“I give you my word as a doctor,” Simon stammered.
“Your word’s worth nothing here,” Hubertus retorted. “Believe me, this powder is much too dangerous for me to depend on the word of any old quack who comes along.” He rose to his full, imposing height. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make some more inquiries, and only when I’m convinced this stuff can’t cause any greater damage than it may have already, then I’ll let you in on the secret.”
Simon stared back at him, his mouth open. “But—but then how are we supposed to help Magdalena’s father?” he stuttered. “We need to know what—”
“Whatever you need to know or do, it’s all the same to me,” the brewmaster interrupted. “Early tomorrow morning I’ll have more to tell you. But until then the matter is too delicate. This secret could drive us all out of our minds, and if what I think is true…” His expression clouded over. “Just tend to your future father-in-law, or he may die even before his time here is up.”
With these words, he turned to leave the brew house, teetering as he slammed the door behind him.
The medicus sighed and drummed his fingers on the rutted tabletop.
“And now?” asked Magdalena. “What shall we do now, you know-it-all?”
“You heard him,” Simon replied gruffly. “We take care of your father. That’s something I know how to do at least.”
He rose abruptly and walked past steaming vats to a little wooden door in the back of the vaulted room. It opened into a low room furnished with a simple bed and a trunk with metal fittings. This would ordinarily have been the brewmaster’s bedroom, but Brother Hubertus had made it up yesterday for Jakob Kuisl, who now lay snoring loudly on the bed, bare from the waist up. Simon leaned down and put his ear to Kuisl’s powerful hairy chest. A few hours earlier he’d given Kuisl a bit of the opium poppy extract he carried around in his bag, and as a result the hangman’s breathing was calmer now and even. Magdalena had also been keeping watch at her father’s bedside, periodically spooning hot chicken broth between his chapped lips. The medicus carefully checked the hangman’s bandages.
The bishop’s bailiffs had tied the hangman to the bed with ropes, but Simon very much doubted these fetters could hold him there for long. The Schongau executioner had the constitution of a bear and, in keeping with that, seemed to have fallen into a deep winter’s sleep. The wounds on his back, arms, and legs no longer festered, and the inflammation had begun to go down overnight. Simon was hopeful Kuisl would be well on his way to recovery within a few days.
Just in time for his next torture session, he thought gloomily.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Magdalena gave him a sympathetic look.
“I’m really sorry about what happened earlier,” she said softly. “I know you meant well. We’ve always found a way out. Let’s wait and see—we just might again.”
Simon smiled wearily and nodded. “You’re right. We’ll make out, all three of us.” But his voice sounded strangely hollow. For the first time since their arrival in Regensburg he couldn’t shake the feeling that their situation might be hopeless after all.
“At least he probably won’t remember a thing about all this.” The hangman’s daughter gestured toward her father, whom she hadn’t seen for such a long time. Kuisl slept as sweetly as if he were back home in his own bed.
“One thing is clear,” Magdalena continued. “We can’t escape with him now, not in his present condition. And as long as we sit around here in the bishop’s palace, we’ll never find out what there is to know about this powder. This fat monk is just putting us off.”
Simon frowned. “At least I was right in thinking that there was something special about the stuff. It may hold the key to all our questions—and it’s dangerous. Brother Hubertus seems to have great respect for it. A secret that could drive us all out of our minds…” He quietly pondered the brewmaster’s strange words. “Just what in the world could Brother Hubertus have meant by that?”
“It’s already starting to drive me out of my mind.” Magdalena sighed. “A powder that the Regensburg patricians are chasing after as they would a murderer—or God knows who else! What on earth could it be?”
“Perhaps it really is something like the philosopher’s stone,” Simon whispered. “But what exactly this stone is…” He shook his head. “This kind of thinking won’t get us very far. Let’s wait until morning to see whether Hubertus lets us in on his secret. If not, we’ll try to escape with your father before the bishop has him locked up in the dungeon.”
