The Beggar King

14

REGENSBURG

NOON, AUGUST 26, 1662 AD

The Raftmaster’s attack was so sudden that Kuisl didn’t turn aside until the last moment. The sun was shining straight into his eyes, forcing him to squint and rely on instinct alone. As Kuisl dodged to the left, he felt the katzbalger whiz by just inches from his face. At his feet lay Teuber, the bolt through his chest, his shirt soaked in blood, staring glassy-eyed at the two combatants.

Kuisl reached for the old, beat-up rapier on his belt. From the corner of his eye he could see Lettner preparing for another attack. The hangman unsheathed his weapon just as the raftmaster came at him from the left, where Kuisl was exposed. The rapier and the katzbalger met with a loud clatter in the air, and the battle raged back and forth.

Kuisl could feel sweat streaming down his back, fever pulsing through his body, and his left arm hanging down like a dead tree branch. Had he been in better condition, he might have been a match for Philipp Lettner. Kuisl had always been the stronger of the two, but his former second in command was known to compensate for this deficiency with excessive cruelty. Now, weakened from torture, however, the hangman was hopelessly outmatched. The last twenty-five years hadn’t softened or fattened Philipp but had made him as sinewy and hard as a polished walnut. To make matters worse, his brother was still lingering up in the steeple, his eyes flashing down on the two opponents. His crossbow lay in arm’s reach on the windowsill, and Kuisl assumed the enormous man could load it again in no time.

“Does my brother frighten you?” Philipp Lettner bared his white teeth. Relentlessly he forced Kuisl toward the church with his katzbalger. “Don’t forget, Friedrich is a monster of your own creation. You thought he’d burned to death back then in that farmhouse, didn’t you? But my brother is strong-strong and tough, just like all Lettners. He fought his way out of the smoking ruins and pulled me down from the tree, after your hasty departure, that is. But for Karl, our youngest, help came too late. This is for Karl.”

Kuisl didn’t notice Lettner draw a dagger from his belt and prepare to strike the hangman’s stomach. Only at the last moment did Kuisl knock the blade aside with his left arm, causing severe pain to return to his shoulder. When Kuisl’s vision went black, he had to kick blindly at his opponent, striking him in the stomach. Moaning, Lettner staggered backward, stumbling over the crumbling ruin of a farmhouse wall.

Without pausing, the hangman took advantage of the unexpected reprieve and ran toward the ruined church. If he was to stand any chance at all against the mercenary, it would be with a surprise attack. Perhaps there was a hiding place in the church ruins, somewhere he could seek cover.

The ruins were enveloped in a muted light that filtered through partially collapsed roof beams, where swallows and pigeons had come to nest. Ivy wound like a venomous snake around what remained of the nave’s left aisle. The right wing was in better shape; a charred, life-size wooden cross still hung on the wall there. But there, too, the church windows were like lifeless black eyes, overgrown with blackberry bushes that allowed only a glimmer of light to penetrate. Moldy leaves fluttered down from the ceiling, and Kuisl could hear bees buzzing about somewhere.

Toward the front Kuisl discovered a stone altar that, absent its altar cloth, Eucharist monstrance, and gilded finery, looked like the sacrificial stage for some pagan rite. The hangman ran and crouched behind it to catch his breath, his back tucked against the side facing away from the pews.

Soon Kuisl heard footsteps, though he didn’t realize at first that they came not from the entrance but from the church spire. Pressed tight against the altar’s edge, he peered into the right aisle, toward the crumbling door of the steeple ruins, just as an enormous figure emerged from behind a pile of moss-covered rocks.

It was Friedrich Lettner.

The man aimed his loaded crossbow straight at the altar. Kuisl ducked as a bolt whizzed within millimeters of his nose, boring into the wall next to him and sending shards of stone flying in all directions.

“You know something, Kuisl? My brother shouldn’t get to have all the fun for himself, now should he?” Friedrich’s deep voice echoed through the ruined church. “I’ll nail you to the cross with these bolts, then burn the eyes out of your head. Too bad the Regensburg executioner won’t be able to watch. I’ll bet he’s never seen a torture technique like that.” Kuisl heard a soft creak-one he’d heard many times before-the sound of the crossbow crank as Friedrich Lettner loaded a new bolt.

“How long I’ve waited for this moment, Kuisl!” Friedrich said as he casually turned the crank. “Philipp didn’t think I should take the raft back to Regensburg with you; he thought you might recognize me. But someone had to deliver the letter, after all. And besides…” His laughter was harsh, almost a rattle, as if the flames from that farmhouse long ago had scarred his throat as well. “The way I look, my own mother wouldn’t even recognize me.”

“Shut your mouth, Friedrich! You talk too much!” It was the voice of Philipp Lettner, who had entered the church in the meanwhile. He held his hand to his hip, and his face was contorted with pain; he’d apparently injured himself falling over the wall outside. “Load your crossbow. The dog may be cornered, but he’s still dangerous.”

Grumbling something incomprehensible, Friedrich began to crank the crossbow again.

As another wave of fever washed over him, Kuisl considered his options here behind the altar. He’d run straight into their trap! Once Friedrich’s bow was readied-no more than a few moments from now-Philipp would flush him out from behind the altar like a rat. The hangman had no doubt the bolt would hit its mark this time. Friedrich made quite clear with his first shot that he hadn’t forgotten how to wield a crossbow. Kuisl bit his lip; the fever had made him very agitated. He had little time before his fate would be sealed, by either the crossbow or the katzbalger.

Is this the end? he thought. Here, where my new life began, will it also come to an end?

Again he risked a glance from behind the altar. Philipp Lettner waited at the church door with sword raised. Friedrich, still cranking his crossbow, would be ready in a matter of moments. Kuisl studied Friedrich’s face, ravaged by fire, a face he last saw on the trip to Regensburg. The skin had congealed into a hard mass like the burned, cracked bark of an oak, but the eyes behind it remained the same-cold, blue, evil. All around Friedrich wasps were buzzing, evidently disturbed by the commotion in the ruin. They were exceptionally large, black and yellow, and their wings shimmered in the midday sun.

Wasps?

Only now did Kuisl realize these weren’t wasps at all but mean-looking hornets, each grown to nearly the length of a man’s finger. They buzzed about Friedrich’s scabby nose, and again and again the mercenary had to interrupt his cranking to swat them away. Where were they all coming from?

Kuisl’s gaze wandered along the wall, over the ivy- and moss-covered stones, until he spotted the nest. It hung from the ceiling, hidden among charred beams and blackberry bushes.

Directly above Friedrich.

“Goddamn it, how long is that going to take?” Philipp Lettner said angrily. “Can’t you see we’ve got him holed up behind the altar like a wounded boar? We’ve got to drive him out of there together.”

“Just one second,” Friedrich replied. “The bowstring is so taut the bolt could pass straight through three men like a knife through butter. I just have to-”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Like an avenging angel, Kuisl rose up behind the altar and hurled a fist-size rock at the hornets’ nest. The stone made a direct hit, and the nest swayed and finally fell to the ground at Friedrich’s feet, where it burst open like a full wine pouch.

Hundreds of furious hornets swarmed out and enveloped Friedrich Lettner in a dark, tremulous lethal cloud. With a shout he dropped the crossbow and raised his hands to cover his face, but the hornets were already busily exploring his scars.

The seething black-and-yellow mass stung the man’s face over and over.

Simon heard the fuse crackle as it burned inexorably toward the entrance to the mill. Through a crack in the door he thought he could see the gleam of gunpowder about to ignite. Having reached the door, the spark traveled now along the fuse toward the pile of flour, wood shavings, and small boards Silvio had positioned at the end of the cord.

In desperation the medicus thrashed about, but his bonds wouldn’t give a fraction of an inch. He tried to slither to the door, only to find the Venetian had also tethered him to a beam. The rope jerked him back, and he collapsed, exhausted. Flour drifted like a white fog among the remaining barrels, sacks, and crates, one of which-Simon was painfully aware-contained several pounds of gunpowder just waiting to explode.

“Help! Doesn’t anyone hear me?” he croaked hoarsely, though he knew it was pointless. The rumbling and pounding of the Wohrd mill wheels would drown out even the loudest shout. Though the huge grain mill still ground away, in just a few moments it would burst with a single thunderous clap-likely the last sound the medicus would ever hear.

But maybe it won’t explode at all, Simon thought. Maybe it will just catch fire and I’ll burn to death, slowly. If I don’t suffocate first, that is… Good Lord, at least let the mill blow up and spare me the longer agony.

By now sparks had eaten their way along the fuse into the mill proper. The dust was so thick Simon could hear the crackling flame better than he could see it.

Now… The time is at hand.

With a loud crash the door swung open. The air was too thick to see exactly who was there, but Simon could make out an oddly familiar figure through the haze.

“Dzoo have any idea what cheeth like that cosht?” the voice lisped. “I should really let you roasht right here, but then who’d fix my cheeth?”

“Nathan!” Simon shouted. “Good God, Nathan, here I am! The fuse! Everything’s about to blow up!”

“Then we chuddn’t waysht any chime!”

With a little knife, the beggar king severed the rope that bound Simon to the beam. Then he grabbed the medicus, threw him over his shoulder, and made for the exit. Stooped and groaning, he cleared the door and staggered another dozen steps before tossing his heavy bundle roughly behind a pile of boards.

“Ouch,” Simon shouted. “Watch what you’re doing! You want to break all my-?”

