CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

As he followed Krieger through the door, Dieter saw that the tavern was less busy than on their previous visit. Perhaps this evening’s combatants had less of a following, although the broad-shouldered, leather-clad victor of the most recent contest looked formidable enough. Gripping his handler’s outstretched hand, he clambered up out of the pit, and a few well-wishers babbled at him and slapped him on the back. Not dead yet but probably well on the way, leaving a trail of blood behind him, his opponent crawled feebly on the floor of the arena. Other spectators, apparently disappointed by the loser’s performance, shouted taunts and insults down at him, or hurled chicken bones and empty bottles. One man unbuttoned his breeches to piss.

As before, Krieger bought two tankards of ale and hired the private alcove. Dieter dumped Mama Solveig’s bag on the floor. Though he lacked all but a smattering of her knowledge of the healing arts, to provide himself with an income he’d continued treating the old woman’s patients. Since he wasn’t tainting the elixirs and poultices with the effluvium of Tzeentch’s icon, he suspected that, on average, those who received his ministrations were faring about as well as they had before.

Krieger drew the curtain, took a chair, and said, “Tell me that this time, you have what I need.”

“I’m making progress. I assume you know Solveig Weiss is dead.” Dieter prayed the witch hunter didn’t know that Dieter himself had employed dark sorcery to kill her. In the long run, Krieger almost certainly wouldn’t have pardoned that, even though it had been done to further his own ends.

“Yes.”

“Well, the Master of Change informed me he wants me to succeed her as coven leader.”

Krieger leaned forwards. “When? Where did you meet him? Who is he?”

Dieter raised his hand to halt the barrage of questions. “It was last night, and unfortunately, I still can’t tell you much about him, because we weren’t really in the same place. He was just a voice projected over a distance.”

Krieger grunted. “Right. For a second, I forgot what a wary bastard he is.” His eyes narrowed. “You said, you couldn’t tell much about him.”

“Just that it was a male voice, with a strangeness in it.”

“Because he was using magic to make you hear it from far away?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I suspect that when you find him, you’ll see that he carries the mark of Chaos like the raiders in the forest.” And like me, because you forced me into this. Dieter struggled to quash a sudden spasm of anger.

“It makes sense. It’s another reason for him to hide as well as he does.” Krieger settled back and took a drink of ale. “What else?”

“His manner was peculiar as well. For example, it was obvious who he was, and he needed for me to know if we were to converse to any purpose. Yet he refused to come right out and identify himself. And there were subtler oddities. I don’t mean he’s stupid, or addled in some overt and crippling fashion, but I had the impression he’s not quite sane.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be, would he, turning his back on Sigmar to wallow in forbidden magic and blasphemy. Such practices warp the mind as well as the body.”

Indeed they do, Dieter thought, and thus—again, thanks to you—I can’t even trust my own ideas and impulses anymore. He imagined casting the shadow binding on Krieger, dumping the witch hunter onto the floor, and stamping on him over and over again, relishing the snap of breaking bones.

“In any case,” Krieger continued, “here’s the important question: when and where are you supposed to meet him in person? Do you know yet?”

“Not really. It will be at the next assembly of coven leaders, but he doesn’t intend to give me the particulars until it’s nearly time.”

“Because he doesn’t trust you?”

“Appar—” Dieter faltered.

“What’s wrong?”

Something potentially disastrous. Most of the time, Dieter had no difficulty keeping his third eye closed. But on rare occasions, it sought to open of its own accord, and suddenly this was one of them. He fought to hold the lid down.

But he also needed to resume talking, to keep Krieger from perceiving that something was amiss. “A headache’s coming on. It’s the strain. I told you at the start, I’m not the right sort of person for this job.”

“Nonsense. You’re doing splendidly. Which means this will all be over soon, and then you can go home to your cosy house and stargaze to your heart’s content. Now, you were explaining about the meeting.”

“Right.” The eye still wanted to open, and he kept struggling for control. “Perhaps the Master will tell me where to go when it’s time. Or maybe some form of enchantment will guide me step by step through the streets until I reach my destination. Either way—”

The world shifted abruptly, or rather, Dieter’s perception of it altered in the subtle but unmistakable fashion he’d learned to recognise. The third eye was open.

Terrified, he felt his only options were to bolt or to strike down Krieger before the witch hunter could strike at him. He gathered himself to spring up out of his chair, then discerned that his companion hadn’t reacted to the sudden revelation of his deformity.

Because he hadn’t noticed. Nearly too late, Dieter realised that the new eye had only opened a crack, and his charm of concealment, dangling hair, and the paucity of light in the shadowy alcove kept Krieger from seeing it even now.

