The Beggar King

12

REGENSBURG

MORNING OF AUGUST 25, 1662 AD

Do you realize the trouble you’ve caused me?” Brother Hubertus shook his head. His face, flushed with outrage, glowed like an oversize radish. Not even a third tankard of beer seemed to calm him down much. Trembling with fury, he pointed a finger at Simon and Magdalena, who sat at a table in the muggy brew house, staring at the ground like two defendants on trial.

“I trusted you, Simon Fronwieser,” the Franciscan continued to berate him. “And what do you do? You bring the most wanted man in all of Regensburg into my house-the man they’re calling a monster, a man who’s being sought for multiple murders! The bishop has been screaming at me all morning-my ears are still ringing. We’re giving asylum to a monster! And all this at a time when His Excellency has enough trouble with the city already over the construction of the walkways above the road in town. I could rip you to shreds, Fronwieser!”

“Jakob Kuisl is an innocent man,” Simon insisted once more. “You have my word.”

“That’s the only thing standing between you and immediate expulsion,” Brother Hubertus said, dabbing the sweat on his forehead.

Simon wrapped both hands around his tankard and stared down into his beer, as if somehow he might find the solution to all his problems there. Of course, his wonderful plan had ended in a fiasco. Why on earth had he thought Brother Hubertus would welcome them with open arms? Last night the Franciscan had thrown a fit when he learned how much he’d been deceived. That’s when Simon laid all his cards on the table. He told Brother Hubertus about Kuisl and the intrigue against him. He told the monk where the powder came from, as well as his suspicions about the philosopher’s stone. For the most part Brother Hubertus took it all in in silence, his lips tightly pressed. Not until Simon mentioned the floury dust in the storage room and alchemist’s workshop did the brewmaster interject a few questions. He seemed mostly interested in the quantity of powder Simon and Magdalena had found down there.

Hubertus appeared to have calmed down a bit in the meantime, but though he continued to sip his wheat beer, he really didn’t seem to enjoy it.

“At least it looks like your father’s feeling better,” he said, looking over at the hangman’s daughter. “He has the constitution of an ox; give him a few days and he’ll shake those shackles right off. I’ll have to assign a guard to his bedside soon enough.”

“Does that mean my father can stay here in the bishop’s palace?” Magdalena looked hopefully at the Franciscan. Until now she’d kept silent for the most part, leaving the explaining to Simon. But this concerned the fate of her family. “You won’t turn him over to the city, will you?” she inquired. “You’ll grant him asylum?”

“How can the bishop deny asylum to such a battered man?” Hubertus replied. “That is our damned duty as shepherds of the Lord, even when upholding this duty may-er-conflict, shall we say, with other concerns.” This last sentence he added with a sigh.

Simon breathed a sigh of relief. Magdalena’s father was safe for the time being. The night before, they had taken Kuisl to the brewmaster’s chamber and applied fresh bandages to his wounds, and he’d been sleeping like a baby ever since. Simon had briefly examined his wounds, burns, and bruises. Neither he nor Magdalena could imagine all the suffering he’d been through in the past few days.

“But don’t get your hopes up too much,” the fat monk continued. “I was able to persuade the bishop to allow you to stay here for only three days.” He turned to both Simon and Magdalena and held three fat fingers up to their faces. “Three days, no more. That’s all the time you have to prove this man’s innocence. Thereafter he’ll be turned over-and you along with him-to the city guards. To be clear, the only reason you have even this much time is because I interceded on your behalf. If it was up to the bishop, the whole lot of you would be rotting away as we speak in the dungeon at city hall.”

Simon nodded timidly. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’m sorry I so shamelessly abused your trust.”

“Oh, come now!” Brother Hubertus took a big gulp from his tankard. “Enough of this pompous talk-let’s get to work.”

“You’re right,” Simon declared with a firmer voice. “Time is precious, and so it’s all the more urgent now that you tell us what you’ve learned about the powder. Last night you implied you’d found the secret-so put an end to the suspense. What is it?”

The Franciscan looked thoughtfully at Simon for a long while before answering. “Actually, I wanted to tell you yesterday what nasty stuff that powder is,” he began. “But tell me the truth, Fronwieser. Can I really trust you? How do I know that you’re not looking for more of this evil stuff yourself? How am I supposed to know you’re not lying to me again? You, a doctor in the Regensburger Collegium? Bah!”

“I give you my word as a doctor,” Simon stammered.

“Your word’s worth nothing here,” Hubertus retorted. “Believe me, this powder is much too dangerous for me to depend on the word of any old quack who comes along.” He rose to his full, imposing height. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make some more inquiries, and only when I’m convinced this stuff can’t cause any greater damage than it may have already, then I’ll let you in on the secret.”

Simon stared back at him, his mouth open. “But-but then how are we supposed to help Magdalena’s father?” he stuttered. “We need to know what-”

“Whatever you need to know or do, it’s all the same to me,” the brewmaster interrupted. “Early tomorrow morning I’ll have more to tell you. But until then the matter is too delicate. This secret could drive us all out of our minds, and if what I think is true…” His expression clouded over. “Just tend to your future father-in-law, or he may die even before his time here is up.”

With these words, he turned to leave the brew house, teetering as he slammed the door behind him.

The medicus sighed and drummed his fingers on the rutted tabletop.

“And now?” asked Magdalena. “What shall we do now, you know-it-all?”

“You heard him,” Simon replied gruffly. “We take care of your father. That’s something I know how to do at least.”

He rose abruptly and walked past steaming vats to a little wooden door in the back of the vaulted room. It opened into a low room furnished with a simple bed and a trunk with metal fittings. This would ordinarily have been the brewmaster’s bedroom, but Brother Hubertus had made it up yesterday for Jakob Kuisl, who now lay snoring loudly on the bed, bare from the waist up. Simon leaned down and put his ear to Kuisl’s powerful hairy chest. A few hours earlier he’d given Kuisl a bit of the opium poppy extract he carried around in his bag, and as a result the hangman’s breathing was calmer now and even. Magdalena had also been keeping watch at her father’s bedside, periodically spooning hot chicken broth between his chapped lips. The medicus carefully checked the hangman’s bandages.

The bishop’s bailiffs had tied the hangman to the bed with ropes, but Simon very much doubted these fetters could hold him there for long. The Schongau executioner had the constitution of a bear and, in keeping with that, seemed to have fallen into a deep winter’s sleep. The wounds on his back, arms, and legs no longer festered, and the inflammation had begun to go down overnight. Simon was hopeful Kuisl would be well on his way to recovery within a few days.

Just in time for his next torture session, he thought gloomily.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Magdalena gave him a sympathetic look.

“I’m really sorry about what happened earlier,” she said softly. “I know you meant well. We’ve always found a way out. Let’s wait and see-we just might again.”

