The Beggar King

13

REGENSBURG

THE MORNING OF AUGUST 26, 1662 AD

The silhouette of Jakob’s gate rose up before Jakob Kuisl. Dawn was already brushing the top of the tower while night still reigned down below.

It had taken the hangman almost two hours to get here from the bishop’s palace; over and over he’d come across groups of guards and had to take cover. He’d walked in circles through narrow back alleys and wound up several times in the dead end of a courtyard. At one point two guards marched past just inches from where he cowered in an entryway; later he had to dive behind a pile of manure when, out of nowhere, guards appeared in front of him. Now he stood before the same city gate through which, an eternity ago, he’d entered and by which he now had every intention of leaving. Teuber had told him Jakob’s Gate was what most farmers used when they entered the city with their wagons, and now Kuisl hoped to stow away in one of them, hidden among crates, bales, or barrels.

From behind a fountain Kuisl watched the early-morning changing of the guard. The soldiers saluted one another, but their movements seemed sluggish, and some of them stretched and yawned. Kuisl grinned and cracked his knuckles. At least he wasn’t the only one who’d had a long night.

A huge bolt the size of a wooden beam was pushed aside, the towering gate creaked open, and the first farmer came lumbering into the city in his cart. He was followed by ragged day laborers and peddlers with packs of merchandise slung over their backs, men who’d evidently waited the entire night outside the city walls. Cocks crowed and church bells rang as Regensburg came to life.

After closely observing the gate’s activity for some time, Kuisl decided to scrap his original plan. It was simply too dangerous to smuggle himself out of the city this way. However tired the bailiffs appeared, they were still keeping a close watch on everything, and everyone intending to leave the city met with careful inspection first. Again and again guards stuck their pikes into sacks of flour or broke open barrels of wine, seemingly indifferent to the complaints of the merchants and farmers.

“Shut your damned mouth,” one guard shouted when a clothier complained too loudly about having to untie every single bale. “Do you think I’m doing this for fun? We’re looking for that monster from Schongau, jackass! Be happy we’re taking care that the werewolf doesn’t sneak up on you from behind and cut your throat as you go about your merry way.”

“Bah!” the merchant snapped, peevishly packing up his cloth again. “This monster is leading you on a merry chase! You let him escape, and now it’s we who have to pay. If you weren’t always drinking when you were supposed to be at work-”

“Watch what you say!”

As the clothier moved along, Kuisl tried frantically to think of another way to get out of town. He gazed northwest over the city wall, where smoke was rising from the chimneys of several houses. On his arrival in Regensburg the hangman had noticed that the damage from the Great War in that part of town hadn’t all been repaired. The fortifications outside the city were in dreadful shape. Gaps and cracks yawned in the stone, and grass grew thick and wild over the ruins, an indication that the city didn’t have the money to rebuild at present. Perhaps there was even a gap somewhere in the city wall itself…

Just as Kuisl was preparing to leave, he heard the sound of crunching gravel behind him. Darting aside, he lost his balance and fell painfully onto his shoulder. Once he’d picked himself up again, he saw a small stooped figure in front of him, holding his hands up as if in surrender. The man wore ragged trousers and a shirt so soiled its original color was now impossible to discern. He was barefoot and as gaunt as a mangy dog, and over his long, stringy hair he wore a straw hat held together by a single leather band.

“For the love of the Virgin Mary, please don’t hurt me!” the little man pleaded, squeaking like a ferret. “I mean you no harm. Teuber sent me!”

“Teuber? How in the world…?” Only now did Kuisl notice that the tattered creature in front of him reeked like a manure pit. And at once it became clear to the hangman what color the man’s shirt actually was: the man must have literally bathed in manure.

“And how would Teuber know where to find me, huh?” Kuisl growled, raising his hand menacingly. “Tell me the truth or else…”

The little ferret cringed. “We’ve been watching you since you left the bishop’s palace. By order of the hangman. He said we’re to bring you to him.”

“But I’m…” Kuisl began.

The ferret winked his cagey little eyes. “You almost got away from us. Thank God one of us saw you down by the bridges. An interesting passageway, that one. We-”

“Make it brief,” the hangman interrupted. “Just tell me who you are.”

For the first time the little man grinned. He was almost toothless; only a single rotted black stump was visible behind his chapped upper lip. “Me? You mean we,” he said, with a shallow bow. “We are the gold diggers, if you please.”

Kuisl stood still for a moment, his mouth hanging open. “The gold diggers…?”

The ferret turned away. “Come along; you’ll see.”

Kuisl hesitated before following the stooped little creature. The hangman thought it highly unlikely this was a trap. No one knew about his connection with the Regensburg executioner, and a simple shout or wave would have sufficed to summon the guards. Why would this stinking ferret take the trouble to lie to him?

Kuisl’s companion scurried northward along the city wall, looking cautiously in every direction as they progressed. Few people were about at this early hour of the morning, but every single one of them gave this dirty little man a wide berth.

After a while Kuisl noted that the houses they passed looked poorer and poorer. Most, in fact, were no more than makeshift cottages nestled close to the city wall. Garbage piled up in the streets, and sewage flowed in broad streams through the ditches dug into the street for precisely that purpose. From time to time Kuisl and his strange companion had to wade ankle-deep through the mud and manure where skinny, ragged children were using pebbles for a game of marbles. A cart loaded with animal carcasses and manure, driven by another dark figure, passed by. The ferret turned to Kuisl and winked.

“This has never been a good part of town, down here by the city wall, but ever since the war folk like us have had it all to ourselves.” He giggled and pointed at his nose. “We’ll be there in a second. Just have to follow the scent, ha!”

At long last they reached the far end of the city. Here the western and northern city walls met in a sharp angle. Kuisl was relieved to notice a breach in the wall not far away, which had been filled in with something recognizable only on closer examination-something that caused Kuisl involuntarily to hold his breath.

A mountain of putrid wet garbage at least fifteen feet high.

Recoiling, Kuisl held his hand over his mouth and nose. He could make out the decaying carcasses of chickens, cats, and dogs scattered among the garbage-there was even an entire pig here with fat white maggots crawling out of its empty eye sockets.

On the top of the mountain of garbage stood Philipp Teuber, arms akimbo, grinning.

“So we meet again, Kuisl,” his voice boomed. “No doubt you’ve never in your life seen so much trash.” The Regensburg executioner carefully climbed down the slippery slope, his boots sinking in almost to his knees. “It’s not like this in your little Bavarian village, is it?”

“Something to be proud of, you old knacker!” Kuisl turned away, disgusted, but with a thin smile on his lips. His former torturer had become a true friend. “I should have known you’d never leave me in peace.”

Kuisl looked around cautiously to make sure no one had followed him. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a few men with soiled scarves over their mouths standing not far from him and shoveling excrement from a cart. The ferret was among them. Alert gazes seemed to be watching him with interest.

“You can trust them,” said Teuber. “If any of them betrays you, I’ll break every bone in his body and toss his corpse onto the pile like a dead animal to rot alongside the others.” He smiled. “And besides, you’re one of us, a hangman without honor, just like the whores, beggars, street performers, and knackers. We all ought to stick together.”

Kuisl pointed at the slimy mountain, from which pieces kept breaking off and sliding to the ground. “What are you going to do with all that stuff? Bury it?”

Teuber shook his head and pointed behind him. “From here the rubbish goes right into the Danube, a few cartloads of it every day. The city pays us well for our work.”

“Us?”

The Regensburg executioner spat noisily. “All I do is bring it here. The real work is done by the knackers and the gold diggers. They empty the sewers and bring the mess here.”

Kuisl looked down at his feet, where iridescent yellow sewage ran over his leather boots.

The gold diggers…

So that’s what the ferret meant!

“Pure gold,” Philipp Teuber added, pointing at the pile of garbage fermenting in the rising sun. “I think it was a Roman kaiser who once said that gold doesn’t stink. Believe me-without my men the city would choke on its own filth.”

“How did you find me?” Kuisl asked abruptly.

“After you fled Fat Thea’s place, city hall really gave me hell,” Teuber said. “I think the noblemen know it was me who helped you break out of the jail, but they can’t prove it.” He tapped Kuisl on his bandaged left shoulder. “It’s all better, isn’t it? I told you, my remedy-”

“Be quiet you wise-ass,” Kuisl interrupted. “Finish your story.”

Teuber caught one of the many bluebottle flies that buzzed around the trash heap and crushed it between his fingers. “The whole city knows you were hiding out in the bishop’s palace,” he finally said. “It was clear that you’d have to get out at some point, so I asked my gold diggers to keep an eye out. They see more than any soldier does; plus they manage to keep out of sight themselves.” He wiped the sweat and dirt from his forehead. “But that won’t do you any more good than it’s done already. You’ve got to get out of here, and fast.”

