The Werewolf of Bamberg

10

THE BAMBERG FOREST, EARLY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 31, 1668 AD

The fog that enshrouded the forests around Bamberg at this time of year was lifting. Clouds drifted like gigantic, ghostly sheets through the treetops, where the moisture gathered on the red and yellow leaves and came trickling down. Jakob Kuisl’s boots splashed through the leaves and made a gurgling sound as they sank ankle deep into the moss and decaying foliage.

This time, he’d decided to approach the knacker’s house from the rear. He had no idea what his brother might be doing at this hour in the forest, but he didn’t want to give him any opportunity to avoid a conversation.

And, God knows, there was certainly a lot to talk about.

After Jakob had learned from Georg that Bartholomäus had left for the knacker’s house, he had immediately set out to find him. In recent days, he’d grown more and more distrustful of his younger brother. The notes in Lonitzer’s herb almanac had been the last straw. Was it possible Bartholomäus was making sleep sponges used to anesthetize the victims of the supposed werewolf? The accusation sounded so appalling that at first Jakob thought it out of the question. But then he remembered all the other strange things that had occurred in the last week: The stranger he’d seen in the cloak and floppy hat near the furrier’s house-he’d limped, and from a distance he’d seemed vaguely familiar to Magdalena. Bartholomäus always brushing off the werewolf stories, almost as if trying to discourage Jakob from looking into it any further. His wandering around the forest without any explanation. The way his servant, Aloysius, also seemed to be hiding something. And twice already, Jakob had tried to approach the back of the knacker’s house, and each time had been harshly rebuffed. Was something hidden there that he wasn’t supposed to see?

Well, this time he wouldn’t let himself be put off. He made a wide circle around the clearing and approached the house from the rear. He heard dogs barking happily nearby, as someone evidently had approached the front gate from the other side.

He cursed under his breath as he crept toward the sheds that were now visible between the trees. There was no wall or fence on this side-it was unnecessary, since a dense thicket of prickly hawthorn bushes made passage impossible. When the hangman tried to squirm his way through, thorns reached out and tore at his clothes like long claws. After one or two paces, it was clear he wouldn’t make it. He freed himself from the thorny branches and started walking alongside the bushes. Suddenly he caught sight of a natural, knee-high tunnel in the bush concealed under a covering of ferns and ivy. It looked like some animal had made its way through it just recently.

He crouched down on all fours and crawled through the bushes, cursing softly to himself as the thorns tore at his clothes. The sleeves of his shirt ripped open, thorny branches scratched him in the face, and thistles clung to his beard, but finally he made it through to the other side.

When he stood up, he found himself behind one of the sheds at the rear of the cabin. The happy barking had stopped, and he heard a low, angry growling close by.

It wasn’t coming from the dog compound.

He looked around. A sickly sweet odor from a pit several paces away on his left almost made him throw up. He could see scraps of fur and bones lying beneath a cover of white lime, and a black cloud of flies buzzed over it.

The garbage pit. At least in this respect Aloysius had not been lying.

Holding his breath, Jakob turned to the two nearest sheds. One of them was nothing but a hastily nailed-together shelter for storing wood. The other building was considerably larger, built of thick pine boards with a solid-looking door on the side and narrow slits at eye level around the exterior.

That was where the growling was coming from.

Jakob approached the door warily. He could see fresh footprints in the mud leading from the blockhouse to the shed and beyond. It was evident that someone had been here just a few moments ago. The hangman saw a bolt with a rusty padlock but, on closer inspection, realized the recent visitor had not closed it carefully and the bolt had not been slid over all the way.

Perhaps he intends to come right back.

The angry growling grew louder, deep and threatening, almost like that of a bear. Kuisl removed the lock from the bolt, placed it carefully on the ground, then began to slowly push the bolt aside.

Something scratched at the door.

He paused, then opened the door a tiny crack. Even if it was dangerous, he simply had to see what was in there. It was quite possible this something was the answer to many of his questions.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him, and out of the corner of his eye saw a knotty cudgel coming at him. Instinctively he ducked, so that the blow hit him not on the back of the head but only on his shoulder. It came down with full force, however, so that it knocked him to the ground like a fallen tree, as mud and wet leaves splattered his face.

Before the stranger behind him could deliver a second blow, the hangman turned on his back and lifted his feet to kick his attacker. His eyes were covered with mud, but he could feel he’d scored a direct hit. His attacker groaned and fell over backward.

Jakob wiped the mud from his face, blinked his eyes, and saw Aloysius lying in front of him, whimpering and clutching his groin. Alongside him lay the club he’d use to strike the hangman.

“You rotten bastard,” Kuisl panted. “Just who the hell-”

“Watch out! The door!” shouted a voice.

Jakob saw his brother Bartholomäus jump out from behind the shed. Though he had a limp, the Bamberg executioner was as fast as the devil. He threw himself against the door while something heavy pushed on it from inside, barking and growling loudly. The door opened a crack and Kuisl saw a ghostly white body with two red, glowing eyes.

“Quick! Help me!” Bartholomäus shouted.

Jakob scrambled to his feet and shook himself, as if trying to forget a bad dream, then pushed with all his weight against the door to close it. With a gasp of relief, his brother bolted and padlocked the door. The angry barking continued for a while and the door and hinges shook, but they didn’t give way. Finally, the only sound was a soft growling and the moaning of Aloysius, who had managed to get back onto his feet.

“What in the world was that?” Jakob panted when he got his breath back.

“That?” Bartholomäus wiped the sweat from his forehead. “An alaunt, or, actually, two of them. If I hadn’t gotten here in time, they would have torn you apart like a baby deer. That would have been a fitting punishment for your curiosity.”

“An alaunt?” Kuisl tried to ignore the deep growling behind him. “What in God’s name is an alaunt?”

“It’s perhaps the most beautiful race of dog that God ever created. Strong, fearless, snow-white fur, the perfect hunting dog.” Bartholomäus took a deep breath, and his tone of voice softened. “Unfortunately, they almost died out in recent centuries. A few are still said to be living today in the Spanish Pyrenees. The alaunts were once the war dogs of an ancient tribe. They’re the ancestors of most large hounds today, like the powerful molossers and the mastiffs that we keep here for the bishop. .” He pointed to the dog compound and beamed with pride. “But the alaunts are the strongest and largest of them, with a body the size of a calf. I’ve been able to raise a litter of the hounds.” He looked lovingly toward the shed, where the growls turned to whimpers and happy barking. Evidently the dogs recognized their master’s voice. “Brutus, Damian, and Cerberus. They are my pride and joy.”

“You just said there were two dogs in there,” Kuisl said in a soft voice. “Tell me. . where is the third?”

Bartholomäus hesitated for a moment, then threw his hands up with a sigh. “Oh, what does it matter, sooner or later you would have figured it out anyway. Yes, the third dog ran away-my dear Brutus, the largest of them. Aloysius left the door open briefly while he was feeding them, and the damn thing ran off through the hawthorn bush and was gone.”

Jakob remembered the large white form he’d seen in the forest a few days before, and its strange growl-and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Are you telling me a beast like that is wandering through the forest out there, killing animals and people, only because my little brother has become a dog breeder?” he asked, trying to sound calm.

Bartholomäus rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re going to say-that Brutus is this werewolf. That’s what a lot of people would think if they knew about him. That’s the reason I haven’t told anyone, and why Aloysius and I have been looking for him. We’ve already gone as far as the river near where the hunt master lived, sticking our noses in all the caves and root holes. He’s got to be somewhere. Right, Aloysius? We’ll find him-if not today, then certainly very soon.”

He turned to his servant, who, in the meantime, had drawn closer and was still holding his groin, his face contorted with pain. Aloysius nodded meekly.

“Believe me, Jakob,” Bartholomäus pleaded. “Brutus has nothing to do with these horrible events. No doubt he’s killed a few animals in the forest, and he might be dangerous to a person walking alone there, but remember-some of the victims were killed in the city, and their severed limbs were found in Bamberg. That can’t have been Brutus. How would he have gotten into the city? Besides, he escaped only about a week ago, and these murders began much earlier. Believe me, he’s somewhere here in the forest.”

Jakob nodded hesitantly. It sounded like Bartholomäus was right. That would explain why both his brother and Aloysius had tried to keep him from looking behind the house, and why Aloysius had declared so emphatically that no one could steal the bishop’s hunting dogs.

“I assume the bishop knows nothing about the dogs you are breeding?” he asked.

His brother nodded. “If Philipp Rieneck knew, he’d certainly take the three and lock them up in his menagerie along with the apes, peacocks, and parrots. The bishop loves rare animals, but in one of those miserable cages the poor beasts would surely die. I know what I’m talking about. It’s my job to clean out the cages and feed the animals. The bear is a mere shadow of his former self, and the old gray baboon is getting meaner every year because he has no companion to play with.” Bartholomäus pinched his lips, and there was a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “In fact, he’s as possessive over the animals in the menagerie as over his own hunting dogs, though he certainly cares more for them than the many missing people.” Jakob had to wonder if his brother would ever feel as much love for Katharina or his future children as for his dogs.

“Why did you mark the entry on sleep sponges in Lonitzer’s herb almanac?” Jakob suddenly asked.

Bartholomäus looked at him in astonishment. “Why did I. .?” He paused, then shook his head in disbelief and laughed. “Come now, Jakob. Don’t tell me you really thought I drugged the young prostitute and then killed her. How could I have done that? After all, we were together when we found them. Please.”

“Perhaps you didn’t kill her,” Jakob replied hesitantly, “but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have prepared the sleep sponge. The prostitute smelled of henbane, and you know as well as I do it’s often a hangman’s job to prepare and use that poison to calm the condemned prisoner in his final hour. So tell me why you marked that entry.”