Simon smiled wearily and nodded. “You’re right. We’ll make out, all three of us.” But his voice sounded strangely hollow. For the first time since their arrival in Regensburg he couldn’t shake the feeling that their situation might be hopeless after all.

“At least he probably won’t remember a thing about all this.” The hangman’s daughter gestured toward her father, whom she hadn’t seen for such a long time. Kuisl slept as sweetly as if he were back home in his own bed.

“One thing is clear,” Magdalena continued. “We can’t escape with him now, not in his present condition. And as long as we sit around here in the bishop’s palace, we’ll never find out what there is to know about this powder. This fat monk is just putting us off.”

Simon frowned. “At least I was right in thinking that there was something special about the stuff. It may hold the key to all our questions-and it’s dangerous. Brother Hubertus seems to have great respect for it. A secret that could drive us all out of our minds…” He quietly pondered the brewmaster’s strange words. “Just what in the world could Brother Hubertus have meant by that?”

“It’s already starting to drive me out of my mind.” Magdalena sighed. “A powder that the Regensburg patricians are chasing after as they would a murderer-or God knows who else! What on earth could it be?”

“Perhaps it really is something like the philosopher’s stone,” Simon whispered. “But what exactly this stone is…” He shook his head. “This kind of thinking won’t get us very far. Let’s wait until morning to see whether Hubertus lets us in on his secret. If not, we’ll try to escape with your father before the bishop has him locked up in the dungeon.”

“And how do you think we’re going to manage that?” Magdalena asked incredulously. “The guards in the courtyard outside rattle their sabers every time I so much as poke my head out the brewery door.”

“No idea. But there’s no point in sitting here twiddling our thumbs. We might as well start looking around here.” Shrugging, Simon headed back into the brewery, waving cheerfully through the window at the suspicious bailiffs outside. “There’s got to be more than one exit in this whole place,” he mused. “We just have to find it.”

The Danube flowed past the city like a sluggish ribbon of black slime. Dead fish, cabbage stalks, and shredded fishnets bobbed up and down along the rotting posts of the pier. Not a breath of air stirred in the midday heat, and the stench hung heavily over the pier, permeating the shutters of every building around the harbor.

On the pier, hidden behind shipping crates piled high, two men were seated atop two large wooden tethering posts. They didn’t even smell the infernal stench. The hatred within them was so great it blocked out everything else. Their hatred was a poison that had eaten away at them year after year, leaving room in their hearts and their minds for only one thought.

Revenge.

“But how could that happen!” one of them complained, cracking his knuckles so loudly the sound echoed across the deserted waterfront. “We were so close, and then he slipped away like a mouse into a hole. Now he’s feasting at the bishop’s palace and pleading for asylum! What a goddamned disgrace!”

“The bishop can’t let him stay there forever,” the other calmly replied. His voice was prickly, cold, like the dead of winter. “He won’t dare let a mass murderer loose.”

“How did Kuisl even manage to escape the dungeon in the first place, huh? There’s something not right there. They say the guards fell asleep. Bah!”

The other nodded. “I have a suspicion about that; if I’m right, Teuber just may have the pleasure of torturing his children with his very own hand. But first things first…” Vacantly, he watched the bloated carcass of a wild duck float by. After a pause he continued, his voice impassive. “Sooner or later the bishop’s going to have to turn Kuisl over, and then we can pick up where we left off.”

“And if he doesn’t?” snapped the other. “These priests love to play games with the city. It’s quite possible Kuisl will remain there until pigs grow wings and fly. I can’t wait that long! I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. I want my vengeance. I want-”

“Silence!” the man with the cold voice interrupted, slapping his companion’s face so hard he nearly fell headlong into the harbor. “You’re like a child, and someone’s taken your damn toy away. Do you think I don’t want revenge, too? He read the inscription on the cell wall, and I got him to the point where he almost recognized me down in the torture chamber-and no doubt in his nightmares as well…” His lips curled into a thin smile; then he grew serious. “But we have to be careful, or the others could start asking questions. I have worked a very long time to make sure no one in Regensburg would recognize me or my old name. At the inquisition I was a little too… ardent, and that was a mistake. We’ve got to remain calm-both of us. Also on account of the other matter.”

The second man whimpered and pinched his nose as a mixture of blood and green snot dripped into the Danube below. As so often, anger swelled within him. Why did he put up with this man? Why didn’t he just snap his neck? Instead, the second man swallowed his rage, just as he had his entire life.

“So what would you suggest, then?” he asked.

The man with the icy voice spat into the water. “You’re right,” he said. “We don’t know when the bishop is going to release him. Besides, his daughter and that smart aleck, the quack, are with him. They’re working hand in glove with the fat brewmaster. And they know about the Holy Fire…”

“Goddamn it! How do you know that?”

“The little weasel told me. The blasted little schemer knows everything about those two and thinks we ought to come up with some kind of a plan as quickly as possible.” He grinned. “But don’t worry-I have something in mind.”

“What?” the second man asked hopefully. He admired how the other man could throw together a plan. He was cunning, so damned shrewd!

But the other man hesitated. When he did begin to speak, his speech was clipped. He had thought it all out very carefully, and now they just had to be sure they didn’t make any mistakes. “We have to lure the mouse from its hole again,” he whispered. “With some kind of bait. But we have to find a way to get at him first.”

“You want to go into the bishop’s palace?”

The man nodded. “I know a few of the guards there, so that shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll leave a little note for Kuisl that he won’t forget as long as he lives.” Again, the corners of his mouth twitched into a thin smile. “We’ll have to bring him back to where it all began. We should have done that long ago, just him and us. That’s how it has to be.”

The second man nodded enthusiastically. “Just the two of us-and him! Like before! Kuisl will wish he was back in the torture chamber!” Suddenly he scowled. “But suppose the fat brewmaster already knows too much; suppose the others have explained the Holy Fire to him?”

The man with the icy voice spat in the river again and stood up in a single motion. “Leave that to me. We’ll catch both of them-the mouse as well as the fat rat.”

Jakob Kuisl woke to a stomach growling as loud as a bear. He was overwhelmed by hunger.

Good, he thought. If I’m hungry at least I know I can’t be dead.

He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. It was night; alongside his bed a beeswax candle flickered atop a trunk. Next to it some kind soul had placed a jug of wine, a bowl of soup, and a loaf of bread. Kuisl vaguely recalled how his daughter had fed him like an infant just a short while ago. A wave of relief passed through his body: the third inquisitor hadn’t gotten his hands on Magdalena! What else had happened? They had fled together through the streets of Regensburg and sought refuge at the bishop’s palace. Young Simon had mentioned something about asylum, and shortly after that Kuisl had passed out again. In brief waking moments he remembered Magdalena, her voice shaking, speaking about the inscriptions in the dungeon, about the third inquisitor, and about his escape.

