03 - Sword of Vengeance (6 page)

Most of them concerned the new building. Requisitions were
coming in at nearly a dozen a day for everything from masonry and metalwork to
wine and silverware. The proud home of the Averlander electors, the seat of the
Alptraum and Leitdorf dynasties, was being emptied. Soon it would be nothing
more than a cold stone shell, a faint reminder of the glories of the past.

But it was not the tide of paperwork that kept the Steward
awake. He had a visitor sitting before him, a thin-faced man with receding hair
and a wild look in his eyes. Odo Heidegger, the witch hunter in charge of the
purgation of Averheim. He sat before Tochfel, his thin fingers clasped on his
lap. He’d eschewed the leather coat and breeches worn by most of his order, and
instead wore the ceremonial robes of his office—dark red lined with black.
They were coloured that way, no doubt, to hide the blood.

“I do not understand,” Heidegger said again in his reedy,
mellifluous voice. “There was no objection to these names when they were first
submitted to your office.”

Tochfel ran his hand through his thinning hair. He was strung
out. He really needed to sleep. “And as I told
you,
Herr Heidegger, I’ve
not seen this list until now. I had no idea there were so many.”

In his hands he held the offending list. At the top was the
stamp of the Temple of Sigmar in Averheim. Heidegger had been promoted to the
pinnacle of the local hierarchy shortly after Grosslich had been installed.
Since then it had been his solemn duty to oversee the remaining interrogations
and to arrange suitable punishment for those found to have aided the traitors.

“Yes, it is sad, is it not, that so many chose to fall into
darkness,” said Heidegger. He looked genuinely mournful. “But they all
confessed. You can see the signatures.”

Tochfel swallowed as he looked at the series of scrawled
names from the literate victims and crosses from those who weren’t. All of them
were shaky, as if the owners’ hands had barely functioned by the time they were
called into action. Several were half-obscured by dark-brown smudges.

“Some of these names are known to me,” protested Tochfel.
“Here is Morven, my aide. What possible reason could you have for—”

“He confessed, Steward. What more do you want? It is there,
all on the list.”

Tochfel could read it for himself.
Wantonly held the
Averburg against the forces of the rightful elector, thus delaying the campaign
against the Traitor Leitdorf. Sentence: Death by flame.
That was a travesty.
Tochfel had passed those orders himself. At that stage in the campaign, no one
knew the scale of Leitdorf’s treachery, nor that Grosslich had the blessing of
Schwarzhelm. For that matter, he himself could be liable to…

He shuddered.

“I will not sign these,” he said, putting the papers down. “I
need more time. There’s been no scrutiny, no examination.”

Heidegger retained his sorrowful expression. There wasn’t a
hint of anger there. He looked a little like one of those otherworldly Jade
magisters, lost in a reverie of gentle regret. And yet Tochfel was judge enough
to see the fragility of the man’s mind. Most witch hunters went mad sooner or
later, and this one would not be long.

“That is regrettable, Steward,” Heidegger said. “I will have
to report it. The elector will not be happy to hear that his quest for justice
has been impeded.”

“I don’t care,” snapped Tochfel, his fatigue making him
unwary. “There are men on this list innocent of any crime. Why has the court of
inquiry not included Templars from other cities? I’ve not been present at any of
your interrogations.”

“You’re welcome to join me. Some people find them…
distasteful.”

Tochfel shook his head. Going up against the Temple of Sigmar
was dangerous, even more so since Achendorfer had gone missing. He was running
short of allies.

“I did not say I would block these sentences,” said Tochfel,
speaking carefully. “I merely wish for more time to study them. Give me until
the end of the week.”

Heidegger thought before replying. “I do not like it,” he
said. “Justice must be seen to be done.”

“There’ve been enough burnings already,” muttered Tochfel. “A
hiatus will do you good, give you time to buy in more firewood.”

Heidegger shrugged. “As you wish. I shall inform the elector
of your views.”

He rose, brushing at his robes as he did so. His fingers were
forever fidgeting, as if they longed to grasp the instruments.

“Goodnight, Steward.”

