Jonas leant back in his chair with a snort of amusement. “So, Kobach Ivanov
has returned to Altdorf!” He shook his head. “That man is bound for either
greatness or the executioner’s block, but I wouldn’t like to bet which.” He
noticed Fabian’s look of confusion and patted his knee reassuringly. “I’m sorry,
lad—I’m not laughing at you. You should learn not to make such quick
assumptions though. If Kobach had realised that you mistook him for a servant, I
wouldn’t like to imagine where you’d be now. This house is a refuge for some of
the city’s more interesting visitors; many of them are very powerful men in
their own countries, but they’re all a little dangerous in their own way.” He
drained his glass and waved at the drink in Fabian’s hand. “Drink up, son. We
have a whole city to explore and you’ll need little fire in your belly to
survive your first night in Altdorf.”
Fabian looked out through a small leaded window at the darkness outside.
“We’re going out now?” he asked.
Jonas shrugged. “Well, you can retire to your bed if you wish. There’s one
all made up for you if you’d like an early night.” He leant forward, so that the
flames flashed mischievously in his eyes. “I just have a feeling you’re a little
more adventurous than that.”
No adult had ever spoken to Fabian in such conspiratorial tones before and he
was unsure how to respond. He realised that despite the physical similarities,
this man was nothing like his father. There was a hint of danger in the old
man’s voice that both troubled and excited him. It did not take him long to make
up his mind. He emptied the glass with one hungry gulp and as the potent drink
filled him with warmth he grinned. “I’m not really
that
tired,” he
replied.
“They call this the Street of a Hundred Taverns,” explained Jonas as they
fought their way through the jostling crowds of revellers. He was leaning
heavily on Fabian for support, but his eyes sparkled with excitement as he waved
his cane at the array of inns and clubs that surrounded them. Despite the late
hour, the street was ablaze with light and crammed with people: lame beggars
grasped at their legs as they passed; drunken dockhands hurled red-faced abuse
at each other; nobles barged past in gaudy, flamboyant palanquins and sinister,
hooded figures watched attentively from the ill-lit side streets. Despite his
fear, Fabian felt more alive than he could ever remember feeling before.
“This is the vital, pounding heart of the city,” continued Jonas, tapping his
cane on the filthy cobbles. “The whole Empire even.” He pointed out an
incredible array of characters to Fabian, from infamous crime lords and
legendary war heroes, to distinguished plutocrats and revered musicians, all
crushed together in a whirling mass of drunken faces and raucous song. “Anything
worth knowing is being discussed right here, right now. There are deals being
struck in these taverns that will influence military strategy in every corner of
the Empire. Kingdoms have been toppled as a result of a chance remark uttered in
the back alleys and cellars that surround us.”
He shouldered his way towards a narrow, anonymous-looking door, tucked away
beside a rundown theatre. He tapped firmly with the knocker and after a few
minutes a shutter snapped to one side and a pair of suspicious eyes glared out
at them. “Ah, Captain Wolff,” came a voice. “Back so soon?” There was a
click
clack
of locks being turned and the door opened inwards onto a surprisingly
plush interior. Candles lined the walls of a wood-panelled hallway and a
liveried butler bowed graciously at them, waving for them to enter.
“Thank you, Vogel,” said Jonas, handing the man his hat and cape as he
entered.
The butler was a flame-haired youth, whose pale, freckled face split into a
grin at the sight of Jonas. “Always a pleasure, Captain,” he replied. After
hanging the hat and cloak in a side room, he leant close to Jonas and whispered
conspiratorially in his ear.
Jonas laughed and clapped him on the back. “Ah, yes—I thought as much. I’m
not afraid of a few half-soaked Tileans though, Vogel,” he said. “Anyway,” he
continued, nodding at Fabian, “I have some muscle with me tonight.”
The butler laughed and waved them down the hall.
At the far end was another door, much grander than the first. It was a broad,
venerable thing, made of polished oak and elaborate brass hinges. There was a
large letter “R” engraved in the central panel, framed within a cartouche of
writhing serpents. Jonas gave Fabian a sly wink and shoved the door open to
reveal a wide, carpeted drawing room, lined with tapestries and curtained
booths. Deep, high-backed chairs were scattered around the room and several
distinguished-looking gentlemen were sat reading books or talking. There was a
haze of pipe smoke that made it hard to discern the club’s patrons very clearly,
but as Fabian caught glimpses of their exotic clothes and heard snatches of
their foreign accents, he deduced that many of them were not from the Empire.
