Braun noticed the expression on Hieronymus’ face and hurried to finish
before he was interrupted. “It’s not that they mean to criticise your lordship’s
management of the estate in any way, it’s just that at this particular time they
would be grateful—”
“What
exactly
is the problem?” interrupted Hieronymus.
Braun took a deep breath and frowned. “It’s one of my own brethren, I’m
afraid,” he said. “Well, at least I believe he’s a lay brother of some kind. I’d
been turning a blind eye to his eccentricities, but now he’s taken it on himself
to pass a very harsh judgement on one of your villagers.”
Hieronymus shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Surely I have men to deal
with this kind of thing, Braun. Do you really need to bother me with such
matters?”
“There are no men, father,” snapped Fabian, his voice squeaking with
excitement. “I’ve already told you: your stewards have been lying to you for
months. The militia’s almost non-existent. We’re left open to every fraud and
charlatan who wants to fleece the good people of Berlau. In fact just last—”
Hieronymus silenced his son with a raised hand and a glare. “Who is this lay
brother, Braun, and what exactly is he trying to punish?”
“His name’s Otto Surman,” answered Braun. “I know very little about him. When
he arrived last summer, I took him for a devout man of learning. He attended a
few of my services and asked if he could make use of my library. To be honest, I
had suspicions from the first, but I could see no reason to be rude to the man,
and I let him stay. Recently, though, it seems he’s assumed the role of judge,
jury and executioner. I’d heard several rumours from my congregation and
dismissed them as idle fancy, but now I’ve seen an example of his cruelty with
my own eyes.”
Hieronymus nodded for him to continue.
“There’s a boy in the village who goes by the name of Lukas. He’s a little
simple maybe, but nothing more than that as far as I can see and Surman has
accused the poor lad of the most terrible crimes. He claims he has been
communing with the gods of the Old Night.”
“And has he?” asked Margarethe, her face filled with concern.
Braun shook his head. “The boy’s a bit of a loner that’s all, but I hear that
Surman’s had his eye on him for a while. Lukas is not so bright and maybe a
little odd, so the other villagers tend to steer clear of him. His only real
friends are a bunch of carrier pigeons he keeps in a small cage. They’re a mangy
bunch, and useless as messenger birds, but he dotes on them.”
“Where’s the crime in that?” asked Hieronymus.
“There’s no crime that I can see, but this Surman character noticed the boy
talking to the birds and claims they were responding to his commands—as though
he was talking to them in their own language. He decided that such behaviour—along with Lukas’ other eccentricities—marks him out as a witch of some
kind.”
“How ridiculous,” exclaimed Hieronymus. “I believe I even know the boy. There
isn’t an ounce of evil in him. What has this lay brother done to the poor soul?”
Braun grimaced. “He told the villagers that Lukas is possessed by some kind
of bird spirit. They’re a superstitious lot, but even they found that a bit hard
to swallow, so Surman offered to prove the boy’s guilt with a trial. He got the
carpenter to construct a huge birdcage, then he locked the boy inside it and had
him hoisted up thirty feet from the ground.”
Margarethe gasped. “What on earth does he intend to prove by doing that?”
“The cage is open-topped but there is no way the boy could reach the pole to
climb down. He’d break his neck if he even tried. Surman has convinced the
villagers that if they leave him up there long enough, the daemon will be driven
mad by thirst and hunger and break free from Lukas’ flesh. He claims it will
fly to freedom—thus freeing the boy from possession.”
“And the villagers have allowed this to happen?” asked Hieronymus, shaking
his head in disbelief.
Braun nodded. “You must understand, lord, they’re all terrified of Surman.
He’s told them he works for the church as a witch hunter, so they’re desperate
not to anger him in any way.”
At the words “witch hunter”, Margarethe raised a hand nervously to her
throat and looked at her husband. “Perhaps we shouldn’t become involved in a
dispute like this. If he believes this boy is possessed, maybe he is. Who are we
to deny the will of Sigmar?”
“The man is nothing to do with Sigmar,” replied Braun, shaking his head.
“I’ve made enquiries, and there’s no record of him ever being ordained.” He
placed a hand on Margarethe’s knee. “The countryside is overran with such
charlatans, my lady. In dark times such as these, simple rural folk are easily
swayed. Their paranoia robs them of good sense.”