“Good God, how suspicious you are, Jakob. I’m your brother. Have you forgotten?” Bartholomäus was working himself up into a fury. “But you were always like that. You don’t trust anything I do, and you always think the worst of me. Haven’t you ever thought that I might have noticed that strange odor myself? I’m not as stupid as you think. I, too, wondered about that smell, and that’s why I marked the entry. But no, you think right away I must be a murderer.” Bartholomäus glared at him with hate-filled eyes. “You haven’t changed at all, Jakob-always so impressed with yourself, always the cleverest guy in town. But it’s all just for show, and behind it there’s nothing but hollow words.”

Jakob fell silent. He was convinced he’d made a mistake. In his distrust of his own brother he’d made up a mental image of Bartholomäus, a caricature that had nothing to do with reality. Jakob remembered how he’d pursued the stranger in front of the furrier’s shop. He’d had the impression that the man had a limp, but he’d only noticed that after the man had jumped over to the other dock. Probably the stranger had just twisted his ankle then, and the fact that the man looked familiar to Magdalena was likely just a coincidence. Still, Jakob had suspected that the stranger was his brother.

Bartholomäus is right: I’m a fool, a damned fool.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize-he opened his mouth, but not a sound came out. Then he said in a calm voice: “If you don’t catch this beast soon, Bartholomäus, it’s going to kill someone. If it hasn’t done so already. It could be the cause of at least a few of the missing persons-the apothecary’s wife, for example, who clearly got lost here in the woods.” He looked at his brother calmly. “You should ask the civilian militia for help in the search.”

“So they can kill Brutus and take Damian and Cerberus away from me? Never. Aloysius and I will find that naughty runaway, and then-”

“Good Lord in heaven, it’s not a naughty runaway, it’s a dangerous beast,” Jakob interrupted angrily. “Can’t you see that?”

“You’re not going to tell me what to do!” Bartholomäus was screaming now, and Aloysius carefully stepped to one side. “Maybe there was a time you could push me around, Big Brother,” Bartholomäus continued in a rage, “but that time is long past. You’re a coward. Georg has known that for a long time, and soon Magdalena and Barbara will know it, too.”

Jakob swallowed hard, and his face turned white. “So. . so. . you told him?”

Bartholomäus flashed a sardonic grin. “Of course. You can be sure his image of his father is badly tarnished. I’ve already told you Georg wants to stay here with me, and once Barbara has gotten over her infatuation with this young rogue, she’ll probably consider staying, herself. Especially when she hears what a traitor-”

“You. . you rotten scum.” Without giving it another thought, Jakob charged at his brother. They grabbed one another, fell to the ground, and wrestled-first one, then the other appearing to get the upper hand.

“I’ll shut your filthy mouth,” Jakob hissed. “I should have done that a long time ago.”

He raised his fist to take a swing, but suddenly Bartholomäus squirmed out from under him like a slippery fish. He reached for the cudgel lying on the ground next to him and hit his brother like a madman as he lay on the ground.

“What’s done is done!” Bartholomäus shouted. “And you can’t undo it. Now the whole family is going to know.”

“Like hell they will.”

Jakob reached for the cudgel, ripped it out of his brother’s hand, and flung it far away, almost hitting Aloysius. The servant had been anxiously watching the two combatants and hadn’t moved. The two Kuisls fought now like twelve-year-olds, rolling in the mud, spitting out leaves and dirt, and for a moment Jakob remembered how they’d used to fight then, forty years ago, in almost the same way.

Just before I left, he thought gloomily.

The fight was ending. Even after all those years, Jakob was still stronger, and Bartholomäus lay on the ground, beaten. Jakob clenched his fist, ready to bash him between the eyes, when suddenly a familiar high-pitched voice rang out.

“Stop at once! By God, if Mother knew you were fighting in the dirt with your own brother. Shame on you both, you foolish men.”

It was Magdalena. She was standing next to the dog shed, her arms crossed and her eyes ablaze.

She stared at the two grown men fighting with each other and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her father was well over fifty, and his brother not much younger. The two were covered with mud and leaves, their clothing ripped, and despite their ages they looked like two little kids. Alongside them, distraught, stood the pockmarked servant Aloysius. The whole scene was unintentionally comical, though Magdalena could see the bloodlust in the eyes of both brothers and knew it was deadly serious and no joke.

Where does this hatred come from? she asked herself. What happened between the two back then?

Even though Magdalena had run after her father as fast as she could, she hadn’t caught up with him until now. At some point along the way he must have left the road and made his way through the forest; there were no longer any footprints on the muddy road. And then, even before she’d reached the knacker’s house, she’d heard the angry shouts and realized at once that there was a serious fight in progress. She ran across the clearing to find her father and uncle fighting like two mongrel dogs.

“Is this the way you settle an argument in the family?” she chided them angrily. “Just stop it, and start acting like grown-ups.”

Her anger helped drive away her fear. If her father beat up Bartholomäus, then the latter would hardly be willing to help them. Everything was just as she had feared.

“Father, you. . you stupid ox,” she shouted. “Just stop-right now. If not for my sake, then at least for Barbara’s.”

This message got through. Jakob rolled off his brother and stood there groaning and wiping the bloody, dirty hair out of his eyes. His hat lay beside him on the ground, beaten and ripped.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he growled. “This matter is between Bartholomäus and me.”

“Oh, but it certainly does concern her,” Bartholomäus hissed. Now he, too, had gotten up, swaying slightly, dragging his crippled leg behind him. “It’s time she learned the truth.”

Magdalena frowned. “About what?”

There was an awkward silence, and Jakob turned his eyes away from her. Finally he looked at Bartholomäus.

“Tell Aloysius to leave,” he said.

Bartholomäus nodded and gestured to his servant. “Go and attend to the dead cow in front of the house,” he said. “This is a family matter.”

“But the dogs-” Aloysius started to say.

“Get out of here, I said!”

Silently, Aloysius withdrew, but not without casting one last, anxious look at his master. Bartholomäus wiped the blood and snot from his beard, then shot a questioning glance at his brother.

“Shall I tell her, or do you want to?”

Jakob shrugged and finally took a seat on a nearby woodpile covered with funguses, and he took out his pipe. “Just go ahead,” he grumbled. “Spit it out so you can have some peace of mind.”

Bartholomäus took a deep breath and also sat down on a woodpile. He was visibly exhausted by the fight, and his hands were trembling.

“I’ll tell you the story of our family,” he said to Magdalena. “The whole story, from the beginning. What do you know about your great-grandfather?”

Magdalena hesitated. “My great-grandfather? His name was Jörg Abriel. He was an executioner, like everyone in the family.”

“He wasn’t just any executioner,” Bartholomäus corrected her. “He was the best and most famous executioner in the whole country. He would go with his family anywhere he was needed. He had a coach, horses, and servants, and his reputation preceded him wherever he went. He was the one who broke the whole notorious Pappenheim family on the wheel in Munich and impaled them, and in Schongau and Werdenfels in 1590, he beheaded and burned more than a hundred women suspected of witchcraft. It was rumored that Jörg Abriel could recognize witches from a distance; he could smell them. Well, it’s possible that was so. .” Bartholomäus grinned and paused briefly before continuing. “After all, he was a witch, a warlock, himself.”

Magdalena looked at him in disbelief. Many times, her father had told her and her siblings about the notorious Jörg Abriel. But what Bartholomäus was saying now was new to her.

“My great-grandfather was a. . a warlock?” Magdalena asked. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t know, exactly, but his wife-that is, your great-grandmother Euphrosina-dealt with magical elixirs and amulets. And Jörg Abriel kept some magic books containing, it was said, all the spells he had forced out of the witches when he tortured them. I saw those books myself when I was a child-bound in the finest calfskin and with silver fittings, a true feast for the eyes. They were considered the most valuable and truest books on magic that ever existed.”

“Don’t these books exist anymore, then?” Magdalena asked.

Bartholomäus shrugged regretfully, and his gaze darkened. “Unfortunately not. Your dear father burned them after he abandoned us, and only told me about it much later.”

“Because they were the work of the devil, that’s why!” Jakob interrupted. Until then he had remained silent, but now he could no longer restrain himself. “Written with the blood of a hundred innocent women. They disgusted me.”

“They were our family’s heritage,” Bartholomäus snapped. “Even if you were the firstborn, you had no right to do that.” He turned back to Magdalena. “Your father had a great responsibility thrust upon him at that time, but he failed. Our father was a good hangman until he started to drink.” He stared blankly into space. “That happens to many hangmen tormented by their dreams. Some even go mad. Father couldn’t stand it, either, and finally-”

“He was a failure and a drunk,” Jakob interrupted. “And you’ve never understood that, Bartholomäus. He beat our mother black and blue, and us, too. Yes, I loved him and respected him, but then I saw him as he really was. I didn’t want to become like him. Ever.”

Bartholomäus nodded grimly. “And for that reason you put your tail between your legs and just took off-but not before destroying the magic books, our family’s heritage-and you simply abandoned us, your younger brother and sister. I was only twelve, Jakob, and Lisl just three, and when you left, Mother had a bad fever. Do you remember? She never recovered, but it wasn’t her sickness that did her in, it was her grief. What were you thinking?” He lowered his voice and repeated, “What, in God’s name, Jakob, were you thinking?”

Magdalena watched her father in silence, but he turned away and just stared at the ground. She knew that as a young man he’d given up his vocation as a hangman and gone off to war, but Jakob had never told them what had happened to his brother and sister. All she knew about Aunt Elisabeth was that she’d gone to live with a midwife after the death of her parents, then was raised by her brother Jakob when he returned from the war, and later went to Regensburg to live with a bathhouse owner. Magdalena hadn’t heard about Bartholomäus until just a few years ago. Her father had put up a great wall of silence concerning his immediate family.

