The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (38 page)

“But—” Martyn’s eyes shone.

“Sides,” Manfried called, sensing Rodrigo’s defeat and his brother’s imminent victory, “how else is a one-armed priest gonna
hang a heretic cept through the power a faith and the Will a Mary? Throttle, maybe, but really…” Manfried chuckled, impressed
by Martyn’s follow-through.

“From Judas onward,” Martyn shouted, springing to his feet, “let the betrayers of our Lord hang as did the first! To Roma,
Grossbarts, and then to Avignon!”

“Shut it,” Manfried sighed. “Hegel, cut down the dead one and take’em out to the stables. Cover’em in Martyn’s clothes, and
take his sorry ass too, but mind he keeps his head down lest spies spy our ruse.”

Hegel climbed a barrel and cut down Buñuel, spattering shit everywhere. “Why I gotta drag this meck about?”

“Cause I gotta bring wine to the captain and inform him a recent events,” an exasperated Manfried explained. “Now get to it
so’s we can reconvene with some wine a our own.”

To dry Hegel’s pissiness, Manfried helped haul the corpse to the kitchen and then intercepted Rodrigo coming up the stairs
from the basement. Leading the shaken man back down, he pulled a bottle from the rack and opened it. After a guzzle, he gave
it to Rodrigo and hoisted several fresh ones. Leaving the basement laden with booze and entering the empty foyer, Manfried
caught wind of the Arab hobbling along the second-story railing toward the captain’s chambers. “Get down here!” Manfried barked.

“Illustrious Master Manfried!” Al-Gassur turned, his unseen grimace of dismay instantly replaced with a winning smile. “Here
you are! I have scoured and scoured, only to see that we have exchanged placements, with I above and you below!”

“You dirty sneak.” Manfried waited at the foot of the stairs. “What’re you doin in the house?”

“Seeking you, of course! From my stable bed I witnessed this morning’s display, and when no word was sent I thought I might
advise you of the imminent peril.”

“What imminent peril?” said Manfried.

“Why, that facing us all, for with the doge so angered and his men imprisoned, I thought—”

“You thought that your lowly fuckin observations would be superior to mine?”

“No, certainly not, I only wished to—”

“Sneak in unobserved and pilfer what you could before desertin us?”

Al-Gassur faked a laugh rather convincingly, and pretended to slip in order to pat his vest and ensure the purloined silver
candelabra did not bulge too much.

“You’s underfoot from now til I say otherwise, understood?”

“Yes, Master Grossbart.”

“Good. Take this wine.” Manfried shoved the two bottles under Al-Gassur’s crutch arm and led him to the dining chamber.

Through the open door they saw Barousse and Sir Jean laughing as though they were lifelong friends. The French knight found
the captain to be the worst example of nouveau riche mercantilism tempered with deplorable manners and a liberal dose of insanity,
while Barousse judged the nephew of the Vicomte de Meaux to be a spoiled fop oblivious to his situation. This did not prevent
them from carrying an animated conversation about Sir Jean’s period of imprisonment in England after the Battle of Poitiers.
The mercenary guards nervously nodded at Manfried and the Arab.

“Manfried!” Barousse called, “you’ve brought more wine, excellent! Rodrigo seemed peaked so I sent him to have a rest.”

“Rigo tell you what’s happened?” asked Manfried, and when the captain shook his head Manfried snatched the bottles from Al-Gassur.
Setting one before the captain and opening the other himself, Manfried took a pull before saying, “Got new developments, could
set us back.”

“What sort?” Barousse’s voice hardened.

“Cardinal’s dead,” said Manfried.

“That’s too bad.” Barousse shrugged. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“I sent Hegel to put’em in the barn, and had Martyn follow wearin the cardinal’s robes, so’s the men at the gate’ll think
he’s still breathin.”

“Sound,” Barousse agreed, then suddenly stood. “I’ll attend to the remains better than they, serve a belated lunch to the
lady of the house, then fetch you and Hegel to assist me with finalizing certain matters. That is, if you would entertain
Sir Jean while I perform my errands?”

“Think I can manage,” Manfried sighed, sitting in Barousse’s chair. No sooner had the captain excused himself than Manfried
snatched the glass away from the petulant knight and handed it to his hovering servant.

“Care for some wine, Arab?” Manfried asked, eyes locked with Sir Jean.

Al-Gassur bowed and poured from Barousse’s bottle, sharp enough to see the game and stay respectfully silent. The Arab slurped
and smacked, Manfried’s lips curling up in direct proportion to Sir Jean’s frown.