“Still,” replied Hieronymus, frowning, “if he has the will of the people
behind him, it might be dangerous to stir up trouble. Maybe my wife is right.”
“Father,” cried Fabian, leaping to his feet. “Remember who we are! We are
Wolffs. Are we to hand over control of our estates to any witless vagabond who
wanders across our borders?”
“Watch your manners, boy,” snapped Hieronymus and Fabian sat down again with
a sigh.
“Very well,” said Hieronymus. “Let us make a compromise. I have no desire to
delay our journey and get caught up in some petty legal dispute, but for once I
think my son may have a point. This kind of bullying will lead to trouble if
left unchecked.” He rang a little bell that was hung on the wall near to his
head.
After a few minutes, an ancient hunchback shuffled into the room. Conrad
Strobel had been the Wolffs’ retainer since the time of Hieronymus’
grandfather. Despite the heat, and his advanced years, Strobel was dressed for
war. A thick leather jerkin enveloped his frail torso and his pinched,
shrew-like features were almost completely hidden beneath a battered old helmet.
“M’lord?” he asked.
“How many of my personal guard are on duty today?” asked Hieronymus.
The old man’s rheumy eyes grew even more clouded and he began to mutter under
his breath.
“What was that?” asked Hieronymus.
“Three,” Strobel replied, raising his tremulous voice.
Colour rushed into Hieronymus’ face, but he refused to acknowledge the smug
expression directed at him by Fabian. “Three units, do you mean?”
Strobel slowly shook his head. “Three men,” he replied. There was a hint of
accusation in his voice as he continued. “I did inform His Lordship when I was
forced to lose Ditwin and Eberhard.”
Hieronymus’ eyes widened and his cheeks darkened to a deep purple, but he
replied calmly. “Of course. Have the three of them ride into the village would
you, Strobel? There’s a man by the name of Surman who’s causing a bit of
trouble.”
“Should they arrest him?” asked the retainer.
Hieronymus stroked his long chin and thought for a moment. “No, just have
them free the boy he’s imprisoned and then banish Surman from my estate. Tell
him that if he ever returns, I’ll have him up before the magistrate.”
“Very good,” replied Strobel and left with the same chorus of sighs and
wheezes that accompanied his arrival.
“Is it wise to antagonise these people, my dear?” asked Margarethe, obviously
uncomfortable at the thought of banishing a witch hunter.
“I’m not antagonising him, I’m removing him,” replied
Hieronymus sharply. “Now, I’d rather not spend the whole afternoon discussing
such tedious matters. Brother Braun—let’s retire to my study and plan the
route to Altdorf.” As he rose to his feet his eyes were gleaming with
excitement. “Imagine it, a personal invite from an Arch Lector.” He looked down
at his sons. “And your first visit to the capital. Believe me boys, you’ll
barely recognise yourselves by the time you return to Berlau. Altdorf is a city
like no other. Nobody who passes through those hallowed gates is ever the same
again.”
“Is that the drains or the locals?” asked Fabian, wrinkling his nose in
disgust as they drove into the Konigplatz. His impression of the city had so far
been less than favourable. Their coach had approached the great north gates at a
painful crawl, as the driver steered carefully through the flea-ridden lake of
slums and refuges that had besieged Altdorf. Pock-marked fingers had reached up
to them as they passed, begging for alms or passage into the city, and the
driver had been forced to fend off hordes of naked, filthy orphans who clambered
onto the roof and pleaded for food. It had been a miserable end to a miserable
journey.
Once through the gates, things hadn’t got much better. Fabian baulked at the
confusing maze of crowded, narrow streets and tall, teetering townhouses. The
filthy, cramped buildings of the city grew more bloated with each wonky storey,
so that by the third or fourth floor their half-timbered facades were almost
touching the houses opposite: arching over the bustling streets like bridges and
plunging the flagstones below into a constant gloom.
There was a brief glimpse of blue sky overhead as they entered the
Konigplatz, but the broad square was no less crowded than the streets that led
onto it. As Fabian tried to climb down from the coach, grinning, shouting
hawkers clutched at his clothes, thrusting their wares into his face and vying
aggressively for his attention.