Now, for the first time, Magdalena understood why.

Suddenly, Bartholomäus got up from the woodpile where he’d been and raised his right trouser leg. Magdalena could see an old, whitened scar starting at his ankle and running up his calf.

“Take a look at my leg, Jakob,” he said. “Take a good look. This here is your doing. When you left me alone on the roof after father’s death, with all those bloodthirsty villagers. . I jumped. I didn’t make it to the other roof, I fell. Like a brick. My leg splintered, and the broken pieces stuck out like fish bones. The old bathhouse surgeon, that wheezing old bungler, sawed on it for a while and just made everything worse. Since then, I’ve been a cripple, Jakob. Because of you.”

“Father,” Magdalena asked hesitantly. “Is this true? Please talk to me. What happened then?”

Jakob cleared his throat and then, slowly and haltingly, began to speak.

“Your grandfather was a drunkard, Magdalena,” he began. “Toward the end, it was impossible to put up with him. He beat us, he squandered the little money we had, and he bungled the executions. People in town complained and gossiped about the only descendant of the famous Jörg Abriel, who had been such a feared executioner.” His grimace turned into a scornful smile. “Everybody hates us hangmen, but at least they respect us. No one had any respect for your grandfather, and when, for the third time, he turned the scaffold into a bloodbath, they stoned him to death, like a beast. Both Bartholomäus and I were there as helpers, and we were barely able to get away-”

“Damn it, Jakob!” Bartholomäus interrupted. “You were the older of us two. You knew how an execution was supposed to go. You should have helped Father. But no, you stood there like a pillar of salt. My big, beloved brother, the one I looked up to, you were so afraid you almost shit in your pants. And at the end you just left me behind in the dirt while the Berchtholdt brothers attacked me.”

“There was no way out. When will you finally understand?” Jakob paused, and when he continued, the words came gushing out. “Yes, I left you behind on the roof. I had to warn the others-Mother and Lisl. Old Berchtholdt and his people were already on the way to our house. Those two were just barely able to hide in time. And if the court clerk-”

Bartholomäus interrupted him. “But it was a few weeks later that you abandoned us-all of us. You just took off.” His voice was bitter.

“Because I was disgusted-with you, with Father, with the whole place. I didn’t want to turn out like my father, nor my grandfather. Yes, I took the magic books along and burned them, and then I took off and went to war. Away from you, from the family, from our reputation that stuck to us like blood on our fingers. Damn it! I wasn’t even fourteen.”

“You abandoned us,” Bartholomäus repeated in a trembling voice. “Can you imagine what it was like to live in a place as children of a dishonorable hangman who had been stoned to death? We were helpless and exposed every day to harassment and bullying. When Mother finally died of grief, little Lisl went to live with the midwife in Peiting, and later I traveled around doing odd jobs. They were hard years, Jakob, and not until I arrived here in Bamberg did I finally get a job as an executioner. I’d almost forgotten you.” He broke out in a bitter laugh. “And then one day during the war you came by here. You’d done well, you were a sergeant then, a strong, robust fellow, and just as arrogant as before. I can’t forget how you turned up your nose when you entered my stinking hangman’s room.”

“That’s not true,” Jakob mumbled.

“No doubt you thought we’d just shake hands and all would be forgotten,” Bartholomäus continued as if he hadn’t heard his brother. “But it’s not as simple as that. The whole time I hoped you had kept the magic books-I thought you’d taken them away and hidden them somewhere, but then you told me you’d burned them like so many dry leaves. I’ll never forgive you for that. Not for that, and not for this, either,” he said, pointing to his crippled leg. “Some wounds never heal, Jakob. Never.”

“But you took Georg as your journeyman,” Jakob replied in a muted voice. “I thank you for that, Bartl, even if you cannot forget.”

“Do you know what I always asked myself?” Bartholomäus said after a while. He pulled his trouser leg down again and sat beside his brother. “Why did you go back to being a hangman? Why did you come back to Schongau, instead of staying with the troops? From everything I’ve heard, the Steingaden executioner did a good job standing in for you while you were gone.”

Jakob stared up into the treetops, as if he might find the answer there.

“I found the woman I loved,” he said finally, “and war is an unending, bloody business, no place for small, crying children. I needed a place where I could stay and support my family.” He looked at his brother sadly. “And the only thing we Kuisls ever learned was killing. We’re masters at that. If people have to be killed, it should at least be done by people who can do it in the best and most painless way. That’s what the war taught me.”

Jakob took a deep breath. Now that it was all in the open, it was as if a great storm had finally passed.

“And Georg knows everything?” he asked.

“Everything.” Bartholomäus nodded. “I told him last year. It seemed to shake him up a lot.” Then he smiled. “Evidently it’s in our blood that in our family we have to disappoint one another, again and again.”

A great stillness came over the clearing; from far off, the sound of a cuckoo could be heard. Magdalena was silent as well. Her father, who had always seemed so big and strong to her, now appeared very old and vulnerable. He sat on the woodpile, a cold pipe in his mouth, gray and stiff as a weathered tombstone. And at that moment she felt a love for him stronger than anything she’d ever felt before.

“You. . you have not disappointed me, Father,” she said softly. “On the contrary. But it’s good that-”

She winced when she suddenly heard a deep growl from the shed just beside her.

“For heaven’s sake, what was that?” she asked anxiously.

Her father smiled wearily. “That’s an alaunt, or rather two of them. Your uncle’s pets.” He sighed and began filling his pipe. “I’m afraid we’ll have to put aside the old family matters, at least for the time being. There’s a whole lot of catching up to do.”

A while later, Magdalena was sitting between her father and her uncle on the wet woodpile, going over in her mind everything she had just heard. She kept looking at the shed, where growling and occasional scraping and scratching could be heard against the wooden wall.

“Well, at least we probably know now what the wild animal was that killed the stag, the one Simon and the boys found in the forest the day we arrived,” she finally said. “Let’s hope this animal wasn’t responsible for killing a few people, as well. In any case, it probably isn’t the werewolf we’re looking for.”

Bartholomäus sighed. “I don’t understand why Brutus didn’t come back. He has everything he needs here.” Now that the conversation was no longer about the family but only about his runaway dog and the werewolf, he had calmed down. It looked like the two Kuisl brothers had declared a truce, at least for the time being.

“I can do without your beloved pet for now,” Jakob responded grimly, puffing on his pipe, from which little clouds of smoke rose heavenward. “I only had a glimpse of him, but that was enough for me. The beast is as big as a calf.”

“Bigger.” His brother grinned. “The three alaunts eat half a horse between them every day.” Suddenly he paused and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, that’s something that might interest you. A few wolf pelts were found in Matheo’s possessions, weren’t they?”

“And what about it?” Magdalena asked.

“Well, yesterday a whole bunch of pelts were stolen from the knacker’s house-everything we’d made from a few weeks of slaughtering. Hides of horses, cows, but also a stag, a few dog hides, and even an old bearskin full of holes.”

“I knew it!” Jakob smacked his forehead. “It was that stranger hanging around the furrier’s. That son of a bitch bought the wolf pelts and was using them in town. And when things got too hot for him, he hid the pelts in Matheo’s room. .”

“And he came here to the knacker’s house to get new ones,” Magdalena added. She nodded, thinking it over. “It certainly could have happened like that. But why did he do it, and above all, who was it-we don’t have the vaguest idea about that.” She sighed. “And as long as we don’t have any culprit to present to the bishop, more people will have to die, and not just Matheo.”

She briefly told her uncle and her father about the mob down at the river and the poor peddler who had probably already drowned.

“I’m afraid this is only the beginning,” Magdalena concluded. “It will be just as it was in the witch trials. Then, too, there were hundreds of victims before things finally settled down. The executioner really had his hands full.”

“If you think I’d dirty my hands with this, you’re wrong,” Bartholomäus chimed in angrily. “I know that the victims in these trials are usually innocent. That’s nothing a hangman ever wants to do, even if he makes good money at it.” He wiped his mouth nervously. “The previous Bamberg executioner went crazy-from guilt, it was said. He walked off into the forest and no one ever saw him again. I took his place, but only after it was all over.” Bartholomäus looked at his brother and Magdalena in despair. “Believe me, I wouldn’t do that. Three times I’ve hanged convicted thieves, I’ve tortured a confession out of a man who robbed a church offertory box, and I’ve broken an arsonist on the wheel-that I can do. But a wild-goose chase like this. .” His voice failed him. “Well. . I suppose I’d have to. Jakob, you know yourself what happens to hangmen who can’t perform. They wind up swinging from a tree themselves.”

Jakob nodded. “True, that’s our job. People are always glad to find someone to do the dirty work for them.”

“Then help us find the real culprit,” Magdalena urged her uncle. “Perhaps we can still stop this madness.”

Bartholomäus gave a despairing laugh. “Nobody can stop the madness-not once it has started. They have their first werewolf, this Matheo, and you can be sure I’ll torture a hair-raising confession out of him. The suffragan bishop will badger him and torment him until he turns into a real, howling werewolf.”

“A real werewolf. .” Jakob Kuisl took another deep drag on his pipe and sent a few smoke rings up into the autumn sky. His forehead was deeply furrowed, as it always was when he was thinking hard. “A real werewolf. . Of course. We need a real werewolf,” he murmured.

Magdalena looked at him, puzzled. “What are you saying?”

A small smoke ring pushed its way up through a larger one as Jakob’s face broke out in a broad smile. “Yes, that might work,” he finally said, mostly to himself.

“For God’s sake, what are you talking about?” his brother scolded. “That’s one thing I’ve always hated about you-this constant, arrogant secretiveness.”