“And how do you think we’re going to manage that?” Magdalena asked incredulously. “The guards in the courtyard outside rattle their sabers every time I so much as poke my head out the brewery door.”
“No idea. But there’s no point in sitting here twiddling our thumbs. We might as well start looking around here.” Shrugging, Simon headed back into the brewery, waving cheerfully through the window at the suspicious bailiffs outside. “There’s got to be more than one exit in this whole place,” he mused. “We just have to find it.”
The Danube flowed past the city like a sluggish ribbon of black slime. Dead fish, cabbage stalks, and shredded fishnets bobbed up and down along the rotting posts of the pier. Not a breath of air stirred in the midday heat, and the stench hung heavily over the pier, permeating the shutters of every building around the harbor.
On the pier, hidden behind shipping crates piled high, two men were seated atop two large wooden tethering posts. They didn’t even smell the infernal stench. The hatred within them was so great it blocked out everything else. Their hatred was a poison that had eaten away at them year after year, leaving room in their hearts and their minds for only one thought.
Revenge.
“But how could that happen!” one of them complained, cracking his knuckles so loudly the sound echoed across the deserted waterfront. “We were so close, and then he slipped away like a mouse into a hole. Now he’s feasting at the bishop’s palace and pleading for asylum! What a goddamned disgrace!”
“The bishop can’t let him stay there forever,” the other calmly replied. His voice was prickly, cold, like the dead of winter. “He won’t dare let a mass murderer loose.”
“How did Kuisl even manage to escape the dungeon in the first place, huh? There’s something not right there. They say the guards fell asleep. Bah!”
The other nodded. “I have a suspicion about that; if I’m right, Teuber just may have the pleasure of torturing his children with his very own hand. But first things first…” Vacantly, he watched the bloated carcass of a wild duck float by. After a pause he continued, his voice impassive. “Sooner or later the bishop’s going to have to turn Kuisl over, and then we can pick up where we left off.”
“And if he doesn’t?” snapped the other. “These priests love to play games with the city. It’s quite possible Kuisl will remain there until pigs grow wings and fly. I can’t wait that long! I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. I want my vengeance. I want—”
“Silence!” the man with the cold voice interrupted, slapping his companion’s face so hard he nearly fell headlong into the harbor. “You’re like a child, and someone’s taken your damn toy away. Do you think I don’t want revenge, too? He read the inscription on the cell wall, and I got him to the point where he almost recognized me down in the torture chamber—and no doubt in his nightmares as well…” His lips curled into a thin smile; then he grew serious. “But we have to be careful, or the others could start asking questions. I have worked a very long time to make sure no one in Regensburg would recognize me or my old name. At the inquisition I was a little too… ardent, and that was a mistake. We’ve got to remain calm—both of us. Also on account of the other matter.”
The second man whimpered and pinched his nose as a mixture of blood and green snot dripped into the Danube below. As so often, anger swelled within him. Why did he put up with this man? Why didn’t he just snap his neck? Instead, the second man swallowed his rage, just as he
had his entire life.
“So what would you suggest, then?” he asked.
The man with the icy voice spat into the water. “You’re right,” he said. “We don’t know when the bishop is going to release him. Besides, his daughter and that smart aleck, the quack, are with him. They’re working hand in glove with the fat brewmaster. And they know about the Holy Fire…”
“Goddamn it! How do you know that?”
“The little weasel told me. The blasted little schemer knows everything about those two and thinks we ought to come up with some kind of a plan as quickly as possible.” He grinned. “But don’t worry—I have something in mind.”
“What?” the second man asked hopefully. He admired how the other man could throw together a plan. He was cunning, so damned shrewd!
But the other man hesitated. When he did begin to speak, his speech was clipped. He had thought it all out very carefully, and now they just had to be sure they didn’t make any mistakes. “We have to lure the mouse from its hole again,” he whispered. “With some kind of bait. But we have to find a way to get at him first.”
