He awoke well before midday and leapt from his bed, tingling with excitement
at the thought of what awaited him. Jonas was in his study, reading a letter. He
didn’t look up at Fabian’s approach, but acknowledged him by beginning to read
out loud. “The Arch Lector would like to consult a few of his brethren before
making a firm commitment, but as you can imagine, we are all very proud that
Jakob would even be considered for ordination at such a young age. It is a great
honour for our family. As a result of this good news, the Arch Lector has
graciously invited us to stay in the cathedral for another week or so. I hope
Fabian is not making too much of a nuisance of himself, and look forward to
seeing you and making the acquaintance of your wife. Yours, etc, etc, Hieronymus
Wolff.”
As he reached the end of the letter, Jonas looked up from his cluttered desk.
“Good. We have a little longer than I expected then. There’s something I’d like
us to discuss with Puchelperger this evening at the Recalcitrant Club, but
before then I think I should introduce you to a few basic martial concepts.” He
shook his head. “It was undoubtedly brave of you to defend me from those Tileans
last night, but I’ve no idea what you thought you could achieve by throwing
yourself at them like that.”
Jonas looked around at the crowded shelves that lined the room. Skulls,
books, leering painted masks and jars of pale, cloudy liquid filled every
available inch of space. “There’s a lifetime of study in this room, Fabian,” he
said, rummaging in the drawers of the desk, “which can make it a little hard to
track things down. Ah!” he exclaimed, spotting a small wooden box sat on the
desk in front of him. “Just the thing.” He handed the box to Fabian and turned
to look inside a large trunk next to his chair. “Put it on,” he said, with his
head buried in the chest.
Fabian sat next to the fireplace in the same chair he’d used the night before
and carefully opened the box. He sighed with pleasure as he saw a silver chain
just like his aunt and uncle’s, complete with the same wolf’s head pendant. He
placed it over his neck and relished the feel of the cold metal on his skin.
Jonas’ head popped up again and when he saw the chain in place he peered
anxiously at Fabian, as though waiting for some kind of adverse reaction. Then
he nodded. “Good, good,” he said and rose from behind the desk with a long
needle and a bottle of ink in his hand. “Now, take off your right shoe.”
“My shoe?”
“Yes, your shoe child—as quick as you like.”
Fabian could not help but feel a little nervous as his uncle crouched before
him and took his foot in his hand.
Jonas dipped the needle in the ink and held it a few inches from the sole of
Fabian’s foot. “This may hurt a little,” he said before piercing the tough skin
of his heel. The old man muttered something under his breath as he worked the
ink into Fabian’s flesh. It sounded like some kind of tune, but as Fabian winced
in discomfort, he could not quite make out the words. “There,” said Jonas after
a few minutes, rising to his feet with a wheeze and a creak of protesting
joints. “All done.” He stepped up to a terrible portrait of Isolde, which hung
behind his desk and moved it to one side, revealing a small safe embedded in the
wall. He unlocked it and withdrew a sheaf of papers. Then, after closing the
safe and sliding the painting back in front of it, he sat down at the desk
again.
“Let me see,” he muttered, leafing through the crumbling old parchments. He
gave a grunt of satisfaction as he found the one he wanted. “Right,” he said,
taking a stick of chalk from his desk and stepping into the middle of the room.
He kicked aside a rug to reveal the dusty floorboards beneath. Fabian noticed
that a palimpsest of faded chalk marks covered the wood, where dozens of
geometrical symbols has been drawn, erased and redrawn. Jonas crouched down with
the chalk in one hand and the paper in the other, and began to transcribe an
intricate series of shapes from the parchment to the floor. The symbols and
numbers were mind-boggling in their complexity, and Fabian felt the first
stirrings of doubt.
“Uncle,” he said, frowning at the shapes.
“Yes?” replied Jonas, with a hint of irritation in his voice as he
concentrated on the drawing.
“Is all this, well…” Fabian stumbled over his words as his uncle looked up at
him. “Well, there’s nothing heretical about what we’re doing, is there?”
“Pah!” snapped Jonas, returning to his work. “Such words are open to
interpretation. Your parents would no doubt think so—and your brother too by
the sounds of him. But such prejudice only reveals the paucity of their
education—and its blinkered, narrow focus.” He climbed to his feet and
gestured to the grotesque scrawl he had created. “This is science, lad, nothing
more, nothing less. But it’s a wisdom that stems from an older, more holistic
world view than the simple, crude tenets of the Sigmarites.” He pointed to a
circle in the centre of the drawing. “Place your right foot there, and don’t
move it until I say you can.”