“There’s one thing I have to do first,” Kuisl replied.

“I know what you have in mind, and that’s why I brought you here.” Teuber looked Kuisl in the eye before he continued; his words were measured. “I now know who the third inquisitor is. Fat Thea told me.”

Kuisl’s gaze wandered aimlessly over the city wall as if he sensed something lurking behind it.

“Since last night I believe I know, too. If it’s who I think it is. But it’s not possible…” He hesitated. “He sent me a letter-a letter from a dead man.”

“Weidenfeld?” Teuber asked incredulously. “But…”

“Weidenfeld, ha!” Kuisl took out the crumpled note he had discovered in his breast pocket just two hours before. “The bastard was inside the bishop’s palace! At first I thought I was dreaming-until I found this letter.” Gingerly he held up the paper as if it were poison. “He must have brought it to me while I was sleeping. He probably bribed the guards and managed to slip in unnoticed. Or he’s a ghost.” His face darkened. “This man is dead. I killed him with my own hands. It’s impossible he’s alive.”

“Ghost or no ghost,” Teuber retorted. “If vengeance is what he’s after, why didn’t he simply slit your throat while he was inside the bishop’s palace?”

“He wants something more. He wants to torment me as long as he can. Look.” Kuisl handed the paper to Teuber. Squinting, the Regensburg executioner read the few lines, whistling softly between his teeth.

“Is it true what it says here?”

Kuisl’s lips became as narrow as the edge of a knife. “I–I don’t know,” he said finally. “To find out I’ll have to pull out each and every one of the bastard’s fingernails, one by one. And if he’s indeed a ghost, I’ll whip him straight back to hell.”

Teuber frowned. “But where are you planning to look for him? You have no idea where this damned Weidenfeld could be. Besides, I still don’t understand what this name is supposed to mean. That’s not the third inquisitor’s name. He goes by-”

“You idiot! You dumb ass!” Kuisl exploded. “You still don’t get it? Weidenfeld is not the name of a man; it’s the name of a place!”

Silence fell between them; only the shoveling of the gold diggers behind them was audible.

“A… place?” Teuber shook his head in disbelief. “But…?”

“Look here.” Kuisl pointed to the first line on the tattered sheet. “‘Greetings from Weidenfeld,’ it says, just as in the first letter he sent to Magdalena. It’s a greeting from a place! The names of all the battlefields I ever fought in were scratched on the walls in that cell: Magdeburg, Breitenfeld, Rain on the Lech, Nordlingen… and Weidenfeld. He’s the one who inscribed them down there to torment me. He even gave the dates, damn it!” Kuisl closed his eyes as if he were trying to remember something. “P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637. How could I ever forget that day! It’s the day he died.”

“So Weidenfeld is a battlefield?” the Regensburg executioner asked.

Kuisl gazed absently into space. “Not a battlefield, but a bad place, a wicked place. I tried to banish it from my mind forever, but it has been haunting me for years; I buried it but couldn’t banish it. When I opened the letter last night, it all came rushing back.”

Teuber’s eyes widened. “By all the saints, I think I’m beginning to understand. The second line of the letter-”

“I must go,” Kuisl interrupted gruffly. “At once. He’ll be waiting there for me.”

He began to climb over the muck toward the hole in the city wall but slipped suddenly and landed again on his injured shoulder.

“Damn!”

“Wait!” Teuber ran after him. “You’re injured, you have no weapon, and you don’t even know your way to Weidenfeld from here. If you-”

“Let me go! You don’t understand!” Kuisl drew himself up and continued to march to the top of the trash heap. Behind the ruins of the wall the Danube sparkled like a green ribbon in the sunlight, and soon the Schongau hangman disappeared through the ivy-covered breach in the city wall.

“I don’t understand? You damned thick-headed fool! Who do you think you are? My priest?” Teuber picked up a handful of rocks, then debris, and flung them through the hole in the wall. “You shameless good-for-nothing! Just how do you think you’re going to fight this devil all by yourself? He’ll tear you to pieces before you can utter an Ave Maria. Don’t you see you’re playing right into his hands?”

But no answer came from the other side. Teuber sighed, then hesitated a moment before ascending the pile of garbage.

“You’d better not believe I’ve risked the life of my entire family just to watch you die now, you bastard! Just hold on; I’m coming, too!”

Moments later he disappeared from sight.

The gold diggers shook their heads, picked up their shovels, and got back to the work of ridding the city of trash. Today was shaping up to be sultry and foul.

Simon stood in the shadow of a huge salt warehouse next to the boat landing, waiting nervously for the Stone Bridge to open. His heart was pounding as he watched the bridge guards slowly open the gate.

Just like Jakob Kuisl and his daughter after him, Simon had made his way through the hidden corridor into the storage room and out into the city from there. He had hoped he might find Magdalena somewhere in front of the bishop’s palace, but she was long gone. Only a short while ago this might have infuriated him, but now he was relieved. He knew where he could find her-at the home of that smug Venetian dwarf. There, at least, she’d be safe. And, considering what he now had in mind, it was best he acted alone.

Simon took the quickest way he knew through the city to the place he figured he could pick up the trail of the mysterious powder. The streets were still completely dark and deserted at this hour. Now, as he stood at the gateway to the Stone Bridge, waiting what seemed an eternity for it to open, his patience was put to the test.

While Simon drummed his fingers against the stone wall, he studied irritably the guards who calmly slid open one bolt after another. Why couldn’t these bastards hurry up? The fate of the city probably stood in the balance, and these half-drunk provincial constables couldn’t get their asses moving! Now Simon noticed he’d been chewing his fingernails for some time.

Ultimately the medicus had to admit he was happy Magdalena had gone to stay with Silvio. The situation was just too dangerous, and no one could predict who or what really awaited him where he was headed. Simon could only hope it wasn’t too late. Still, he couldn’t be the only one who’d come to this conclusion, could he? The ramifications of this powder’s existence were so great, so monstrous, so obviously horrible, that he couldn’t possibly be the only one to whom it had occurred by now. Simon breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the conspirators hadn’t yet set their plan into motion. Of course, he first had to make sure his assumption was correct. If he was right, he’d go straight to the powers that be and…

Simon was painfully aware that city treasurer Paulus Mamminger was one of the most powerful men in Regensburg. Whom could Simon trust, then? It still wasn’t clear what Mamminger’s role was in this game, to say nothing of Nathan or the baldheaded murderer! For that reason Simon hadn’t taken the secret tunnel under the Danube. Nathan and his henchmen could very well be lying in wait for him there, their pockets lined by powerful men to whom Simon was no more than a pesky bug to be squashed.

The medicus bit his lip. He had to figure out whether his hunch was right before he could determine just whom to trust.

At last the guards managed to open the gate, and along with a dozen shopkeepers, farmers, and day laborers, Simon headed across the Stone Bridge. With fifteen arches, it spanned the river to the other side, where the Electorate of Bavaria began. In the slowly lifting morning fog, the medicus could see that the customs barrier on the other side was now raised. Walking briskly, his head bent, he hurried past the guards. The day before, Simon had found in the brewmaster’s room a brown felt hat, which he now drew down over his face. He could only hope the guards were too tired to look closely.

It seemed to work. He didn’t hear anyone call out after him, so, breathing deeply, he continued over the bridge, glancing over the railing at eddies that formed between the artificial islands. Rafts and fishing boats glided under the arches and then passed by the Lower Wohrd Island.

His goal was almost within reach.

About halfway across the bridge Simon caught sight of a wooden ramp that led to the larger island, the Upper Wohrd. A little house with a clock tower stood at the entry to the ramp. Here a city official leaned back on a bench, eyes sleepy and small, taking pleasure in the first rays of morning sun.

Simon slowed his pace to avoid arousing suspicion.

“What business do you have on the Wohrd?” the bearded guard asked gruffly. “You don’t exactly look like a miller or carpenter.” He squinted beneath his helmet as he eyed Simon. “You look more like a pen pusher to me.”

Simon nodded. “That I am.” He casually produced the tattered page he’d torn from the brewmaster’s herbarium. In the shadow of the gate’s parapet, it was just about impossible to make out anything on the page. Simon held his breath and prayed the guard would fall for the cheap trick. “The Wohrd miller is behind on his taxes, and I’m here on behalf of the city.”

“Let me see that.” The bailiff tore the paper from Simon’s hand and studied it carefully.

My God, he’s going to call the guards! Simon thought. They’re going to lock me up, and all will be lost! All of Regensburg will-

“Fine. You may pass.” The bailiff pompously handed the paper back. “Looks all right to me.”