Magdalena sighed. Just like her uncle, and Simon, too, she hated it when her father tortured her like this. “Now come on, spit it out,” she demanded. “What are you going to do?”

“If we want this madness to stop, we’ve got to present a real werewolf to the people,” he replied calmly. “Then they’ll be happy, and the pursuit will perhaps come to an end.”

“A real werewolf?” Magdalena stopped short. She’d hoped her father would find a way out, but now she was more confused than ever. “And who would that werewolf be?” she asked gruffly.

“Matheo.”

“Matheo?” Magdalena shook her head in horror. “Have you lost your mind? People already think the poor fellow is the werewolf. Barbara will never come back to us if-”

“For God’s sake, let me explain, you cheeky little madam,” Jakob cut in angrily. “Yes, we’ll rescue Matheo from the dungeon, but we’ll make it look like he changed himself back into a werewolf-with fire, and brimstone, and thunder, and all that. Matheo will disappear, and all that will remain in the cell is the wolf. A dead one, that is. The werewolf everyone was looking for died in the dungeon, killed by the incense and all the prayers. And the hunt will be over.” Grinning, he pointed behind him, where Aloysius was still busy flaying the dead cow. “Your servant trapped a few wolves in the forest just yesterday. One is enough for our little trick. It just has to be big.” Jakob looked around, waiting for everyone’s reactions. “Well, what do you think?”

Magdalena was at first too surprised to say anything. Her father’s plan was so bold and absurd that her first thought was just to reject it. But then, slowly, she came around and began to like the idea.

Mainly because she couldn’t think of anything better.

“It might work,” she mumbled. “It’s very risky, but it might work.”

“Nonsense,” Bartholomäus snapped. “People will never fall for anything like that! And even if they do, how do you intend to get the young man out of the dungeon, huh?”

“With your help,” his brother replied.

Bartholomäus laughed. “With my help? I’m afraid you don’t understand how hard that would be. I can’t-”

“Do you have the key to the dungeon in St. Thomas’s Cathedral, or not?” Jakob interrupted him curtly.

“Well, as the Bamberg executioner, I do have the keys to all the dungeons.” Bartholomäus shrugged. “But you forget the guards. The dungeon is in the old courthouse, right next to the city-council room, and it’s teeming with guards.”

“I know what might be a good time,” Magdalena interrupted excitedly. “Tomorrow evening is this great competition between the two groups of actors in Geyerswörth Castle. Simon told me that His Excellency the elector and bishop of Würzburg will be arriving with his entourage, and for that occasion, they’ll need every available man in the castle. Maybe the dungeon up on the cathedral mount won’t be so closely guarded then.”

Bartholomäus waved his hand dismissively. “That only requires two or three guards. If you somehow get rid of them, you’ll immediately arouse suspicion, and people will figure out that somebody came and freed Matheo. And I’ll be the first one everybody suspects.”

“Damn!” Magdalena kicked the woodpile. “Bartholomäus is right, that won’t work.”

“Oh, but it will. We just have to adjust the plan a bit.” Jakob knocked the pipe out and stuck it in the pocket of his ripped jacket. He thought for a while longer and finally continued, nodding happily. “The werewolf will at first overwhelm the guards as it flees, before finally dying in a fight with them. They have to believe they’re fighting a real monster.” He grinned. “Believe me, it’s a story the silly guards will be telling their great-grandchildren.”

“Ah, and if I refuse to help you?” Bartholomäus suggested again. “What then?”

Jakob shrugged. “Then Damian and Cerberus will no doubt spend the rest of their days in the bishop’s menagerie alongside bad-tempered apes and half-starved bears. Yes, I’m afraid someone will tip off the authorities.”

“That’s. . extortion,” Bartholomäus muttered. “You’re extorting your own brother.”

“It’s not extortion, I’m just making you do something for your own good. After all, I’m your big brother, and I can do that.” The Schongau hangman stood up and slowly started walking back to the knacker’s house. “Now let’s go up front and let Aloysius find us a nice big werewolf. And it has to look terrifying. If I have to, I’ll file down his teeth to make them even sharper myself.”

Tormented by violent chills, the Bamberg suffragan bishop Sebastian Harsee lay in his bed and cursed the devil and all the archdemons for sending this fever at such an unfavorable time.

The fever had come on a few days before, and since then Harsee had felt dizzy and exhausted. His headaches were so severe it felt like his brain was riddled with large needles, and he had completely lost his appetite. Until now, the illness could be relieved with infusions of hot linden-blossom tea and iron self-discipline, but that morning something odd had happened. As Harsee was preparing to drink the freshly brewed tea, a horrible aversion had come over him. He forced himself to drink it, immediately threw it up again, and from that moment on his aversion to every liquid just increased. He should have just stayed in bed. Then he learned of the death of Gotzendörf’s widow and, bathed in sweat, had attended the meeting of the city council and later the Inquisition Committee. With his last ounce of strength, he’d finally dragged himself back to his room adjacent to St. Martin’s Church, and since then he had lain in bed shivering, with chattering teeth.

Sebastian Harsee clenched his fist and pounded the bedpost so hard that the pain at least made him forget his headache for a moment. He couldn’t get sick now, not when everything was going his way. For half his life, he’d waited for this werewolf. The devil had finally come to Bamberg spreading fear, and fear was the glue that held this city together. Finally his flock had gathered around their shepherd, finally they turned to the Lord God in their despair. With the help of this werewolf, Harsee would succeed in doing what had been denied to him and his followers almost forty years ago: to turn Bamberg into a City of God. And now, this accursed illness had confined him to his bed.

In addition, the bishop of Würzburg, Johann Philipp von Schönborn, an elector of the Empire in person, had announced his arrival the next evening. Together with the Bamberg bishop, Schönborn would be attending this ridiculous competition between the two theater groups that His Stupid Excellency had naively thought up in order to impress his powerful neighbor.

Harsee shook his head angrily as a new wave of pain racked his body. It was finally time for him to take the reins of leadership firmly in hand in this city. His bishop was so enamored of his menagerie-his monkeys, bears, peacocks, and all his other useless pastimes-that it was quite possible he would soon retire to his estate in the country and turn over the rule to the cathedral chapter. And Harsee had already softened up the cathedral chapter, gaining their trust. Finally, he, Sebastian Harsee, the most devout servant in the vineyard of the Lord, would be the man of the future-a powerful adversary of the depraved worldliness spilling over from the neighboring bishopric of Würzburg.

Harsee and the Würzburg Bishop Schönborn had for a long time shared a deep antipathy for each other. Unlike the Bamberg suffragan bishop, Johann Philipp von Schönborn had always been a vocal opponent of witch trials, which he had forbidden for years in the Würzburg bishopric. Harsee was well aware that Schönborn would do everything he could to limit the suffragan bishop’s hard-won influence, a project that was all the more threatening because Johann Philipp von Schönborn was not only the Würzburg bishop but at the same time the bishop of Worms, archbishop of Mainz, and, as elector and friend of the kaiser, one of the mightiest men in the entire Reich.

Sebastian Harsee groaned and clenched his teeth as another bout of shivering came over him. He had to be there at all costs, to stop this coward Schönborn from talking to Rieneck about the werewolf trials. In the worst-case scenario, Schönborn might even talk the Bamberg bishop out of holding the trials. His whole plan was in danger if he didn’t recover soon. At least he’d been able to prevent this miserable executioner’s reception in the wedding house. A hangman dancing with honorable citizens. That contradicted the divine order and every sense of morality. It was really high time to lead this city back on the right path.

There was a knock on the door, and an anxious servant entered, bowing and scraping.

“What is it?” Harsee asked crossly, dabbing the cold sweat on his forehead.

“You. . you asked for the bishop’s physician, Your Excellency,” the servant answered, looking down at the floor. “He has just arrived.”

“Well, then, send in that Jewish quack doctor, so he’ll at least earn his exorbitant salary.”

The servant disappeared, and Harsee licked his dry lips. He’d delayed a long time before calling Master Samuel. As a pious Christian, he couldn’t stand the Jews, even though Samuel’s family had converted long ago. In addition, Bishop Rieneck put blind trust in the doctor. Ever since the doctor had started treating the bishop’s mistress for the French disease, His Excellency had become more and more attached to the quack. Harsee feared that Samuel would secretly give the bishop false advice-after all, the doctor was also an opponent of the werewolf trials. He should never have allowed the man to serve on the committee.

And from the very outset Harsee had disliked the doctor’s friend, this dubious little scholar whom he brought with him to the meetings. Who was he, anyway? Some sort of impostor? Well, as soon as he recovered, he’d make inquiries. Perhaps he could use this acquaintance to make a noose for the Jewish doctor.

There was another knock on the door, and Master Samuel entered with a shamelessly casual bow. He was carrying a large, worn leather bag.

“Your Excellency, you called me?” he asked, looking at Harsee with concern. “You didn’t look well today at the council meeting. It appears you have a fever.”

Harsee nodded with visible impatience. “It doesn’t take a doctor to see that,” he mumbled. “I called for you so you could do something for me, and quickly. Can you?”

“That depends entirely on what’s ailing you. Tell me exactly how you feel.”

Annoyed, Harsee told the doctor about his stabbing headaches, vomiting, and dizziness. Master Samuel listened silently and finally opened his leather bag with its dozens of little pockets and compartments. After looking around, he pulled out a long wooden stick.

“For heaven’s sake, what is that?” Harsee mumbled. “A cooking spoon?”

“It’s a tongue depressor, Your Excellency. I’d like to have a look at your throat, and that’s why I need this instrument. Would you please open your mouth?”

With a shrug, the suffragan bishop let himself be examined. Master Samuel pressed his tongue down and seemed to put it all the way into the back of his throat.

“Harrummff. .,” Harsee croaked.