At that very moment a loud explosion shook the entire island with such force the medicus was temporarily deafened. Entranced, he watched an enormous fireball rise into the sky. Splinters of wood and stone-even entire sections of walls-flew through the air above him. The blast was so strong that even behind the pile of boards where he crouched, Nathan was blown back like a frail sapling. Hot air smothered them like a dragon’s deadly breath as beams and boards rained down on them.

“Quick, letch’s get out of here,” Nathan cried into the deadly storm. His voice was muffled, as if he were shouting through a heavy woolen blanket.

“How?” Simon shouted back. “I’m still tied up!”

Cursing loudly, the beggar king lifted him onto his shoulder again and carried him away from the fire. Hidden behind a hazelnut bush at a safe distance, they watched the conflagration. The mill was no more than a pile of rubble now, and flames rose high in the air like a bonfire on Saint John’s Eve. Even here, more than a hundred paces away, the heat was palpable.

“How-how did you find me?” Simon finally gasped after what seemed an eternity.

“I knew… damn!” Nathan poked around in his mouth for a while until he seemed half satisfied. “My people were watching you as you left for the Wohrd and alerted me right away,” he said, more clearly now. “Actually I put a price on your head. No one who punches Nathan the Wise in the face goes unpunished!” He mockingly wagged his finger at Simon, but his eyes were cool, almost threatening. “And then I was rather curious about what you might be doing down here in secret all by yourself, so I sent the boys home and followed you myself. Even a blind man could read your tracks in the sawdust. And what do I find here? This Venetian ambassador fleeing with a loaded wagon and my trusted medicus nearly blown to pieces in Regensburg’s largest mill. An explanation is in order, at the very least.”

“And if I don’t feel like explaining?” Simon replied.

Nathan shrugged. “Then I’ll toss you back into the fire, trussed up as you are. You’re not in a very good position to negotiate, are you?”

“Very well, then.” Simon sighed. “I know now what’s so special about this powder and why everyone’s been trying to get their hands on it. You probably already know the secret, too.”

He then told the beggar king all he’d learned. Nathan listened attentively, but his face betrayed nothing. When Simon finished, the leader of the Regensburg beggars just stood there for a long time, picking his nose. “As God is my witness, that’s the most insane plan I ever heard,” he muttered finally, counting off on his fingers the puzzling series of events. “So, this madman wants to poison the entire Reichstag-”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re so surprised to hear all this!” Simon interrupted angrily. “I’m sure you knew even before I did what this powder was! I know you’re in league with the various factions at large in the city. Tell me, who ordered you to spy on us?”

Nathan raised his eyebrows, amused. “Ah, so that’s why you left so hastily! I should have guessed.” He raised his hand in a solemn oath. “I swear by Saint Martin, patron saint of beggars, I had no idea about any of this. Anyway, this is hardly the time for sermons.” He pointed at the burning remains of the mill. Guards who had begun to arrive from the Stone Bridge were immobilized at the sight of the catastrophe. It was far too late to save the mill; all that could be done now was to prevent the fire from spreading to the surrounding buildings.

“It’s only a matter of time before that pack of morons over there discovers us,” the beggar king said. “As far as they’re concerned, you’ve already set fire to half the city, and if they find you here now, you’ll most certainly be eviscerated, drawn, quartered, and burned as the infamous Regensburg arsonist. At least this way you’d go down in the city’s history, and in a few hundred years people will probably still be reading about you. That’s something to consider.”

Simon, lost in thought, mumbled something unintelligible.

“What are you muttering about?” Nathan asked. “Didn’t you hear me? We’ve got to get away from here as fast as we can!”

“I’m wondering where Silvio may have taken Magdalena and the ergot,” Simon said softly. “He was talking about some alternative plan, one that would claim far more victims. What the devil could that be?”

“Maybe he wants to make some other use of the ergot,” Nathan replied with a shrug. “He could slip it into wine or beer, or God knows what else.”

Simon shook his head. “With wine or beer, he’d have to find a willing brewer or vintner to play along, and that’s much too risky. Things didn’t work out too well with Master Baker Haberger, as you know. It has to be something much simpler. But what?”

He paused, trying to recall Silvio’s last words as he left Simon to die in the mill. What was it again the Venetian had said exactly?

Man does not live by bread alone…

What do humans need to survive? Something to eat, a roof over their heads, a fire for warmth, water…

Water.

Simon slapped his forehead. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “Everyone in Regensburg needs water! For washing, drinking, brewing… Silvio intends to dump the ergot into the city wells-it’s the only way he can really be sure everyone in the Reichstag will come into contact with it!”

Nathan shook his head, thinking. “How can he do that?” he wondered. “There are wells all over Regensburg. Will he go to each one individually and pour his poison in? Somebody would surely notice that.”

“Of course not! He’ll have to introduce the ergot into the water before it gets to the wells…” Simon stopped for a moment, then asked excitedly, “Is there a spring somewhere around here that could be the city water supply? A reservoir? An aquifer perhaps?”

“I don’t know about an aquifer,” Nathan replied. “But-”

“What is it? Speak up!”

The beggar king’s mouth stretched into a broad grin, and his one remaining crooked gold tooth sparkled in the midday sun. “Of course, it’s a real possibility. This Venetian is a sly old fox indeed.”

“What do you mean?” Simon asked. “Magdalena’s life is at stake! Speak up before I throttle you!”

Nathan gave the medicus a look of pity. “How will you do that, seeing as you’re tied up?”

He bent down to Simon. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll untie you and tell you where Silvio took your sweetheart. But in return, when this is all over, you’ll have a look at my teeth and make them look exactly as before. Promise?”

“I’ll personally make you a brand-new set of teeth, if necessary,” Simon promised. “Now cut these damned ropes!”

Magdalena heard the explosion as the wagon was rumbling over the Stone Bridge. Bound and gagged, she lay among sacks in the middle of the wagon and winced when she heard the first earsplitting sound. Something in her snapped.

God! Simon! she thought. It can’t be! Not Simon, not after everything we’ve been through together!

To the last second she’d been hoping for a miracle; she’d prayed to each of the Fourteen Holy Helpers to intercede, to keep the mill from exploding, but her miracle hadn’t happened. The building had erupted around her beloved Simon, with whom she had fled to Regensburg to live and grow old.

Why in God’s name did we ever leave home?

Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat, flour, and soil, while all around her shouts went up. Even under the sacks she could hear the muffled babble of many voices and the pounding of men’s feet as they ran to the bridge railing to gape at the crackling, fiery drama.

“It’s the big grain mill on the Wohrd!” Magdalena could hear someone shout. “I bet the flour exploded. My grandfather once told me about something like that happening…”

“No doubt the miller was drunk again…”

“He was smoking! That new, hellish tobacco they’re importing! Lit his pipe and blew himself straight up to heaven, along with home and grain.”

“Step aside, folks! A shipment for city hall, make way!”

The last voice belonged to Silvio, who shouted and cracked his whip as he tried to get through the gathering crowd. Magdalena had heard him bribe the watchman at the ramp with a handful of clinking coins. The people up here were so busy watching and gossiping about the catastrophe that the large wagon barely attracted any attention.

They weren’t stopped at the gate leading from the bridge into the city, either. As the wagon rumbled on through the streets and alleys, Magdalena heard the occasional sound of marching feet-presumably guards rushing to the Wohrd from all parts of the city-and bells ringing somewhere. No one seemed interested in the overloaded wagon carrying Silvio and the five raftsmen. Once in a while a hand pressed to Magdalena’s mouth-apparently to check that she was still breathing-then took the opportunity to grope her breasts or her legs or tighten her bonds.

Finally the wagon came to a halt. Magdalena tried to guess where they were, based on the sounds around them, but except for distant voices and bells she heard nothing. Her whole body itched; bugs crawled through her hair. She couldn’t move a muscle. She lay there like a living sack of grain, breathing in dust, flour, and ground ergot.

“Haaaalt! In the name of the city, come down from the wagon!”

It was the commanding voice of a gate guard, clearly used to giving orders and having them heeded, too. Magdalena held her breath. Could he be her salvation? Perhaps one of the raftsmen had told them, and now the entire city was looking for the poison!

“What is this all about?” Silvio asked indignantly. “Don’t you see we’re in a hurry? Open the gate!”

“I’m sorry, but we have to search every wagon leaving the city,” the watchman replied. “The Regensburg monster has escaped, the one responsible for the double murder in the Wei?gerbergraben. We’ve got to be sure he doesn’t flee the city.”

Magdalena clenched her fists. At least they hadn’t caught her father yet! But why was Silvio trying to leave the city with the wagon? She’d assumed they were on their way to city hall or perhaps the Heuport House. What could the Venetian do with the poisoned flour outside of town?

“A worthy task, constable,” Silvio replied, now distinctly more polite. “But with me that’s really not necessary. My men loaded the sacks themselves. Do you think the Venetian ambassador would provide cover for a murderer?” He laughed softly, and again Magdalena heard coins clinking.

“I–I-didn’t recognize you,” the guard gasped. “Excuse me, Your Eminence. But this is just a modest little wagon, and I would have expected you-”

“A little unannounced trip to the country; I do like to see what my servants are up to. Now would you please let us pass?”

“Well… naturally, Your Excellency. And a good day to you!”