Simon nodded respectfully, suppressing a grin. This man was illiterate! Not even the drawings on the back had aroused his suspicion. Bowing a few times, the medicus took leave of the grim watchman and proceeded down the ramp. He waited a few yards before he dared to stand up straight.

At that moment he heard banging and pounding across the water. Not far from where he stood, mill wheels turned in the swift current, powering huge hammers and millstones inside the island’s several buildings and sheds. Clattering sawmills stood side by side with rattling grain, fulling, and paper mills. The island was a single rumbling beast, and Simon could almost feel its vibration underfoot.

The mill…

His goal was in sight. Now he only hoped his hunch was right.

The island was overgrown with low bushes, and it took Simon some time to orient himself in the daylight, but he finally recognized the big wooden gabled building to which Nathan had brought him that night. He slackened his pace, still uncertain what he might find inside. Was the mill being guarded?

On the spur of the moment he decided to avoid the main door and first take a quick look inside through one of the windows. He clambered up onto a stack of wood against the side of the building until he reached the sealed window shutters. Bending a slat to one side, he stared into the half darkness.

There wasn’t much to see. Just as last time, sacks of grain and flour were scattered throughout, and at the rear an enormous millstone creaked and groaned, driven by a water wheel on the building’s shore side. Simon was about to turn away when he spotted an especially large sack that had fallen from a larger pile and now lay by itself in the middle of the large room.

The sack was moving.

Simon blinked and took another look. Indeed, the big sack quivered and shook. Only now did the medicus realize it wasn’t a sack of grain at all but a person tied into a tight bundle. When this person rolled to the side and Simon saw her face, he had to suppress a scream.

It was Magdalena!

Her hair wet and tousled, her face pale, she trembled from head to toe. Nevertheless, her eyes flashed with anger, reminding Simon of a captured lynx.

Seconds later several figures emerged from the shadows inside the mill. Two were hefty thugs with broad shoulders and the fixed gazes of men accustomed to carrying out orders. Simon thought he recognized at least one of them from the raft landing. The third was different-small, he wore a red shirt with white ribbons and, on his head, one of those chic musketeer hats Simon so wished he could afford.

The man was Silvio Contarini.

Crossing his legs, the Venetian took a seat on a sack of grain and scrutinized the quivering bundle in front of him. During the whole trip on the river Magdalena had struggled in vain to free herself from her bonds. In the meantime she seemed to have tired, and her movements had grown weaker. Silvio shook his head regretfully.

“It’s really such a shame that our relationship had to come to this.” He sighed. “But the ways of the Lord are inscrutable. Believe me, I adore you all the same-your courage, your intelligence, and, of course, your beauty.”

“You miserable dwarf!” Magdalena barked as she tried to get up. “I’ll cut off your tiny little prick if you so much as touch me again!”

“Scusate, but that’s unavoidable,” Silvio purred. “After all, I need you for our experiment. But if you prefer, I’ll see that from now on, only these charming cavaliere-” He gestured to the two grinning behemoths at his side. “-that only their hands touch you. Would you prefer that?”

“What kind of damned experiment?” Magdalena snapped, a hint of uncertainty resonating in her voice. “Give it to me straight for once.”

Silvio settled onto his sack of grain as he might a chaise longue, folding his arms behind his head and looking around the mill as if for the first time. Wholly satisfied, he turned back to Magdalena.

“So tell me, what do you think all this is here?”

“Grain. Flour. What else?” the hangman’s daughter snapped.

Silvio nodded. “Esattamente. But flour from a very special grain.” With a flash, the Venetian thrust his sword into one of the bags on which he’d sat just a moment ago like a king atop his throne. Rye trickled through his fingers and spilled across the floor. Almost half of the grains were blackish blue in color as if they’d begun to mold.

“Freshly harvested and threshed from fields I leased around Regensburg,” he continued. “We’ve taken great pains to produce grain so pure. In fact, the color comes from a simple fungus that grows on the grain during warm, wet summers. The farmers fear it, but its effects are truly astonishing. You could almost say these grains are blessed by God. They give humankind the ignis sanctus, the Holy Fire.” Looking into Magdalena’s eyes, he added, “But you midwives probably know it better by the name Saint Anthony’s Fire.”

“My God!” Magdalena panted. Her face turned a shade whiter. “Saint Anthony’s Fire! Then inside all these grains is…”

Silvio nodded. “Ergot. Indeed. God’s poison. It offers man a vision of Judgment Day. Those who partake of it behold a vision of heaven… and hell. It’s said the grain is as old as humankind.” Again the grain trickled through his fingers. “Entire villages have given themselves up to the Almighty God after a taste. Men who’ve eaten bread baked with ergot-laced flour have gone into ecstasies, identifying witches and devils in their midst and destroying them. Twitching and dancing, they move through the streets singing our Savior’s praise. A purifying poison! I can proudly say that never has such a great amount of ergot been produced by the hand of man.” He gestured grandly at the sacks piled up all over the mill as a rapturous smile spread across his lips.

“Enough for an entire city.”

From his hiding place Simon watched the Venetian stand up and stride down the line of sacks like a commander inspecting his troops. Simon’s heart was racing. They should have guessed this from the start! Bluish, musty powder. Ground ergot! This fungus grew not only in rye but in other types of grain as well-and on more than one occasion it had infected entire grain fields, resulting in mass intoxication. People who ate contaminated bread went mad, and many even died. Only in very small quantities did it have any healing power, and even then it was primarily used to induce labor or abort a pregnancy. Now this madman intended to poison an entire city!

Simon cursed himself for not having considered this possibility before. Just the day before they’d left for Regensburg, the baker, Berchtholdt, had poisoned his maid, Resl, with ergot. The medicus had never seen the stuff in Schongau, so his father must have been storing it secretly. Before that Simon’s last experience with it was at the university in Ingolstadt.

He remembered the bathhouse owner’s illustrated herbarium, in which some types of grain had been highlighted. In his secret alchemist workshop Hofmann must have been producing an especially pure form of ergot. It had been right in front of Simon’s eyes all this time!

Desperately Simon tried to think of a way out, for himself and for Magdalena. The Venetian’s two hulking henchmen had withdrawn to a corner of the mill below and were taking turns drinking from a clay jug that-to judge from their blissful expressions-must have contained some high-proof brandy. All the same, the medicus was sure the thugs were still sober enough to present a real danger. What should he do? Alert the city guards? By the time the blundering bailiffs made it here from the bridge, Silvio would be long gone, and Magdalena with him. And who was to say that the patricians weren’t in on it themselves? Hadn’t Mamminger tried to get a hold of this powder, too? Hadn’t he hired a murderer to do just that?

At that moment Simon heard movement behind him. When he turned around, he was horrified to find another of Silvio’s servants climbing the woodpile like a cat. So there were three of them! This one had apparently been keeping watch by the door.

When the servant realized Simon saw him, too, he uttered a loud curse and reached for Simon’s foot a few inches away. The medicus kicked frantically and struck the man in the face. The servant tumbled back with a scream, bringing down some logs with him. As the whole pile started to shift, Simon could feel logs slipping beneath him and knew that at any moment he could be crushed among them like grain in a millstone.

He straightened up, trying to regain his balance atop the tumbling logs, and just managed to save himself with a daring leap to the side. With a loud crash, the logs on which he’d just been standing toppled to the ground. He watched the servant desperately try to crawl out from under the thundering chaos. In the next moment, however, a heavy trunk, which surely weighed a ton, crashed down on the man, silencing his cries abruptly.

The timbers were still rolling down all around Simon. A sudden, heavy blow to his shoulder knocked him down, and a long timber rolled over his thigh, pinning him to the ground. He shifted back and forth, pushing against the wood with all his might, but was unable to free himself.

When, moments later, the logs stopped falling, he could hear soft footsteps approach. He tried to turn his head, but a shadow appeared above him, and he closed his eyes, afraid of what he would see. When he dared to open them again, the Venetian stood directly above him.

Silvio cocked his head to the side, smiling, and drew his rapier slowly across Simon’s trembling chest, inch by inch, toward his neck.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” the ambassador whispered. “The loyal, jealous lover. Che dramma! At least now you have a good reason to dislike me.”

Jakob Kuisl and the Regensburg executioner sat silently in a rotten little rowboat heading east down the Danube.

They’d found the worm-eaten boat floating just behind the landing dock and for just a few hellers had talked the ferryman into lending it without any unnecessary or embarrassing questions. At first Kuisl was anything but enthused that the Regensburg executioner had followed him, but when he noticed Teuber’s grim, determined look, he reached out to shake his hand. Whatever was compelling Teuber to help him, Teuber was a friend. And a friend was something Kuisl badly needed at the moment. Pain still throbbed in his left shoulder, and his arms and legs burned red hot one minute, ice cold the next.