“Say again?” Samuel pulled the stick back out of the bishop’s mouth.

“I said spare me this newfangled treatment,” Harsee grunted. “If you’ll bleed me properly, it’ll get better.”

Samuel frowned. “In your present condition, I’d strongly advise against that. You’re already weak enough. A bleeding could kill you.”

“Kill me? Ha!” Harsee shook his head, and again a stabbing pain passed over his forehead. “I just have a fever, that’s all. If you can’t bleed me, then find something else to do so I can get out of bed by tomorrow night at the latest. You know yourself that the bishop of Würzburg is coming to visit us, and I must be there.”

“I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but the bishop will have to do without you,” the doctor replied calmly. “Absolute rest is the only thing-”

“Damn it all! I. . I order you to. .” Sebastian Harsee tried to get out of bed, but his body was again racked by a spasm of pain. He fell back, groaning, and allowed Master Samuel to unbutton his shirt and place an odd-looking wooden horn against his chest. The doctor put his ear up to it and appeared to be concentrating intensely.

“What. . what are you doing there?” the suffragan bishop gasped. “What sort of devilish instrument is that?”

“It’s an instrument I invented to check a patient’s heartbeat,” the doctor answered as he put it back in his bag. “Yours is much too fast. You shouldn’t get so excited.”

Samuel was carefully palpating the patient’s chest when, suddenly, he stopped.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a little scab on his patient’s neck.

“Oh, that? Nothing important.” Harsee waved him off. At that moment the spot began to itch badly again, and he scratched it hard. “Something probably bit me there. It just won’t heal, that’s all.”

Samuel fetched another strange instrument from his magic bag, a large glass lens with a handle, and looked at the wound more closely.

“Do you know what kind of creature that might have been?” he asked.

“No idea.” Suspiciously the suffragan bishop studied the lens. “Something must have bitten me during the night, perhaps a God-damned rat. Who cares?”

The doctor looked at him somberly. “There’s a red circle around the wound. I don’t like that at all. You should have put a bandage on it right away.”

“Damn it! If I need a bandage, I’ll go to a bathhouse,” Harsee growled. “I don’t call the bishop’s personal physician for that. Just tell me what to do about the fever and these damned headaches.”

Samuel was still examining the wound and appeared to be lost in his thoughts. Finally, he straightened up.

“Well, I’ll brew a potion for you out of elderberries and thistles. That will lower the fever. In addition, I’ll give you some willow bark for the headache.” Samuel pulled out a little bottle of a brownish liquid. “I always have a little bark essence with me. I suggest you take a few spoonfuls right away dissolved in wine.”

The suffragan bishop demurred. “Put it on the table over there. I don’t feel like drinking it right now.”

Samuel looked at him with concern. “But you should drink a lot. That’s important.”

“I said I just don’t want to,” Harsee snapped. “The very sight of any liquid makes me sick to my stomach. So get that stuff out of my sight.”

With a shrug, Samuel put the little bottle down on the table, then turned back to his patient.

“If you really want to get better, I can only advise you to drink a lot. And you absolutely must stay in bed the next few days. You are seriously ill, Your Excellency.”

“Just let me worry about that.” Harsee forced a grin-he had calmed down somewhat. “I assume the bishop also invited you to the play tomorrow and the following evening, as the two of you understand each other so well,” he added smugly.

Samuel nodded. “Indeed he has, as well as my friend Simon Fronwieser. It’s a great honor.”

“Ah. You see? If something happens to me, there will be two capable doctors available. I’m as safe as in the bosom of Abraham.”

Samuel sighed with resignation, then stood up and packed his bag.

“I can’t order you to do anything,” he said, shrugging. “Do what you think is right, Your Excellency. I just thought you wouldn’t be especially interested in worldly theater plays, anyway.”

“Believe me, the action that evening won’t be just on the stage,” the suffragan bishop replied dryly. “There will also be politics, with no prepared script, and I want to be sure to be there and play my part.” He winked, but it sounded like an order. “And now, farewell. I’ll wait for my medicines, and until then I have no need for you here, Jew.”

Master Samuel seemed to flinch on hearing the final words, but he excused himself silently with a stiff bow. Sebastian Harsee waited for the door to close, then let out a long, loud moan. His headache was killing him.

Absentmindedly he scratched the scab on his neck until he felt blood on his fingertips.

At least the itching took his mind off the fever.

“A runaway dog?”

Simon looked at Magdalena, astonished. Night was falling, but his wife and the two Kuisl brothers had returned to the executioner’s house only a few minutes before. Young Georg had been there for a while already and was chatting with the medicus. Simon had learned from him what had happened down by the river. Georg had finally been able to alert the guards in city hall, and the unfortunate peddler was saved at the last moment. He was now sitting in the city dungeon, awaiting his fate.

Simon had intended to tell the others about his strange encounter with Hieronymus Hauser, but what Magdalena told him now sounded so peculiar that he kept his own story to himself for the moment.

“I never believed that Bartholomäus had anything to do with this sleep sponge,” he said, casting a sympathetic glance at the Bamberg executioner, who was sitting with folded arms at the far end of the table. “Well, at least we know now what killed the stag we discovered in the Bamberg Forest as we were coming to town, and also why some people say they’ve seen a monster out there.” He shook his head. “It was just a dog.”

“Believe me, you can’t think of it as just an ordinary dog.” Magdalena smiled grimly. “It’s more like a-” she started to say when her father interrupted her rudely.

“It’s a monster of a beast,” he growled, “as large as a calf and with long teeth. Even if it isn’t the werewolf we’re looking for, it’s still some sort of monster.”

“You don’t know Brutus,” Bartholomäus objected. “I raised him since he was a little pup. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, he’s just playing.”

“Damn it, that’s the last straw.” Jakob pounded the table with his fist and glared at his brother. “Your beloved Brutus probably killed two people, Bartl. If we didn’t have so many other problems now, I’d report you to the authorities.”

“You’d turn in your own brother?” he snarled. “That would be just like you.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with snitching, you dumb yokel. We have to protect people from this beast. Now just shut your mouth before I do it for you.”

Simon sighed softly as he looked at the two brothers. Just a while ago it seemed they’d finally reconciled with each other. Magdalena had suggested that they were on speaking terms again, after their rehashing of events that had happened a long time ago. But evidently their enmity ran too deep.

“You mentioned before that there was a way we could help Matheo and Barbara,” said Simon, turning to his father-in-law to try to put an end to the awkward topic. “What was your plan?”

“Bah! That’s no plan, it’s a suicide mission,” Bartholomäus scoffed. Then he turned silent and leaned back on the bench, sulking.

Jakob cleared his throat, then briefly explained what he wanted to do. Simon and Georg listened silently while cold sweat poured down Simon’s back.

“You mean we’ll just pretend we’ve caught a werewolf?” Simon shook his head in disbelief. “Do you really think you can get away with that?”

“No, of course it’s not going to work,” Jakob growled, “because every damn one of you is so chickenhearted. God, if during the war, I had-”

“Let’s not get started about the war again, Father,” Magdalena interrupted. Then she turned to the family, trying to calm them down. “I know the plan sounds absurd at first, but it might succeed for just that reason. If we all work together.”

Simon frowned. “The bishop has invited me to the performance tonight. This Sebastian Harsee is a very distrustful man-he always looks at me with suspicion. If I don’t go-”

“Just stop worrying, you sissy. I have another job for you,” his father-in-law interrupted, “one where you won’t trip over your own feet or get any dirt on your fine clothes. You’re a friend of this Jewish quack, aren’t you? We need a few ingredients from him that Bartl doesn’t have in the house-poppy-seed oil, mandrake, henbane, and hemlock.”

Simon stopped short. “Henbane and hemlock? But they’re all-”

“Ingredients for a sleep sponge, right.” Kuisl nodded. “If the werewolf can use them, so can we. That way, we’ll get rid of the guards. The stuff isn’t very reliable. The men will just be dazed, and not for very long. Everything that happens will seem like a dream to them.” The hangman flashed a mischievous smile. “And let’s make sure it’s a real nightmare. Georg”-he turned to his son-“you go over to the furrier’s and see if you can get some cheap furs and skins.”

“Furs and skins, right.” Georg nodded hesitantly. “But why?”

“Don’t you get it?” Magdalena said, looking around impatiently. “Father and Uncle Bartholomäus are going to dress up like monsters so the guards will think a real werewolf is attacking them. Later, when they wake up, a large, dead wolf will be lying next to them. They’ll think it’s the real werewolf that had attacked them before.”

“And where are we going to find this wolf?” Simon wondered.

Magdalena pointed toward the door. “In the shed next door. A real beast that Aloysius caught in one of his traps. Rigor mortis will have set in already, but in their excitement the guards will never notice.” She winked at her uncle. “After all, they’d just been attacked by a ferocious werewolf.”

“Hold on just a moment.” Bartholomäus bent over the table with a threatening look in his eye. “Maybe I’ll give you the key to the dungeon, fine, but there’s no way I’m going to wrap myself up in a stinking animal hide.”

“Think of your darling little pets,” Jakob said in a grim tone. “You want to keep them, don’t you? So help us. It’s as simple as that.”

“Just stop this!” Magdalena looked at her father angrily, then turned to Bartholomäus and said in a conciliatory tone, “You’re doing it for Barbara. She is your niece, after all. Besides, you’ve said yourself you don’t want this werewolf trial. If we can present people with a dead werewolf, perhaps we can still stop this madness. Katharina would surely want the same thing.”

“Keep Katharina out of this. It’s bad enough that you bring me into it.” Bartholomäus bit his lip and seemed to be struggling. “Very well,” he finally said. “I’ll do it. But if anything goes wrong-”

“It’s not your fault,” his brother interrupted. “Understood.” He turned around to Simon. “Do you think you can talk your Jewish friend into giving us a few more ingredients?”

