01 - Honour of the Grave (36 page)

With Franziskus’ help, she jerked Lukas to his feet. She tugged on his arm,
wrenching it, to make him run. He dropped like a sack of flour, throwing his
arms around her ankles.

“Please, please, I can’t… Just leave me be.”

She crouched beside him. She could hear footsteps and exclamations from the
square below. “Find the strength, Lukas, or you’re dead.”

“Talk to my father. Convince him. You’re persuasive.”

“This will be his excuse to execute you. If you truly want to die, tell us
now, so we can escape without you.”

He sank lower, laying his face on the floor. “Do that. Save yourselves.”

Then she did kick him, before hauling him up. With a child’s reluctance, he
let her bring him to his feet. She slapped him. He bristled, gathering up his
slim, porcelain fist. She smiled inwardly.

“You’re right,” she said, “You’re not worth it. You’re just what they all say
you are.”

“Stop caring about me!” he shouted, and bolted for the steps. They followed,
catching up with him long before they reached the street. Angelika stayed behind
him, fighting her natural urge to run, swatting him lightly between the
shoulder blades whenever his pace flagged. They quickly covered the short flight
of wooden steps, and made short work of the tower staircase. They ran past the
cell, where they detected no trace of Nino or Renald. Angelika skipped a step so
as not to slip on a pool of blood. She did not bother to guess who it belonged
to.

They left the tower and hit the second stone staircase, which would take them
from the top of the town wall to the cobbled square below. Soldiers had
gathered. Armed townsfolk swarmed among them; they were, Angelika realised,
angling for the reward on her head. There were perhaps two of them for every
soldier.

She seized Lukas by the collar and pulled him away from the steps. The crowd
boiled towards them. She turned to run along the wall, to the staircase on the
other side. Franziskus initially missed the change in direction but finally
reversed course and caught up speedily. He had his rapier out. Men were already
rushing up the other stairway, but there were fewer of them. Igniting gunpowder
crackled and flashed down in the square. Angelika flinched. As far as she could
tell, the bullet hadn’t come anywhere near them.

A man in mendicant’s robes was the first to reach them as they rushed down
the steps. Angelika pulled his hood over his face, spun him around, and tripped
him, sending him crashing into the rush of pursuers behind him. They fell like dominoes, forming a great heap of flattened bodies on the stairs. With
Lukas’ hand tightly in hers, Angelika kept to the stairwell’s extreme outward
edge: it was clear of fallen men. A punch grazed her chin, but it was the
feeblest hit she’d suffered all evening, and it did not slow her. Behind her,
she heard the clash of steel on steel. Eyes fixed resolutely ahead, she
concluded that Franziskus had found some blows to parry. She did not break
stride to check. She and Lukas had reached the bottom. A soldier rushed at her
with ready rapier-point. She sidestepped, letting him crash into one of his
mates, who’d been positioning himself to leap on Lukas’ back.

“You fools!” she shouted. “This is Jurgen’s son!” Only the men nearest her
heard this, but it gave them pause long enough for her to elbow her way through
them. Franziskus, pressed past bladesmen, and leapt backwards from the stairs,
landing cat-like in front of the gate. He stopped for an instant to marvel at
the brilliance of his ten-foot-drop, then he dashed for the gate, which was
closing. Angelika and Lukas were hard on his heels.

Angelika heard loosened chains spinning through a pulley. She pulled Lukas
back and shouted to Franziskus. He jumped her way just as the gate’s inner
portcullis, a mass of spikes and wrought iron, rattled down, its arrow-shaped
teeth falling flush into slots in the cobblestones. Lukas gaped; it would have
split them down the middle.

A rock lobbed in at them; it hit Franziskus on the thigh. He exclaimed more
in offence than pain. Lukas bent, straightened, and hurled the stone back into
the mob. Angelika felt a pang of admiration—maybe there was hope for the boy,
after all.

The soldiers and townsfolk had gathered in a rough crescent-shape, as they
slowly crept up on the cornered fugitives. With the chase at a close, they were
suddenly hesitant. It was the nature of a mob, Angelika reckoned; now no one
wanted to be the first to act. Those who took the initiative would be rewarded
by Angelika’s dagger and Franziskus’ sword. Only after their sacrifice would a
second wave attempt to overwhelm them. Angelika steeled herself to seize their
moment of hesitation. Holding up her hands, she took a step forward.