“You don’t have to do this,” the Schongau hangman said softly. “I’ll get through this without-”

“Shut your mouth before I change my mind.” Teuber plunged the oar violently into the water as if he were trying to slay a monster in the depths. “I’m not quite sure myself why I’m helping a thick-headed, stubborn old fool like you. And now be quiet and just pretend you’re mending your fishing net. The raftsmen over there are already looking askance at us.”

Kuisl chuckled and reached behind him for a tangle of nets, which reeked of fish. On his lap he began busily unraveling them. As the boat passed the Upper Wohrd Island and floated through the whirlpool under the Stone Bridge, the two passengers lowered their heads, but none of the guards on the bridge above gave them so much as a glance. To the bailiffs the men in the soiled jackets were just a pair of fishermen headed downstream to cast their nets. For a moment Kuisl thought he saw a small figure on the bridge that reminded him of Simon, but that was surely just his imagination.

For most of the trip the Schongau hangman kept his eyes closed, lost in the images playing out under his eyelids, images from the past that had returned with a vengeance. It seemed his fever had revived all the memories he’d buried so long ago.

“We were here, in this region,” Kuisl mused, as the eastern city wall receded behind them. “I’d almost forgotten. In the distance there was a castle atop a hill, a ruin.” He opened his eyes and looked at Teuber. “It was big, and it overlooked a burned-out market town on the Danube. Is there anything like that around here?”

Teuber nodded hesitantly. “That must be Donaustauf, just a few miles downriver. The Swedes set fire to the castle a long time ago, just after the occupiers ran off with an entire load of salt. Did you have anything to do with that?”

Kuisl looked out over the Danube winding through the forests like a muddy green monster. A mill stood on the right-hand bank, but otherwise there were no buildings in sight.

“We were there a few years afterward,” he said, closing his eyes again. “The castle had been destroyed sometime before that, but our winter encampment was somewhere very near there. In the spring we were supposed to go back to Bohemia again for yet another murderous campaign.” He spat into the water. “By God, for every one of them I’ll roast in hell a hundred years.”

Teuber dipped the rudder below the river’s glassy surface. A flock of ducks scattered and flew off, quacking.

“You were in the war a long time, weren’t you?” Teuber asked finally.

“Far too long.”

For a while neither spoke. The boat drifted gently downriver as the sun rose over the eastern treetops and burned down on the backs of the men’s necks.

“What did you do in the war?” Teuber asked. “Pikeman, swordsman, musketeer?”

“I was a sergeant.”

Teuber whistled through his teeth. “A hangman sergeant-well, isn’t that something! You must have been a good soldier to have risen so far above your station.”

“I know a thing or two about killing.”

They were silent once more, until at long last, around a bend in the river, a dreary little city came into view with a hastily repaired castle perched atop a hill. A crooked jetty lined the shore, where a number of boats and rafts were docked. As they drew closer, Kuisl could see that many of the buildings were in ruins, their roofs collapsed and walls black with soot. The wall that once surrounded this city had been eaten away like a piece of old cheese.

“Donaustauf,” said Teuber, steering the boat toward a mud-splattered pier. “Used to be a pretty little market town, but once the Swedes were done with it, Plague and hunger ravaged it only further. No doubt it’ll be a while before they can rebuild it, and the next war will come along.” He laughed softly and tethered the boat to a rotted post. “So, then, where did your dreams tell you to look?”

Kuisl held his nose in the air as if trying to catch a scent. “Don’t know. Weidenfeld… was a little village, actually more like a hamlet, just a few miles from our winter quarters. More or less that way.” He pointed uncertainly toward the castle on the hill. “We could see that ruin from there.”

“Great,” Teuber said. “Behind that hill the forest begins. That won’t get us very far. Wait here.”

He approached the jetty, where a few ragged fishermen had spread out their morning catch. They eyed him warily at first but didn’t seem to recognize him as the Regensburg executioner. When he asked about the town, they shook their heads and pointed toward the other side of the hill.

In a few minutes Teuber returned. “I have news-some good and some bad,” he reported. “Your Weidenfeld is in fact back in the forest over there-a little hamlet. The older men can still remember it. But there isn’t much left of it. Everything’s ruined and overgrown, and nobody lives there anymore. Why don’t you finally come out with it and tell me about this Weidenfeld?”

“Later.” With a deep sigh, Kuisl stood up in the boat and climbed onto the shore. “There’s no time now. Let’s get this over with.”

“Wait.” Teuber pulled a two-foot-long boat knife and a nicked rapier from under the rowing bench. He clamped the rapier onto his belt and handed Kuisl the other weapon. “We’ll need these. I talked the old fisherman who lent us this rotten boat into letting me have them. The old fellow was probably in the war himself.”

Kuisl stopped to think for a moment. “I’d prefer a good old larch-wood cudgel,” he said. “And if it’s a ghost we meet, even the sharpest blade won’t do us any good.”

“If it’s a ghost, you won’t need a club either,” Teuber said. “And now stop fussing and take the damned knife!”

Kuisl took the weapon. As he ran his fingers along the rusty blade and the discolored greenish handle, his eyes glassed over. “I’ve always fought with a two-hander or a shortsword,” he said. “That’ll rip open a stomach like paper. This here is nothing more than a toy. But what difference does it make?” He turned to leave without looking back. “Come on.”

They left Donaustauf and entered a narrow lane behind the village that led into a dense forest. Soon tall beeches and firs surrounded them, and the path was bathed in an almost surreal green light. Apart from the rustling trees and a jaybird call, an oppressive silence prevailed. Down here on the forest floor it was shady, almost cool, and their boots sank into the swampy ground an earlier thunderstorm had left in its wake. From time to time broad wheel treads were visible in the mire.

“This road continues on to a hammer mill,” Teuber explained, looking around intently. “Just before it a small hidden path ought to branch off to the left. The fishermen in town said it’s mostly overgrown now, so we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled.”

“That won’t be necessary-look!” Kuisl pointed to fresh prints in the swampy ground that trailed off further down the path. “These are fresh, not three hours old.”

Teuber bent down to study the prints. “There’s not just one of them-evidently your ghost has a helper.”

Kuisl nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out there were three. They always come in threes… three men, risen from the dead.”

“Quit that, or I’ll be seeing ghosts, too.” The Regensburg executioner crossed himself and made another sign to ward off evil spirits. “You’ll drive a man crazy with your superstitious blathering.”

All of a sudden he stopped. To their left a narrow, overgrown path-more like a deer trail-led off into the forest. They’d almost overlooked it. On closer inspection they spied a border stone among the leaves and rotting branches. And next to that, half rotted and buried in foliage, were the remains of a wayside cross.

Kuisl picked up the splintered crucifix and leaned it almost reverently against the stone.

“Weidenfeld,” he murmured. “We’re on the right track.”

They headed down the path, making their way with difficulty through fallen trees and dense undergrowth. Freshly broken branches indicated someone had recently passed this way. The air filled with the odor of mushrooms, decay, and rotting wood, and all they could hear now were their own footsteps and muffled breathing.

After a good quarter-hour the forest brightened and a sunny clearing with tall bushes and young trees opened before them. It took Kuisl a while to realize this grove concealed the remnants of houses. Nibbling on a hazelnut bush that grew out of a crumbling well, a deer caught sight of the two intruders and bounded away, leaving behind it a deep silence that took Kuisl’s breath away.

Weidenfeld…

His mind awash in memories, the hangman looked around. Roofs had collapsed, scorched beams rose out of the ground; all that was left of the houses were piles of stones among which blue forget-me-nots were growing. In the town center a street was now overgrown with ferns and wild grain, and a little tower rose up over a pile of stones in the distance. Crooked mossy gravestones reminded Kuisl that at one time a village church must have stood there.

High in the tower, in a burned-out window, a man sat, legs dangling over the ledge. He beckoned to them, but instinctively the hangman took a step backward.

How is this possible? From what hell has he returned?

The man who sat there cackling like an old hag, his lips twisted in a wolf-like grin… this man had been dead for almost thirty years.

Almost prancing, the Venetian ambassador circled Simon and Magdalena, who were both bound with heavy ropes on the floor of the mill.

“Simon, Simon,” Silvio Contarini said, dabbing the sweat on his forehead with a white lace handkerchief. “You put me in a difficult position. You tell me what I should do with you now. I most certainly have a use for your charming companion-but for you?” He shook his head. “All three of you ought never to have left Schongau-you, honorable medicus; the bella signorina; and her hulk of a father, as well. But now isn’t the time for regrets. How did you ever find out about our hiding place? Speak up now. Or will I have to fill your throat with flour to get you to talk?”