“Fabian!” cried his father. “Back in the coach, now! They’ll have the shirt
off your back if you give them half a chance.”
Fabian climbed back inside and looked in amazement at his parents. “What a
hellish place,” he muttered. “And what
is
that smell?”
To his annoyance no one seemed to hear him. They were all peering through the
windows, engrossed by the mayhem outside. Despite his loud sighs, they continued
to ignore him, so he followed their example, squeezing his face next to Jakob’s
and looking out through the coach window.
Every form of life was parading through the square. The coach rocked
constantly as the crush of bodies barged past it and the hawkers outside pressed
dolls and clothes to the glass. A few feet away a man was driving a train of
cages through the crowd and each one was filled with a menagerie of incredible
creatures, half of which Fabian couldn’t even name. Birds with dazzling,
rainbow-coloured feathers dozed on their perches and giant cats with ragged,
white manes gazed idly out from their prisons. Further into the square, rows of
striped awnings shaded produce from every corner of the Old World: fruit,
livestock, fish and leather passed over the heads of the jostling figures as
they haggled and joked with each other. Further still, in the heart of the
square, ranks of crumbling statues towered over everything; made faceless and
nameless by the elements, they watched the turmoil at their feet with a regal,
patrician disdain, marred only by the thick layer of bird muck that coated their
faces.
Fabian fastened a handkerchief over his nose and settled back in his seat.
The thick odour seeped through the cotton. It seemed to be a powerful mixture of
horse piss and rotting fish, with a persistent, acrid bass note that he guessed
was coming from the open sewers.
“There’s our man,” cried Braun, pointing out a young priest fighting his way
through the crowds towards them. “I’d never forget that face.”
Fabian raised his eyebrows as the slender youth neared the coach. The boy’s
appearance certainly
was
memorable. His head was shaven, as with any
other novitiate, and his vestments were simple and unadorned, but his face
seemed to have slipped to the sides of his head. His broad, watery eyes were
closer to his ears than his wide crooked nose, and his broad mouth was so big it
seemed to hinge his whole head as it broke into a broad smile.
“Brother Potzlinger,” cried Braun, shoving the door open and fighting his way
down to embrace the youth. “It’s
so
good to see you.”
Potzlinger gave a hyena laugh and patted Braun’s back enthusiastically. “And
you too, brother.” He turned his head to one side with an odd, bird-like
movement and looked up at the Wolffs with one bulging eye. “Welcome to Altdorf,”
he cried, struggling to make himself heard over the cacophony.
Hieronymus climbed down and took his hand. “It’s good to meet you, Brother
Potzlinger,” he said waving his hand back at the coach. “This is my wife
Margarethe, and our sons Fabian,” he paused for dramatic effect, “and Jakob.”
“Ah, yes, Jakob,” said Potzlinger, reaching up to take the boy’s hand. “We’ve
learned so much about you from Brother Braun’s letters. I feel as though I
already know you.” He looked around at the square and grimaced. “We should find
somewhere better to speak though. Konigplatz is like this every Aubentag. I’m
not sure what the river wardens do with their time, I’m really not—it seems
like we let any old riffraff into the city these days.” He shrugged. “Well, we
may as well make straight for the cathedral. We can have a little peace there. I
believe the Arch Lector has arranged some accommodation for you.” He held a hand
up to Margarethe. “It’s probably easier if we walk. Your boys will see more of
the city that way anyway.”
“Oh no, Fabian isn’t accompanying us,” explained Hieronymus hurriedly. “He’ll
be staying with his Uncle Jonas. The driver knows the way to the house.” He
narrowed his eyes as he put his head back inside the coach. “Just sit tight
until you get there, Fabian. We’ll only be gone for a few days I should think,
so try keep your head down and not cause your uncle any trouble.” With that he
slammed the door shut, cutting out at least a little of the racket from outside.
Fabian watched his family struggling across the square, as Brother Potzlinger
pointed out the various landmarks to his wide-eyed brother. Then, as the coach
began to edge cautiously back towards the narrow streets, he sat down and hissed
through his teeth. “What a place,” he said, pressing the handkerchief to his
face and shaking his head in disgust.