All right, Dieter thought, silently pleading with the eye, you win. You can look around, and pound my skull like an anvil after you’re done. Just don’t open any wider.

“‘Either way’…” Krieger prompted.

Dieter took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry. Either way, it’s not enough anymore just to have a spy watching me. You need to keep a whole company of men ready to follow me the next time I draw the sign. That way, you’ll have the strength to deal with the Master of Change and his lieutenants when I lead you to them.”

“I’ll make the arrangements when we leave here. Which I suppose ought to be soon. We shouldn’t spend any more time together than necessary.” Krieger reached for his ale, and a reddish, oozing phosphorescence shimmered into being on his hand and square, hearty-looking face, the outward manifestation, Dieter supposed, of a cruel and ruthless nature.

It was scarcely an encouraging omen, but he still pressed on with the remainder of what he’d intended to say. “There’s something else.”

Krieger sucked a fleck of foam from his lips. “What?”

“If you knew about Mama Solveig, you must know about Jarla Kubler, also.”

The witch hunter smirked. “Your trollop. Is she as tasty as she looks?”

“I’m supposed to bring her to the gathering as a sacrifice to the Changer of the Ways. That’s how I earn the Master’s trust.”

Krieger shrugged. “Fine. Whatever it takes.”

“No, it isn’t fine! She’s an innocent, or nearly so, caught up in this madness through no fault of her own, and no threat to the Empire or anything else. When I reach the Master of Change’s lair, I’ll try to delay the sacrifice as long as possible. I want you to promise to attack as soon as you possibly can, and to let Jarla go free afterwards.”

A scarlet glimmer seethed on Krieger’s scalp like an infestation of lice. “If I were you, I’d concentrate on saving myself.”

“Give me your word, or I won’t help you any further.”

“We both know that’s a bluff.”

Was it? In truth, Dieter himself didn’t know, but, staring into Krieger’s eyes, he tried to appear adamant. “You’d better think about it. Everything you want is nearly within reach. It would be a shame to let it all slip away.”

Krieger snorted. “All right. As we’re fishing for whales, I suppose I can afford to let a minnow slip out of the net. Just don’t try to push or threaten me again.”

 

As they rose to depart, Krieger felt taut as a bowstring with eagerness. As the weeks dragged by, he’d begun to fear that Dieter was incapable of performing as required. But the wizard had come through, and now Krieger needed to put his followers on alert.

Then Dieter made a choking sound, and his knees buckled. He swayed and fell backwards, his head and shoulders billowing the curtain.

What ailed him? Was he poisoned? Dying? If so, it meant the end of Krieger’s schemes. Alarmed, he scurried around the table for a better view.

Dieter’s legs shook, and his heels pounded the floor. Krieger couldn’t see the upper portion of his body, because it lay beyond the curtain. He swept the drape aside, shaking dust from its grimy folds in the process.

Dieter’s upper body was shaking and jerking like his legs. His jaw worked as if he were chewing, saliva foamed from his mouth, and a grinding rasp sounded from his throat. His eyes stared at the ceiling.

Several people had noticed his condition. They gawked at him, but no one had yet come any closer, either to assist him or take advantage of his incapacity.

The wizard lifted his hands above his face, then started beating himself with the heels of his palms, right, left, right, left, over and over again.

He might do himself serious harm if not restrained. Krieger kneeled beside him and reached to take hold of his wrists.

He didn’t expect the task to be particularly difficult. He was bigger and stronger than the wizard, and, to all appearances, Dieter wasn’t truly conscious and didn’t even know he was there.

But appearances proved to be deceptive. Dieter jerked his forearms away from Krieger’s clutching fingers, then scrabbled at the witch hunter’s face. The unexpected assault caught Krieger by surprise. He felt a flash of pain as the mage’s nails tore his skin.

He flinched back to keep Dieter from clawing his eyes. The wizard sat up and reached for his face again. Krieger hooked a punch into the other man’s jaw. Dieter’s teeth clicked together, and he sprawled back onto the floor.

There he lay motionless, and, panting, his scratches smarting, Krieger studied him. It seemed to him that there was something different about the wizard’s face, but he couldn’t figure out what. He wondered if he should lean down for a closer inspection, and then Dieter groaned. His eyelids fluttered, and, moving like a sick old man, he tried to sit up.

Krieger shifted back to give him room. “Are you all right now?”

Dieter lifted a trembling hand to his chin. “What… what happened to me?”

“You threw some sort of fit. Started battering yourself in the face. I tried to stop you, and then you wanted to hurt me.” Krieger grinned. “Luckily for me, you fight like a woman.”