And then there was something else, too: he thought he remembered a man bending down over his bed at some point during the night. The stranger, whose face was hidden in shadow, had passed his fingers over the hangman’s throat and whispered just one word.

Weidenfeld.

Kuisl blinked as a shudder ran through his body. The impression was so vivid, he believed he’d even smelled the man. Kuisl had felt a hand on his sweaty shirt. Evidently his nightmares had followed him to this place as well, but for the moment they were mostly drowned out by hunger and thirst.

He was about to sit up and reach for the bread when he felt the strap across his chest. Surprised, he looked down to find leather bonds on his arms and legs tying him to the bed. He cursed softly. The bishop’s guards had apparently locked him in this room and tied him to this bed. Panicked, he pulled at the straps, but they didn’t give even the slightest. After a few minutes of struggle fat beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hunger and thirst were starting to make him crazy. Should he call for help and beg the guards to loosen his bonds, just for a moment? He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Perhaps they’d allow his daughter to come feed him again like a toothless old man on his deathbed. That made him shudder. He’d rather die of thirst than degrade himself like that.

So he kept tugging at the straps, thrashing back and forth until he felt the strap around his left foot begin to loosen. The hangman shifted his legs until, at last, he could slip first his right and then his left foot out of the bonds. Although he’d worked his way at least partially free, the straps around his chest and arms were as tight as if they’d been riveted to him. Kuisl threw himself so violently to the side that the bed tipped over with a crash, pinning him beneath it.

With bated breath he lay still on the ground and listened.

Had the guards heard him? All was quiet. Perhaps the bailiffs were asleep in another wing of the bishop’s palace, assuming he was still too weak to break free.

After a few minutes Kuisl tried to get upright in spite of the bed strapped to his back. He struggled to get a look around the room. He needed something sharp to tear the straps, but the room was empty except for the bed and the trunk. He’d have to look elsewhere. Swaying and grunting, he got to his feet like an animated wardrobe; the bed on his back made him even broader across than he already was. With his right hand he grabbed the door handle and pressed down cautiously. Perhaps…?

Creaking softly, the door swung outward.

Kuisl grinned. The bishop’s bailiffs had indeed forgotten to lock him inside! Stooping, he staggered through the doorway and groped around in the darkness before him like a clumsy giant. He had to be careful not to stumble or he’d wake up the entire palace. Step by step he moved quietly through a vaulted room with a stone ceiling and high windows letting in moonlight. In this dim light Kuisl noticed large copper buckets atop brick ovens and sacks of wheat and hops, some of them open, scattered across the floor. But it was the aroma that told Kuisl definitively this was a brewery.

The fragrance of malt and hops made his thirst almost unbearable. He had to free himself at once! He could just dunk his head into one of the beer tubs and take a long draught. He could-

The hangman stopped short. In the moonlight it looked as though someone else had the same idea. Directly in front of Kuisl, in one of the large brewing kettles, he could just make out the figure of a man pitched head over heels into one of the vats, with only his legs sticking out-looking for all the world like an enormous stirring spoon. His brown cassock had slipped open, revealing two pale, massive thighs.

Kuisl could only stand there with his mouth open in a grimace. In a moment all thoughts of thirst and hunger had vanished. The man in the beer kettle had clearly drowned in the brew.

There are worse ways to die, the hangman thought regretfully.

A sound from behind caused him to wheel around. Only a few steps away Simon and Magdalena stood, fully dressed, though their faces were dirty and sweaty, as if moments before they’d been hard at work.

“Papa!” Magdalena scolded. “What’s all this noise? You mustn’t…”

Then her eyes happened upon the corpse in the beer vat. She froze. Simon, too, was at a loss for words.

“My God, that’s Brother Hubertus!” the medicus shouted finally, raising his hand to his mouth in horror. After a moment of silence he looked suspiciously at Kuisl, still staggering around with the bed on his back. “Did you do anything to…?”

“You fool!” Kuisl spit. “How could I have done anything like that with forty pounds of wood on my back!”

And for the first time the couple noticed the bed tied to the hangman’s back. Despite the dead monk in the vat, Magdalena had to bite her lips to keep from laughing out loud.

“For heaven’s sake, Father! When Simon told you to stay in bed he didn’t mean for you to carry the bed around with you.”

“Be still, silly woman, and help me cut off these straps,” Kuisl said. “There’s a dead man in front of you, so please pull yourself together.”

Simon hurriedly cut through the leather bands with his stiletto. Careful not to make a sound, they lowered the bed to the floor before turning to deal with the corpse whose head was still submerged in the mash. With their combined strength they pulled the monk from the vat.

Brother Hubertus’s eyes were frozen open in horror. Slimy green catkins stuck to the fringe of hair that ringed his tonsure, and his face was even more bloated now than it had been in life. Magdalena pulled the wet cassock, which reeked of stale beer, over his ankles while Simon mouthed a silent prayer. Kuisl nudged him, pointing to a purple bruise that ringed the brewmaster’s neck.

“He was strangled,” he concluded. “No easy task, especially considering what an ox of a man the clergyman was. A strong man did this, one who knew how exactly how to go about it.” He peered down into the brown liquid sloshing around in the vat. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it must have been two men. One to hold him over the edge while the other strangled him.”

“Good Lord!” Simon closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m sure it was on account of the powder. The good monk wanted to make some more inquiries, and he clearly went to the wrong person!”

“The baldheaded murderer!” Magdalena whispered. “I bet he bribed the guards to get in. We’ve got to get out of here as quickly as possible!”

Kuisl frowned. “Powder? Murderers? What the hell is going on here, for Christ’s sake?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.” Simon gave the dead Franciscan monk at their feet a look of pity. Then he explained to the hangman in brief, halting words all that had happened the past few days.

Kuisl listened in silence and finally shook his head. “What a cesspool of iniquity we’ve gotten ourselves mired in! The story gets more colorful by the minute!” On his fingers he ticked off what he’d learned: “We have a secret alchemical workshop where you find a strange powder. My brother-in-law gets himself killed for producing it, and in addition he’s supposedly a member of this secret freemen group.” He shook his head incredulously. “And who are they anyway?”

“They’re a secret affiliation of tradesmen opposing the patricians,” Simon explained. “The raftmaster, Karl Gessner, is their leader, and your brother-in-law was his deputy. At first we thought the patricians wanted to make an example of him, as a warning to others. But that can’t be the answer. There’s more behind it than that…” He drew his finger absently through the brown beer suds. “Gessner told me yesterday that Andreas Hofmann was apparently seeking something like the philosopher’s stone in his secret workshop. Whether that’s true or not, I believe this powder goes right to the heart of the matter. That would explain why the culprit was so intent on covering up his motive in the bathhouse murders.”