The wagon rolled on again while Magdalena cursed through her gag. That was her last chance! Silvio would soon be force-feeding her the ergot, and what awaited her then? She thought of Resl, the maid of Schongau baker Berchtholdt, imprisoned in her own nightmares, her limbs turning black, crying and howling until the dear Lord released her from her pain at last.

Would that be her fate as well?

After about another quarter-hour the wagon stopped and the raftsmen climbed down, whispering softly to one another. Evidently they’d reached their destination. Bags were hastily offloaded and carried away. Squinting at the blinding sunlight, Magdalena took a while to recognize Silvio standing over her, smiling.

“If you could promise me you’d be quiet, I just might be persuaded to remove your gag,” he said, pushing a lock of sweaty, matted hair from her face. He plucked a bug from her hair and crushed it between his fingers. “Do you think that’s possible?”

Magdalena nodded silently. When the Venetian untied the knot behind her head and pulled the gag out of her mouth, she spat in his face.

“Murderer, damn you! You’ve killed Simon! For that you’ll roast a thousand years in hell. I’ll rip your puny balls right off, I’ll-mmmmhhhh!”

Silvio forced the gag back into her mouth. “That wasn’t our agreement,” he whispered. “So once again, will you keep silent?”

Tears of anger welled up in Magdalena’s eyes, but she nodded a second time. When Silvio removed the dirty rag again, she kept quiet.

“Take this stubborn woman down below!” Silvio ordered. One of the raftsmen tossed Magdalena over his shoulder like just another sack of flour and climbed down from the wagon, panting.

Though she was upside down now, the hangman’s daughter could see that the wagon had come to rest on a wide road that wound through fields and meadows. The city wall lay less than a half-mile behind them. Nearby, on a hill that rose over rolling meadows, stood a strange, three-legged structure. Lifeless bodies hung from it, swaying in the gentle summer breeze. Despite the midsummer heat, Magdalena shivered.

My God, the Regensburg gallows hill! What do these insane men intend to do with me?

But the raftsman headed off in another direction entirely, along a little path where bushes, red poppies, and yellow broom grew wild, toward a stone staircase that led underground. Silvio, who was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs, opened a heavy iron door and bowed slightly as Magdalena entered a dark room on the raftsman’s back.

“After you, bella donna,” he purred. “Welcome to your new home. You’ll be spending the next several days and weeks here. It may be a bit damp, but we all must make some sacrifices in the name of science, mustn’t we?”

They were standing in a subterranean room built of huge stone blocks and filled with the sound of splashing water. The broad-shouldered raftsman set Magdalena down roughly on a stone bench and lit a torch. Only now could she see that the splashing came from a small waterfall that cascaded down the wall and emptied into a shallow basin at the back of the room. Stone tablets were mounted on the walls, but it was too dark to read the inscriptions. Behind the basin an arched passageway led to another vaulted area from which a loud rushing sound emanated.

Working silently, the five raftsmen carried the bags of flour past her and Silvio, through the knee-deep basin and into the rear vault. When they finished, the Venetian signaled to them.

“Stand guard up above. Only Jeremias will stay with us.” He pointed at a hefty raftsman to their left, who nodded politely and planted himself next to Magdalena with arms crossed. “Just in case you should refuse to take your water cure,” he reassured the hangman’s daughter. “As you know, patients can be a bit uncooperative at times.”

With a creak, the iron door swung closed.

“Don’t worry.” The Venetian fetched a tin cup from his pocket. “You won’t have to eat any flour. You’ll drink the ergot diluted with water. Sadly, I can’t offer you wine, as that would distort the effect.” Silvio took out a silver teaspoon, scooped some flour from an open sack, and stirred the pale blue powder into the cup.

“We still don’t know exactly how strong the poison is in humans,” he declared, “and above all, how fast it acts. If we dilute the ergot with well water rather than baking it into bread, it will presumably take effect later.” He sniffed the cup and shrugged. “We expect the Reichstag to last a few weeks, and that should give us enough time. For you that means, unfortunately, the experiment may be a bit prolonged, but your hallucinations promise to be quite interesting in such an environment. May I?” Silvio set the cup down, pulled out a dagger, and with a flourish cut the ropes binding Magdalena’s feet. “Since you’ll be here a few weeks, you ought to be allowed to move about freely at least. You simply must have a look around your new home. It’s really… well, come see for yourself.”

Silvio climbed over the edge of the basin and waded toward the dark vault in the back.

He really intends to lock me in this place for the next few weeks and force me to drink cup after cup of this damned ergot! Magdalena thought. She closed her eyes, hoping to suppress her growing panic. The noise of rushing water was already getting on her nerves, and the echo in the underground vault intensified the volume until it sounded like a single towering waterfall.

How long will it take the nightmares to overwhelm me? And what will they be like down here, in this pit?

Magdalena decided to keep quiet and followed the Venetian and his stocky companion into the vault in back. She ducked under the low archway, then took an involuntary step backward.

The room was gigantic.

Torches illuminated a narrow corridor at regular intervals until, past where the eye could see, the light was swallowed in darkness. The vault had to be over a half-mile long. Water shimmered across the floor, but she couldn’t tell how deep it might be. Even more water streamed into the basin from holes and pipes in the wall-some small, some large-and the sound of splashing filled the room, echoing from the walls and ceiling. To either side, more than two dozen flour sacks were lined neatly along narrow elevated ledges.

“Welcome to your new home,” Silvio shouted over the roar. “The entire world drinks from this spring!”

He ordered Jeremias to hand him the tin cup, then pointed at the sacks. “We’ll store the ergot here until the Reichstag begins, and then we’ll slowly start dissolving the thirty one-hundred-pound bags in the water. You needn’t be afraid that anyone will find you down here, since I’m the only one with a key. And now…” With a solemn gesture Silvio held the cup under a small stream. Carefully he swirled the water to dissolve the ergot, then put the cup to Magdalena’s lips. “It’s time for our experiment. One cup a day. Be good now, and drink up.”

With her hands still bound, Magdalena turned her head from side to side. Nevertheless, Jeremias held her in his viselike grip while Silvio maneuvered the cup.

“Oh, by the way…” Silvio was speaking almost directly into her ear now. “I do hope very much that your visions are not all gloomy and gruesome. I’ve heard ergot can stimulate physical desire. If that’s the case, do let me know. I’d be glad to share a few dreams with you.”

The cup had reached Magdalena’s lips.

Screaming, Friedrich Lettner writhed on the floor of the ruined church as hornets swarmed over his face and upper body. He thrashed about as if possessed, crushing dozens of the insects in his swollen hands, even as new ones kept coming.

Meanwhile Kuisl sought shelter behind the altar, out of sight of the angry hornets. Leaning against the huge stone slab, he peered out to observe an utterly bewildered Philipp Lettner. Only after a few moments did the raftmaster run toward Friedrich and attempt to swat the hornets away from his brother’s shirt collar. But in doing so he was stung several times himself.

“Damn you, Kuisl!” Philipp Lettner shouted, waving his katzbalger through the air as if warding off invisible ghosts. “Damn you and your whole clan! Damn you forever!”

Kuisl had no time to waste now. Sword raised, he ran toward his opponent, who was still preoccupied with the hornets circling around him while trying to help his brother. The raftmaster cast an irritated sidelong glance at Kuisl, then, with a growl, left Friedrich to his own devices as he prepared himself for battle. A cloud of hornets circled his head and clouded his vision.

“You damned son of a whore!” Lettner shouted, brushing away a few angry buzzing insects with his left hand. “For this, Jakob, I’ll slit your belly open and hang your entrails from the church steeple.”

“Spare the talk and fight, will you?”

Without another word, Kuisl lunged at his enemy. He felt the hornets sting his arms, face, and back, but the pain was eclipsed by his fever and the excitement of battle. The hangman was horrified to realize that the clanging swords aroused something like lust in him.

Just as before… the smell of blood, the screams of dying men. It’s like a fog that suddenly engulfs a man-only much clearer…

He could see Philipp Lettner clearly in front of him now, but the former mercenary’s movements seemed strangely slow. Kuisl lunged with his sword, flailing away at his opponent, who continued to retreat, for the first time with fear in his eyes. Finally Lettner’s back was to the wall, and the two warriors stood face-to-face, less than an inch apart, with crossed swords.

“The letter in the bishop’s palace,” Kuisl gasped. “What was that sentence supposed to mean? Did you really think I would believe such utter nonsense?”

Philipp Lettner’s eyes lit up as he flashed his wolfish grin again.

“It’s the truth, just as sure as I’m standing here before you!” With great effort the raftmaster forced Kuisl’s sword a hand’s width to the side. “I had to make only a few quick calculations. I learned from the Venetian how old your daughter is-twenty-four! Barely a year before that, late in the fall, we were here in Weidenfeld. Your Anna had screamed at the time, but believe me, Jakob, they were screams of desire.”

“You dirty lying bastard!” Anger blinded Kuisl like a corrosive poison. Over and over a line flashed through his mind, a line from the letter slipped into his pocket just the night before in the bishop’s palace… That one line hurt more than all the torture he’d experienced in the Regensburg dungeon.

Kiss my daughter Magdalena for me… her mother tasted like a sweet ripe plum…

“Bastard!”

Kuisl shoved Lettner so hard he cried out in surprise as he staggered back to the wall. This put the raftmaster just beyond Kuisl’s reach, so Lettner took a deep breath, planted his feet firmly, and braced himself for the next attack. Scornfully he spat on the ground and swung the katzbalger through the air while his brother still rolled around on the ground, howling.