Simon thought for a moment. “It depends. What were you thinking of?”

“Brimstone, charcoal, and saltpeter.” Jakob grinned again. Despite his age, he sometimes seemed to Simon like a kid thinking up new tricks. “All three ingredients are used separately as medications,” the hangman explained with visible satisfaction, “but together they make up the most devilish stuff man has ever thought up: gunpowder. At the end, we want to give our werewolf a send-off that all of Bamberg will be talking about, don’t we?” He clapped his hands. “We don’t want to cover anything up. Besides, sulfur stinks so much, they’ll think the beast comes straight from hell. Matheo will get out of the dungeon, and no one will suspect my brother of having opened the door.”

Magdalena nodded. “So this is the way we’re going to distribute the work. Simon will get the necessary ingredients today from Doctor Samuel, Georg will go to the furrier for the furs and hides, and tomorrow night, Father, Uncle Bartholomäus, and I will sneak down to the dungeon in the old courthouse.”

Simon looked at his wife, confused. “Why you? I thought-”

“At first I wasn’t especially crazy about the idea, myself,” Jakob interrupted, “but Magdalena convinced me that she could perhaps distract some of the guards. We don’t know how many there are. If there are only two or three of them, Bartholomäus and I can manage, but if there are more, we’ll have a problem.”

“Damn it! If something goes wrong, you’ll all be hanged as heretics and devil worshippers,” Simon groaned. “Do you realize that?”

“I think they’d rather break us on the wheel and cut our guts out,” Jakob replied. “That’s what they used to do in Schongau. What do you think, Bartholomäus?”

His brother nodded. “They could also boil us in oil, which is what they sometimes do with warlocks and counterfeiters, but to do that they need a competent hangman. It will be hard to find one so quickly. Perhaps the Nuremberg executioner?”

“Just stop that,” Simon groaned. “That. . that’s dreadful.” He turned to his wife. “Magdalena, I won’t allow you to be part of this madness.”

But Magdalena just shrugged and turned away. “Oh, come, Simon. We’ve survived all sorts of adventures together. And besides, you forget that most of the guards will probably be down at Geyerswörth Castle. Nothing will happen.”

Simon closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Why did he have to marry such a stubborn, rebellious woman?

I can only hope that our sons turn out a bit more like me. But at least in Paul’s case, I already have my doubts. He shuddered.

In the excitement, he’d completely forgotten to inquire about the children. “And where are Peter and Paul?” he asked, frowning. “They’re not at Katharina’s house. She’s there with her father crying her eyes out.”

Magdalena squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, they’re being well cared for. The old tavern keeper over at the Wild Man is keeping an eye on them and telling them exciting stories. I looked in on them a while ago, and they’re fine. I just thought it would be better for us to have a good talk and not be distracted.” She looked over at her younger brother and smiled. “But as soon as Georg gets back from the furrier’s, he’ll be a good uncle and care for them. Won’t you?”

Georg folded his arms in front of his chest and jutted his chin forward. “Hey, that wasn’t what we agreed on. Magdalena gets to go along with Father and Uncle Bartholomäus to free Matheo, and I’m supposed to stay home caring for the kids and singing lullabies? That’s not fair.”

“Damn it, Georg. You’re only fifteen,” his father growled. “It’s bad enough that Magdalena is involved in this. You’ll stay here, and that’s my last word.”

Georg was going to object, but when he saw the severe look on his father’s face, he kept quiet. After a moment’s silence, Bartholomäus cleared his throat.

“There’s something else I’ve got to tell you,” he began cautiously. “Before I started out for the Bamberg Forest this noon, I was down at the river. I spoke with the ragpicker Answin on account of the filth in the moat. Answin also has the job of making sure the Regnitz stays more or less clean, so I thought he could help me to clean the moat, too.”

“And?” Jakob asked harshly.

“Well, this morning Answin fished another body out of the water. I only got a brief look at it, and it’s in bad shape, but I think it’s Thadäus Vasold-you know, the missing councilman.”

“Damn it!” Jakob jumped to his feet. “Why didn’t you say that before? We must have a look at the body. Every victim has something to tell us about the murderer. Now Answin has probably taken it to the guards’ office in city hall.”

Bartholomäus shrugged. “Not necessarily. Sometimes he keeps the body-especially if it is in as bad condition as Vasold is-and the guards come to him and inspect the corpse there before it’s buried.”

“Then let’s pay a visit to Answin as soon as we can, before it gets dark.” Jakob was already halfway out the door. “I don’t think we’ll be allowed to examine the corpse, as we did the last time, if it’s already in the hands of the guards,” he said, rubbing his huge nose. “And I’m convinced this dead man has a story or two to tell us.”

Without another word, he disappeared into the street.

A short while later, Simon and Magdalena were sitting alone at the table. Bartholomäus had followed Jakob down to the river, and, after sulking a while, Georg had started on his way to the furrier’s. On his way back, he’d pick up the two boys at the Wild Man. For the first time in a long while, Simon was sitting together undisturbed with Magdalena-there were no whining children, and no grumbling father-in-law to constantly tell him what to do.

The sweet smell of resin came from a few logs crackling in the fireplace, and Simon suddenly noticed how hungry he was. He’d had nothing to eat that day except for a skimpy breakfast before the council meeting. He walked over to the stove, cut off a few slices of smoked sausage hanging from the chimney hood, put them onto two plates along with some bread, then pushed one plate down the table to Magdalena, who immediately started eating.

For a while they ate silently while Simon tried to gather his thoughts. There was so much to discuss that he hardly knew where to begin. Magdalena was still firmly determined to stay for the wedding that had been postponed indefinitely. Perhaps now, however, everything would happen much faster than they’d expected. Once Matheo was free, there would be no reason for Barbara to hide from her father, and perhaps they could soon leave for home.

But it’s also possible we’ll be branded as witches and conjurers of werewolves, then quartered and boiled in oil.

Suddenly, Simon had lost his appetite. He poured cups of diluted wine for his wife and himself, then took Magdalena’s hand. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?” he asked. “If something goes wrong tomorrow night-”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Magdalena snapped, and pulled her hand away. “Besides, a family always has to stick together, no matter how tough things get. That’s something you’ll have to learn if you want to become a real Kuisl.” She gave him a wan smile. “I’m especially happy that Father and Uncle Bartholomäus will work together to get this poor fellow out of the dungeon. Perhaps that will help, finally, to end their hostility.”

“You dropped a few hints before,” he said. “Did you finally learn what came between the two of them long ago?”

Magdalena nodded gloomily. “Oh, yes, I know. Perhaps I even know more than I want to.”

Hesitantly, she told Simon about the death of her drunken grandfather and her father’s sudden flight from Schongau.

“And he simply left Bartholomäus and little Elisabeth behind, all by themselves?” He frowned. “Just what was he thinking?”

“He was still just a boy, Simon. And he didn’t want to become an executioner. I can understand what he did,” she said with a dark expression. “I had the impression that Uncle Bartholomäus was bothered even more by something else. . Something to do with our family, with my great-grandfather’s legacy.”

“What sort of legacy?” he asked, surprised. “I’ve never heard anything about that.”

But Magdalena just shook her head. “I’ll tell you about it some other time. It’s. . a family matter.” She hesitated, then nodded with determination. “Most of all, I’m glad we’ve put all this madness behind us.” Then she looked at him with curiosity. “But you haven’t told me yet about what happened this morning in the council meeting.”

Simon sighed and shrugged. “Actually, nothing of importance, except that the suffragan bishop evidently has some sort of fever coming on. Also, they’ve offered a reward to anyone who can provide a tip about other suspects. You can imagine how many werewolves we’ll have in Bamberg before long.” He took a sip from his cup, then paused. “But after that, something really strange happened. It has to do with Bartholomäus’s future father-in-law. That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it before, when your uncle was here. He might have gotten angry and refused to help us.”

In a low voice he told Magdalena about his visit to the Hausers, his conversation with Hieronymus, and the latter’s strange behavior.

“He went straight over to the old courthouse, and from there probably right to the bishop’s archive,” he said finally.

“The bishop’s archive?” She stopped to think. “What do you think he was looking for there?”

“Well, it’s possible it didn’t have anything to do with us. But perhaps it did. Who knows, but it appears he was going to check something in the records.”

“Do you think we could find out what that was?” she asked.

Simon laughed, at a loss. “I’m afraid that would be hard to do. If the archive is as large as I think, there are thousands of files there. It would be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.” He shook his head. “Hieronymus would have to tell us himself, and he probably won’t do that.”

He pushed the cup aside with a sigh and stood up. “It’s time for me to pay a visit to Samuel and ask him for the necessary ingredients for your cloak-and-dagger operation.” One last time he gave Magdalena an earnest look. “And then let’s pray this hocus-pocus doesn’t send us all to an early grave.”

“Damn it all, won’t you wait?” Jakob heard the voice of his brother behind him and the familiar scraping sound as Bartholomäus dragged his crippled leg through the mud.

Jakob stopped and turned around. “Have you decided to come along after all?” he asked crossly.

“You. . you don’t know Answin,” Bartholomäus gasped, out of breath, as he caught up with his brother. “If I’m not there with you, he won’t tell you a damn thing.”

“I’d make him talk,” Jakob grumbled as he stomped ahead through the narrow lanes, which were already in the shadows on this autumn afternoon. Despite his grumpy reply, Jakob was glad that Bartholomäus was coming along-not only because he really did have a better chance of learning something from the ragpicker if his brother came with him, but also because he still felt rather moved by the earlier confession in the forest. As young children, he and Bartholomäus had played together a lot; they’d practiced beheadings using carrots hung on strings, they’d run through the forest with wooden swords, and they’d watched when their father took down the huge executioner’s sword and polished it on a large grindstone with a leather strap. Jakob had never loved his younger brother-they were too different-but there was still a bond between them, even now, after all the years. Their fight in the forest had shown Jakob once again that one can’t run away from one’s own family.