“You want to go into the bishop’s palace?”
The man nodded. “I know a few of the guards there, so that shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll leave a little note for Kuisl that he won’t forget as long as he lives.” Again, the corners of his mouth twitched into a thin smile. “We’ll have to bring him back to where it all began. We should have done that long ago, just him and us. That’s how it has to be.”
The second man nodded enthusiastically. “Just the two of us—and him! Like before! Kuisl will wish he was back in the torture chamber!” Suddenly he scowled. “But suppose the fat brewmaster already knows too much; suppose the others have explained the Holy Fire to him?”
The man with the icy voice spat in the river again and stood up in a single motion. “Leave that to me. We’ll catch both of them—the mouse as well as the fat rat.”
Jakob Kuisl woke to a stomach growling as loud as a bear. He was overwhelmed by hunger.
Good, he thought. If I’m hungry at least I know I can’t be dead.
He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. It was night; alongside his bed a beeswax candle flickered atop a trunk. Next to it some kind soul had placed a jug of wine, a bowl of soup, and a loaf of bread. Kuisl vaguely recalled how his daughter had fed him like an infant just a short while ago. A wave of relief passed through his body: the third inquisitor hadn’t gotten his hands on Magdalena! What else had happened? They had fled together through the streets of Regensburg and sought refuge at the bishop’s palace. Young Simon had mentioned something about asylum, and shortly after that Kuisl had passed out again. In brief waking moments he remembered Magdalena, her voice shaking, speaking about the inscriptions in the dungeon, about the third inquisitor, and about his escape.
And then there was something else, too: he thought he remembered a man bending down over his bed at some point during the night. The stranger, whose face was hidden in shadow, had passed his fingers over the hangman’s throat and whispered just one word.
Weidenfeld.
Kuisl blinked as a shudder ran through his body. The impression was so vivid, he believed he’d even smelled the man. Kuisl had felt a hand on his sweaty shirt. Evidently his nightmares had followed him to this place as well, but for the moment they were mostly drowned out by hunger and thirst.
He was about to sit up and reach for the bread when he felt the strap across his chest. Surprised, he looked down to find leather bonds on his arms and legs tying him to the bed. He cursed softly. The bishop’s guards had apparently locked him in this room and tied him to this bed. Panicked, he pulled at the straps, but they didn’t give even the slightest. After a few minutes of struggle fat beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hunger and thirst were starting to make him crazy. Should he call for help and beg the guards to loosen his bonds, just for a moment? He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Perhaps they’d allow his daughter to come feed him again like a toothless old man on his deathbed. That made him shudder. He’d rather die of thirst than degrade himself like that.
So he kept tugging at the straps, thrashing back and forth until he felt the strap around his left foot begin to loosen. The hangman shifted his legs until, at last, he could slip first his right and then his left foot out of the bonds. Although he’d worked his way at least partially free, the straps around his chest and arms were as tight as if they’d been riveted to him. Kuisl threw himself so violently to the side that the bed tipped over with a crash, pinning him beneath it.
With bated breath he lay still on the ground and listened.
Had the guards heard him? All was quiet. Perhaps the bailiffs were asleep in another wing of the bishop’s palace, assuming he was still too weak to break free.
After a few minutes Kuisl tried to get upright in spite of the bed strapped to his back. He struggled to get a look around the room. He needed something sharp to tear the straps, but the room was empty except for the bed and the trunk. He’d have to look elsewhere. Swaying and grunting, he got to his feet like an animated wardrobe; the bed on his back made him even broader across than he already was. With his right hand he grabbed the door handle and pressed down cautiously. Perhaps…?
Creaking softly, the door swung outward.