“I may be a dirty bastard,” Philipp Lettner whispered, “but I’m not a liar. I took Anna-Maria like a steer takes a cow. And what do I learn all these years later? That shortly after our rendezvous pretty little Anna was pregnant. What a coincidence!” He licked his lips and giggled. “Take another look at your daughter, Jakob! How could she not be mine? Her soft eyes; her matted, always-snarled hair; her full lips. She doesn’t take after you at all, does she?”

“She takes after her mother,” Kuisl said between clenched teeth as doubts started to grow in his mind. Anna-Maria never told him the name of the village she came from, and that was likely why he’d forgotten the name Weidenfeld completely. He knew she’d experienced horrible things there, but just what and how horrible these things were she’d never said.

She tasted like a sweet ripe plum…

Blood-red spots appeared before Kuisl’s eyes and his head began to spin.

I can’t let him get to me, he thought. He wants me to lose control… But why else would Anna have never spoken about it? Her sad face, when I took my baby girl in my arms and sang her to sleep… I can’t let him get to me…

“She’s my daughter,” the hangman replied flatly. “My daughter, my-”

“Maybe you’re right,” Lettner interrupted. “Perhaps she isn’t mine after all. Or maybe she is.” He chuckled. “You know something funny? A while ago, in the bathhouse, I very nearly burned her alive, along with that little quack. I was there just to cover my own tracks. When someone came in, I hid up in the attic but later ran down to smoke the intruders out of the cellar. By God, I didn’t know it was Magdalena at the time, but when the Venetian told me about it the next morning, I really did feel bad.” The raftmaster laughed loudly. “Whether you believe me or not, I like the girl; I feel close to her. I could have killed her a dozen times, but I didn’t. And do you know why? Because I know I’m her father.”

“Never!” the hangman yelled. “You-you damned liar!”

Philipp Lettner sighed theatrically. “Oh, Jakob, why must you be so pigheaded? Let’s agree that Magdalena has two fathers. That’s more than fair, isn’t it?” He snickered when he saw Kuisl clutching his sword so hard the blood drained from his fingers.

“I’ve sown doubt in your mind, haven’t I?” the raftmaster said. “I’ve given you a wound that will never heal. From now on, whenever you look at your daughter, you’ll see my face, too. That’s my revenge. Now, fight!” Philipp Lettner rushed the hangman like a man possessed, his teeth bared, holding the katzbalger out in front of him.

Kuisl lowered his sword feebly to the ground and, with a vacant look in his eyes, awaited the final blow.

“How long will it take us to get to this damned wellspring?” Simon asked Nathan, gasping as they hurried along the low corridor. “That madman may already be forcing ergot down Magdalena’s throat!”

Just as they had the last time they visited the Wohrd together, the beggar and the medicus made their way through the underwater tunnel connecting the city with the island. Foul water stood knee-deep in places in the muddy passageway, and falling bits of stone kept reminding Simon that only a thin wall of rock, clay, and dirt separated them from the Danube. And the decrepit bricks and beams of the ceiling weren’t reassuring.

Stooping, the beggar king ran ahead, carrying a lantern that bobbed like a will-o’-the-wisp lighting the way. Nevertheless, Simon managed to stumble several times. At one point his boot stuck on a half-submerged stone, toppling him over into cold brown muck. Grinning, Nathan held the lantern up to the medicus’s mud-splattered face.

“If you keep doing that, we’re never going to get there,” he squawked, his voice still hoarse from all the smoke at the mill. “The wellspring and the new chamber they’ve built around it lie to the south of the city, in the fields near the gallows hill. We still have quite a ways to go.”

“Near the gallows hill?” Simon asked as he stood up again and wiped off his jacket as best he could. “Not exactly the ideal place for a freshwater spring, is it? Are you really certain we’ll find them there?”

Nodding, Nathan marched ahead with the lantern. “Quite sure. The well chamber at Pruller Heights was built only a few years ago. It feeds into the fountain on Haid Square, as well as the bishop’s palace, but most importantly, it feeds into city hall. If someone wishes to poison the Reichstag, that’s where he’ll be. Ouch!” He bumped his head on a jagged rock on the low ceiling. “Moreover, our dear Venetian friend will be absolutely undisturbed there. Except for a fountain guard, no one has access to the chamber. As far as I know, it’s under lock and key. And because it lies deep underground, Silvio can store the stuff there for months and simply pour his poison slowly into the spring.”

“A perfect place to imprison and poison someone with ergot over the coming days and weeks,” Simon mused. “Come, we must hurry!”

“Don’t worry. And if you didn’t have to lie down and take your mud baths all the time, we’d be there faster,” Nathan replied.

Finally they reached the end of the tunnel. As before, they climbed a matted fishnet like a rope ladder to a hole in the ceiling. They emerged at last into the roomy trunk that smelled as badly of fish now as it had a few days ago.

When Nathan opened the lid, fresh air rushed in. Simon eagerly took several deep breaths before he ventured a look outside. Barrels, bales, and crates towered all around them, and in the distance they could hear shouting. Every now and again it sounded as though someone passed close by.

Nathan whistled between his fingers, and shortly thereafter they heard a whistled reply. The beggar king nodded contentedly.

“Good fellows,” he said. “Told them to wait here for me. The men will be glad to see you again-most of them, in any case.”

Simon swallowed hard. Soon Hans Reiser, Brother Paulus, and two other beggars emerged from behind the barrels, waving and grinning when they caught sight of Simon. Hans Reiser, whose eyes were apparently fully healed now, spread his arms wide to welcome the medicus.

“Simon!” he cried out. “You just up and left us and knocked out the king’s teeth to boot! That’s no way to behave! And where have you left Magdalena?”

“This isn’t the time for long explanations,” Nathan said. “I’ve forgiven Simon and his girl. Everything else I’ll tell you along the way.” He looked around. “Where are Trembling Johann and Lame Hannes?”

“Down at the tavern by the Stone Bridge,” Hans replied. “A great day for thieves. The mill on the Wohrd is burning, and everyone’s standing there gawking at it and-”

“I know,” the beggar king snapped. “Quit blathering and get the others. We’ll all meet outside Peter’s Gate. Now, get moving.”

Hans headed off with a shrug, while Simon hurried through the city with the other four. As word spread around town that the Wohrd was on fire, people came running from every direction to congregate on the raft landing, making it difficult for the ragged band of beggars to navigate the narrow streets. But no one stopped them, and not a single person wasted so much as a glance on Simon.

How comforting! I look just like one of them, he thought as he glanced down at his wet, mud-stained jacket and sighed. When this is all over, I’ll be lucky if the beggars let me sleep at Neupfarr Church Square and maybe bring me a piece of stale bread now and then.

Soon they arrived on the other side of the city at Peter’s Gate, where guards were still searching farmers’ wagons. By now Nathan had told the other beggars all that had happened at the mill. Whistling cheerfully, he turned left toward a tumbledown shed that leaned against the city wall, looking as if it might collapse at any moment.

Carefully the beggar king opened its rotten wooden door and motioned to the others to follow. Inside, Simon was astonished to find a narrow door in the city wall just wide enough for one man to pass through. Nathan tapped on the door-two long knocks and three short-and soon a bearded, boozy-eyed guard appeared.

“So many of you?” the man asked, assessing the group with bloodshot eyes. “This will cost you extra.” Suspiciously he eyed Simon, who just stood there, soaking wet and trembling. “You look somehow familiar to me. Where-”

“This is Quivering August,” Nathan interjected, pressing a few dirty coins into the hand of the confused guard. “He just joined us, the poor old dog. He has the English sweating sickness and probably won’t last long.”

The guard stepped back a pace in horror. “Good Lord, Nathan! Couldn’t you have told me that sooner? Get out of town, and take your infected friends with you!”

The man crossed himself and spat. Giggling, the beggars stepped out into the turnip and wheat fields that bordered the city wall. The door slammed shut behind them.

“These one-man doors are a wonderful invention!” Nathan gushed, as they turned southward onto a broad highway. When they spotted Hans and two other beggars waiting for them in a radiant field of wheat, Simon assumed they’d made it out of the city through a similar door.

“Anyone can leave the city, any time of day or night, if he pays enough,” the beggar king told Simon as they continued on. “That is, if he’s not wanted for murders or intending to poison the Reichstag. But even then, if the price is right-I love this city!”

He spread his arms to heaven and, still whistling, set out at the head of the strange retinue-a dirty, ragged band of men, some hobbling, some babbling, but all determined to save the great city of Regensburg from destruction.

It seemed as if Philipp Lettner had pronounced a curse on Jakob Kuisl that made his arms and legs as heavy as lead.

The pain returned to the hangman’s left shoulder, compounded by the hornet stings on his back and face. He staggered backward, raising his right hand mechanically to ward off his opponent’s blows, but it was only a matter of time before Lettner would find an opening and deal him a coup de grace.

Friedrich Lettner still lay on the floor in the middle of the church, gasping for air. The hornet stings seemed to affect the broad-shouldered giant much more than his slender brother. Friedrich’s hands had swollen to twice their normal size, and he was vomiting saliva and bile, his breath constricted, as if someone had clamped iron buckles across his chest and was pulling them tighter and tighter. The worst, however, was his bloated, scarred face, which glistened bright red from the stings, like the head of a freshly slaughtered pig. Out of the corner of his eye Kuisl noticed the man had started to twitch and seemed to be growing weaker. Once more Friedrich arched his back as if he’d been struck, then collapsed like a monstrous doll.