“Philosopher’s stone? Bah!” Kuisl spat into the vat. “I always knew my brother-in-law was an idle dabbler. But that’s complete nonsense! Alchemy is just a hobby for bored noblemen and the pampered sons of the patricians. And even if there’s anything to it, it can’t be motive enough for the murders-or the third inquisitor wouldn’t have been so aggressive. That wasn’t any decent kind of torture; it was revenge, pure and simple.” He pointed his finger at Magdalena, who looked back at him with wide eyes. “The dirty bastard knew the name of your mother, and he knew about you. Philosopher’s stone or not, someone’s out for revenge. But I’ll give him so much to chew on he’ll choke!”

“For heaven’s sake, not so loud!” Simon whispered. “There have to be guards out front, and if they hear us, we might as well just hop into the kettles and boil ourselves to save them the trouble!”

Kuisl bit his lip and kept quiet.

“What happened with my letter, by the way?” he asked finally, in a markedly softer voice. “The message I sent you through Teuber? I asked you to find out more about this Weidenfeld fellow. And-did you find anything?”

Magdalena shrugged. “I received a letter, but it wasn’t from you. Best wishes from Weidenfeld is all it said. I imagine the third inquisitor must have intercepted the message and had a little fun at our expense.”

“Damn it!” Kuisl kicked the brew kettle so hard that brown liquid splashed over the side. “If only I had something to smoke, I’m sure I’d remember where I know that name.”

He searched frantically in his linen shirt and pants pockets for a few buds of tobacco. Then he froze, pulling out a little roll of paper tucked in his breast pocket. He apprehensively unrolled the soiled scrap of paper and had to squint to read the words.

In the next moment he turned as white as a sheet.

“Father, what’s wrong?” Magdalena asked anxiously. “What’s on the paper?”

Slowly, as if in a trance, Kuisl shook his head.

“It’s nothing.” He crumpled the paper and returned it to his breast pocket. “Just a scrap of paper, nothing more.”

His daughter gave him skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, for God’s sake!” he snapped. “Don’t give me any backtalk. I’m still your father.”

Magdalena raised her hands in appeasement. “Of course. Everyone has his secrets. I only wonder-”

“Let’s deal with that later,” Simon interjected. “First we have to dispose of the dead monk. If the guards find him, they’re going to blame us.”

Kuisl nodded, though his expression had since turned stony. He absent-mindedly stroked his breast pocket. “Very well,” he announced. “Let’s get to it.”

Together they lifted the fat monk’s corpse, carried it back to the beer kettle, and watched as his body sank, gurgling, into the brown brew. But his head kept bobbing to the surface, dotted with hops catkins. Only after Kuisl dumped a few bags of grain on top of him did the monk disappear in the brew.

Satisfied, Kuisl used his trousers to dry his hands, which were by now so bloodstained and dirty it looked as though he’d just dragged a dead cow to the knacker. Simon shuddered. He kept forgetting his future father-in-law was a master of killing. As a hangman, Kuisl had probably seen more corpses than there were apples on any given apple tree. And the vacant look in Kuisl’s eyes continued to trouble Simon. Just what was written on that piece of paper he’d so hurriedly hidden away in his pocket?

The medicus suddenly recalled why they were awake at this hour of the night in the first place.

“We have to get away from here as quickly as possible,” he whispered. “At once, if we can. I suggest we leave the bishop’s palace and find a place to hide in the ruins in the west of the city; they look as if they’ve been abandoned since the Great War. When things have calmed down, we’ll try to get out of town.”

“The bishop’s guards will hardly see us off with a party,” Kuisl mused. His face was still pale and his mind in some faraway place.

Simon grinned. “Well, I do have some good news, for a change. Magdalena and I spent the past day exploring the bishop’s palace in search of escape routes. In the back of the brew house we came upon a walled-up door that evidently dates from Roman times.” He pointed to the rear of the vault, where beer kegs were stacked almost to the ceiling. “The door directly borders the main road north of the bishop’s palace. We removed a few of the stones and felt a draft come through. It looks as if this door just may lead out of the compound.”

“Show me,” Kuisl said.

Magdalena and Simon led him into a corner of the brew house behind a stack of barrels, where they saw the outline of a doorway barely wide enough for a man to pass through. Some stones had been removed, and through the tiny opening a faint stench of garbage and excrement wafted in. Never in his life would Simon have imagined he’d find such a stink so pleasant.

The smell of the city.

“Get your things together,” Kuisl said. “Meanwhile, I’ll remove these stones, one at a time so nobody will hear a thing.”

“Will that be too much of a strain, Father?” Magdalena asked anxiously. “Simon thinks you should take care of yourself and-”

“When I need a nursemaid, I’ll let you know,” the hangman groused. “As long as I’m able to break a man’s bones, I can break down a little wall.”

Magdalena grinned. Her father was clearly well on his way to recovery.

“I was just asking,” she said. “We’ll be right back. Don’t be too hard on the stones, all right?”

Together she and Simon hurried through the vaulted room and slipped through a small passage into the brewmaster’s kitchen. Outside, the moon shone brightly enough that Magdalena could see a guard leaning wearily on his pike. But the guard was thankfully too far from the kitchen window to recognize her. Smoked sausages and fragrant legs of pork hung from the ceiling on hooks, and baskets of fresh fruit and bread lined the windowsills alongside handwritten cookbooks and an old book on herbs.

“The fat brewmaster must have been a gourmand; he really seems to have known his way around a kitchen.” Magdalena nodded approvingly as she plucked a few sausages from a hook. “I’m really sorry about what happened to him; I’m sure he was a really decent fellow.”

Simon sighed. “He was. I regret having gotten him mired in this. I should never have-”

“We haven’t got time for regrets right now,” Magdalena interrupted in a whisper. “Save your prayers until we get to Saint Michael’s Basilica in Altenstadt, or light a votive at church back in Schongau, if you prefer. Right now, though, this is a matter of life and death for us and for my father, and that’s my first concern.”

“You’re right.” Simon filled a wineskin with dark Malvasian wine from a little keg next to the hearth. “Right now what worries me most is your father. What in the world was on that piece of paper? When he read it, it was as if someone had whitewashed his whole face.”

“Who can tell what’s going on with my father?” Magdalena replied softly. “Sometimes I think not even Mother knows all his secrets. He’s never once spoken of his experiences in the war, even though that’s when the two met.”

“Wait, your mother isn’t from Schongau?” asked Simon, astonished. “I always thought-”

Magdalena shook her head. “She comes from around here. But whenever I’ve asked about my grandparents, or the time before I was born, she just falls silent.”

“Do you think that damn Weidenfeld fellow dates back to that time, too?”