Simon tried to pull his arms free, but the boat ropes were as tight as iron clamps. He turned his eyes to Silvio’s servants, seated in a corner of the mill drinking brandy. In the meantime three enormous fellows had joined them. Like their comrades, they wore soiled leather vests and trousers spotted with mud, and Simon thought he’d seen one or the other before, working as day laborers on the boat landing.

All five cast fierce looks at the medicus who’d killed their friend. Simon was sure an excruciating end awaited him if he couldn’t come up with something quick. What in the world had he gotten himself into?

“It was just a guess, but it turns out I was right!” he panted, red with effort. Despairing, he stared up at Silvio, who still regarded him like some annoying insect. “Where else could you have milled such a huge quantity of grain?” He struggled to loosen the fetters, then sank back onto the floor.

“When I realized the milled powder was ergot, I remembered just how much of it we saw down in the little bathhouse laboratory,” he continued. “Of course, it was nothing but ash by the time we found it, but there must have once been hundreds of pounds of it. To grind so much flour, you’d need a big mill, and someplace out of town, where you could go about your work undisturbed. The mill on the Wohrd!”

“Hmm, not bad.” Silvio considered him with interest. “But couldn’t it have also been a mill somewhere outside of town, in a suburb perhaps?”

“The sacks gave you away.” In spite of his desperate situation, Simon almost laughed when he saw the Venetian bite his lip. “I was here not long ago, and the linen sacks in the bathhouse cellar were the same as the ones here-gray-white and tied with black rope. And only this morning did the thought occur to me… What have you done with the Wohrd miller? Did you bribe him, or kill him?”

Silvio shrugged. “That wasn’t necessary. He is one of us, and in our blessed brotherhood each of us has his duty.” Now he counted off with his fingers: “The bathhouse owner, Hofmann, was responsible for growing the pure ergot; a few loyal farmers cultivated it; the miller on the Wohrd ground it; and the baker mixed it into his dough. Each among us knows his place.”

“But it’s unfortunate that Hofmann and Haberger had their sudden qualms of conscience,” Simon replied defiantly. “So they had to be eliminated.”

Silvio scowled. “Sad, yes, but those were precautionary measures and couldn’t have been avoided. Our cause is much too important; there’s no place among us for ditherers.” The Venetian ambassador bent down to stroke Magdalena’s hair. “The only thing we were missing was a test subject for the ergot. We tried it out on rats and cats at first.” He smiled. “And, admittedly, with highly satisfactory results. The animals began to quiver and run in circles, though unfortunately some died. I then found some young girls willing to sacrifice their bodies for science.”

Magdalena shuddered. “The prostitutes who vanished,” she gasped. “That was you! You fed them more and more ergot until they died! You probably locked them in your cellar and fattened them up like cattle.”

Silvio frowned. “What an ugly thing to say. Honestly, I didn’t want to see them die. Insanity is enough for us; we’ll happily leave mass murder to the military. It’s just that we haven’t yet fine-tuned the dose; though this time around I’m sure we’ll get it right.” He stroked Magdalena’s hair. “One final experiment and we’ll have it.”

Simon remembered the strange cages they’d found down in the alchemist’s workshop, the buckets of dirt in the courtyard, the herbarium upstairs in the pharmacy… Hofmann’s house had been one gigantic laboratory! Simon wondered whether the bathhouse owner had known anything about the experiments on prostitutes. Perhaps that was the real reason Andreas Hofmann wanted out.

“You cloven-hoofed devil! You’re completely mad!” Magdalena spat in Silvio’s face, causing the rouge on his cheeks to run. “You hope to poison a whole city-men, women, and children! Who are you? Some kind of religious zealot? A groveling papist who can’t live with the fact that Regensburg is a Protestant city? Or maybe you’ve dipped into the ergot yourself.”

“The time of the nobles and the patricians is over,” the ambassador began smugly, wiping the spit from his face with his lace handkerchief. “The time has come for free working people, the workers and peasants.” He raised his voice so that even his men across the room could hear him. “The prophets have proclaimed the year 1666 the year of Christ’s return, and we shall prepare a dignified reception for our Savior. When the entire city has gone mad, we freemen will take command of Regensburg, and soon-”

But Simon didn’t allow him to finish. “Enough of this foolishness!” he spit out. “The return of Christ! Free working men! Nobody’s going to believe that! You’re a smug little nobleman yourself, and you’re proposing the freemen wipe all nobles off the face of the earth. You can’t be serious! You’ve got something else in mind, Silvio Contarini.” His lips twisting into a grimace, Simon looked the Venetian up and down. Silvio’s face was now strangely rigid.

“I saw through you long ago,” Simon continued. “You don’t give a rotten fig for religion, for ordinary, hard-working people; it’s all politics for you, or at least whatever you consider politics to be.”

“So, if he’s not one of the crazy freemen, or some heretic who’s out to get the rich,” Magdalena began disbelievingly, “then what-”

“The Reichstag!” Simon interrupted. When once again the monstrousness of Silvio’s plan became clear to him, he shuddered. “He wants to poison the entire Reichstag!”

Magdalena’s mouth fell open. “Poison the Reichstag?”

The Venetian ambassador glanced quickly at his five helpers. The brandy was still making its rounds among them, and they didn’t seem to be paying particular attention to the conversation across the room. “Nonsense!” Silvio whispered. “Nonetheless, I’d be very much obliged if we might continue our discussion in a somewhat softer tone. The men here are simple raftsmen who don’t take any special interest in politics.”

All of a sudden Simon thought he saw his chance. “If we promise not to tell a single soul about your real plans, not even your men over there, will you let us go?” he asked hesitantly.

Silvio shrugged, absent-mindedly toying with the rings on his fingers. “We’ll see about that. First you can tell me what you think I’m up to. If the story you’ve concocted amuses me, I might let you go. Who’d believe a suspected arsonist, anyway?”

Simon swallowed hard, then, in a soft voice, began: “In a few months the Reichstag will meet in Regensburg. Representatives from across the German Empire will travel here-princes, dukes, bishops, perhaps even the kaiser. The most powerful men in the land will convene, making Regensburg the ideal place to inflict damage on the German Empire. You won’t find such a collection of noblemen anywhere else in the world.”

“Not bad,” Silvio whispered. “Go on…”

“The bathhouse owner Andreas Hofmann was experimenting with an especially pure ergot in his secret workshop,” Simon hurried on. “In the courtyard behind the bathhouse we found row after row of pots filled with soil. You probably leased fields outside the city, where you transferred this fungus from Hofmann’s garden on a massive scale. You milled the grain here and stockpiled the flour in sacks.” By the look on Silvio’s face Simon could tell he was right. “The master baker, Haberger, is the sole supplier to the old city hall, where the Reichstag will convene, and I assume he was supposed to bake the poisoned flour into bread. But then Haberger got cold feet and had to be eliminated…” Simon frowned. “But now you’ve lost your means of making bread from the flour and of delivering it to the conference-but surely you’ve thought up something else by now.”

“Haberger’s son is perfectly clueless,” Silvio replied. “We’ll offer him the flour at such a good price he’ll be unable to refuse.”

Simon nodded. “And so your poisoned bread will make its way at last onto the plates of the noblemen and ambassadors, after all. At each meal they’ll ingest a bit more of the ergot. The consequences will be dire! Hundreds will turn stark raving mad. They’ll stagger through the streets in a state of rapture, plagued by visions and terrible nightmares. Negotiations will be impossible, and it’s likely most of the emissaries will leave the city in a panic. The entire Reichstag will be thrown into chaos and brought to a standstill!”

“And thus the German Empire, as well. Bravissimo!” Silvio clapped loudly, genuine enthusiasm on his powdered face. “My compliments! What splendid work! It’s too bad, you know-in another life, at another time, we might have made very good use of someone like you.” He spoke the last words somewhat regretfully. “You would have made an excellent agent, just like Heinrich von Butten. What a waste! He, too, unfortunately chose the wrong side.”

“Heinrich von Butten?” Simon asked in confusion. “I don’t understand…”

“The baldheaded assassin,” Magdalena interrupted. “He was an agent of the kaiser!” She sighed. “He probably wanted to warn me all along about this scheming dwarf. Silvio killed him this morning.”

Simon opened his eyes wide. “But that means that Paulus Mamminger…”

“He’s a well-behaved little patrician in cahoots with the kaiser trying to cut us off.” Silvio nodded. “But he had only suspicions, nothing more. Heinrich von Butten was trying to learn more about our plans.”

Magdalena’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you? The devil? Who else comes up with a plan as demonic as yours, to drive an entire city to the brink of madness?”