“For Friedrich, you scoundrel!”

With a shout, Philipp Lettner lunged, his katzbalger cutting through the air toward Kuisl’s head. The hangman ducked this blow only to be faced with yet another.

“For Karl!”

Again Kuisl stepped aside just in time, but his movements were slower now and he was tiring. The fever came and went in waves-the ground beneath his feet as soft as butter-and he sensed he might not be able to fend off the next blow. Then his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees. Raising his head with great effort, he found Lettner standing over him, gloating, his sword held high in both hands. Lettner drew his hands back and to the right to get a good angle on Jakob’s neck. Spellbound, the hangman stared back at his enemy; Lettner was about to do to Kuisl what Kuisl had been perfecting his whole life.

A clean decapitation.

“You don’t really deserve such a merciful death, Kuisl,” Philipp Lettner growled. “I’m doing this only for old times’ sake. Well, that and-” He bared his fanglike teeth. “How many people can say they’ve beheaded an honest-to-God executioner? I’m sure the devil himself would have a laugh at this. So off to hell with you!”

Kuisl lowered his head, closed his eyes, and waited for the blow that would end it all.

It didn’t come.

Instead, an almost ethereal silence prevailed, one interrupted only by a loud metallic whir. When Kuisl looked up, he was astonished to find Philipp Lettner standing before him, wide-eyed and dazed. The katzbalger lay on the church floor. Lettner clutched desperately at a charred, splintered beam that protruded from his stomach, staring down in disbelief, as if he just couldn’t comprehend he might really be dying-as if, up until this moment, he’d never imagined his own death could be part of some divine plan.

He slowly toppled over and didn’t stir again. Once the light left his eyes, they stared blankly at the collapsed roof of the church, where two swallows chirped furiously at each other, then flew off.

Behind Lettner stood Philipp Teuber. Although the Regensburg executioner swayed, he was still standing. He wiped his hands on his bloodstained jacket with care, hands that had wielded the charred wooden cross only moments ago.

“Let’s hope that old thing was consecrated,” he said, tapping his foot against the raftmaster, who lay impaled on the floor in front of him. Teuber had gored Lettner using the tip of the crucifix like a spear. “Perhaps that will drive the evil out of him,” he said.

“For a bastard like that, you’d have to douse him in holy water, then dunk him in the baptismal font-and even that might not do any good,” Kuisl answered hoarsely.

Still swaying, the Regensburg executioner smiled. With a stony gaze he regarded the bolt in his chest.

“I… don’t… feel… very well,” he spluttered. “The bolt…”

Kuisl pointed at Friedrich Lettner’s corpse where a few hornets still circled about. “At least there won’t be another bolt,” he said. “Every villain has his weakness, and for this one it wasn’t the big arrow but countless little stings. I hope the poison doesn’t-”

He broke off as Teuber crashed to the ground like a tower collapsing. He didn’t move again.

“My God, Teuber!” Kuisl shouted as he ran over to kneel down alongside his friend. Kuisl tried to concentrate despite his fever. “Don’t do this to me! Not now, not after it’s all over! What will I tell your wife?” He shook the executioner, but there was no response. “She’s going to kill me if I carry you back home like this!”

Teuber opened his eyes once more, and a faint smile crossed his lips. “Not like you… deserve… anything better… you old dog…” he managed. Then his head sank, and his breath became a shallow rattle.

“Hey! Wake up, you slacker! Don’t go to sleep now, damn you!”

Kuisl leaped up and grabbed Teuber’s shirt. At once blood flowed in dark rivulets over his hands. The bolt was as firmly embedded in Teuber’s chest as a carpenter’s nail. For a moment Kuisl was almost paralyzed; then it seemed he’d decided what to do.

“Hold off a bit on the dying. I’m coming right back!”

Without another thought about his own wounds or the hornet stings, the hangman ran into the blazing midday heat. A gentle wind moaned through a window opening and echoed through the forest like the cry of a little child. But Kuisl paid no heed to anyone or anything. Frantically he searched the bushes, birches, and willows surrounding the ruined village.

Lady’s mantle, yarrow, bloodroot, shepherd’s purse… I need shepherd’s purse!

Teuber’s blood wasn’t foamy and bright, so the lungs had likely been spared. If Kuisl could find the right herbs, there might still be hope. The most important thing was to stanch the bleeding and prevent infection.

It took the hangman a while to find what he needed in the shadow of an oak, an unremarkable little plant, which he carefully plucked. Shepherd’s purse was held to be a true miracle worker, integral to every executioner’s pharmacy as far back as anyone knew. With little purse-shaped pods, the plant relieved fever and gout, helped induce labor, and was especially useful in treating open bleeding wounds. When Kuisl had collected enough, he began to tear moss and bark from surrounding trees. He shoved them all, along with a handful of other plants, into his open shirt and ran back to the church where Teuber still lay motionless. When he bent down, Kuisl was relieved to find Teuber still breathing.

“I’m going to pull the bolt out now,” he whispered into Teuber’s ear. “So clench your teeth and try not to yelp like a washerwoman. Are you ready?”

Teuber nodded almost imperceptibly. “Just my luck that I wind up in the hands of a quack like you…”

Kuisl grinned. “This is my revenge for your rancid ointment.” Then his face turned serious again. “I can’t stop the bleeding completely. For the rest we’ll have to go back to Regensburg.”

“But… they’ll lock you up again… the torture chamber…” Teuber stammered, apparently suffering fever dreams already.

“Don’t worry about me. The most important thing now is that you get better.”

As Kuisl tore out the bolt and pressed moss and yarrow to the open wound, his lips formed a silent prayer.

“There are four of them,” Simon whispered, pointing to the raftsmen crouched lazily among waist-high stalks of rye, listlessly carving willow branches. “Do you think we can take them on?”

Nathan cast a disparaging glance at the thickset, already intoxicated men. “Those fellows? As you know, we fight dirty and mean. They’ll think the sky is falling down around them.”

“Very well.” Simon nodded. “Magdalena is probably down below with Silvio and the fifth raftsman. When I give the command, I suggest you attack the men up here while Hans, Brother Paulus, and I storm the well chamber and take care of the rest. Is that all right?”

Nathan grinned, showing off his crooked gold tooth. “A brilliant plan-one I might have thought up myself. No tricks, no finesse, just bust right in shouting and start thrashing away.”

“You idiot!” Simon snapped. “Then tell me what you can come up with offhand.”

“Calm down. Everything will work out.” The beggar king tapped the medicus reassuringly on the shoulder, then whispered to his men to spread out over the area.

In the course of their long march down the broad highway and then along the small path across the field, the beggars had armed themselves with sticks and branches. To their arsenal they now added pebbles and heavy rocks from the surrounding fields. Then, concealed behind stalks of wheat, broom, and poppies, they approached the raftsmen who were passing the time drinking, chatting, and whittling.

Upon a signal from Nathan, Lame Hannes reached under his tattered shirt for a leather strap with a broad, spoonlike depression in its middle. He laid a flat stone in it, swung the strap in circles overhead, and finally sent the stone soaring toward the raftsmen.

The stone flew through the air like an arrow, striking the forehead of one of the men, who collapsed without a sound. Moments later more stones rained down on the raftsmen. The beggars shouted and ran out from hiding, slashing away at their astonished opponents as Lame Hannes fired more stones with his leather slingshot.

“Now!” Simon ran toward the stairs, followed closely by Hans and Brother Paulus. The medicus stumbled down the steps, coming at last to a heavy arched iron door. Struggling for air, he threw himself against it, only to realize it was already ajar. As the door swung open, he tumbled into a dark torch-lit room that ended in a large basin filled with rushing water. Behind it he saw dim light emerge from a small archway and heard panting and the muffled, high-pitched cries of a woman who sounded as if she’d already gone mad.

It was Magdalena’s voice.

As the cup of dissolved ergot approached her lips, the hangman’s daughter was at first transfixed with, and paralyzed by, fear. But her will to live reasserted itself: she would not resign herself to this fate without a fight. She was still standing with Silvio in the long, flooded passageway, the raftsman Jeremias gripping her head tightly. Magdalena went limp, as if she’d given up.

“Well, then,” said Silvio. “Now, it seems like-”

All of a sudden she brought the full force of her right knee to Silvio’s groin. With a gasp, the Venetian collapsed like a pocket-knife, and the tin cup fell to the floor, where it sank in the turbulent water. The burly raftsman saw his leader collapse, was distracted for a moment, and loosened his grip. Magdalena took advantage of the moment to slip eel-like from his grasp. Without a glance backward, she ran for the exit, but the nearly knee-deep water slowed her so that she lost her balance and fell headlong into the basin.

“Stop her, you fool!” Silvio shouted at the confused Jeremias. “The damned bitch! I’m going to stuff her mouth so full of ergot that it comes gushing out of every last pore in her body.”

The Venetian sat doubled over on the ledge along the wall, his legs dangling in the water. Magdalena’s blow still seemed to cause him a lot of pain. His makeup ran in black and milky-white rivulets down his otherwise well-groomed face, and his sopping wig looked like rotten seaweed in the dim torchlight. Magdalena couldn’t help but be reminded of the statue at Heuport House of the handsome young man from whose back rats, snakes, and toads came crawling out.

It’s all a mask, and behind it there’s nothing but filth, she thought. And dumb little slut that I am, I almost fell for it!