“You don’t recognise him, because his head is shaven, but this is the von
Kopf boy, delivered just this morning to your leader,” she said. Her words
yielded a satisfying harvest of turned heads and questioning murmurs. “Your
master is the object of a plot by his enemies. Stand back, lest you make
yourselves unwitting accomplices.”

The men didn’t stand back exactly, but at least they remained at bay. She
hoped the lie that was about to come out of her mouth would contain at least the
vague appearance of plausibility. “The plot is by some of Jurgen’s jealous
bastard sons. They wanted Lukas gone, so they could take his place. They
switched him for a condemned man, thinking he’d be hanged before anyone knew the
difference. You can see how they cut his locks, to further the deception!” She
hoped for a chorus of affirmative replies, but got only puzzled looks. She was
no orator. She felt ridiculous, using this rousing language.

“There’s a reward out for you!” someone shouted.

“Also part of the plot—because we knew…”

A portly, puffy-faced man in a sergeant’s uniform parted the crowd and spoke
in a
basso
voice. Then we’ll take the three of you to Jurgen, and let him
work it out.”

Angelika attempted to look pleased by this announcement. It was preferable to
being beaten to death on the spot, and might lead to a better chance for escape,
later. She set the last of Benno’s daggers on the stonework, and kicked it over
to the sergeant. Franziskus placed his rapier down, hilt pointing politely
outwards.

The sergeant shouted orders, and soldiers hemmed them in. Each of them was
flanked by a pair of men, who seized them by the shoulders. The crowd,
disappointed by the anticlimax of their peaceful capture, refused to separate to
let them through. The sergeant removed his glove to clout at the faces of
unyielding civilians. Particularly recalcitrant onlookers received sharp kicks
to the shins. Eventually the soldiers threaded them through the crowd’s other
side. Flanked by lantern-bearing regulars, the sergeant led the way to a
carriage across the square. He left the prisoners and their guards to stand
fifty paces away, and marched up to speak with its coachman.

“I recognise what you have done for me,” Lukas said. “Both of you.”

“I am sure all will be justly resolved,” she said, conscious of the soldiers
all around them.

A gasp issued from the crowd; Angelika turned to see bodies on stretchers
borne down the steps from the tower. Linen sheets had been draped over the
corpses, but blood had already soaked through—especially on the lead
stretcher, which she presumed to be Benno’s. The sight of the dead seemed to
arouse something within the mob: a grim murmuring spread among them. Angelika
watched as young boys were placed on the shoulders of their fathers and uncles:
for a better view of the slain.

The coachman waved angry arms at the sergeant. He repeatedly cited the name
of Somebody von Something-or-Other. Finally he hopped off his perch, still
gesticulating furiously. The sergeant took his place and whistled for his men.
They opened the carriage doors and pushed the captives inside. Three soldiers
cramped in with them, ordering the seating so that two of them flanked Lukas,
and Angelika and Franziskus sat on either side of the third.

Angelika worked out that their best chance would be to get out of the
carriage before it reached von Kopf’s estate. Their guardians had made a stupid
mistake: they had put her and Franziskus next to the doors. They were thinking
only that Lukas was their most important prisoner. Any shrewd guard trains his
attention on those most likely or able to escape.

To get Lukas out with them, though, they’d have to do more than leap out.
Force would be called for. She glanced unobtrusively over at the soldier next to
her, seeing that he had a knife sheathed at his hip. Her luck was turning; this
would prove most convenient.

The coach lurched into motion.

She would seize the knife, backhand it across its owner’s throat, then leap
onto the guard opposite her. Franziskus would take this cue, and leap as well…

The sounds of the crowd were too loud, too close. She leaned back to look
through the window without touching the curtain. She saw lamps and lanterns held
aloft. The stupid fools were following the carriage! The throng swarmed all around it, slowing its progress to a snail’s pace. Angelika heard laughter,
as if it was a carnival.

“What’s going on?” the youngest of the soldiers, at Claus’ left, asked. He
had a high forehead, a bulbous nose, and a sharp, deep voice.