You take them in, no matter what.

Since those days, he’d visited Bartholomäus only once before in Bamberg. That was during the Great War, when Jakob was a sergeant under General Tilly. He’d learned by chance that a certain Bartholomäus Kuisl was the executioner in Bamberg, and since the army was passing near the city, he wanted to make sure that this Bartholomäus was actually his brother. Their conversation was short and gruff, because while Jakob had expected something like an absolution for running away, there was no forgiveness, and he felt his younger brother had cut ties with him.

But that wasn’t the main reason their parting had been unfriendly. It all went back to their grandfather, Jörg Abriel, the most famous and most feared of all the hangmen in the German Reich.

Jakob had told Bartholomäus that he’d burned Abriel’s magic books shortly after he left, without knowing how much those books had meant to his brother. Bartholomäus had reacted with horror and revulsion on hearing that Jakob had simply consigned the family’s most valuable heritage to the flames.

What Jakob had really done with them, Bartholomäus would never know; Jakob had sworn to take that secret with him to the grave.

Bartholomäus had never forgiven his older brother for the destruction of their heritage, and ever since then, Jakob had looked down condescendingly on his younger brother, who was earning good money in Bamberg but cared little for the wisdom and logic of medicine. Instead he had decided to seek salvation in ancient grimoires, books of black magic.

They’d parted ways, but then Jakob had become a hangman himself and, out of necessity, sent his son Georg to serve Bartholomäus as an apprentice. Suddenly he himself couldn’t tell right from wrong.

“When we’re with Answin, let me do the talking,” Bartholomäus said, putting an end to Jakob’s dark musings. “He’s a little peculiar. It must have something to do with his job.”

“The man is a ragpicker,” Jakob replied. “What’s so peculiar about that?”

“Well, you have to understand that Answin doesn’t just collect rags. The Regnitz washes ashore all kinds of filth, which he has to fish out. A lot of things get stuck in the millwheels and weirs that otherwise would have settled to the bottom of the river and disappeared forever.” His face darkened as they walked through the busy alleys. “Every year there are at least a dozen corpses among them. Some are suicides-people who’ve suffered some tragedy and jumped in the river-and many are people who were robbed and murdered. The city guards go to visit Answin regularly. He’s not just a ragpicker but a corpse fisher, and he makes good money doing it.”

Jakob frowned. “How does he do that?”

His brother stopped and pointed down at the river that wound its way between some warehouses and markets like a black, stinking ribbon. Behind it were the cathedral mount and the other hills.

“Often, the victim’s relatives are looking desperately for the corpse in order to give it a decent burial,” he explained. “Answin is their last hope. For each corpse he fishes out, he demands three guilders, and rich people pay even more. He’s fair, even with his corpses.”

By now, they’d reached the bend in the river that separated the old and the new parts of the city. The city hall lay nearby on the right, and on the left were the piers and jetties, with boats tied up and bobbing in the current in the last light of day. Jakob remembered leaving the knacker’s wagon there almost a week ago when he and Bartholomäus were on their way to city hall. Two rowboats sat on jacks in an open shed near the piers. Next to one of them, a filthy-looking man with matted, flaming-red hair was applying caulk to some holes in the hull with a spatula.

“Good day, Answin,” Bartholomäus said.

The ragpicker raised his head, and Jakob could see he was blind in one eye, with black scabs covering the encrusted tissue. With his good eye he regarded the two suspiciously.

“Who’s the guy with you?” he asked cautiously. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“My brother, who’s come all the way from Schongau. He’s here for the wedding.”

Answin grinned. “For the reception that is probably not going to happen, according to everything I hear. Too bad, I would have fished a few nice clothes out of the river for myself.”

“So you could come to my party stinking like an old catfish?” Bartholomäus laughed. “Perhaps it’s just as well it will probably be a smaller crowd.” Then he turned serious. “But I’m not here to make small talk with you. I came to ask about the corpse you found in the river. Is it still here?”

“That councilor?” Answin nodded. “Of course. He’s not going to run away.”

Now that Jakob was standing right next to him, he noticed that the ragpicker had an old, familiar smell about him-not very strong, but nonetheless overlaying everything.

The smell of rotting corpses.

“I informed the city guards some time ago, but so far no one has taken the trouble to stop by,” he said. “Apparently they’ve got their hands full. Chief Lebrecht has looked pretty damned upset recently. I’d like to know what his problem is. Well, whatever.” He snorted. “Just this noon, a few guys tried to drown some poor fellow over in the harbor, and now the guards are checking some tips they got concerning this damned werewolf.” The ragpicker lowered his voice and looked around carefully with his one eye. “The whole city is one huge hornet’s nest. If this doesn’t stop, I’ll have a lot more corpses to fish out of the river.”

“Can we have a look at him?” Bartholomäus asked.

“Sure, sure.” Answin put the bucket of tar on the floor and walked down to the river. “He hasn’t gotten any better, though. If the guards don’t come soon, he’ll start falling apart.”

They followed him to the shore where a dock led out into the water, then walked over moldy, rotten planks to a place where there was a sort of wooden tub alongside the dock, hammered together out of rough boards. Something in it was bobbing up and down, and Jakob at first took it to be a bunch of rags. He had to look twice before realizing it was a corpse floating facedown. The body was clothed in a wet, black overcoat that was moving slowly back and forth in the water.

“I use this tub for keeping eels, and sometimes a dead body,” Answin explained. “Both of them keep better in cold water. Why are you interested in this corpse, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s a long story, Answin,” said Bartholomäus, winking at him. “I’ll tell you some other time-who knows, perhaps over some fine pastry at our wedding reception, if we ever have one.”

“Mmm, pastry, delicious. I like it most of all with lingonberries.” The ragpicker licked his lips. The sight of the corpse, and the foul stench rising from the tub despite the cool river water, seemed not to trouble him. He looked at Jakob curiously as he climbed down a slippery ladder to the tub and tugged at the corpse’s overcoat until the body finally turned over on its back. Cold eyes, like those of a dead fish, stared up at the hangmen.

Jakob cringed. The dead man was at least seventy years old, his gray hair curled in the water like seaweed, and the skin was white and bloated. His trousers, jacket, and shirt were in shreds, his right hand was missing, and Jakob could see that the fish and crabs had already started nibbling on the body. But that wasn’t what horrified him so much.

It was the signs of torture visible all over the man.

He couldn’t help but think of the woman’s leg he had examined in the guard station, which had also showed evidence of torture. Bartholomäus, standing on the dock alongside him, seemed also to have noticed the wounds. He gasped, sucking the air in through his teeth.

“Good Lord, all kinds of torture were used on this person,” he said, nodding partly in disgust and partly in recognition. “His fingernails were pulled out, there are burn marks on his torso, both legs are missing, an arm wrenched out. Whoever did this knows how to inflict pain. Do you think they chopped his hand off while he was still alive?”

Answin laughed softly. “I have to admit, at first I thought you were the one who did it,” he said, turning to Bartholomäus. “It looks a hell of a lot like the work of an executioner, and the only one I know is you.”

“The work of an executioner, indeed.” It was the first time Jakob had spoken. Carefully, he unbuttoned the dead man’s shirt, trying not to think about the sickly sweet, fishy odor.

“It’s hard to say how long he’s been in the water,” he mumbled, thinking it over. “But judging from the decomposition, it can’t have been very long. I don’t see any clear cause of death-it’s possible he simply died as a result of the torture.” Gently, he began removing the man’s overcoat. The shirt underneath was in shreds.

“Look at this,” Bartholomäus said suddenly, pointing. “The welts on his back. They come from a leather whip, without question. People call that the Bamberg torture, because it’s mainly used here.” He shrugged. “I myself prefer to hang the bastards up by their wrists, tie stones to their feet, then hoist them up. That’s the old way.”

“So our werewolf is a real expert,” Jakob said softly. “Where do you think he learned that?”

“Well in any case, he had a lot of practice,” Bartholomäus replied. “If this madman is responsible for all the missing and the dead, this here would be his seventh victim. How many are yet to follow?”

Jakob turned away from the horribly mangled corpse and looked at Answin.

“Exactly where did you find this body?” he asked.

The ragpicker scratched his nose. “This one got tangled in the waterwheel of a paper mill.” He pointed to the north. “You know, the mill on the right branch of the Regnitz not far from St. Gangolf, outside the city walls.”

“Aha! I thought it had come ashore here on the left branch of the river,” Bartholomäus chimed in.

“No, it didn’t, and it surprised me, too, because most of the corpses have been found on the left branch, where there are far more mills for them to get caught in.”

“Hmm.” Jakob frowned. “That means the perpetrator dumped the body outside the city, somewhere along the right branch of the river. But why did he do that? After all, according to the servant, Thadäus Vasold was attacked by the werewolf in the middle of town. That’s what Simon told me. So this monster took him out of Bamberg. Why?”

Again, Jakob turned to the ragpicker. “Didn’t you find any other parts of the corpse in the water?”

Answin shook his head. “Only a leg and an arm. The second leg was lying in a huge pile of garbage near the river. Some children found it while they were playing.”

“If it was so near the river, it’s possible it was in the water earlier and some dog picked it up and took it there.” Kuisl ground his teeth, thinking. “Where did you find the arm and the leg?”

Answin pointed to the north again and the right branch of the river. “They were entangled in the pillars of the bridge. There are a few shallow places and islands in the middle of the river, where it’s easy for things to get hung up. I told the guards right away.” He picked at his teeth, looking bored. “But there wasn’t much to see-clearly, animals had been chewing on them, and limbs had been ripped off, probably by wolves or who knows what.”