She’d just stood up again and was about to slip through the narrow corridor into the anteroom when Jeremias’s hand seized her from behind, dragging her inexorably back into the dark vaulted chamber. Silvio had gotten up from the ledge now, and after wiping his nose with his wet shirtsleeve, he reached into a sack of flour.

“No one can say I didn’t treat you courteously,” he gasped. “But you leave me no other choice, you stubborn wench. Can’t you see you’re serving a great cause? Your insignificant little life will change the history of this empire forever! No more backward little nation-states governed by their tariffs and narrow minds! At the end of our journey lies a vision of a single state extending from the Black Sea to the Rhine! Once the Grand Vizier has seized Vienna, there will be no stopping him. Those who prepare the path for his victory will receive princely rewards. Don’t be so damned stubborn. Submit yourself to a glorious vision!”

“If it’s so important to you, why don’t you eat this poison yourself!” Magdalena screamed as Jeremias gripped her shoulder tightly and pushed her toward the sacks of flour. Her hands were still tied, but she felt the rope loosening a bit in the water.

Silvio smiled. With smudged makeup and wet, stringy hair, he looked like some kind of evil, bewitched toad. “A nice thought,” he said. “Unfortunately the Grand Vizier has plans for me that require I keep a very clear head. And who knows? Perhaps on the far side of madness lies eternal happiness. Just wait and see; you’ll thank me for allowing you to sample this divine substance. And now, open your mouth, damn it!”

Silvio shouted these final words like a madman, every syllable echoing off the walls many times over. The ambassador had run out of patience. Dripping with sweat, he beckoned Jeremias to throw Magdalena onto the narrow ledge. As Jeremias held her down tightly with both hands, Silvio bent over her to force the flour into her throat like a goose being fattened for slaughter.

Magdalena clenched her teeth, but the Venetian held her nose until she had to open her mouth and gasp desperately for air. At once she gagged on the bitter, damp powder and could feel stomach acid rising in her throat, but she struggled not to swallow. Flour spilled out of her mouth, and she spat and screamed for help.

“Magdalena!”

At first the hangman’s daughter thought she was hearing a ghost. It was quite clearly the voice of her dear deceased Simon calling down from heaven. How was this possible? Could the ergot be affecting her already?

Is this what crazy is?

Then in the doorway she spotted a short figure in a soiled shirt, wearing an unkempt Vandyke and disheveled shoulder-length black hair. Clever black eyes sparkled back at her. If the man before her was an illusion, this ergot was some damn good stuff.

Simon! Is it really you?

Magdalena felt her heart leap. This was no hallucination! Simon was alive and had come to free her! Just a few more steps and…

Suddenly she realized Silvio had released her and was sprinting along the slippery ledge toward the entryway. As Simon entered the vault, Silvio picked up a rock and heaved it, striking the medicus hard on the forehead, then charged his surprised opponent with a shout. Both men collapsed in a foaming whirlpool, arms and legs flailing wildly. Magdalena could only watch helplessly as the Venetian held Simon underwater with both hands. The medicus spluttered and thrashed about, but Silvio didn’t let go.

“You fool!” the Venetian shouted, his words echoing again through the vault. “You were supposed to have gone up in smoke with the mill. That would have been less painful. Now I’m going to have to drown you like a rat.”

Simon surfaced briefly, but Silvio grabbed him and pushed him underwater again. The Venetian’s wig had come off completely, revealing thinning hair and a receding hairline. His eyes flashed like those of an evil hobgoblin.

“Pigheaded lowlife!” Silvio yelled. “You just won’t accept it’s all over. Die now, you stubborn old dog!”

Desperately the hangman’s daughter tried to escape Jeremias’s clutches, but this time he held her as tightly as if she were bound to the rack. He grinned and bent his pockmarked face close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath.

“If it’s true what they say about ergot,” he growled, “then over the next few weeks we’ll have a lot of fun, you and-”

Disgusted, Magdalena spat the rest of the ergot still stuck between her teeth and to. the roof of her mouth right into the raftman’s face. Mid-sentence, Jeremias’s lips were wide open, and the sticky little lumps flew straight into his mouth. He coughed, gagged, and flailed about, apparently fearing he’d been poisoned.

“You whore! You’ll pay for that!”

Magdalena rolled off the ledge, disappearing into the dark ice-cold water and out of Jeremias’s reach. When she ran out of breath, she resurfaced to see that two more figures had arrived in the meantime. With relief she recognized Hans Reiser and Brother Paulus, who were beating the raftsman with sticks and forcing him, step by step, against the wall.

When she turned around again, Simon and Silvio had disappeared.

It took her a while to locate them in the darkness further back in the vault. In near silence they were fighting in waist-deep water as torches on the walls cast them in long, distorted shadows. Magdalena couldn’t tell which shadow belonged to which man-they merged into one monstrous silhouette that had sprung to life and, freed of its earthly form, now stalked ghostlike up and down the dark corridor. The slender shadow of a sword rose up, then lunged, yet the other part of the shadow retreated. The second part shoved the first part, and the shadow split in two again, one half stumbling and falling underwater and, a moment later, rising to the surface and attacking. For a brief moment the shadows merged again into a single dense tangle, only to fly back apart and then merge once more.

“Simon! Don’t give up! I’m coming to help!”

Magdalena waded through waist-high icy water, which felt like a deep morass, an endless swamp separating her and her beloved. Through the powerful sound of many rushing streams she could hear the muted shouts of the beggars and raftsmen behind her. Frantically she fumbled with the rope around her wrists. It was loosening, and after a while she was able to slip her hands free at last.

Meanwhile one of the two combatants seemed to have gained the upper hand. He held the other underwater until the latter’s movements grew erratic and devolved into wild convulsions. Now Magdalena was close enough to make out the face of the victor.

It was Silvio, grinning scornfully, his pale face framed by wet, stringy hair. He wore the concentrated, impassive expression of a professional killer. In a few seconds the Venetian would strangle Simon to death.

“Nooooo!” Magdalena shrieked, her voice echoing off the walls. “Simon! My God, Simon!”

“In the name of the city, I order you to stop!”

The hangman’s daughter flinched. Turning around, she saw only the raftsman Jeremias, who lay face-down in the water, blood forming a halo on the surface around him and a finger-length bolt protruding from his back. The two beggars alongside him lowered their clubs and stared down the long corridor. There, in the dim torchlight, stood a high official in a fur-trimmed cloak, his thinning hair hidden beneath a red hat.

Paulus Mamminger.

The Regensburg treasurer gave a sign to two guards at his side to lower their crossbows. Then he gazed reproachfully at the violent disarray in the well chamber. His voice resounded through the vaulted room like a clap of thunder.

“The game is up, Silvio Contarini! We know about your scheme. Come out now and surrender!”

“Never!” The Venetian, who like everyone else was bewildered by the new arrival, turned from Simon and retreated a few paces. He was immediately swallowed up in darkness. “A Contarini doesn’t surrender so easily! We’ll meet again, Mamminger, on the floor of the Reichstag, if not before!”

Silvio’s laughter mingled with the noise of the rushing water, which, as the many individual streams merged into one, generated an infernal uproar. For a moment they heard splashing in the distance; then the insane laughter that echoed back to them suddenly broke off.

In the meantime Simon had hoisted himself up onto the ledge, where, panting and gasping, he coughed up water and bile. Magdalena waded over and wrapped her arms around him.

“Simon, my God, Simon!” she whispered. “I thought you were dead.”

“And I thought this madman had actually poisoned you,” Simon gasped.

Magdalena wiped the last bits of ergot from the corners of her mouth. “I really made an effort not to swallow that stuff,” she said. “I guess we’ll find out in the next few hours whether I was successful. But for now let’s get out of this frigid water before you catch a chill and die on me.”

Supporting Simon, she waded through the pool toward Paulus Mamminger. The old treasurer blinked. It took him a while to recognize who stood before him-but then his face lit up.

“Ah, the mysterious beautiful woman from Heuport House!” he cried. “Tell me, how are you liking Regensburg?”

Magdalena wrung out her hair. “Too many lunatics in one place, if you ask me. And it’s too wet here.”

Paulus Mamminger laughed and handed her his cloak. “I’m certain you have some stories for me.” Then he turned to leave. “But I suggest we save that for the open air. It smells too much of death and madness down here.” A slight smile twitched on his lips. “Besides, I have to express my thanks to a loyal servant up there. I hope he’s satisfied with his reward.”

It was late afternoon when Jakob Kuisl returned to the raft landing in the little rowboat, knowing he wouldn’t be able to escape his fate this time.

A carnival-like atmosphere prevailed on the landing. A huge crowd had gathered, and guards were running about, trying in vain to shoo people back into the city. From the Wohrd a huge column of smoke rose into the sky, and piles of charred beams, some still smoldering, littered the ground. The sheds and mill wheels looked like bonfires among towering piles of collapsing boards, and the large grain mill seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth. Now the fire had spread to surrounding buildings, and the entire island was one raging inferno.

Spectators on the raft landing gawked at the scene as they would at a public execution. They cheered whenever a building collapsed and pointed excitedly at embers blowing their way. The watchmen, having already given up on saving the island, were now busy trying to keep the fire from spreading to the bridge, the other islands, and the city wharf.

When the guards finally noticed the small rowboat with its two passengers, they hesitated, whispered to one another, and pointed anxiously at the Schongau hangman tying the boat to a post on the wharf. Kuisl seemed as disinterested in the spectacle as any old fisherman from out of town. Finally the guards approached cautiously with pikes raised.