Fabian did as his uncle ordered and noticed that a mixture of blood and ink
began to mingle with the chalk marks. After just a few seconds a peculiar warmth
began to spread across the sole of his foot. He looked at his uncle in surprise,
but the old man simply gave him a brusque nod, before turning to rifle through
his books. The heat spread quickly up his legs, though his groin and into his
stomach, where it grew in strength and rushed through his chest and into his
arms and head. The heat was not unpleasant, and something about Jonas’ calm,
matter-of-fact demeanour infected Fabian so that he remained unconcerned, even
as the chalk marks began to smoke slightly. Fabian beamed as he felt a fierce
vitality rush through him. He flexed his muscles and sighed with pleasure as he
felt a new strength blossoming in them. He suddenly felt as though he could tear
the whole house down with his bare hands if he wanted to.
Jonas heard his sigh and turned away from the bookshelves. He raised his
eyebrows at the sight of Fabian’s broad grin and the smoke trailing up around
his legs. “That’s enough,” he snapped. “Step back, Fabian.”
Fabian reluctantly lifted his foot out of the circle, but to his delight a
vestigial glow of the heat and strength remained in his muscles as he stepped
back. He had to stifle the urge to punch something.
“Stand by the door,” said Jonas, seeming slightly annoyed, “and we’ll get
down to work.” He grabbed a pair of foils from the wall and stood next to Fabian
with a large book in his hand. “If you’re ever going to make something of
yourself, you must learn to master the Circle of Defence and the geometrical
principles propounded by the Old World’s greatest swordsman, Agilwardus.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” said Fabian, frowning at the intricate diagrams
his uncle was holding up to him.
“Of course you haven’t. He was burned as a heretic three hundred years ago,
simply for being a little ahead of his time. There are only three copies of this
wonderful treatise still in existence and they’re all in this room.” Jonas
placed the book on a lectern, gave Fabian one of the swords and raised his own
into an en garde position. “Remember,” he said with a lupine grin, “this will
hurt me a lot more than it will hurt you.”
As they set out towards the Street of a Hundred Taverns, Fabian was moving
even slower than his elderly uncle. He carried bruises on almost every part of
his body and the fire in his muscles had been replaced by the dull, throbbing
ache of exhaustion. They had trained until well after nightfall, without even a
break for food or water, and all he wanted to do now was to collapse onto a bed.
The streets were just as crowded as on the previous night, but Fabian was
blind to the figures that swarmed around them. His mind was spinning with a
wealth of new information. As his uncle had lunged and parried, he had yelled
out a stream of commands. Some of them in languages Fabian never heard before:
musical, lilting phrases, or harsh, guttural barks, but he had understood the
meanings behind them quite clearly. The energy from the chalk marks had not just
filled him with strength, but also a strange intuition. As his blade flashed
back and forth in a desperate attempt to fend off Jonas’ attacks he had felt
his skill growing with each word his uncle hurled at him. When they finally
stopped sparring, both of them had collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath
and covered in sweat. Fabian had crawled up into a chair, feeling like his head
was some kind of strange pupa, bulging and writhing as it struggled to contain
an entirely new Fabian, who was straining to burst free from behind his eyes.
Now, as he stumbled after his uncle, Fabian still felt the mass of
information twisting somewhere in his head, but it seemed to be biding its time,
waiting patiently at the back of his thoughts until it was called upon. He felt
its presence as clearly as he felt the weight of the rapier his uncle had tucked
in his belt as they left the house.
Jonas left the boy to his thoughts as they made their way to the club, but
every now and then he would cast a discreet sidelong glance at him, as though
watching for something.
“It’s good to see you again, Captain Wolff,” said the flame-haired butler as
he welcomed them in out of the heaving throng.
“Thank you, Vogel,” said Jonas, handing him his hat and cloak. “Has
Puchelperger arrived yet?”
Vogel shook his head with a cheerful grin. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon
though. I passed on your note myself, and he seemed delighted at the prospect of
spending another evening in your company.”