Jakob poked at the corpse one last time, and it turned around slowly in the water. Then he climbed up the ladder again to the pier.

“First, a few body parts, and now a torso,” he said when he got back up on the dock, “and all of them found in the north branch of the river. Somebody must have disposed of them there, then the fish and other animals did the rest.” He nodded, still lost in his thoughts. “I myself have also fished people out of the Lech who committed suicide. If they get tangled in the weirs or are found by wild animals, it can easily happen that only parts of those poor souls are ever found. There’s nothing magical about that.”

“You’re forgetting the victim’s hand.” Bartholomäus pointed down at the corpse again. “I heard that was found in front of widow Gotzendörfer’s house, so clearly the hand didn’t come from the water. And didn’t you find an arm in Bamberg Forest when you were coming to town?”

“That was on the bank of a smaller river. The whole area there is crisscrossed by brooks and rivers, as far as I can see, so it’s possible the arm was dumped somewhere else and drifted there.”

“And Vasold’s hand in front of widow Gotzendörfer’s house?”

Jakob spat into the dark water. “If you ask me, somebody intentionally put it there to cause a panic. And they succeeded.”

Bartholomäus frowned. “But who would do something like that? And why?” He kicked a rotted post. “Damn it, this all reminds me of the witch trials back then. I didn’t arrive here until just after the old hangman’s sudden disappearance, but according to what I heard, everybody was afraid, just like now.”

“Just like now. .” Jakob stared into the distance with a furrowed brow. “Just like now,” he repeated.

He was about to say something else when the sound of marching feet was heard coming down one of the side streets, and moments later about a half dozen city guards appeared. At the head of the group was the commander of the guard, Martin Lebrecht, who looked even more bleary-eyed than the last time they’d met, in the guard station. When he recognized the two hangmen, he stopped, surprised, and removed his helmet.

“Master Bartholomäus,” he said with annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, I was just about to ask Answin if he could help me and my brother clean the moat,” he replied a bit awkwardly. “And now he’s shown me his latest find.” He pointed at the corpse behind him. “You’ll be sad to learn that it’s the body of city councilor Thadäus Vasold. He’s clearly recognizable.”

“Damn it! As if I didn’t already have enough to do.” The captain closed his eyes briefly, as if struggling to get a hold of himself. “Answin already suggested to me that that might be the case, and I must admit I suspected we would eventually find Vasold’s corpse-especially since his hand was found early this morning.”

“I thought you would’ve come a lot sooner,” grumbled Answin, who was leaning against a post on the dock some distance away. “I’ve been waiting for you all day. Evidently the discovery of a city councilor’s corpse doesn’t mean much to you.”

Martin Lebrecht sighed. “Believe me, Answin, I would have come earlier, but all hell has broken loose out in town. Ever since the suffragan bishop offered a reward for any tips, we’re swamped with accusations. I’m just coming back from the home of old Ganswiener up on Kaulberg Hill, who swears that his neighbor turns into a hairy monster every night and barks like a wolf. It just so happens that Ganswiener has had an eye on his neighbor’s property for years.” The captain groaned loudly. “He’s a damn liar, but just try and prove it. If I don’t take his report, he’ll run straight to the suffragan bishop, and in the end they’ll say I’m a werewolf, too. And then tomorrow,” he continued with a desperate laugh, “His Excellency and elector the bishop of Würzburg will be arriving, and I’ve got to reassign the guards so there will be no mishaps. Aside from all that, I’ve got to-” He stopped short, then shook his head in frustration. “In a word, I really don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

Lebrecht looked at the two hangmen, trying to think. “But since the two of you are already here. . can you at least say what killed old Vasold? His servant swears to God he was attacked by a werewolf, but perhaps the old man just fell in the river and drowned after a night of carousing.”

“I hardly think so,” replied Jakob with a grim smile. “From the looks of him, he might have been attacked by a half dozen werewolves.”

Martin Lebrecht turned as white as a ghost. “Oh, God. Is it that bad?”

Bartholomäus nodded. “Worse. And now, farewell.”

Before leaving with Jakob, the Bamberg executioner pointed at Answin again. “Don’t forget to give the corpse fisherman his reward. It’s said whoever declines to pay him his money will be the next one the river carries away.”

He gave the ragpicker a discreet wink, then continued walking with his brother down the stinking Regnitz, where dead branches and leaves seemed to reach out like long fingers as the river carried them away.

When Simon knocked on the door of the Bamberg city physician’s house that evening, it wasn’t the arrogant old housekeeper who opened the door, but the master of the house himself. Samuel looked overworked and was pale and unshaven, but when he saw Simon, his face brightened.

“Thank God!” he cried in relief. “I thought at first you were another patient coming to ask me for a magic potion to protect them from werewolf bites.”

Simon frowned. “Are there people like that?”

Samuel let out a pained laugh. “There were three of them here already today, and it’s Magda’s day off, so she’s not here to turn away this superstitious riffraff. One of them even demanded a silver wolf’s tooth. I sent them all packing, telling them I was a university-educated doctor and not a magician or charlatan.” He groaned. “But since I come from a Jewish family, they seem to consider me an especially gifted doctor. Sooner or later one of them will probably turn me in as a werewolf. Oh, but excuse me.” Samuel gestured for his friend to enter. “Do come in. I still have a little freshly ground coffee, if you’d like.”

Soon the two were sitting in Samuel’s little study, slurping the bitter, black drink. The doctor gave Simon a worried glance.

“It’s really bad, what’s going on out there since the suffragan bishop offered this reward,” he lamented. “I’ve heard there were nearly a half dozen arrests already today, and that’s surely just the beginning.”

Simon nodded. “I’m worried, too. If you ask me, the only real werewolf in this city is the suffragan bishop himself. He’s infecting everyone else with his rabid hatred.”

Samuel laughed softly. “A good comparison, but at least we won’t have to worry about Harsee for a while. He’s got a bad fever that will keep him in bed for a few days at least, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.” The city physician suddenly turned serious. “I visited him just this afternoon. He’s really sick, with severe headaches, joint pain, sweating. . and something else. .” He hesitated for a moment, then told Simon about the little wound on Harsee’s neck.

“It might be nothing to worry about, but there’s a red ring around the wound that I don’t like at all,” he concluded.

“Probably it’s just become inflamed,” Simon speculated. “Do you think it’s somehow related to the fever?”

Samuel frowned. “I don’t know, but there’s something strange about it. In addition, he refuses to drink anything; he says every time he drinks, he throws it up.” Simon shook his head. “I looked it up in my books, but I couldn’t find anything.” He sighed, took a sip of coffee, and turned to Simon with a smile.

“If I know you, you didn’t just come to drink coffee with me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “So what’s on your mind?”

Simon took a deep breath. He’d been wondering for a long time whether to let his friend in on the plan, but he’d finally decided against it. If something went wrong, it was better for as few people as possible to know about it. He didn’t want to burden Samuel unnecessarily.

And there was another matter he’d been troubled about for days, but he’d kept putting it out of his mind until just now.

“What I’m going to tell you now may sound a bit strange,” he began hesitantly, “but believe me, I know what I’m doing.” He ran down the list of ingredients his father-in-law had asked him to get from the doctor.

For a moment, Samuel just stood there with his mouth open. “Mandrake, henbane, sulfur, saltpeter. .” he finally said, shaking his head. “Damn it, Simon, what’s all that for? Magic incantations? Are you trying to conjure up your own werewolf?”

Simon smiled weakly. “Something like that. But believe me, it’s for the good of the city and has nothing to do with magic. On the contrary. Nevertheless, for the time being it’s best for you not to know anything more about it.”

Samuel leaned back and looked at Simon suspiciously. “You’re asking quite a lot of me. You want me to give you all these strange ingredients, but won’t tell me why?”

“Because I don’t want to put you at risk unnecessarily. Understand-if it all works out, you’ll be the first to know.”

After a while, Samuel nodded. “Very well, but only because it’s you. I have most of the ingredients over in my office. Saltpeter and sulfur I’ll have to get from the court pharmacy, but that shouldn’t be any problem. I’ll just tell them I need the ingredients for a new medical procedure. As the bishop’s personal physician, I can do things like that.” He leaned forward. “When do you need them?”

Simon swallowed hard. “Ah. . tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow!” Samuel looked at him in astonishment. “But tomorrow is the bishop’s reception. I thought you’d be coming along with me.”

“I don’t need them for myself, but for a. . a friend,” Simon replied hesitantly.

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Very well, I’ll go to the cathedral mount first thing tomorrow.” But then he shook his finger threateningly. “But make damn sure I don’t know what you’re going to do with it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m sure the news will quickly. . um, get around.” Simon set his cup down, squirmed restlessly in his seat, and blushed. “There’s one final favor I have to ask of you,” he said in a halting voice.

Samuel groaned. “For God’s sake, what else do you want?”

“It concerns the reception tomorrow night in Geyerswörth Castle,” he began. “Many noble gentlemen will be there, even the bishop of Würzburg, an elector, no less. You have introduced me as a widely traveled scholar, and in fact I’m able to put on a pretty good act. It’s just that. .” He looked down at his sweaty shirt and filthy petticoat breeches. “I’m afraid I’ve got nothing suitable to wear. Do you have, perhaps. .”

His question was drowned out by Samuel’s loud laughter.

“Simon, Simon,” the doctor finally replied, wiping the tears from his eyes. “You haven’t changed at all-still the same proud dandy as back when we were in school.” He rose from his seat. “Let’s go and have a look in the closet. You’re not exactly my size, but I’m sure we’ll find something that will make you the bestdressed scholar in all of Bamberg.”