“The… monster!” one stammered. “Now we’ve got him! We must stay together! Or he’ll rip our throats right open.”

“He probably blew up the mill,” the second man whispered. “Ever since he’s been here, misfortune has come over this city like the Plague.”

Kuisl raised his hands to ward off the guards, but he was much too tired to resist them. He’d been racing so long now-first lugging the deathly pale Teuber almost two miles from Weidenfeld to the rowboat, then rowing back from Donaustauf against the current. The Regensburg executioner hadn’t regained consciousness after speaking his last words in the ruined village. Throughout the boat trip Kuisl watched blood seeping slowly through the moss, herbs, and bandages. Teuber’s face was waxy like a corpse’s, so Kuisl repeatedly checked to make sure his friend was still breathing.

“He needs help,” the Schongau hangman pleaded in a hoarse voice as he climbed out of the rowboat. Almost unconscious himself, he offered no resistance as the guards seized him and bound his hands and feet. “Bring Teuber to a surgeon,” he muttered, “a real one, or I’ll wring your necks. Do you understand?”

“Hold your tongue, monster!” one guard shouted, punching him so hard his upper lip split open and he fell to the ground. “Your game is over; you won’t get away from us again. That was you who did that to the mill, wasn’t it?”

As other Regensburgers began to recognize the man being led away, a murmur went up that gave way to cheers and shouting.

“The werewolf!” an old woman shouted. “The werewolf’s back! And look, he’s in league with our executioner! Throw them both on the mill-into the fire with them!”

“By Saint Florian, they should burn!”

“No, hang them instead! Right here!”

“Hold on, people!” one of the guards interjected. “We can’t say whether the Regensburg hangman-”

But his voice was drowned out by the crowd. People were already down by the great crane on the raft landing, tossing boat ropes over the crossbeams. They tied the rope into a noose and began to fashion a makeshift gallows. The first sticks and stones flew through the air now, and the guards, silent and pale, formed a circle around Kuisl and the Regensburg executioner, who was lying unconscious on the pier. They couldn’t hold off the crowd for long.

“Go get a city official!” a high-ranking officer shouted at the other guards as he braced himself against two farm workers who’d already drawn their knives. “If you can, bring Mamminger! Right away! Before they kill Teuber. Run! Get going, damn it!”

As one of the guards broke from the circle and ran toward town, the crowd amassed into one enormous, furious, screaming creature that charged the desperate bailiffs behind him. Kuisl looked out on the riotous mob, registering a cold, bestial look in their eyes.

Predators, he thought. This is what they always look like at an execution.

This time the execution was his own.

“Nathan!” Simon cried as he stumbled out of the dark well chamber and into the bright daylight. “I should have known!”

The beggar king was counting out and distributing shiny coins to the beggars standing around him. Only reluctantly did he look up.

“Beg your pardon?” he mumbled.

“You told the treasurer we were here!” the medicus cried, kicking the beggar in the shins. “Who else do you work for? The kaiser? The pope? The Virgin Mary?”

Grimacing in pain, Nathan rubbed his shins. “If the price is right.” Finally, he grinned. “Be happy. Without the esteemed treasurer, you’d be fish food now. And your little sweetheart would no doubt be trapped in a fit of hysterical laughter, trying to claw her own eyes out, having gone stark mad. So don’t make such a fuss.”

“Great,” Simon muttered. “So we’ve been rescued from the well chamber only to be burned at the stake for arson and God knows what else. Thank you very much.”

Suddenly he felt the treasurer’s hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve been working with Nathan a long time,” said Mamminger, who’d emerged from the well chamber right after Simon. “He’s been keeping us up to date on what’s happened since you first sought refuge with the guild.”

“So it’s true,” Simon whispered.

But the treasurer seemed not to have heard him. “I just didn’t know what role you were playing in all this,” Mamminger continued. Removing his official red hat, he passed a hand over his sweaty forehead. “So I had Nathan keep an eye on you. When it became clear you had nothing to do with the powder, it was unfortunately too late. You had sought amnesty in the bishop’s palace, and as long as you were there, there was nothing I could do to help you.”

“You knew about the powder?” asked Magdalena, her clothes and hair dripping in the bright light. She eyed the treasurer suspiciously. “Then why didn’t you just put a stop to Silvio Contarini and his game?”

Paulus Mamminger shook his head slowly, deep in thought. “We only suspected the freemen were planning something for the coming Reichstag, but we had no real evidence. When we heard that Hofmann was experimenting somehow with alchemy, I asked Heinrich von Butten to find out more.”

“The kaiser’s agent,” Simon added softly. “We thought for a long time he was trying to kill us.”

Mamminger shook his head. “His job was only to learn more about you two. Later, he wanted to warn you about Contarini, but the Venetian somehow always managed to distract you.” Mamminger removed his sweaty pince-nez to clean them. “Heinrich von Butten was the kaiser’s best agent,” he continued. “A brilliant swordsman-inconspicuous, intelligent, and incorruptible. Leopold I wanted him to serve as a spy at the Regensburg Reichstag. His Excellency won’t be happy to hear he’s dead.” Mamminger sighed. “Von Butten had long suspected that Contarini was working for the Grand Vizier. When he saw the Venetian in the company of a beautiful woman, a stranger, we started to snoop around. And lo and behold…!” He smiled at Magdalena. “It just so happened that beautiful stranger was the niece of the bathhouse owner under suspicion of plotting against the kaiser. Naturally, this gave us more than a moment’s pause, especially when it turned out her father was said to have killed the very same bathhouse owner.”

“Did you really think my father killed his sister and brother-in-law?” asked Magdalena, tying her wet hair into a bun. “Even a blind man could have figured out he walked right into a trap!”

The treasurer frowned. “Don’t judge too quickly, young lady. Your father was the brother-in-law of a leading freeman-an insurgent. For that reason alone he came under suspicion. We had to subject him to some pretty severe interrogation just to find out whether he knew anything about this powder.” He shrugged. “Your father is a tough nut to crack. We aldermen therefore reached the decision, after long discussions in my house, to suspend the torture for the time being. The following night I left a note in the cathedral for Heinrich von Butten, telling him to see whether he could find some connection between Contarini and the freemen-and exonerate your father.” Mamminger put his pince-nez back in place. “Unfortunately Kuisl fled the very same night, thus renewing suspicions. It’s too bad; we very much wanted him to identify the true leader of the free-men for us.”

“I think we can help you in that regard,” Simon said. “It’s the raftmaster, Karl Gessner. He also set the trap for Jakob Kuisl.”

The treasurer’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Gessner? But why…?”

“Revenge,” Magdalena chimed in. “Gessner and my father knew each other from the war. But that the raftmaster was the leader of the freemen you could have also learned from this gentleman.”

She pointed at Nathan, who only smiled back innocently and continued counting coins into a pouch. Mamminger raised his eyebrows and scowled at the beggar king, who had turned to pick his nose.

“I really don’t know what the two of you are talking about,” Nathan replied. “I would never-”

“What’s going to happen with Contarini now?” Simon asked. “Has he escaped?”

The treasurer squinted, irritated, and turned back to the medicus. “To date no one has ever explored all the caves the water carved through the rock down there,” he explained earnestly. “It’s a wet, dark labyrinth, and no one can really say how far down it goes. Maybe the Venetian will find the entrance to hell down there, but he might also get lost or eventually return to the well chamber. Just in case, we sealed the exit. No one can get out. And now-”

Just then they heard the sound of someone approaching through the field. A watchman, drenched with sweat, came running up to Mamminger. He whispered something in Mamminger’s ear, and the treasurer frowned, placing his official red hat back on his head, hurrying down the path, and beckoning to the others to follow.

“We hope your father will soon be able to answer all the outstanding questions in person,” he said as he hastened toward the city with the watchmen and the beggars. “They caught him down at the raft landing, and if we don’t hurry, there won’t be much of him left.”

Jakob Kuisl barely felt the cabbage stalks, stones, and rotten fish that hailed down on his body and face. The shouts of the crowd, too, echoed strangely, as if they came from the end of a long tunnel. Straining to turn his head, he saw Philipp Teuber next to him, his consciousness quickly fading again and, like himself, with a noose around his neck. The Regensburgers had finished erecting a gallows on the harbor crane high above the raft landing now, and both hangmen stood on crates piled high to form a makeshift scaffold. Leering and smirking at the hangmen, a few carpenters waited beside a crank that would eventually hoist the ropes and, with them, the men high in the air. Kuisl let his gaze wander along the rotten wooden structure that rose at least twenty feet above them.

Must at least be a great view of Regensburg from up there, he thought.

Kuisl’s fever had returned now in full force, and despite the midsummer temperatures, Kuisl was freezing. Even if he weren’t in pain and dizzy, though, there was no possibility of escape now. He was shackled, and when he looked out over the crowd, he saw several hundred pairs of angry eyes, all eager for a summary execution. A few guards were scattered among them, but they’d abandoned their official duty now to join the onlookers. After a brief and futile resistance, most bailiffs had withdrawn and given the two prisoners over to the screaming mob. Kuisl counted himself lucky that the Regensburgers hadn’t stoned him to death yet.