The place throbbed with an undercurrent of danger and he looked nervously at his
uncle, but Jonas placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and grinned. “Welcome
to the Recalcitrant Club,” he said proudly.
“Jonas,” said an unfeasibly obese gentleman, as he waddled slowly towards
them. He wore his dark hair slicked back from his jowly face in a greasy bob,
and his small, porcine eyes nestled behind a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses.
Blue robes billowed around him as he embraced Jonas and placed a kiss on his
cheek. He studied the noble’s slender physique. “The years have been kind to
you,” he said, in a creamy, effeminate voice. “I doubted I would ever see your
dear face again. What a delightful surprise.”
Jonas smiled and squeezed the man’s shoulder. “I only saw you this morning,
Puchelperger,” he replied, “so I’d hope I’ve not worn too badly.” He looked down
at the man’s vast, trembling paunch. “I see times haven’t been too hard for you,
either.”
Puchelperger raised his eyebrows. “I endeavoured to keep myself hale and
hearty in the hope of your eventual return.” He gestured to an empty booth. “Let
me buy you a drink and you can introduce me to your new friend.”
They settled back into plush, leather couches and a waiter discretely
deposited three tall glasses on their table.
“This is my cousin’s son, Fabian,” said Jonas, smiling paternally, and
patting the boy on the shoulder. “It’s his first time in Altdorf.”
“Ah, an innocent,” said Puchelperger with a glint in his beady, black eyes.
“Well, my boy, you couldn’t have wished for a better guide.” He gestured to the
tall glass in front of Fabian. “Please, I insist,” he said.
Fabian’s thoughts were already a little muddled from his previous drink and
he looked at his uncle with a worried expression.
Jonas laughed. “It won’t harm you, boy,” he said, taking a swig from his own
glass. “I’m not sure how they do things in the country, but I think you’re old
enough to sample a few of life’s more cosmopolitan pleasures.”
Afraid of appearing a fool in front of his urbane new friends, Fabian emptied
the entire glass in one swallow. He felt a sudden rush of euphoria followed by
an equally sudden rush of gas. He grinned at his uncle, as an explosive belch
ripped through his throat.
The two men burst into raucous laughter.
“Ah, yes,” cried Puchelperger, clapping his chubby hands, and causing the
table to rock as his belly jiggled up and down. “He’s a Wolff alright!” He leant
as far forward as his stomach would allow. “Tell me though, boy—what brings
you to this noble city?”
The smile dropped from Fabian’s face. “My brother,” he muttered. “He’s some
kind of
wonderful
student. The priests wanted to interview him at the
Cathedral of Sigmar.”
Jonas noted Fabian’s sullen tone with interest. “And you? Have you studied
the holy texts?”
Fabian gave a harsh laugh. “No, uncle, to be honest, I find all that stuff as
dull as ditchwater.” The rush of euphoria was still growing in his head and he
felt his shyness slipping away. He raised his eyebrows disdainfully and his
voice rang with a new-found confidence. “I find it a facile ideology at best.
I’ve read many of the older, epic poems and they seem to me far more
interesting.”
Jonas and Puchelperger both fell silent at these words and Jonas continued to
study Fabian intently.
“Interesting,” said Puchelperger, giving Jonas a knowing look as he emptied
his own glass. “Well, I’m sure you won’t find it dull spending an evening in the
company of your uncle.”
Jonas smiled. “I have a few interesting diversions in mind.”
“Jonas Wolff,” barked a harsh voice and Fabian turned to see a leathery,
olive-skinned rake, wearing a colourful gypsy bandana and scowling at Jonas with
evident rage. “I was hoping to see you in here,” he said in a strange, lilting
accent. The man was slender, but with the taut, sinewy physique of a dancer or
an acrobat, and as he leant over the table, Fabian noticed he was clutching a
long, needle-thin knife. A group of similarly flamboyant men were stood behind
him, all holding knives of their own.
“Calderino,” replied Jonas, with an amiable smile. “What charmingly rustic
manners you have. And it’s always such a delight to hear your interpretation of
our language.”