“Very good,” said Jonas, stepping into the lounge and taking the same table
as on the previous night. “Strange,” he said, taking a sip of the drink that
appeared before him. “Puchelperger is usually here well before midnight.”
Fabian gave no reply, still struggling with his thoughts as he took a deep,
grateful swig of his own drink.
They waited in a tense silence for nearly an hour, with Jonas drumming his
fingers angrily on the table and sighing every few minutes.
“Terrible business with those Tileans last night,” said a ruddy cheeked,
whiskery old general, pausing at their table.
“How do you mean?” asked Jonas, a little nervously.
The general shrugged. “Shouting like that, in the club. It’s really not what
one expects in an establishment of this quality.”
“Oh,” said Jonas, visibly relieved. “Quite.”
“If I had my way, anyone as ill-mannered as Calderino would be barred.” He
sniffed disdainfully. “I saw the villain this morning, actually. Practically
knocked me over he was in such a hurry.”
“Really?” asked Jonas, taking another sip of his drink and trying to look
uninterested.
“Yes. I was leaving Puchelperger’s house and the blackguard barged past me on
the way to the gate.” He shook his head in disapproval. “What a scoundrel. He
didn’t even acknowledge me.”
Jonas lowered his glass carefully to the table. “Are you sure it was
Calderino?” he asked.
The general frowned. “I may be retired, Wolff, but I’ve not lost control of
my faculties just yet. It was Calderino, I tell you. Whoever recommended that
man for membership must be a bloody fool.”
“Well, General Rauch, it’s always a pleasure, but I’ve just remembered I
promised Isolde I’d get the boy home a little earlier tonight.” Jonas drained
his glass and stood. “Come, Fabian,” he said striding towards the door.
Fabian smiled apologetically at the general as he rushed after his uncle.
As soon as they were out in the street, Fabian let out a groan of despair.
“This is bad,” he muttered, hobbling away as fast as his old legs would carry
him. “Very, very bad.”
“Do you think Calderino meant to harm Puchelperger?” asked Fabian, taking his
uncle’s arm and trying to support him a little.
Jonas looked at Fabian in disbelief. “I think you could probably answer that
yourself, don’t you? General Rauch is exactly right—the man’s a scoundrel.
He’s too afraid to approach me after what happened last night, so he’s turned on
my friends.”
Jonas led the way through a baffling sequence of lefts and rights until yet
again Fabian had absolutely no idea where they were. They eventually emerged on
a wide moonlit avenue, lined with tall plane trees and large, handsome
townhouses. Most of the windows were filled with light and the elegant
silhouettes of Altdorf’s great and good, but there was a house near the end of
the avenue that was utterly dark and lifeless. It was this house that Jonas
rushed towards. As they approached the spiked iron gate, they saw that it was
swinging on its hinges, and as they rushed up to the front door, Jonas pushed it
inwards with a gentle shove. “Unlocked,” he muttered. As the door swung open,
the moonlight washed across the polished floorboards and picked out a large
crumpled shape lying at the foot of a grand, sweeping staircase.
They rushed towards the prone figure, but before they had got within a few
feet of it, they could see the ink black lake that had pooled beneath it.
“Ah, old friend,” groaned Jonas, lifting the corpse’s head and revealing an
ear-to-ear gash beneath Puchelperger’s rolls of fat. “Whatever you may have
done, you did not deserve to die like this—at the hands of a petty criminal.”
Fabian looked nervously up the gloomy stairs. “Do you think he might still be
here?”
Jonas shook his head as he climbed slowly to his feet. “No, there’s no need
to be afraid, boy. He’s long gone. Probably on his way to butcher someone else
dear to me.” Jonas’ eyes widened and he staggered backwards, as though someone
had slapped him. “Oh, by the gods,” he muttered. “Isolde.” He clutched his face
in his hands and let out a terrible wail of anguish. “I’m probably already too
late. He knows what time I leave for the club.” He grabbed Fabian’s shoulders
and looked desperately into his eyes. “You might make it though boy,” he hissed.
“Run as fast as your young legs will carry you.” He saw the doubt in Fabian’s
eyes as he pictured himself fighting the Tilean swordsman. “It will all come
back to you,” hissed Jonas. “Everything I showed you today—even the strength
from the sigils, it will all come back when you need it most. But you must be
quick,” he cried, pushing him back towards the door.