The Venetian was silent, but Simon picked up the thread. “Why don’t you just come out with it, then? Why so coy? It’s obvious anyway.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Silvio, still playing with his rings.

“Then let me guess, if I may,” said Simon. “You’re working on behalf of the Turkish Grand Vizier. The Ottoman Empire is, after all, the greatest threat to the German Empire.”

“Of course!” Magdalena cried out. “Mamminger told me himself at the ball at Heuport House that the kaiser intends to collect money at the upcoming Reichstag to arm the Germanic lands against the Turks. If the Reichstag dissolves into madness, the Grand Vizier will have an easy time of it.”

The Venetian’s expression told them they were both correct.

“What a dastardly plan,” the medicus said, impressed. “The city hall, where the negotiations take place, is heavily guarded, but no one would give a second thought to the bread-why would they? The Reichstag would collapse in chaos, all to the advantage of the Turkish Empire.” He pointed at the raftsmen, who were still wholeheartedly absorbed in their bottle of brandy. “You make fools of your cronies here and pretend to be the bold defender of the poor. I’m sure you’ve made them promises of heaven on earth. The Venetian ambassador, a freeman-what a joke! Nobody must have the slightest suspicion of your connection with the Grand Vizier. Isn’t that so?”

The ambassador’s lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, just the hint of a smile playing across them.

Simon turned to Magdalena. “Have you noticed how our dear little Venetian can suddenly speak perfect unaccented German? All along he’s been playing the part of the clumsy, innocent, love-struck Silvio, and you fell for it! He may be the official ambassador from Venice, but clearly he’s working for more than one side!”

Silvio drew his rapier with a soft whoosh and ran it lightly across Simon’s throat.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t slaughter you like a pig right here and now!” he hissed. “Nobody’s going to listen to your cute little conspiracy theories. Not even the raftsmen right over there! So tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

“Kill me as you did the bathhouse owner, his wife, the baker, the bishop’s brewmaster, and all the others?” Simon gasped, his eyes fixed on the point of the sword at his throat.

Silvio’s eyes glassed over. “The… brewmaster?” His voice was suddenly uncertain. “Maledizione!” he growled. “That was someone else. And the other murders, too.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “I never should have gotten involved with that one. He’s the reason my entire plan is in danger! The fool! He could have lived out his life in the lap of luxury, but he acted impetuously!” Silvio spat angrily on the ground, and his makeup began to run, revealing a face full of hatred beneath.

Simon held his breath.

So there was someone else…

Someone else who was responsible for killing Magdalena’s aunt and uncle, someone involved in Silvio’s plans! Someone who had been doing Silvio’s dirty work. Who? Was it the same man who wanted revenge on Magdalena’s father? Evidently the Venetian was clueless about what had happened in the bishop’s palace the night before. Feverishly, Simon tried to think of a way to use this knowledge to his advantage.

The little ambassador turned to Simon once more, letting the point of his sword wander slowly across his prisoner’s chest. “All right, then, I’ll worry about that later. I’ll attend to you first, you little quack, too smart for your own good!”

“The city council knows about this,” Simon gasped suddenly.

Pausing, Silvio looked down at his victim with pity. “You’re lying; this is just a cheap trick to prolong your pathetic life a few moments.”

Simon shook his head desperately. This was his last chance. If the Venetian saw through him now, he’d slit him from belly to throat like livestock in a slaughterhouse. Then he’d force Magdalena to eat the ergot.

“Then how do you think I know so much about your plans?” Simon said as self-assured as possible, his voice as solid and regular as a well-oiled clock. “Your irascible crony broke into the bishop’s residence last night. He murdered the brewmaster, then was captured by the guards. He confessed everything on the rack! I listened through the door but ran off before the others because I feared for Magdalena’s life.” He grinned broadly at the ambassador. “In half an hour or less the city guards will be knocking down the door, and then, by God, your entire plan will go up in smoke!”

It was such a bald-faced lie even Simon didn’t think he’d get away with it. Yet the Venetian hesitated.

“Even if that were true,” Silvio said at last, “what reason would that be to let you live?”

“I can divert the guards!” Simon sputtered. “I’ll go to city hall and tell them you’re already half crazed from the ergot and holding Magdalena hostage. If it works, you can let her go.”

Clearly the Venetian would never let them both go at the same time, but this just might buy Simon some time until he could come up with something better. At least now Silvio had sheathed his rapier and seemed to seriously consider the offer.

“So they’ve caught him…” Silvio said, more to himself than to anyone in particular, shaking his head, clearly still undecided about what to do next. Finally he spoke. “What you’ve described is entirely possible. He has been my concern from the start. He is so full of hate; I knew one day it would be his undoing. I never should have involved the hangman in this matter,” he said, angrily kicking a bag of grain. “A single, swift blow in some dark alley would have been the end of the bathhouse owner! But he had to have his revenge. And now the whole thing’s gone sour.”

The ambassador stood up and began to pace silently among the sacks of grain. Then, in a flash, he turned to gaze thoughtfully at Magdalena. His voice, muted now, was laced with fear.

“By all the saints in heaven, Karl Gessner is a real devil. Sometimes I wish your father had sent that man straight back to the hell he arose from all those years ago.”

From up in the Weidenfeld church belfry, raftmaster Karl Gessner looked down scornfully on the two hangmen below. His jet-black hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore the colorful, loose-fitting costume of a foot soldier and an old, threadbare coat over that. Behind one shoulder rose the glittering pommel of a shortsword strapped to his back by its scabbard. Only his red bandanna signaled this was the same man responsible for the daily shipments of goods moving through the Regensburg raft landing. The Gessner so well liked by about everyone had changed almost overnight into a deadly warrior eerily risen from the past.

He’s dead, thought Kuisl. I killed him with my own hands. This can only be a ghost…

After Gessner’s shrill laughter had died away, he wiped his eyes as one might after a particularly funny joke.

“Jakob, Jakob,” he said, as if addressing an old friend. “Who would ever have thought we’d meet again in this miserable little town? It’s a pity you didn’t come alone. I’m afraid our history will only bore the Regensburg executioner.”

He gestured at Teuber, who stood beside Kuisl with his rapier drawn, looking upward with fury. “Seems age has made a coward of you,” he continued. “Oh, well, we all get older, and weaker.”

“You can be sure this concerns only the two of us,” Kuisl said. “I packed you off to hell once before, and I’ll do it again.”

Gessner closed his eyes as if lost in a dream. “Do you know what I’ve enjoyed most? Watching you writhe on the rack like a blathering cripple, your despair at not knowing who brought this misery upon you. I’m almost offended you didn’t recognize my voice, seeing how we’ve been through so much together.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s a shame you’re always running from me, first in the torture chamber, then in the bordello. We should have split the girl between us. Just as in the old days.”

“He is the third inquisitor!” Teuber exclaimed. “I wanted to tell you from the start. As the Regensburg raftmaster, Karl Gessner is a member of the Outer Council. Fat Thea heard from her ‘customers’ in city hall that he did everything possible to be present at your torture.”

Gessner nodded, dangling his legs from the window ledge. “Wasn’t all that easy. Those fat patricians will defend their privileges tooth and nail, but they did relent at last. I do have some influence with those simple people, after all.”

“I might have figured as much when Simon told me about the freemen-and that you, of all people, are their leader,” Kuisl replied. “Stirring people up has always been your forte. And then this story about the philosopher’s stone. Only you would come up with such nonsense!”

Gessner shrugged. “I had to do something to distract that conniving little medicus, or he would have figured out what our special powder really was. He fell for my little ruse, and now he’ll come running to me with everything he learns.” He smiled. “The little quack isn’t quite as clever as he’d like to think.”

“What do you have to do with this powder?” Kuisl asked.

“Nothing that concerns the two of us, Jakob.”

All of a sudden Gessner leaped from the window opening, landing on a burial mound thickly overgrown with ivy. His sinewy body tensed up like a cat as he bent his knees to absorb the impact. With powerful strides he approached the two hangmen, who watched him warily.

“But since you asked, I just happen to have an answer,” he continued. “The powder is poison. Poison enough for an entire city.”

Kuisl kept his eye on the pommel of the sword that jostled at Gessner’s shoulder with every movement. It was a last-resort kind of weapon, a katzbalger, or shortsword, with a cross guard in the form of a snake and a wide, tapering blade. In hand-to-hand combat this sword was highly prized, and pikesmen and cavalry often carried it as backup. It was capable of delivering a lethal wound.

Especially when your opponent carries only a rusty dagger, Kuisl thought.

Gessner reached over his shoulder, unsheathed the katzbalger, and regarded his reflection in the polished iron blade.