“As I told you, I’m getting sick from the strain, the mere exposure to Dark Magic and blasphemy, even though I spurn it in my heart.”

“Just hold out a little longer, and then your harlot can nurse you back to health. Look, your bag came open when you fell. You’ll want to gather up your medicines.”

 

Hunched over the table in Mama Solveig’s work area, Dieter scribbled an arcane formula on a slate, attempted to check it for errors, and his aching eyes blurred. As he rubbed them, it occurred to him that he didn’t know if it was day or night outside the cellar. Nor was he certain when he’d last slept or eaten.

He couldn’t neglect such basic needs indefinitely, or he’d make mistakes. But he begrudged the time required to attend to them. He was running a race, and he had to win it.

He knew how to do the work, or at least he hoped so. Magister Lukas had taught him the basic principles during his final year at the Celestial College. But the task consisted of a complex series of rituals, and a fumble at any point would oblige him to start over. Worse, it would ruin the irreplaceable materials needed to anchor the enchantment.

“Aren’t you worried,” asked a familiar voice, “that the Master of Change might be spying on you even now?”

Startled, Dieter jerked around in his chair. His cowl thrown back, his pupils reflecting the candle flame, the priest was standing at his side. Once again, Dieter wondered if the apparition was real or simply a figment of his diseased imagination, but only fleetingly. The question had come to weary him. Perhaps, as the forbidden texts proclaimed, it was a meaningless distinction.

“Go away,” he said.

“He told you he watches you,” the priest persisted.

Dieter sighed. “He watched a gathering of the coven, and a mission to help Leopold Mann. He didn’t say anything to suggest he spies on me when he has no reason to believe that something interesting is happening, and if he does, well, maybe he won’t comprehend what he sees. In any case, as always, I have no choice.”

“Perhaps you don’t,” said the priest, “and perhaps the god who loves you will shield you from prying eyes. But why are you struggling out here when time is of the essence? Work in the shrine, in our lord’s presence, where the magic will answer your call more readily.”

“No, because I don’t have to. This spell derives from the pure Lore of the Heavens. It doesn’t draw from the Changer’s filthy texts.”

“But it could. Think how powerful the magic would be if you combined the two knowledges.”

“It will be potent enough as it is.”

“Then think of the precious hours you can save. Don’t perform the Consecration of the Descending Sign, and the Attunement of the Eclipse. Use the Leper’s Kiss.”

Dieter felt a jolt of mingled excitement and dread, because he saw instantly that the priest was correct. He could substitute a brief spell he’d discovered in the Chaotic texts for two of the lengthy preliminary rituals and be much further ahead. The shortcut could make all the difference.

He didn’t want to work anymore Dark Magic, or at least the true, rational, beleaguered part of him didn’t. But at this point, polluted as he already was, did it even matter? It certainly wouldn’t if his squeamishness cost him his life.

“You win,” he said, then saw that the priest had disappeared.

He rose, walked to the heart of the cellar, and revealed the shrine. Surfaces oozed and rippled with the intangible slime of Chaos. Tzeentch grinned a welcome.

He shifted the icon to the middle of the area, so he could tap into its power as easily as possible. Why not, he thought crazily, bitterly, clamping down on an urge to laugh. Why not, why not, why not?

 

Jarla’s eyes flew open. The sunlight outside made molten yellow threads of the cracks in the front wall of her room, just as it always did when the afternoon was bright enough. Her sweaty body lay in the hollow it had worn in her straw mattress. Plainly, the ordeal she’d just experienced had only been a nightmare. Now she was awake, and didn’t even remember what had happened in the dream.

Yet even so, terror was slow to relinquish its grip on her. Her heart thumped, and she had the crazy feeling that if she looked around the room, she’d see something unbearable. When someone banged on the door, she gasped and flinched. Perhaps she’d needed something to goad her into motion, for in reacting, she broke free of her paralysis.

That didn’t mean she’d shaken off dread entirely. The other members of the coven claimed they weren’t afraid of witch hunters and maybe it was so. But, hard as she tried not to, Jarla sometimes imagined such avengers announcing themselves with an insistent knocking on her door, imagined that and all the pain that would follow.

She tried to answer and found her throat was dry. She swallowed. “Who’s there?” she quavered.

“Dieter! Let me in!”

She closed her eyes, expelled the last of her fear in a long, shivering exhalation, and excitement sprang up to take its place. Of late, she hadn’t seen much of Dieter. He’d claimed he was busy unravelling the secrets of the god’s sacred texts, but she’d wondered if he’d found someone he liked better, or decided a common whore was unworthy of his affections.

But evidently not, for when she opened the door, he took her in his arms, kissed her, and shoved her back down onto the bed.