“I’s seen your sort before,” Manfried said after swirling some wine in his puckered mouth. “Ridin about, puttin on airs. I
seen you.”

Sir Jean would not have learned German even if given the chance, believing the Holy Roman Empire and its guttural tongue to
be beyond contemptible. Instead he smiled slightly at this peasant’s coarseness, which earned him wine splashed in his face.
Sir Jean’s hand went to his empty scabbard and his cinder-hued cheeks turned ashen, his blue eyes bulging. He told Manfried
precisely what he thought of him, starting in French but shifting to Italian for the benefit of the watching guards and the
Arab.

Al-Gassur began translating, at which point Sir Jean went paler still and his diatribe dried up. Manfried nodded appreciatively
and stood. Sir Jean did not shrink away but leaned forward to accept the blow that never fell.

“Tell’em to take off that armor,” Manfried ordered Al-Gassur, who went to task.

“Tell him I will do nothing he commands, but will wait for the captain to return,” Sir Jean interrupted.

“Begging your apologies, dear Frenchman,” Al-Gassur said, taking liberty with his duty, “but I believe Master Grossbart is
seeking a provocation to murder you. I would do what he says, unless you are ready to end as the cardinal did.”

“Cardinal Buñuel’s been killed?” Sir Jean swallowed. “Are they mad?”

“Quite. Now haste might be a better ally than even myself…”

Manfried checked his urge to strike the Arab,
Buñuel
being recognizable in the stream of nonsense. Sir Jean stood and reluctantly removed his armor, which took quite a while
without his squire. Manfried circled him, paying close attention to how the iron carapace fit together.

Hegel scowled at the sun, at the guards curiously watching them, at Buñuel’s twisted rictus, and at Martyn. Dropping the real
cardinal in the hay, Hegel seized the bottle the new cardinal had stowed in his armpit and set to prowling around the stable.
Martyn wiped his excrement-covered hands on the side of a horse, which Hegel glared at, daring the animal to make the first
move. It blinked and he resisted the impulse to slay it.

“What is that?” Martyn motioned out the door.

“Eh?” Hegel looked at the apparatus constructed in the back garden. The main supports rose nearly as high as the house, a
huge beam balanced between them with one end tethered to something behind the shrubbery. Utterly baffled as to the purpose
of such a device, he lied to Martyn.

“That’s the instrument a our victory,” said Hegel.

“You know of its purpose? Wonderful!” Barousse came from the house.

“Er.” Hegel scratched his beard.

“Grab hold of the body and bring it with us, and you shall help me ready our final blow.” Barousse veered off toward the contraption,
and with much cursing Hegel and Martyn followed, towing Buñuel’s corpse.

Closer inspection only perplexed the two more, but Barousse took hold of a wheel and with Hegel’s assistance winched down
one side of the teetering shaft. Attached to the end sat a spacious wooden basket, which they unceremoniously dumped Buñuel’s
corpse into. Several guards watched from the terrace, in theory minding the rear wall lest the doge’s men storm it.

“I told the builders it was to be filled with an anchor’s weight worth of flowers to honor Strafalaria,” Barousse grunted,
leading Martyn and Hegel onto the terrace and through the back door, “so it should be calibrated proper. I’ve got an actual
anchor to drag out, lest a boulder undo the counterweight and foil the accuracy. That, along with the cardinal and a few hundred
ducats ought to ensure the streets are thronged and our flight unnoticed.”

“A sound scheme,” Hegel acknowledged, possessing all the mechanical intuition of a mule.

“What is its purpose?” Martyn asked, earning him Hegel’s silent thanks.

“You’ll learn soon enough.” Barousse rubbed his palms together. Entering the rear door behind the central staircase, he motioned
toward the dining room. “See that your brother hasn’t murdered our other hostage, and make sure the twit doesn’t learn of
our scheme. I’ll be back as soon as I attend to my business.”

Barousse’s face darkened as he hurried toward the kitchen, while Hegel and Martyn went to see what Manfried was about. Retrieving
the bucket of live sardines from beside the kitchen table, Barousse saw Rodrigo coming up from another wine-run to the cellar.
Sloshing back across the kitchen, Barousse turned to the flushed young man.

“I know I’ve been difficult, at times. Hell, most of the time.” Barousse stared into the bucket. “I’d have lost myself years
ago without you and Ennio, and I’m sorry about how it’s all played out up until here. I’m sorry about your brother, son. And
your father.”