“An influential man was in need of my help,” he said softly. “I met him in the course of smuggling goods down the Danube. He was very pleased to learn that I, as a leader of the freemen, command a small secret army.” Gessner smiled, running his thumb along the katzbalger’s blade. “For years I’ve been trying to figure out how to break the backs of those fat patricians and smug noblemen. Now, the struggle that began with the great Peasants’ Wars over a hundred years ago will finally come to a close. A new age is dawning! Once this is over, I’ll be richer and more powerful than the entire Regensburg city council.”

Gessner swung his katzbalger through the air. Though he was approaching fifty, he was as agile as a man thirty years his junior. His eyes flashed blue, and his teeth were a dazzling white.

Nothing changes, Kuisl thought. He certainly hasn’t. Evil and crazy as a rabid dog-except now he goes by another name…

“Philipp Lettner!” the hangman whispered. “Years ago I strung you up from an old gnarled oak right here in Weidenfeld. You can’t be alive. Who-what are you? A ghost?”

The man who was once Philipp Lettner grinned. “You’re right, Jakob. Lettner is dead. But on that very day twenty-five years ago Karl Gessner was born. Karl, just like my little brother whom you strung up beside me. Gessner, a fat, rich riverman whose raft I stole a few days later after I’d slit his throat. I took his raft and his wares and came to Regensburg.”

He ripped the bandanna from his neck, where a red scar seemed to have eaten a ring into the skin all around his neck.

“Take a close look! This here is the beginning of my new life,” Gessner yelled. “I should actually thank you for all that happened back then. Karl Gessner is much richer, much more powerful and evil, than Philipp Lettner ever could have been. From a mangy mercenary to a respected raftmaster! I’ve come a long way, Jakob.”

As the raftmaster drew menacingly closer, Kuisl’s world became a blur and he cursed softly, realizing he was starting to sway. The fever had returned, not strong, but enough to bring cold sweat to his forehead in spite of the stifling heat.

“You botched the job back then, hangman,” Lettner whispered. “You should have waited just a bit longer until our bodies had quit twitching in the branches. But you were in such a hurry to make off with your sweetheart. It was too late for Karl, but not for me. I was still breathing; I was still salvageable.”

Gradually Kuisl felt a chill settling in.

Cold, just like back then…

The warped old houses seemed to straighten up again before his eyes. In the center, around a well, was the hard-packed dirt of the village square. The rooftops on fire, the crackling of the flames, the cries of the women and children.

And in the middle of it all, Lettner, his second in command. The bloodsucker. The bane of his existence.

Everything around him began to spin. Kuisl closed his eyes as the images came pelting down around him like a heavy rain.

The screams…

So very long ago, half a lifetime. It’s a cold November day somewhere near Regensburg. The air is fresh, and snowflakes shimmer among the trees like little stars. A good day for hunting, a very good day in contrast to the murderous boredom of a mercenary’s life whiled away between battles. New troops have enlisted, eager young farm boys, setting out with the old battle-hardened men in the direction of Lothringen. Fresh blood that soon will quench the dry, thirsty fields. Jakob has already seen so many die. In the end they all call out for their mothers.

Even now, on this November day, he’s surrounded by pimple-faced, hot-blooded youths, as well as a handful of scarred old veterans he knows he can trust. He promises them all a boar hunt, just as in the old days before the war. Most of these new recruits, though, know no other world; “before the war” is little more than a tale told around the campfire.

The screams come from far off. At first like the chirping of angry birds. Only as Jakob and his men draw near can he distinguish the people’s desperate wails. He pushes his way through branches to stare down at a burning village. Fire is eating through the roofs of the houses, acrid smoke fills the air, and twisted bodies lie scattered on the ground in pools of blood. Cowering in the center of the village square are the women-old, young, pretty, ugly-all wearing thin shirts and trembling, screaming, crying.

Around a crackling fire a few men are roasting chickens and laughing.

Jakob’s men.

They’re throwing dice. Cheers go up, then one mercenary grabs a woman by the hair and disappears with her behind the burning houses. There’s a long, drawn-out scream, a quiet whimper, then silence.

Another round begins. A new game, a new winner.

A moment later an overgrown black-haired man stands and lets out a shriek of laughter as he holds up the dice cup triumphantly. He pulls a girl toward him and grabs her breasts. He’s the double mercenary Philipp Lettner, Jakob’s second in command. Like Jakob, he’s paid double for his service, not on account of his skill with a two-hander but for his ruthlessness at the front. Jakob knows at once that Lettner is the leader of this gang; for years the man has been drinking blood, and all too often Jakob has let him get away with it.

Jakob’s gaze wanders to the recruits at his side, who stare down at the bloodbath in horror. This is war, and now they’re in the midst of it. They may still want to vomit at the sight of it now, but soon enough they, too, will be plundering villages and raping women with the rest. How can they be expected to know what’s right and what’s not? Who is supposed to show them?

Jakob closes his eyes for a second, then gives the men at his side the sign to attack. They storm out of the forest, shouting; there’s a brief struggle, curses, swearing, and then the band of murderers is overwhelmed and disarmed. His eyes cold and scornful, Lettner looks at Jakob. Next to Lettner stand his two brothers, fat Friedrich and scrawny Karl-little Karl, who is still just a child, and a monster. How many of the new recruits at Jakob’s side will turn out like Karl?

“What’s this all about, sergeant?” Lettner asks. “Just having a little fun, that’s all. Let us go.”

“You were throwing dice for the women…”

“Why not? They’re only peasants. Who cares?”

“You threw dice for them, raped them, and then killed them…”

“There’s still some left. Help yourself, Jakob.”

Lettner grins, his white teeth shining like a wolf’s in the light of the fire. How often Jakob has seen this grin in the midst of battle, how often has he closed his eyes to it! Cowering in front of Lettner is a black-haired girl, her eyes glassy with fear beneath bushy eyebrows, a silent plea shining in them, her lips formed into a soft prayer.

She would have been next.

Jakob is overcome with fury like never before. From his pocket he fetches the dice carved from bone and presses them into Lettner’s hand.

“You’re on.”

“What do you mean?” Philipp Lettner looks at him in disbelief, his clear blue eyes flitting back and forth. He smells a trap.

“You’re going to play for your lives. Every third man hangs.”

“You goddamned bastard!”

Fat Friedrich jumps up to plunge his dagger into Jakob’s stomach. But the young sergeant dodges and strikes the fat combatant in the face with the pommel of his sword. He hits him over and over. Friedrich staggers toward a burning house, flailing his arms, trying to find something to hold on to, until at last he stumbles over the threshold and falls screaming into the raging inferno. Timbers begin crashing to the ground, and then there’s only silence.

Turning, Jakob approaches the campfire and points his sword first at Philipp Lettner, then at the dice.

“I said play.”

Suddenly he feels the black-haired girl looking at him. Her eyes are deep, murky whirlpools; they’re pulling him down, and he can’t tear his eyes from hers. A fire burns in the pit of his stomach, far hotter than the flames on the rooftops.

Only later, when the last bits of life twitch in the dangling legs as they sway gently in the breeze, when the final horrid scream has been carried off on the breeze, when he’s ridden away with her, far away, homeward, where there’s no more war-it’s only then, when he’s decided he’ll never be a mercenary again, that he learns her name.

Anna-Maria.

She will be his partner for life.

“Damn, Kuisl! What’s the matter with you? Wake up!”

The pain in his left shoulder brought Jakob Kuisl back to the present. Teuber had grabbed him and was now shaking him roughly.

“Wake up before that bastard rams his katzbalger straight through your stomach!”

Kuisl shook himself until his vision cleared. He looked up to find Philipp Lettner just a few steps away, his sword upraised and a smile still on his lips.

“Let him be, hangman,” Lettner purred almost tenderly. “It’s the memories taking hold of you, isn’t it, Jakob? All the dead who’ve paved your walk through life. Did you really think you could live happily ever after with your pretty farmer’s daughter in Schongau? No!” His voice suddenly turned sharp and cold, just as it had days ago in the torture chamber. “I swore revenge! I knew I would get a hold of you one day, and now that day has come!”

The hangman wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun was now directly above the little village, and its rays stung him like needles. His pain returned, bringing nausea with it.

“Why did you kill my sister?” he whispered. “Lisl did nothing to harm you.”

Philipp Lettner laughed out loud. “You fool!” he cried out. “You still don’t see, do you? It was your sister who led me to you! When it became clear her husband would have to die, I had to figure out how best to manage it. Only then did I come upon her maiden name, Kuisl.” He spat the name out like a mouthful of dirt. “So, naturally, I got a little inquisitive. The little woman was really fond of you; she loved to talk about you-your darling daughter and your oh-so-beloved Anna-Maria. After a while I realized the Lord above had given me a gift, an honest-to-God gift from heaven-you!” Lettner broke into shrill, almost feminine laughter as little tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes. But in the next moment he regained his composure.