He took her three times, and after each time, he held her close and they talked. It was the way Jarla had always dreamed lovemaking could be, and it was wonderful, or at least it was at first.

At the start of the third coupling, though, she had the odd feeling that it was essentially determination, not honest desire, that led him to initiate, and by the time the cracks in the wall stopped glowing, announcing the arrival of dusk, it seemed to her that they’d run out of things to say. He wouldn’t stop chattering, though, wouldn’t doze sated and content like a normal man. He repeated anecdotes he’d told before and questions to which he already knew the answers.

She remembered how guarded and strange he’d seemed in the wake of Mama Solveig’s death. He seemed just as peculiar now, and she wondered with a pang of uneasiness if she actually knew him as well as she believed.

Yes, of course she did, and it was simply the mistreatment she’d suffered as a child and the anxieties of her double life that made her imagine otherwise. She wouldn’t let such phantasms tarnish a golden interlude, or make her doubt the finest gift a grudging universe had ever given her.

She smiled at Dieter and stroked his cheek. “I hate to go,” she said, “but I have to work at the Axe and Fingers tonight.”

He caught her by the wrist. “No. Stay with me.”

“I wish I could, but I have to earn my living.”

His grip tightened. “No, you don’t. I’ll take care of you.”

She wondered if he truly meant it, and if he was earning enough to make it practical. “I’d like that.” She hesitated. “But, you know, even if you support me, I’ll still need to do my work, because that’s how I spy on the soldiers and serve the god.”

“But you don’t need to do it tonight.” His fingers crushed her wrist like a torturer’s shackle.

She tried to pull free, but couldn’t. “Dieter, you’re hurting me!”

His eyes widened as if he truly hadn’t realised. “I’m sorry!” he said, and let her go.

She shifted away from him and rubbed her wrist. “I think you’re tired. Mama always said that communing with our lord exalts our spirits, but it taxes us as well. Now, I’m glad you want to take care of me, gladder than I can say, but we don’t have to figure everything out this very instant. Let me go to the tavern, and you stay here and sleep. I’ll come back as soon as I can.” She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and stood up.

He sprang up, too, and she realised that he was on the side of the bed nearer the door. If she tried to flee, he could intercept her. Wild, stupid fancies, for she had no reason to bolt, nor he, to hurt her, but for some reason she couldn’t help picturing it.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then don’t go. I need you to do something for me.”

Was that the secret reason for all your tenderness, she wondered? To make sure I stayed put until you were ready to make use of me? “What?”

“To accompany me somewhere.”

“Where? Why?”

“If you trust me—”

“I do! But only if you’re honest with me!”

Dieter took a deep breath. “All right. The Master of Change wants to see us.”

That was so unexpected that for a moment, she wondered if he was joking. “Have you been to see him already?”

“No. His voice spoke to me from out of the air, the same way he talks to Leopold Mann.”

“But he only communicates with coven leaders. Maybe he wants you to pick up where Mama left off, but what does he want with me?”

“Perhaps some other circle is in need of a leader.”

Jarla shook her head. With Dieter’s encouragement, she’d been trying to think more highly of herself than she had hitherto, but even so, she was certain she’d make a wretched choice to direct a secret cabal of rebels and warlocks. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Dieter’s face twisted as if he was losing patience with her recalcitrance. At that moment, he reminded her of Adolph.

“You know I wouldn’t let anybody hurt you,” he said. “I’ve taken steps—I mean, all along, I’ve done my best to look after you, haven’t I?”

Why had he referred to someone hurting her? Why had that possibility even occurred to him? “Yes,” she said, “you have.”

“And I always will. So let’s do as the Master orders.” He grinned, a bleak and bitter rictus. “It’s not as if either one of us has a choice.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Of course, I’ll do whatever you say. I just didn’t understand.” She struggled to give him a smile. “Whether I’m going to the tavern or to meet our leader, I suppose I need to get dressed.” Her hand trembling ever so slightly, she reached for her shift, and he didn’t stop her. He simply watched her for another moment, then started pulling on his own garments.

She didn’t know what to do. She loved Dieter. Of all the people she’d ever loved, he was the only one left. The Cult of the Red Crown had given her a sense of belonging and significance.

Considered in that light, it would be insane to break with either, let alone both. Yet doubt and fear tugged at her more insistently with every passing moment, begging her to flee from whatever fate held in store.

As she laced the front of her gown, she watched for an opportunity, uncertain whether she truly meant to take it even if it came. Then Dieter pulled his shirt over his head.

At that moment, the garment covered his eyes and would hinder the use of his arms and hands. Jarla ran at him and shoved him stumbling backwards. She whirled, fumbled with the catch, and yanked on the door.