“Maybe, but that’s just a hunch.” Magdalena shouldered her bundle. “We’ll probably never know for sure. You’re right, you know. We’ve got to get out of this loathsome city as fast as we can. My mother even said that Regensburg is cursed. Let’s forget about all these secrets and just get back home to Schongau.”

Without another word, she hurried out into the brew house. Simon packed one more wedge of cheese in his bundle and followed. As he left, he took a last look into the kettle, but Brother Hubertus hadn’t resurfaced; his body was still drifting somewhere down below in the cloudy brew.

Drowned in his drink, Simon thought. A fitting grave for a brewmaster.

When the medicus arrived back at the walled-up doorway, he stopped short. Magdalena, too, stood there looking around helplessly.

A good portion of the stones had been cleared away and stacked neatly along the wall, leaving a dark hole just large enough for a man to pass through.

There was no trace of Jakob Kuisl.

For several minutes neither of them budged. Then Magdalena started running among the barrels, calling out her father’s name in a tense, frantic voice. But there was no response.

“Forget it!” Simon whispered. “He’s gone; he’s taken off-can’t you see that?”

“Yes, but to where?” Magdalena asked in despair. “Why did he leave us behind?”

The medicus knit his brow. “It must have something to do with that paper in his pocket. After reading it, he was like a different person.”

“That may very well be,” Magdalena said, “but that’s no cause for him to abandon us. What are we supposed to do now?”

“We’ll just leave without him,” Simon suggested. “It’s possible he didn’t want to put us in danger unnecessarily. For the guards we’re small fry. He’s the one they’re really after.”

“But if that was the case, he would have told us.” Magdalena stared vacantly into the darkness. “To just up and disappear like that is not his way.”

“Be that as it may, we’ve still got to get out of here ourselves. It’ll be morning soon, and the guards will be making their rounds.” Simon began removing more stones from the entry. “Come on, help me!” When no answer came, he turned around angrily.

Magdalena just stood there, her arms folded and her lips clenched in defiance. “My father’s in trouble, and all you’re concerned with is saving your own hide!” she scolded. “You’re nothing but a coward!”

“But Magdalena, that’s not the least bit true!” Irritated, Simon put down a stone and straightened up. “Your father clearly didn’t want our help. Believe me-he’ll make out just fine by himself. And what we have to do now is get out of here as fast as we can. If you have something else in mind, please tell me.”

“I do in fact have something in mind,” she replied stubbornly. “We’ll hide out at Silvio’s place.”

Simon’s face fell. “At the house of the Venetian dwarf? Why there, for heaven’s sake?”

“He likes me, and he has influence. We can hide there until the coast is clear. We’ll be better off there than in some stinking barn or pigsty,” she added smugly, “and from there we can keep up our search for my father.”

“And who’s to guarantee your beloved Silvio won’t immediately turn us over to the city guards, huh?” Wiping the dust from his hands with his jacket, he narrowed his eyes. “Has the smart mademoiselle considered that possibility?”

“Silvio would never do that. He’s Venetian. City affairs don’t concern him. Anyway, he fancies me.”

“Aha, so that’s how the wind is blowing!” Simon was annoyed. “You’re flattered by the attention.”

“He’s a gentleman. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, if that’s how you feel, let your gentleman go out and buy you a new wardrobe.” Exasperated now, Simon struggled to control his voice. “Should the opportunity arise, you two might take a nice coach ride to the Piazza San Marco in Venice, or maybe even to Paris. Just don’t expect me to play the part of your footman!”

“Don’t get yourself all worked up, you old goat. Remind me, way back when, who was it who fell all over that Benedikta woman? You bowed and scraped so foolishly you were an embarrassment to behold!”

Simon rolled his eyes. “That was almost two years ago, and I don’t know how many times I’ve apologized for that-”

“Forget it,” Magdalena interrupted gruffly. “Your brilliant rescue plan is dead in the water, or shall we say dead in the beer tub? Your brewmaster is dead, so let’s give my Venetian a try. It’s as simple as that.”

“‘My Venetian’?” said Simon mimicking her. “Do you think I don’t notice that dwarf fawning over you? You women are all the same-give a woman a new dress and she can’t tell up from down anymore.”

Her palm met his face so hard the slap echoed through the domed vault.

“Do as you please, you wretch,” Magdalena shouted. “Go sleep in a pigsty or boil yourself in beer suds, for all I care. I, for my part, am going to Silvio’s. He at least has manners and can probably help my father somehow.” She cast him an angry glance. “More than you, at any rate.”

Without another word, she pushed her bundle through the hole in the wall, heaved herself through it, and, within moments, disappeared into the darkness.

The dark space behind the door smelled of mildew and damp wood. Under her breath Magdalena cursed herself for not bringing a torch, but she could hardly turn back now. How would that look to Simon? Just thinking of him made her blood boil. What a jealous, self-absorbed little toad! Why couldn’t he see that her plan was better, plain and simple? At Silvio’s house they’d be safe, at least for the time being, and they might even be able to keep an eye out for her father. Magdalena sensed he was in danger. Never in her life had she seen her father turn so pale and shaken as just a short while ago. He needed her help, even if he’d never admit it.

Sometimes Simon got so jealous he couldn’t see, let alone think straight. Doubtless once he cooled down, he’d see the error of his ways and catch up with her. Perhaps she ought to wait here in the dark for him and scare the dickens out of him when he came after her. The bastard deserved that, at least!

She was so lost in thought she didn’t notice the wooden wall until her head slammed into it. Her face contorted in pain, she placed her hand on her throbbing forehead. Blindly she reached out in front of her and discovered this wasn’t a wall at all, but a huge fermenting vat as tall as a man. To the right and left of it stood other enormous wooden containers. Desperately she tried to push the vat aside, and just seconds later her hands broke through the rotted barrel staves. Tumbling forward, she tried to catch herself on a rusty barrel ring but fell instead into a dusty storage cellar located behind it. Ahead she could make out a slim ray of moonlight through a crack in the wall. Junk of all sorts lay scattered across the hard-packed dirt floor-broken wagon wheels, millstones, old crates and barrels, which had probably been moldering away down here for years. Ages ago someone must have walled up the entrance to the bishop’s palace, and as the years progressed, the storage room behind it had been forgotten.

Magdalena looked around, blinking. By now her eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the dark. Carefully, silently, she climbed over broken boards and bricks until she stood before a wooden shed. Some of the siding appeared to have been removed very recently, revealing a well-worn staircase that led up to a wide road.

Magdalena recognized three covered arches that spanned the street ahead: she’d surfaced in a part of town just north of the bishop’s palace. These “flying bridges” arched over the street and ended at the bishop’s warehouses along the river. Not a single guard was to be seen, even though Magdalena could only imagine how eagerly the city bailiffs were waiting and watching, ready to pounce the moment any one of their three faces peeked out of the bishop’s palace. Apparently, though, the guards had reckoned only with an escape through the main entrance or the cathedral.