“Goodnight, Herr Heidegger.”

The door closed, leaving Tochfel alone in the chamber. For a
moment, he thought about climbing on to his narrow bed. Then he saw the pile of
papers on his desk, and realised just how much more work he had to get through.

“This is getting beyond my control,” he mused, speaking to
himself in his fatigue. “I will speak to Verstohlen. He will know what to do.”

Schwarzhelm moved ever closer to his quarry. He went slowly,
keeping to the darkness, watchful for the teams of sentries. He’d cleaned the
worst of the muck from his clothes. The rain had started again. It might have
been sent from blessed Shallya herself, as it damped down his stench and made
the guards unwilling to patrol too zealously out in the open.

The interior of the Palace complex was a vast morass of
interconnected corridors and buildings. No living man knew them all, though
Schwarzhelm was as familiar with them as anyone. He’d never penetrated so far
into the southern wings of the mammoth structure, but he knew that Lassus had
had his private chambers there. They were modest, less than would normally have
been offered to a general of Lassus’ stature. Until recently, Schwarzhelm had
been pained by the lack of respect shown to his old master. Now he cursed the
fact that he even
had
chambers within such hallowed precincts.

From the courtyard, he’d moved quickly towards the collection
of apartments given to distinguished retired officers. Most were housed in a
heavy sandstone monstrosity covered in eroded gargoyles and overworked copies of
the Imperial coat of arms. In an attempt to mask the grotesque devices, huge
stretches of ivy had been allowed to creep across the stone, obscuring all but
the steep tiled roof with its iron guttering. Originally the building had been
set amid a pleasant ornamental lawn, though the demands of the Imperial
bureaucracy had ensured that it was now surrounded by three gothic scriptoria
and a gloomy vaulted archive.

Schwarzhelm paused, taking in his surroundings. The regular
Palace guards were issued with crossbows, and without his armour he was
vulnerable. If he was unlucky enough to stumble across Reiksguard, his situation
would be far graver. For once in his life, stealth would have to take precedence
over ostentatious bravery.

He crouched tight against the wall of one of the scriptoria.
The rain splattered down from the leaky roof, bouncing from his hunched
shoulders on to the uneven stone flags beneath him. Ahead, maybe thirty yards
away, two sentries walked lazily around the perimeter of the apartments. They
had hoods cast over their faces to ward against the rain and said nothing. By
their manner, Schwarzhelm could see they weren’t the Emperor’s finest. They
moved off, heading in the direction of the walls. Schwarzhelm waited until there
was complete silence, then moved.

He crept across the open space quickly, lingering in the
pools of shadow. Zigzagging from doorway to doorway, he reached the porch of the
first set of apartments. The twin oak doors were flanked by crude sandstone
columns, wrapped in ivy and surmounted by the coat-of-arms of some long-dead
military commander.

He looked back the way he’d come. Nothing. He withdrew the
keys from his belt and tried several in the lock. None of them worked. That was
unsurprising—there were a thousand keys for different parts of the Palace and
most were jealously guarded by their owners.

Schwarzhelm stowed them. There was a time and a place for
finesse, and this wasn’t it. He pulled back, gathering his strength, and barged
into the doors. They buckled against his massive frame, but held. He slammed
into them again, sending a dull thud out into the night. On the third attempt,
they caved in, swinging back violently and cracking against the walls. He went
in quickly, pulling them behind him.

Inside all was dark. The place was deserted, as were most of
the buildings in the outer reaches of the Palace at night. A central corridor
ran back into the gloom, marked by regular doorways leading off on either side.
Two high windows at either end let in the scant starlight, but little was
illuminated. Schwarzhelm reached into his jerkin and retrieved a flint and a
fist-sized lantern. The metal frame of the lantern was carved in swirling lines
and the clear windows were crystal—the gift of a grateful elven prince after a
battle over a decade ago.

He lit the wick of the candle and closed the lantern. The
light glowed softly from the crystal, throwing diffuse shadows down the
corridor. At the far end of it Schwarzhelm could see a stairway leading to the
next floor.