“They think they’ve found themselves a little excitement,” drawled the
sleepy-eyed soldier on Claus’ right. “Maybe they think it’ll be like the witch
burning we had last solstice.”

The young soldier smiled as understanding dawned. “Ah, yes. You know, that’s
when me and this barmaid—”

“Stuff it,” ordered the soldier next to Angelika, expecting obedience.

Stuff it indeed, thought Angelika. The crowd had made escape impossible.

The carriage trundled on for what felt like hours. From the noise around
them, Angelika could tell that the crowd was swelling. Through the window, she
saw pre-dawn light. It surprised her that it had been so long since they’d set
out. The young soldier yawned. She was grateful for the afternoon sleep she and
Franziskus had had; it might give them an advantage, when everyone around them
needed rest.

Maybe there would be a chance, as they were taken from the carriage, when
they could dash for it, then blend into the crowd. Though
blending
was
possibly an optimistic term, considering that the crowd was enthusiastically
hoping to witness their summary executions…

The door wrenched open. Jurgen stood there. His face was two feet from her
own. He was clad only in a white linen under-tunic, which stretched to his
knees. It was wrinkled and slept in. Anger drew his features taut. He propelled
himself up onto the runner, then reached in to seize Lukas’ tunic in both
hands. He lifted the boy from his seat and tore him from the carriage, throwing
him onto the stones below. The crowd was silenced. Angelika leaned out to leap
from the coach, but the soldier opposite her slammed into her, pinning her down.
The one beside her seized a handful of her hair. She ceased her resistance.

“Were you born to bedevil me?” Jurgen demanded of his son, who had gone limp
on the ground. “Were you?” Lukas did not answer; sobs wracked him.

Jurgen bent down to haul Lukas upright. His feet were bare. His hair, a moppy
mess. “Answer your father!” he commanded. Lukas stammered. Jurgen slapped him in
the face, spinning Lukas off his heels. Jurgen caught him, pulling the boy into
his chest. “Answer!” he repeated, slightly lessening his previous ferocity.

From the carriage, Angelika could see only a few dozen faces. Most had lost
their jovial anticipation of violence; this was not the victim they’d come to
see.

“Sword!” Jurgen called. He turned back and seemed to take note of the crowd
for the first time. “Get back!” he ordered them. “What are you doing here? Get
back to your homes!” The spectators at the front tried to move back, but
Jurgen’s courtyard was too tightly packed for them to have much success. Jurgen
scanned the crowd for a retainer. “Sword!” he called.

An odd note sounded, in the distance—a bugler testing his instrument.
Annoyed by the intrusion of this irrelevance, Angelika hunched forward, to see
better.

A scraping servant pushed his way through the crowd, and handed a sheathed
sabre to Jurgen. The prow-faced general took it from him without acknowledging
his presence. He tore the scabbard from the sword, tossing it at his feet.
Confused, unhappy sounds issued forth from the crowd.

With naked toes, Jurgen pressed his foot down on Lukas’ ankle, pinning his
scrabbling form to the ground.

Angelika pushed forward, to get at Jurgen. Her guards bashed her head into
the side of the carriage until she let up.

Jurgen raised his sabre above his head. Onlookers moaned their protest. He
hesitated, turning his head to them, but they would not be silent. Some brave
soul lobbed a clod of unidentifiable trash; it barely missed the general’s
white, exposed calves. He rounded on the crowd, sword upraised. “Listen, my
people!” They roared back at him, displeased. “Listen!” he said. “Listen!”

He waited until they made themselves quiet. “You must understand!” he
demanded of them. “Yes, this is my son, and yes, he must die! He has broken our
family oath. You all know this!”

A chorus of murmurs said that the mob did not know, or begin to understand,
this.

“It is our oath! The boy’s very existence is a crime, one I have every right
to end! No Black Sabre may walk away from a defeat. For us, it is victory or
death!”

Angelika shook her head in disgust. It was happening exactly as Benno had
feared it would. Suddenly, she knew why. It was also clear what was about to
transpire. What the bugle note meant. She took a breath. The tension fell from
her body.

“four safety depends on my family!” Jurgen spat.

Lukas crawled away, but the sergeant, having hopped from the carriage, saw
him, and blocked his way. Lukas quivered.