Another clod of dirt hit Kuisl on the head so hard his gaze went black. Still, he was able to remain upright. Next to him, however, Philipp Teuber was close to losing consciousness again, and, because he was no longer able to support himself, his body weight tightened the noose around his neck like a garrote cutting off his air supply. Teuber’s eyes were closed, his face chalky except where blood vessels had burst, and his mouth open like a carp gasping for air.

“Monster! Monster!”

All around him Kuisl heard the roar of the crowd as if through a wall, a seething mass of high-pitched screams and shrill laughter rising and falling. Blood dripping from his forehead, he blinked, blinded by the sun; still, he had the impression he could clearly see each individual in the crowd below-bull-necked raftsmen and carpenters, snotty-nosed children and journeymen bare to the waist, but also fishwives. Even a few fine ladies looked on from the rear with their finely powdered male companions, whispering and pointing at the two figures on the makeshift gallows. For all these people the two hangmen were a marvelous spectacle, an experience they could share with their children and grandchildren. Unleashed, the people’s anger demanded a blood sacrifice.

“Hey, Teuber,” a skinny, pockmarked youth shouted from the first row. “How does that noose feel around your neck? You hanged my brother. I hope you dance just as long as he did.”

“They say the other one’s a hangman, too. Perhaps they can hang each other,” a young maid joked.

As laughter broke out, the crowd surged toward the teetering stack of crates that threatened to collapse at any moment. Atop the hastily built scaffold and beside the two shackled executioners stood four grim raftsmen, the apparent ringleaders. With grave self-importance, they held the crowd back, preventing them from storming the gallows. Kuisl had to assume the four men had designs on the ropes and victims’ clothes and bodies. Bloody talismans were thought to have magical powers, especially those from a pair of hangmen.

“String ’em up! String ’em up!” At first just a few voices chanted, but then others joined in and the shouts rose to a mighty chorus that resounded over the pier.

“String ’em up and let ’em dance!”

Now Kuisl could feel the carpenters beginning to turn the crank on the winch. The cords tightened, pulling the hangmen slowly upward. At first Kuisl could still touch the ground with his toes, but soon he was swinging freely in the air.

The rope squeezed Kuisl’s throat and Adam’s apple tight, crushing his windpipe as his legs began to thrash involuntarily. The hangman knew from experience that death didn’t come immediately to hanged men, and for this reason he often tugged on victims’ feet to break their necks and put an end to the torment. But it was obvious that no one here had any interest in mercy. Kuisl jerked and strained; he could hear blood pounding in his head and, in the background, the crowd’s cries and laughter.

“Look at them flounder! The scaffold is like a dance floor!”

When the hangman opened his eyes again, it was as if a red veil hung in front of his face. The crowd’s voices merged in a senseless, meaningless melee. Images rose within and flashed all around him. He saw himself in the Great War, sword in hand, and in the background a city in flames. Then there was blackness. He saw his father die beneath a hail of stones; he saw soldiers seeking recruits as they passed through Schongau, waving to little Jakob at the side of the road; and finally, he saw himself in his mother’s lap with a soiled headless little wooden doll.

Mama, why does Daddy kill people?

The bloody veil before his eyes moved on like a storm cloud, and behind it a soft, warm blackness appeared, with a tiny light shining at its center. The light grew closer and closer, opening onto a tunnel. At its end stood a form wreathed in light.

Mother, I’m coming home to you… I’m coming…

“Stop! In the name of the city, stop at once!”

Suddenly Kuisl felt himself falling. When he landed with a thud on the hard crates below, his body, which had been drifting off into another realm, suddenly reasserted itself with intense earthly pain. The light and the tunnel disappeared, and at that moment, blissfully, air came streaming back into his lungs, somehow cold and hot at once. His throat burning, he rolled on his side, spitting up bitter bile. When he felt the unpleasant taste on his tongue, he knew he was still alive.

“Everyone stand back! Back to your houses, or I’ll have you all thrown in the stocks and whipped! Do you hear me? That’s an official city order!”

Kuisl opened his blood-encrusted right eye to see a man in front of him dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and official crimson cap. A half-dozen city guards stood defiantly at his side on the crates, crossbows trained on the crowd below. Snarling like fierce toy dogs, if less playful, the crowd backed away, bit by bit. Only a handful of spectators seemed to object, but in no time the bailiffs gained the upper hand and drove them all into the narrow streets along the Danube. Within a few minutes the uproar had subsided and the docks were as deserted as on a Sunday morning during mass.

Panting, Kuisl stood up and staggered toward the edge of the scaffold, where Teuber was doubled up in a pool of his own vomit, the bandage on his chest soaked in blood. The Regensburg executioner coughed and spat but for the time being seemed to have at least regained consciousness. Kuisl knelt down beside his friend and passed his hand through Teuber’s sweaty hair.

“You think I’ll let you die on me here?” the exhausted Schongau hangman gasped. His throat felt like it was on fire, and he could speak only in fits and starts. “Better forget that idea… I didn’t drag you here all the way from Weidenfeld so that you could give up now. We hangmen are tough dogs. Don’t forget that!”

Teuber seemed to nod; then he turned away like a sick animal and didn’t stir. His breath whistled and rattled, though, as if he wanted to let everyone know he wasn’t dead yet.

“We’ll take him home,” an official’s voice spoke up from Kuisl’s right. “His wife will take care of him. The rest is in God’s hands.”

Kuisl turned around and looked straight into the eye of the man with the crimson hat. He had an old wrinkled face and wore a pince-nez on his nose, but his gaze was as sharp and clear as that of a man in his thirties.

“So you’re this Jakob Kuisl fellow,” Mamminger said, looking him up and down with a severe but curious gaze. “You haven’t made it very easy on us. You can’t be locked up, and torture won’t make you confess-and evidently you can’t be hanged either. Who are you? The devil? A ghost?”

The hangman shook his head. “Just a Kuisl,” he murmured. “We’re a tough breed.”

Mamminger laughed. “I’ll believe you there! Indestructible, the whole lot of you-your daughter and future son-in-law included.” He turned to a guard alongside him. “Cut this man’s bonds; he’s suffered enough. Then bring the other two over here. Now that the mob has cleared out, they have nothing to fear.”

The bailiff cut the ropes from Kuisl’s wrists and jumped down from the scaffold. Shortly thereafter he returned with Simon and Magdalena.

“Thanks to the Virgin Mary and all the saints in heaven! You’re alive!” When the hangman’s daughter caught sight of her father again, she was unrestrainable. With outstretched arms she rushed to the scaffold, clambered swiftly up the pile of crates, and wrapped her arms around her father, squeezing him so hard he thought he was being strangled a second time.

“I don’t want you ever to leave me again, do you hear?” she whispered, placing her hands on his face as if she still couldn’t believe he was alive. “Promise?”

“And don’t you ever leave me, either, shameless wench,” Kuisl replied. “Just think what you’ve done to your mother, vanishing from Schongau like that. She must be crying her eyes out day and night.”

He let out a chest-rattling cough as Magdalena ran her hand through his hair. “We’re on our way home now,” she said, “but first you’ve got to get better. You’ve got a fever-that much is clear-and there’s something wrong with your shoulder as well.”

The hangman blinked warily at Simon, who’d climbed onto the scaffold in the meantime. “Don’t you think for a moment I’m going to let myself be treated by this dubious little quack,” he growled. “I’d rather smear Teuber’s stinking ointment all over my body again.”

Simon grinned and bowed slightly. His clothing was still ripped and wet from his fight with Silvio, but some color had returned to his face. “Please do. You’re more than welcome to saw your own arms off, if you like. Less work for me.”

“Impertinent little shit. If you lay so much as a finger on my daughter again, I’ll smack you in the face.”

“In your condition?”

Kuisl was about to let loose a tirade, but Magdalena cut him off. “If you’re well enough to quarrel, your fever can’t be too serious,” she snapped. “And now let’s clear out of here before the Regensburgers change their minds and decide to hang the hangman again.”

“Just who are all those people back there?” Kuisl inquired, pointing to the band of beggars gathered around an elderly man in a tattered coat and wide-brimmed hat. When the old man noticed Kuisl looking at him, he grinned, revealing a sparkling gold tooth.

“They look just like the people I have to beat up and run out of town back home. Are they with you?” the hangman asked.

Magdalena smiled. “You might say that, or we with them.”

She jumped down from the scaffold and skipped off between the crates while Simon, Kuisl, and the old treasurer stared after her.

“A headstrong girl, that daughter of yours,” Mamminger said. “Takes after you.”

Suddenly the hangman’s face darkened, and he stared off into space. The two nooses swayed back and forth in the wind like two enormous pendulums.

“Whether she takes after me or not, she certainly is one hell of a woman,” Kuisl replied. “A hangman’s daughter is always in league with the devil.”

He climbed down from the scaffold with Simon and walked toward the pier. For a while they stood silently on the shore, watching waves splash and foam between the grimy pillars under the dock. The hangman took a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket, tore it into small pieces, and scattered them over the water. Like tiny white leaves, they drifted away until finally the waves swallowed them up.

“What was that?” asked Simon, surprised. “The letter you received last night?”

Kuisl stared a few moments longer at the water, then turned abruptly toward the Stone Bridge, where Magdalena was already waiting.

“Nothing important-just a little piece of the past. Who cares what happened so long ago?” he answered.

Magdalena let her legs dangle over the side of the pier and watched them approach, her eyes black and sparkling like two embers on a cold night, a broad smile on her lips.

The hangman felt he’d never loved his daughter so much in his life as he did at this moment.