Kuisl grinned. The bishop’s bailiffs had indeed forgotten to lock him inside! Stooping, he staggered through the doorway and groped around in the darkness before him like a clumsy giant. He had to be careful not to stumble or he’d wake up the entire palace. Step by step he moved quietly through a vaulted room with a stone ceiling and high windows letting in moonlight. In this dim light Kuisl noticed large copper buckets atop brick ovens and sacks of wheat and hops, some of them open, scattered across the floor. But it was the aroma that told Kuisl definitively this was a brewery.
The fragrance of malt and hops made his thirst almost unbearable. He had to free himself at once! He could just dunk his head into one of the beer tubs and take a long draught. He could—
The hangman stopped short. In the moonlight it looked as though someone else had the same idea. Directly in front of Kuisl, in one of the large brewing kettles, he could just make out the figure of a man pitched head over heels into one of the vats, with only his legs sticking out—looking for all the world like an enormous stirring spoon. His brown cassock had slipped open, revealing two pale, massive thighs.
Kuisl could only stand there with his mouth open in a grimace. In a moment all thoughts of thirst and hunger had vanished. The man in the beer kettle had clearly drowned in the brew.
There are worse ways to die, the hangman thought regretfully.
A sound from behind caused him to wheel around. Only a few steps away Simon and Magdalena stood, fully dressed, though their faces were dirty and sweaty, as if moments before they’d been hard at work.
“Papa!” Magdalena scolded. “What’s all this noise? You mustn’t…”
Then her eyes happened upon the corpse in the beer vat. She froze. Simon, too, was at a loss for words.
“My God, that’s Brother Hubertus!” the medicus shouted finally, raising his hand to his mouth in horror. After a moment of silence he looked suspiciously at Kuisl, still staggering around with the bed on his back. “Did you do anything to…?”
“You fool!” Kuisl spit. “How could I have done anything like that with forty pounds of wood on my back!”
And for the first time the couple noticed the bed tied to the hangman’s back. Despite the dead monk in the vat, Magdalena had to bite her lips to keep from laughing out loud.
“For heaven’s sake, Father! When Simon told you to stay in bed he didn’t mean for you to carry the bed around with you.”
“Be still, silly woman, and help me cut off these straps,” Kuisl said. “There’s a dead man in front of you, so please pull yourself together.”
Simon hurriedly cut through the leather bands with his stiletto. Careful not to make a sound, they
lowered the bed to the floor before turning to deal with the corpse whose head was still submerged in the mash. With their combined strength they pulled the monk from the vat.
Brother Hubertus’s eyes were frozen open in horror. Slimy green catkins stuck to the fringe of hair that ringed his tonsure, and his face was even more bloated now than it had been in life. Magdalena pulled the wet cassock, which reeked of stale beer, over his ankles while Simon mouthed a silent prayer. Kuisl nudged him, pointing to a purple bruise that ringed the brewmaster’s neck.
“He was strangled,” he concluded. “No easy task, especially considering what an ox of a man the clergyman was. A strong man did this, one who knew how exactly how to go about it.” He peered down into the brown liquid sloshing around in the vat. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it must have been two men. One to hold him over the edge while the other strangled him.”
“Good Lord!” Simon closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m sure it was on account of the powder. The good monk wanted to make some more inquiries, and he clearly went to the wrong person!”
“The baldheaded murderer!” Magdalena whispered. “I bet he bribed the guards to get in. We’ve got to get out of here as quickly as possible!”
Kuisl frowned. “Powder? Murderers? What the hell is going on here, for Christ’s sake?”
“That’s what we’d like to know.” Simon gave the dead Franciscan monk at their feet a look of pity. Then he explained to the hangman in brief, halting words all that had happened the past few days.
Kuisl listened in silence and finally shook his head. “What a cesspool of iniquity we’ve gotten ourselves mired in! The story gets more colorful by the minute!” On his fingers he ticked off what he’d learned: “We have a secret alchemical workshop where you find a strange powder. My brother-in-law gets himself killed for producing it, and in addition he’s supposedly a member of this secret freemen group.” He shook his head incredulously. “And who are they anyway?”