot staring down at them.” He pursed his mouth and looked around him. “Bastards put up a struggle, didn’t they?”

“It’s difficult to say how much of their courage was found in the bottom of a bottle,” said Ullmann, “and how much will remain in the morning. The Bavarians are blooded now, though. They know they can win against Fuchs.”

“
You
might be confident, Max, but they’re a bit flaky for my liking.” Horst glanced back up the steps. “Speaking of morning, the sky’s lightening. Won’t be long now.”

“Then we need to get ready.” Ullmann turned his back on the cellar and climbed back to street level. The townsfolk were milling about, talking to each other in hushed voices about what they’d done, what they’d seen, and what would happen next. There was very little preparation for that and even less organisation: the one thing they couldn’t afford to do was let Fuchs know of the uprising before they’d trapped him; nor could they let him escape once they had.

Ullmann could see that clearly. Why couldn’t they?

“Horst? Get Manfred and go to the edge of town on the north road. If you see horsemen in the distance, one of you run to the town square and tell me. The other has to keep an eye on Fuchs. And don’t be seen.” Ullmann scanned the crowds. “Mr Kehle? Mrs Kehle?”

It took a little while, and he had to resort to pushing his way through the forest of spears in order to find them. Juli Kehle’s weapon was dark and stained.

“It’s time you went to get your husband and the other hostages. Take fifty people, go the long way around. If you can find someone who knows the inside of the manor house, then all the better.” He wagged his finger. “Do not attack as soon as Fuchs leaves. Give him enough time to get to town, otherwise he might ride back and you’ll be on your own.”

Ullmann appointed marshals more or less at random, and got them to herd the townsfolk into the market square, opposite the Town Hall that Fuchs had co-opted as his headquarters.

There was a cart – a magic-powered one that had been abandoned against a wall and forgotten since. He climbed up on it and stared down. They were a mob, nothing more: the scene could have come from a hundred different stories where villagers gathered in a muddy main street with pitchforks and torches. Could Carinthia do any better at the moment? Perhaps not, and maybe he should lower his expectations. Then again, the stories always had the brave, good-hearted hero lead his kith and kin to victory over the lurking horror that terrorised them.

“People of Simbach,” he started, “friends. A good night’s work so far, but you’re not done yet. There’s Fuchs to bring down, ending his perverse rule over you. If you worked his land today, you’ll work your own land tomorrow. If you paid taxes to him today, your purse will be heavier by morning. All it needs is for you to keep your heads and remember that you’re stronger together than you are apart: that’s what’s brought you to this point. A single spear needs both luck and skill, but a forest of spears needs neither. By relying on your neighbour for your protection, just as they rely on you for theirs, you only have to stand your ground. We’ll entice Fuchs into town, block his retreat and trap him right here. And this is where he’ll answer for his thieving and plundering and kidnapping. He’ll answer to you, and to no one else.”

Gods, he was enjoying this. He’d always had a head full of tales, and now he was in one. His voice, despite its country-bumpkin burr, carried clear and far across the square, and they were listening to him.

“Each of you play your part, and you’ll be free, just as the hostages Fuchs has taken will be. Three groups to guard the north, east and west of the town. When Fuchs goes past you, close in behind him, drive him on, and he’ll meet another group coming the other way. There’ll be no escape, though he’ll try. You’ve already shown yourself equal to the fight. Down with Fuchs, up with Simbach.”

It gained him a ragged cheer, and it was enough for now. Ullmann jumped down off the cart and started to divide the hundred and fifty or so people with spears into three half-centuries – he was tempted to send the unarmed people home, but they had as much right as anyone to be there.

Just as long as they didn’t get in the way of the front ranks. He thought of a way to keep them out of trouble, and told them to find stones – tear up the cobbles on the streets if they had to – and use them as missiles over the heads of the spears.

Were they ready now? The sky was a dirty grey, and there’d be no sun to seal their triumph, just a cold east wind and the threat of rain. The last of the Bavarians trailed from the square, and he was alone.

There was nothing more he could do. Either the townspeople could manage not to trip over their weapons or each other, or they’d rout at the first sign of trouble and he, Horst and Manfred would have to swim the river to Carinthia.

Perhaps there was one thing he could do. He drew his sword and followed the north road. There he found his countrymen, and Mr Metz, trying to hide fifty Bavarians up the side streets leading directly off the main road.

Horst shrugged at the futility of their efforts, and Manfred laughed nervously.

“Mr Metz, we have to do better than this. Whose houses are these?” Ullmann pointed to the four buildings on the corner of the junction.

“I … I don’t know,” stammered Metz.

“They’re your houses, Mr Metz,” said Ullmann, exasperated. “Open the doors, get a decade of men in each of them, and the rest of us will hide in that smithy there. There are windows through which you’ll be able to see Fuchs pass by. When he does, form up here.”

The sky was light. It was almost time.

Metz split his troops, as Ullmann had instructed, and hammered on the doors of the four houses until they were admitted. Those who were left, Ullmann led into the forge.

It was warm and dark inside, with the shuttered windows closed and only slits between the ill-fitting panels for illumination. The coals in the fire glowed a deep, charnel red that hurt the eyes. There were plenty of hidden obstacles to fall over, too.

“Just sit down where you can. Horst, can you see the road, or do we need to open one of the shutters?”

Horst worked his way over to the window, stubbing his toe on something that clanged. “Fuck. Piss. Shit. That hurts.” He finally pressed himself against the crack of light and rested his hands on the frame.

“Well.”

“My fucking foot. Yes, I can see, but we won’t exactly be able to turn out quickly if we’re half killed by the crap that’s lying on the floor.”

“It’s not crap. It’s work.”

The voice was low and rough, and gave Ullmann some idea of the size of the man who owned it, which was confirmed a moment later when Horst unlatched the shutters and nudged one open.

Smiths tended to come in two sizes: short and barrel-like, and tall and barrel-like. This one, Ullmann reckoned, was half as tall again as anyone else in the room.

One of the Bavarians called him Bastian, though the way he said it, it may as well have been “bastard”. He loomed into the half-light, moving his head from side to side to stop it knocking against the objects hung from the rafters.

“Who are you, and why are you here?”

It wasn’t as if they’d been particularly quiet. They’d already had a pitched battle that night only two streets away. But smiths tended to be a little on the deaf side.

“We’re getting rid of Fuchs,” said Ullmann, and the smith slowly turned towards him.

“You’re not from around here.”

“No.” Ullmann had his sword in his hand, but he needed more than a couple of lessons on defensive parries for it to be anything but an actor’s prop. “We brought spears from Juvavum’s armoury as a gift to the people of Simbach.”