Magdalena looked behind her into the darkness. Where was Simon? She was convinced he’d follow her, fuming and fussing, but at least halfway cooled down, having realized the sense of her plan. The medicus, who knew all about her occasional temper tantrums, was never angry with her for long, nor she with him. Should she turn back to look for him? Again she scanned the still-deserted lane. How long had her father been gone? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Perhaps he was hiding just a few yards away, in some yard. Magdalena could feel her breath quicken. The longer she waited here, the farther away her father would be.

Simon or her father?

She looked back again, but there was no sign of the medicus, and time was running out. She made up her mind at last: Simon knew where she planned to go, and he could just as well find her at the house of the Venetian ambassador. Her father, on the other hand, she now risked losing forever.

Cursing softly, Magdalena squeezed through the crack in the boards, tiptoed to the street, and disappeared into the night.

Without a single thought as to whether someone might hear him, the medicus hurled a sack of grain hard against the wall. The sack split open on impact and the grain burst out, falling to the ground like a sudden heavy rain shower.

Simon raged. What was that impertinent wench thinking, talking down to him like that? He knew his plan to flee the city with the help of the bishop’s brewmaster had failed. But was that his fault? Was he somehow responsible for the fact that Brother Hubertus had wound up bobbing up and down like an overgrown apple in a vat of beer? The very thought of asking the arrogant Venetian for help was absurd! Well, maybe not completely absurd… Silvio probably had influence and could offer them a place to stay, but for Simon it was out of the question. How did Magdalena imagine it would play out? Would Simon stand calmly by as this dwarf made advances to her? Even if Silvio did manage to smuggle them both out of the city, did she think Simon would play the willing cuckold?

As he got ready to toss the next sack of grain against the wall, Simon had to acknowledge he was in fact jealous.

Magdalena was probably right; Silvio was their last hope. With a sigh he lowered the sack to the ground and sat on a pile of stones next to the secret doorway. From the room behind he heard a splintering sound and assumed Magdalena had knocked something over. He considered calling to her but decided against it. He’d give the girl a chance to figure things out for herself, for once. If she needed help, she could always come back.

Simon picked up a handful of grain from the ground and sifted it through his fingers. The last half-hour had rattled him. Just when all three of them had managed to reunite after such a long struggle and to plan their escape at last, they were all running off on their own again. It was enough to drive a man out of his skin! The kernels passed through his fingers, one by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

Like sand through an hourglass, he thought, time goes by. If I don’t hurry, I may never catch up with Magdalena again.

But something held him back, a sudden premonition he couldn’t quite place. He contemplated the rye in his palm: yellow and firm, the little pearls popped open if you squeezed them long enough between your fingers, revealing a damp white flour inside.

But some of the grains were different-they had a bluish sheen-and when Simon rubbed them, they gave off a musty, sickly sweet odor.

He knew this odor.

The medicus held his breath. This was the odor he first detected in the bathhouse storage room and, later, in the underground alchemist’s workshop, where he and Magdalena had come upon the burned powder. Several hundred pounds of the stuff must have been stored down there.

The powder! My God…!

What had Brother Hubertus said shortly before his death?

This secret could drive us all out of our minds…

Simon slapped his forehead. For a moment he forgot the dead monk in the brewing vat; he forgot Kuisl; in fact, he even forgot Magdalena. Was it possible? Could this be the philosopher’s stone? He had to be sure, but how? Suddenly he recalled the little herbarium on the kitchen windowsill. His heart pounding, Simon ran through the brew house, opened the kitchen door, and reached for the tattered book. He lit a tallow candle with trembling hands and sat down at the table. In the flickering light he flipped through the pages until he came to one illustration in particular. Below it a few lines were written in cautionary red ink.

The medicus almost burst into hysterical laughter, but fear seized him first. The idea was so monstrous, so insane, that at first he couldn’t believe it, but bit by bit the scattered tiny tiles of the mosaic began coming together; an image was beginning to form. He tore the page out of the herbarium and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

Finally Simon thought he knew what this damned powder was and where he might find more.

Much more.

Magdalena took the scarf from her shoulders and wrapped it around her head. She walked stooped over so that from a distance she’d look to passersby like a harmless old woman. She knew full well this disguise wouldn’t help much. After all, it was the middle of the night, when even old women were forbidden to be out in the street. All the same, she felt safer this way.

She scurried westward under the arched bridges but decided to avoid the main entrance of the bishop’s palace, where guards were likely still on the lookout for her. She took a detour instead, approaching the cathedral square from the opposite side.

At last she came upon the Heuport House. The building, grim and menacing, rose up before her with nothing of the charm and nobility it emanated in the light of day. In the darkness it looked more like an impregnable fortress.

Magdalena rattled the handle of the towering double door, if only to make sure it was locked, as she expected. Hesitantly she reached for a bronze knocker molded in the shape of a lion’s head and pounded with all her might. Once-twice-three times, the knocks echoed in her ears like a blacksmith’s hammer. If she kept on, she’d wake all of Regensburg.

A window on the second floor finally opened on a maid’s pinched face. She wore a white nightcap and squinted wearily down at Magdalena. This was the same maid who’d looked at her so crossly on her last visit. When she recognized the hangman’s daughter on the street below, the maid’s eyes flashed.

“Go away!” she sneered. “There’s nothing for you here, my dear.”

She thinks I’m a whore, Magdalena thought in despair. This cut her to the quick. Do I really look like a whore?

“I must speak with the ambassador,” she replied, trying not to sound overbearing. If the maid didn’t let her in or alerted the guards, all would be lost. “It’s an emergency; please believe me!”

The servant girl eyed her skeptically. To Magdalena the woman’s gaze was nearly palpable; she could almost feel the woman’s eyes looking her up and down. “The master isn’t home,” she replied finally, but less condescendingly this time. “He’s over at the Whale playing cards, as usual. Don’t waste your time-he’s likely found someone else to sit in his lap.” She spoke the last sentence with a certain smugness.

Magdalena sighed. She should have figured as much. Naturally Silvio was camped out at his favorite tavern.

“Thanks,” she said, turning to leave. Suddenly she turned back around. “Uh, if I don’t run into Silvio, could you please-”

The shutters banged closed.

“Silly old goose,” the hangman’s daughter grumbled. “No doubt your master’s thrown you out of his bed more than once, you flat-chested, bitter old broomstick!”

But the cursing didn’t help. The window remained closed, and with a sigh, Magdalena set out for the Whale.