“I, uh, thank you, thank you so very—” Rodrigo did not know quite how to respond to the words he had always longed to hear.

“Now get on with it, and focus sharp or I’ll put you off the boat.” Barousse winked, momentarily forgetting his purpose. A
fish splashed his boots, and the calm passed. “Don’t stand there gawking, leave the blasted bottles! Get to the Grossbarts
and send them to me. Kill the snob if he gets crafty.”

Barousse ran back to the foyer and up the stairs, unsure why his vision had gone misty in the kitchen. Unable to dispel his
grin, Rodrigo raced across the house, seeing the captain disappear on the second story. The guards almost shot Rodrigo when
he burst into the room, and all his pent-up happiness burst forth in hysterical laughter at what he saw.

Sir Jean sat stripped of all but a loincloth and the Grossbarts stood on either side of him, Manfried wearing the upper half
of the knight’s plate armor and Hegel awkwardly attaching the greaves to his own knobby legs. The inebriated Al-Gassur wore
the helm and sat in the captain’s chair, clumsily fitting the neck of a bottle under the jutting visor. Martyn sprawled in
another chair, his ripe Cardinal’s robes hanging off his spindly arms like blood-trimmed bat wings. Fixing the codpiece into
place, Hegel rapped it with his knuckle and smiled knowingly at the stewing chevalier.

“The captain requests you in his quarters.” Rodrigo giggled. “I’m to watch the Frenchman.”

“Watch his mouth most close a all his bits,” Manfried advised.

“He don’t seem to say much without his iron, though,” noted Hegel, and the two departed.

They clanked up the stairs, each thinking his brother had received the better half of the unwieldy armor that barely stayed
on their bodies in its fractured state. The captain admitted them, taking notice of the Arab for the first time. Ushering
them in but leaving both door and cage ajar, he motioned to several open chests. These were full of coins, with many more
scattered all over the rug. The Grossbarts hid their greed and amazement far better than Al-Gassur, who licked his lips and
positioned his crutch so it might catch on the floor and send him sprawling. Before he could act Barousse addressed them,
bringing a thankful lump to the Arab’s throat.

“Carry these outside to the garden,” the captain ordered them, “and quickly, for if I know Strafalaria we will be blessed
indeed if we have until dusk to prepare.”

“Might I fill a sack, as my deformity prevents me from carrying an entire chest?” Al-Gassur asked.

“There’s a bucket there.” Barousse nodded toward the tub, which Manfried immediately hastened to before the Arab could move.

“Why we takin’em out back stead a through the you-know?” asked Hegel, keeping an eye on his brother.

“A ruse, dear Hegel,” Barousse explained, hoisting a chest, “a ploy to distract the populace. In Angelino’s tub we’ll not
leave the harbor without being nabbed if any see us board. No, we must keep eyes elsewhere, upon the ruins of the doge’s manse,
the fire of my own, the miracle of a golden rain upon the streets! Hurry, you hounds, hurry!”

“Don’t be callin me no beast,” Hegel grumbled, lifting a chest.

Al-Gassur pretended to tie up the hem of his gown-length tunic when the bucket crashed into it, bashing his fingers. Manfried
laughed while the Arab flung himself to the ground, secretly tickled the mangy bastard had eased his deception. He groaned
and rolled on the floor and before he had recovered sufficiently to stand his pointed turnshoes and hidden pockets had eaten
a dozen loose ducats.

“Quit that bellyachin,” Manfried ordered, cuffing Al-Gassur’s ear.

“Apologies, apologies,” the Arab whimpered, clumsily filling the bucket and his sleeve with coins.

They trotted downstairs and out the back, the baffled guards staring as they dumped the contents of the chests into the contraption’s
receptacle on top of Cardinal Buñuel’s stinking corpse. The sight made all three laugh and Al-Gassur obediently joined in.
Panting, Barousse turned to them and wiped his pink brow.

“Back inside,” said Barousse, “one more load.”

Their excitement at more carrying turned to seething anger when they saw the massive anchor against one wall of the foyer.
Much shoving, cursing, straining, and tugging followed, but finally the iron behemoth lay beside Buñuel’s corpse in the coin-filled
receptacle.

“Crucial,” Barousse gasped, “crucial. We. Don’t fire. Too soon. Hell.”

“At your word.” Hegel shrugged at Manfried. “But now lets get some a them sausages and wine.”

Barousse licked his lips. “Wise enough.”