“I am your destiny and your undoing,” he continued in a sharp voice. “I sent the letter to Schongau to lure you to Regensburg; I cut the throats of your sister and brother-in-law and devised this trap. I was the third inquisitor, and now I’m death staring you in the face.” He bowed like a tacky street magician and lunged with his katzbalger.

“Murder always takes two,” growled Teuber, who’d listened in silence till that point. “You’ll no doubt have an easy time of it with a sick man like Kuisl, but you forget you also have me to deal with.”

Lettner feigned astonishment. “Ah, so true, little hangman, I’d almost forgotten all about you.”

The raftmaster raised his left hand as if in a tentative greeting. Kuisl noticed a shadow in the church-tower window, then heard something whir through the air. A bolt from a crossbow struck Teuber in the chest and sent him tumbling backward, flailing his arms like a drowning man, his mouth wide open in a mute scream. He fell at last, like a tree crashing to the ground, and lay still, his huge chest rising and falling, staring quizzically up at the sky.

“Now it’s a fair fight, isn’t it, Jakob?” Lettner whispered. “Just you and me. Here in Weidenfeld. I hope you don’t mind if my brother Friedrich watches up there. He’s thought about you a lot these past years.”

Kuisl looked up to see a figure standing in the burned-out window of the ruined tower. The man, tall and broad, held a crossbow in his hands like a toy. This was the stranger he’d seen almost two weeks ago on the raft heading for Regensburg, his face deeply pitted and scarred.

It took Kuisl a while to realize that one of the scars was in fact his grinning mouth.

Simon struggled to breathe. The dirty rag Silvio Contarini had stuffed in his mouth stank of mold and mouse droppings, and his nose was congested with flour, causing him to sneeze over and over. Only with great effort was he able to turn his head enough to see what was happening around him.

Beside him lay Magdalena, also bound and gagged. A ways off, through clouds of chaff and flour, he saw the Venetian’s five helpers loading sacks onto a wagon parked in front of the mill. They’d spent the past few hours grinding the rest of the ergot to destroy all the evidence. Now, in the early afternoon, it was an oven inside the mill and the men’s shirts were soaked through with sweat. Clean and sharp in his red doublet, jacket, and hat, only Silvio seemed not to be sweating. He sat on a millstone biting his lip, looking increasingly nervous.

“I’m starting to think you’re right, Fronwieser,” Silvio said as he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of straw. “Even a clever little quack such as yourself couldn’t possibly have divined my plans, certainly not in so much detail. Gessner must have blabbed. Why in the world did I ever get involved with such an idiot! I curse the day I met him on my way to Vienna!” He turned his head to make sure none of the raftsmen were listening, then he whispered, “These freemen are nothing but a pack of crazy jackasses! And Gessner is the craziest of them all.”

All of a sudden the damp flour blocked Simon’s nostrils. Struggling for air, he drew frantic shallow breaths. He twitched and floundered until a sack of flour fell to the ground beside him. Surprised by the noise, Silvio glanced over at him but didn’t seem in any hurry to remove the gag. Instead, he sat still, observing Simon’s struggle with interest.

“How long can a man get by without air? What do you think, hmm? I should just let you suffocate here like a fish on dry land. Ever since you and la bella signorina came to town, everything’s been going to pieces. But I won’t allow you to destroy my plan!” He pounded on one of the sacks, sending up a white cloud around him. “Not you, and not that crazy Gessner, either!”

Simon couldn’t get any air at all now-the flour had completely plugged his nose. His eyes bulging, he started to turn blue while the Venetian stared off into the distance, seeming to have forgotten all about his prisoner for the moment.

“Gessner’s greatest achievement was talking that bathhouse owner, Hofmann, into joining in our cause,” he muttered. “A brilliant alchemist! He’d been studying poisonous plants for years, and without him we never could have produced such pure ergot!” The ambassador was almost gushing now. “Somehow that modest little bathhouse owner managed to get the fungus to coat almost the entire head of each plant. It was fantastic! But Hofmann’s conscience suddenly got the better of him, and he was about to spill the whole story to the city council.” Silvio took the straw from his mouth and ripped it into pieces. “We should have just slaughtered him like a dog in an alley! Quick and painless. A robbery that turned into a murder-no one would ever have suspected anything! But no, it had to be something elaborate…”

The medicus felt himself slowly losing consciousness as iridescent vapors swirled through his head. He could comprehend only fragments of the Venetian’s speech now.

“Gessner only learned by chance that Hofmann’s wife was the sister of his archenemy,” Silvio continued. “After that it was like he became a different person. He insisted that we write a letter to lure Kuisl to Regensburg, that we forge a will and pin the murder on him. God knows what the Schongau hangman did to Gessner during the war, but it was certainly enough to have turned him into a raging angel of vengeance all these years later. He talked me into it, spoke of his ingenious plan, but then the two of you showed up and-oh, is something wrong?”

“Mmmmmmmhhhhhh…”

As his consciousness faded, Simon tipped over onto a pile of flour alongside him, enveloping himself and Magdalena in plumes of dust that rose toward the ceiling. Silvio, irritated at first, stood up, sighing, and walked over to his captives.

“What do you think?” he said, turning to the hangman’s daughter, who stared up at him, her eyes wide with fear. “Shall we rid the world of this green-eyed little smart aleck? Or shall we allow him to pester us a bit longer?”

Magdalena writhed wildly. Gagged as she was, she seemed to be cursing fiercely.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Silvio said, gingerly removing the cloth from Simon’s mouth. Immediately the medicus gasped like a man saved from drowning, inhaling huge quantities of air. As the color slowly returned to his face, he lay on the floor, wheezing and unable to speak a word.

“Don’t think for a minute that you’ve thwarted my plans, Fronwieser!” the Venetian snarled. “A man like Silvio Contarini always has another card up his sleeve. Now I’ll just have to go back to my original plan. I didn’t care for it so much at first because it seemed it would call for many more lives to be lost, but now, unfortunately, I see no other choice.” He pointed to the five raftsmen, who had now loaded almost all the sacks onto the wagon. “At least Gessner left his men for me. We’ll take the ergot to a safe place until we can find a way to use it. And we’ll take la bella signorina along with us and destroy the remaining evidence.” Silvio smiled. “I’m sorry to say, you’re a piece of evidence. Arrivederci!”

He clapped his hands and turned to his helpers. “Hurry, before the guards show up! Aren’t you finished yet?”

The men nodded respectfully. Evidently the ignorant raftsmen were still convinced by Silvio’s plan. Simon assumed the Venetian had promised each a seat on the city council and at least his weight in gold.

“Now let’s bring this show to a close, il grande finale!”

Gesturing dramatically, Silvio approached a large wooden box attached to the wall at eye level and filled with flour. He slid open the bottom panel, emptying flour onto the floor and sending up an enormous cloud of dust that soon engulfed the entire mill. Simon could see only the Venetian’s shadowy outline next to the box, like a ghost enshrouded in fog. Two raftsmen grabbed Magdalena’s flailing form and carried her outside.

“Flour is wonderful stuff,” Silvio gushed. “You can bake bread with it, poison people, and even turn it into a bomb. The tiniest spark will cause this dust to explode. What you see here should be enough to blow up half the island. But, little bookworm that you are, you surely already knew that, didn’t you?”

Through the cloud of dust Simon watched the Venetian fetch a small trunk from behind a millstone. After opening it, he pulled out what at first glance looked like a long rope, but only after Silvio unrolled it did Simon realize what it really was.

A fuse.

“I found this thing right here, a while back,” Silvio said as he slowly laid the cord out along the floor and backed toward the door. “Along with a whole trunk of gunpowder and a dozen muskets. I assume soldiers must have left them here during the Great War. How nice that I’ve finally found a good use for them.”

From the doorway the Venetian looked back at his prisoner a last time.

Simon, meanwhile, had regained his speech. “Where-where are you taking Magdalena?” he gasped. “Where are you… taking all those sacks?”

Silvio smiled. “Well, man lives not by bread alone, isn’t that so? But I’m afraid you have other more pressing concerns at the moment.”

He fetched a box of matches from his pocket and shook it gently.

“At least you won’t suffer,” he said. “I can promise you that. The instant the spark touches this dust, the whole place will go up with a bang. And with all the gunpowder, it should put on a fireworks show for all of Regensburg.” He bowed slightly. “Enjoy your flight.”

Stepping outside, he gave the raftsmen the order to depart. The wagon groaned under its weight as it began to move forward. And as the sound of the wagon faded away, a softer sound reached Simon’s ears.

The hiss of the burning fuse.