The tavern lay east of the little bridges, not far from the bishop’s palace, so again she decided on a detour through one of the unguarded back alleys. At last the warm, inviting lights of the tavern appeared in front of her. With candlelight emanating into the street through its bull’s-eye windows, the Whale was like a guiding light in the dark-the only place in Regensburg with any life at this hour. Magdalena surmised the innkeeper had to pay the city a pretty penny for that privilege-an investment that paid for itself, if the loud singing and laughter inside were any indication. The door swung open and three raftsmen lurched out, evidently having spent their last hellers on drink. Babbling noisily, they staggered off in the direction of the raft landing.

Magdalena bit her lip. Did she dare set foot in the lion’s den? There probably wasn’t another woman in the place, with the exception of the innkeeper. Were she to go prancing in, she’d surely attract everyone’s attention, not least that of the guards, who might in fact already be waiting for her inside. All the same, it was a risk she had to take.

She tightened the black scarf around her head once more, took a deep breath, and opened the door. A warm wave of all kinds of odors assailed her: sweat, brandy, tobacco, smoke, and the stale residue of some kind of stew. Every last seat in the sooty low-ceilinged taproom was occupied. Raftsmen, workers, and young bull-necked journeymen sat, foaming mugs before them, singing, playing cards, and throwing dice. In back, in his usual stove-side seat, the Venetian ambassador was busily rolling dice with three rather coarse men. Compared to his simply clad companions in their linen shirts and leather vests, the Venetian was nothing less than a colorful bird of paradise. He wore a red shirt decorated with white ribbons and a very high collar; wide, flared trousers; and, on his head, a dashing musketeer’s hat complete with a plume of feathers. Silvio was either winning at the moment or so deeply engaged in his game he didn’t seem to see the young woman in the doorway.

The other men, however, hadn’t failed to notice Magdalena. Some of the workers stared at her lustfully, while others whistled or ran their tongues over the dark stumps of their teeth.

“Hey, sweetheart!” a potbellied, curly-haired raftsman bellowed. “Not satisfied with the day’s earnings? Then come have a seat here with me and give my beard a stroke or two.”

“Let her have a stroke of something else, Hans!” his companion shouted, wiping his fat lips with his shirtsleeve. “Come over here, girl. Take that ugly scarf off and show us what you’ve got!”

“Off with the scarf, off with the scarf!” some men at a neighboring table began to shout. “We want a better look at the lady, ha-ha!”

A loud crash and the sound of breaking glass interrupted the jeers. The crowd grew silent and turned toward Silvio, who stood now on the stove-side bench and looked almost meditatively at the broken bottle in his hand. He raised the bottleneck to the dim overhead light so the rough, razor-sharp edges sparkled menacingly.

“Con calma, signori!” he said softly. “The gentlemen will not lay hands on a signorina. Especially not when la bella signorina in question stands under my personal protection.” He smiled at Magdalena and pointed to the chair next to him. “I implore you, have a seat and make yourself-come si dice-at home.”

“Hey, dwarf!” growled a fat raftsman struggling to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are…?” Two other men restrained him, whispering something in his ear. The fat man turned white and sat back down quietly. Evidently his comrades had explained just who the hell indeed the ambassador was.

“Grazie for understanding, everyone.” Silvio bowed slightly. “And now, innkeeper, a barrel of brandy for the entire house! To the signorina’s health!”

Guarded cheers came from the tables, and the threatening mood dissipated quickly like an unpleasant odor. The brandy made the rounds, and over and over the men toasted Magdalena, whom they had to thank for this welcome gift. Silvio’s three roughneck companions carried on their card game without him, drinking freely of the brandy, apparently having quickly lost interest in the beautiful new arrival.

“Nice to see you again,” Silvio whispered, still smiling at the crowd, very much like a little king graciously accepting the homage of his subjects. “I thought you might forever be angry with me on account of that kiss. I shouldn’t have done that, but where I come from-”

“Forget it,” Magdalena interrupted gruffly. “To be brief, Simon and I need your help. May we stay a while at your house?”

The Venetian grinned from ear to ear. “I would be delighted! I never understood anyway why a bella donna such as yourself elected to sleep in the gutter with beggars and thieves. Is your proud little companion in agreement with this, then?”

Magdalena didn’t hesitate. “He has no choice.”

Silvio smiled. “Ho capito. You are wearing the pants, it seems-that’s the expression, isn’t it?” Then his face turned serious. “But I can see in your face that something’s the matter. Tell me, what’s happened?”

“The baldheaded murderer,” she whispered. “He’s on our heels, all on account of a powder!”

“Powder?” Silvio squinted at her, perplexed.

“We found some powder in the bathhouse owner’s secret alchemist’s workshop,” she whispered. “Half of Regensburg is apparently trying to get their hands on it. And the baldheaded man wants to silence us because he thinks we know too much! We need a place to hide-you’re our only hope!”

“And your father?”

“He’s already…” Magdalena stopped short. A premonition told her they were being watched. She raised her head to look around. Most of the men seemed to have forgotten Magdalena and were back to playing cards and drinking. In a far corner of the room, however, a cloaked figure stood out from the rest of the men.

The man, who had pulled his cowl down over his face, sat sipping from a little tin cup. As he wiped his thick lips with his sleeve, his cloak slipped back a bit to reveal a bald head. On the back of his head he wore a white bandage.

Magdalena flinched. It was the same man she’d hit over the head with the statue of Saint Sebastian in the cathedral!

“Look!” she whispered to Silvio. Throwing caution to the wind, she pointed at the stranger. “I’ll be damned; the bastard’s followed me!”

Now the Venetian recognized the man as well. Their eyes met; the stranger rose and slowly moved toward their table. His movements reminded Magdalena of a deadly poisonous snake.

“Let’s get out of here!” Silvio whispered, standing up abruptly from the table. He pulled Magdalena along, and together they made their way through the boisterous crowd. The stranger followed, jostling men to his right and left to catch up with them. Several drunk patrons shoved him in return, and an uproar broke out. For a moment the stranger fell to the ground, out of view, but he appeared again like a ship’s sail on a rough and stormy sea.

By now Magdalena and Silvio had reached the exit. Turning around for one last look, the hangman’s daughter saw the bald stranger drawing his rapier. With loud shouts the men scattered, opening a path through which the man came running toward them.

“Quick, let’s go!” Silvio shouted, pulling her out into the alley. “We have no time to lose!”

The stranger followed just a few steps behind and seemed to be calling something out to them, but Magdalena couldn’t hear anything over all the noise.

Breathlessly she staggered into the street.

Despite the almost impenetrable darkness, Silvio found his way through the city as if he were a native. He led Magdalena into a narrow side street, which they ran down together while, behind them, they could hear the stranger’s pounding footfalls on the hard-packed ground. At some point Magdalena thought she heard at least two more sets of feet, and it sounded as if they were gaining on them. Had their pursuer called for reinforcements? In their last two encounters with this man she and Silvio had escaped by the skin of their teeth. If he had help this time, they didn’t stand a chance.