He went quietly and quickly, padding like a great bear on the
threadbare carpet. The doorways passed silently, each inscribed with the
initials of the official to whom the room within was devoted. Chancellor Julius
Rumpelskagg, Magister F. H. Heilstaff, Egbertus Schumann, Under-Scribe of the
Fifth Archives. Schwarzhelm knew where it would be, and knew just what he was
looking for.

Just before he reached the stairs he saw the nameplate
glinting in the flame, its brass old and tarnished. Eryniem Hoche-Hattenberg,
Master of the Keys. No official of that outlandish name had ever existed, though
Schwarzhelm knew the room had been well used. He slid the key from Lassus’
chambers into the door and turned it. The lock clicked open.

Inside, all was orderly and neat. The light of the lantern
swept across a spartan chamber. Rows of books lined the walls. Most were
treatises on warfare and military training. Schwarzhelm doubted Lassus had read
many of them; the man had known all there was to know about war through
experience.

There was a single, draped window at the far end of the room.
In front of the window stood the desk, a heavy construction in an archaic style
with a polished surface and no drawers. The surface was almost empty, save for
an inkwell, a penknife, a blotter and a tray of sand. A few used quills had been
discarded in a basket next to the writer’s chair. No parchment remained, and
there was no sign of any papers stacked up against the bookcases.

For a moment, Schwarzhelm began to doubt his intuition.
Perhaps Lassus had been too careful. He knelt down beneath the desktop, running
his fingers under the wood. He groped further back, feeling for the tell-tale
switch that would hide a compartment. Just as he was about to withdraw his hand,
he felt the slightest variation in texture. He pressed hard. From deep within
the desk there came a
thunk,
as if a brass mechanism had shifted into
place.

Schwarzhelm clambered to his feet. The right pedestal of the
desk had opened, and a narrow door hung ajar on almost invisible hinges. The
workmanship was perfect. When closed, the join would have been invisible even in
full daylight.

Schwarzhelm shone the light against the cavity, looking for
needle traps. Seeing none, he reached inside carefully and pulled out a roll of
parchment, tightly bound with leather straps. Without unwrapping the bundle, he
could see what they were—letters written in some kind of cipher. Schwarzhelm
was familiar with most of the battle codes used in the Empire, but this one
looked strange and he could make no sense of it.

He stowed the bundle in his jerkin and closed the door to the
pedestal again. The first task on his list had been completed. He left the
chamber, locking the door behind him. The corridor was as silent as before. He
looked up at the window at the far end of the building. The clouds had parted
again, and a feeble moonlight had returned. That would make things more
difficult. He knew where the sword was being held, and taking that with him
would be far more difficult than stealing letters.

Extinguishing the lantern, Schwarzhelm headed back to the
main door. The Chapel of the Fallen, right in the heart of the ancient Palace,
awaited him.

Pieter Verstohlen watched the moon ride clear over Averheim.
For a change, he wasn’t in his tower room in the Averburg. His guest lived
several streets away and had kindly offered him the use of her bedchamber for
the night. Of course, he’d had to pay for the privilege. Or, to be more
accurate, for her company within it.

Visiting courtesans was not something he was proud of. He was
careful, of course, and made sure only to procure the services of the higher
class of courtesan. His stipend from Schwarzhelm, together with a history of
cautious investments, had made him a man of comfortable means. He enjoyed the
more exclusive things in life: good food, expensive wine, sophisticated women.
Though the notion always seemed trite to him, it was true nevertheless—he
valued them for their minds as much as their more regular services. Like many of
his kind, solitude became a kind of mania after a while. It needed to be broken,
even if that meant giving in to appetites that he’d rather not have had.

He pushed himself up higher against the bolsters, trying to
get a better view of the moonlit rooftops through the open window. On his
shoulder, Elisabeth stirred. Her flame-red hair fell across her face as her head
rose.

“What is it?” she mumbled, brushing it free.

Verstohlen stroked the tresses absently. She had a striking
face. Ivory-white skin, dusted with freckles, deep green eyes.

“Nothing. Just looking at the moon.”

Elisabeth frowned. “Like a madman.”

“Indeed.”