The man’s teeth flashed, bright white against his tanned skin as he snarled
his reply. “We had a deal, Jonas. I secured the books for you.” He grabbed Jonas
by his tall collar and pulled him across the table. “Where’s my money?”
Jonas slapped the man’s face with such force that he loosed his grip and
stepped back, holding his hand to his cheek in shock. “Not in the club,
Calderino,” Jonas hissed, gesturing to the red-haired butler, Vogel, who was
watching them from the doorway with an anxious expression on his face.
Calderino looked around to notice that the room had fallen silent and all the
other club members were watching him over their papers, scowling with
disapproval. He took a deep breath and removed his hand from his face. “Well,
whatever happens Wolff, I
will
have my payment,” he whispered, levelling
his slender knife at Jonas. Then, with a flamboyant flourish of his short, silk
cape he stormed out of the room, leaving his friends to hastily finish their
drinks and rush after him.
Jonas smiled apologetically at the butler and settled back in his seat. “The
books were all forgeries,” he explained to Puchelperger, loud enough for the
rest of the club to hear. “And not even good ones.”
Puchelperger shook his head and sighed despairingly at Fabian. “See what I
mean?” he said. “Whatever else he might be accused of, your uncle is rarely
boring.”
For the next hour or so, Fabian listened respectfully as the two men
exchanged anecdotes and discussed the state of the Empire. Another drink
appeared mysteriously before him, but he drank this one a little slower, already
feeling as though he might need to borrow his uncle’s cane when it was time to
leave. As the conversation turned to politics, his mind wondered to Jonas’
strange young wife. She could not have been more than thirty, and she was
strikingly beautiful, yet she was attracted to a man of Jonas’ advanced years.
He wondered if he could ever learn to be as witty and assured as his uncle. How
different he was from his pious, bumbling father. Fabian shook his head as he
considered how much more there was to life than the simple, god-fearing dogma
his brother had adopted.
“I sense we’re boring you, Fabian,” said Jonas, finishing his drink and
rising from his chair. “I find it all too easy to while away the hours in this
genial haven, but there’s so much more I’d like to show you tonight.”
Puchelperger bade them an enthusiastic farewell and as they headed for the
door, several of the other club members gave Jonas their regards and commented
on the poor manners of the foreigner who had accosted him.
As they left the warmth of the club, the cold night air left Fabian reeling.
He felt his uncle’s steadying hand on his arm though, and quickly recovered his
composure.
“Are you alright, son?” asked Jonas, with an amused smile.
“Yes, uncle,” said Fabian with a manly cough, but as they re-entered the
crowded street he found it difficult to focus on the multitude of shapes and
colours rushing by.
As they made their way south down the Street of a Hundred Taverns, the
constant stink of the city became more focussed. The smell of the sewers and
livestock was eclipsed by the overwhelming stench of fish and brine. And beneath
the calls of beggars and drunks, Fabian thought he could make out a vague
sloshing sound.
They reached the end of the road and Fabian gasped. A broad expanse of
moonlit water lay stretched out before him, carving right through the heart of
the city, and dotted with small islands, all linked by a myriad of crowded
bridges.
Dozens of galleons and barges were moored up at the quayside and even at this
late hour, crowds of sailors and stevedores were rushing to-and-fro along the
gangplanks, laden with exotic goods and yelling commands to each other in a
wonderful variety of accents and languages. Fabian looked up at the nearest ship
in awe. Its mountainous, barnacle-encrusted hull reared up over him, and he felt
a cool spray landing on his upturned face as the sails snapped and boomed over
his head. On the far side of the river lay the rest of the city: a teeming mass
of spires, roofs, domes and bridges. The combination of the alcohol rushing
through his veins and the incredible panoply arrayed before him left Fabian’s
heart racing. He suddenly felt as though he might burst into tears at the sheer
spectacle of it all.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” said Jonas, looking out over the water. “It’s best
to keep moving though,” he said, steering Fabian back into the flow of people.
“The docks aren’t the safest place to be at night.”
Fabian did not really need his uncle’s warning. Most of the figures rushing
by looked as though they would slit his throat as easily as asking him to step
aside. He saw hostile eyes watching from every alleyway and violence filled the
air as palpably as the stink of fish. He shuddered and stepped a little closer
to his uncle.