But there was no time for reflection. Silvio turned into ever-narrower streets until, at last, the odor of fish and sewage told Magdalena they were approaching the boat landing along the Danube. Between buildings she spotted the jetty, stacked high with crates and barrels. Behind these, small boats bobbed along the shore, and the dark outline of a wooden crane rose up from the quay wall. Silvio ran in great strides toward the jetty.

Magdalena turned to find that the stranger was now only a few paces back. She cursed softly. Why had Silvio brought them to this godforsaken place? They would have been safer if only they’d stayed at the Whale! The stranger wouldn’t have dared attack them in front of all the patrons, but here they were alone and helpless. Again she heard the sounds of several more pairs of feet behind them; apparently they would have to fend off a number of pursuers.

Silvio jumped into an empty rowboat tied to the jetty and beckoned to her to follow. As she stepped in, she felt the nearly ten-foot-long boat begin to pitch. How did the Venetian intend to use an unsteady boat like this to his advantage?

With a great leap the stranger landed in the boat with them. His voice was high and shrill, almost childlike. “In the name of-” he began, but Silvio stopped him with a shout. The Venetian charged his pursuer, drew his rapier, and attacked. His opponent skillfully parried the blow, and they crossed swords again and again, moving from one side of the boat to the other. Time and time again, the men jumped over coils of rope and slippery wooden benches as the boat pitched and tossed, demanding a great deal of skill of the combatants.

Magdalena meanwhile cowered in the back of the boat to watch the men slash away at each other, sweat pouring down their foreheads. Silvio was an excellent swordsman, but the baldheaded stranger was so skilled with his rapier one might believe he was born with it in his hand. Again and again he found gaps in the Venetian’s defenses, and each time Silvio was only able to parry the blow frantically at the very last moment.

Silvio was now backed into the bow of the tiny vessel, his leather boots slipping on the wavering rail. The stranger thrust once more at Silvio, almost sending him overboard, but with feline agility Silvio sprang upward to grab a rope dangling from the crane directly above him and swung over the stranger’s head. When he landed in the middle of the boat, the vessel rocked so violently Magdalena feared it might capsize.

The stranger struggled to keep his balance as he swayed from left to right as if intoxicated. When he finally managed to stabilize himself again, he swung his blade in a perfect semicircle, catching Silvio’s shirt with the tip of his rapier. With a nasty ripping sound, the shirt tore open and blood came seeping out. The little ambassador staggered, stumbling on a coil of rope and collapsing against the railing with a moan.

Smiling victoriously, the stranger bent over him, holding his rapier to his opponent’s neck, where a small rivulet of blood was forming. Silvio’s expensive hat had slipped from his head, and he stared up wide-eyed at his opponent, expecting the final blow at any moment.

“It’s over, Silvio Contarini,” the bald man gasped in a high-pitched voice. “In the name of the kaiser-”

He fell silent, his mouth forming a silent O as blood poured from his lips. For one last moment he stood there, swaying back and forth, before his eyes turned up to the breaking dawn. Then, with a loud splash, he fell over the railing into the water, where his body bobbed gently in the current.

“What happened, Silvio? Is he dead?”

As Magdalena leaped up with relief, she saw a crossbow bolt protruding from between the stranger’s shoulder blades.

“Food for the fish,” the Venetian panted. His gaze rested a moment on his opponent’s corpse drifting away face-down; then he turned toward the shore.

“It was high time, wasn’t it?” he shouted into the slowly brightening gray of morning. “Maledetti! Why didn’t you shoot sooner?”

“Couldn’t have done it, master!” a deep voice replied from the other side of the quay. “I might have hit you, with all the running back and forth.”

In the very next moment three figures appeared out of the darkness, one holding a heavy crossbow. Magdalena caught her breath. They were the three roughnecks who’d been playing cards with Silvio at the Whale. Now she understood why she’d heard all those footsteps behind them as they fled. Evidently these three fellows served the ambassador and had followed their master only to save his life at the very last moment.

But why had they all fled the safety of the Whale in the first place? And why did the stranger speak of the kaiser just before he was killed?

Silvio approached Magdalena, smiling. He gently brushed a lock of hair from her face.

“Mea culpa,” he whispered. “I never should have put you in such danger. You’re too valuable. Madonna, what a waste that would have been!” His eyes glistened sadly as he ran his fingers through her thick black hair. “But you’re not only beautiful, you’re also clever. Too clever. And we need someone for our experiment anyway.”

“Ex-experiment?” she stammered. Then her voice failed her.

Silvio just nodded. “I’m really anxious to see how it will turn out this time, Magdalena. After all our failures, it’s high time we made a success of it.”

A blade flashed, and Silvio held up a lock of her hair. “Allow me this souvenir.” He bowed gallantly.

Meanwhile the three men had boarded the unsteady boat. To the east the sun was just cresting the horizon, a glowing red ball.

“What are we going to do with her?” the man with the crossbow growled. “Throw her overboard?”

Silvio sighed. “Grande stupido! You’ll have to bind and gag her. She’s unruly, and we don’t want our experiment to end up… um…” He frowned, searching for just the right word. “Dead in the water? Isn’t that what you say?”

Magdalena was speechless. Not until the three grinning, bull-necked monsters began to approach her with anchor ropes in hand did she pull herself together.

“What-what’s this all about?” she whispered.

Silvio shrugged. “You’ll get an explanation, just not here and not now. I know a nice quiet place where we’ll have all the time in the world to chat. So just keep still a little longer…”

“Take all the time you like, you dirty foreigner, but it will be without me.”

Like a slippery fish, Magdalena disappeared over the railing into the filthy, putrid green Danube. Dark waves passed over her as she swam away, but when she’d nearly escaped, powerful hands reached out and dragged her back on board. She struggled and kicked, but the men were too strong. In no time she found herself on the bottom of the boat, tied up like a bale of cloth, a moldy piece of linen stuffed in her mouth. She struggled against her bonds, moaning.

“If you promise not to scream, I can remove the gag,” Silvio offered sympathetically. “Believe me, it would be better for your complexion.”

When Magdalena nodded, one of the men took the cloth from her mouth. She spat out stinking river water and saliva.

“Who…?” she finally whispered. But she had no strength to finish.

“Who was he?” The little Venetian stared downstream, where the stranger’s body was now little more than a distant speck.

“Heinrich von Butten.” Silvio nodded respectfully. “The kaiser’s best agent, a superb swordsman. He was the only one who could have helped you.” A wan smile spread across his face. “And you beat him half to death in the cathedral. How ironic!”

He looked out over the Danube, whose water reflected the blood-red light of the rising sun. “It’s high time for our experiment,” he said, addressing his servants. “Let’s push off, shall we?”

Slowly the boat started to move.