"Here." He knew the narrow gap through which she darted; it took them out of the storage area, into a long, gloomy tunnel. In the lamplight, he could see the stonework change: slabs larger, but more regular than above, arching massively over their heads. Folk said the whole Upper City was built on the foundation of these colossal ruins; they had been abandoned long before the Graf's ancestors fortified the hilltop, so no one could say what men had built them, if men they were.
They hurried down a passage: it had once been the aisle of a gigantic hall. To one side, the arches were filled with regular blocks; but on the other, they were piled in more confusion. Perhaps the upper stories of the palace had simply collapsed into the middle of the hall: but possibly they had been smashed there by some inconceivable force.
The aisle swung sharply to the left. After a short distance, she stopped, and started examining the outer wall. He had time to observe intricate carving on the squared stones. Whiteflower ran her hands along a design, then pushed hard. A large section, several apparent slabs, swung back. It released a gush of cold and murky air, flickering the light alarmingly.
"I guessed from old tales there might be a passage here. Look!" She pointed across the aisle, to a larger than usual arch, almost filled not with rubble but with a marble dais, on top of which they could see the back of an enormous throne. "Whoever ruled in those days needed a private escape route."
She showed him how to operate the secret door. Then, on down a flight of shallow steps... she took them fast and sure, the light bouncing with the rhythm of her stride, casting its shadows in a wild procession across the mysterious walls like clouds racing over the great moon in a high wind. They caught glimpses of carvings or murals - strange, handsome beings who were not quite men and women - but had no time to examine them.
Saskia Whiteflower had other things on her mind. "Why does your mother stop you doing so many things? She makes you spend so long in the school, you have no time to train properly with the squires, though you're the best of the lot. And you've no chance of any adventures."
"I'm not really supposed to be a squire at all. You see, my father was a freelance knight. Sometimes, he'd act as Judicial Champion for adventurers in trouble. That's how he came... to be killed. He never made much money, and sold some of the little land he had. So we're almost poor relations here."
"I see. My step-father won't let you be a proper squire."
"No, no! Mother vowed, when my father died, that I wouldn't lead that kind of life. She wants me to be a scholar. It's uncle Rhenhardt who insists he won't have a boy in his household who doesn't have a chance to train as a squire."
"Oh!" She sniffed angrily. "He's never insisted I be given a chance. I have to train sneakily."
Peredur was about to reply that girls seldom did do squire's training, when they came to the bottom of the steps. The way was blocked by masses of mortared stones, great old ones, their carvings clashing wildly, interspersed with smaller modern blocks. The face was not quite sheer: there were little ledges above the courses, as though they were very steep stairs.
"I'd better lead the way. Here, you hold the lamp." She hoisted her black satin skirt, with its pale lily flowers, and tied it carefully in a knot at her waist, then started nimbly upward. He had time to think that she was really almost as useful as a boy. She wore men's hose, very tight, and he noted that though she was not tall her legs were as muscular as those of any youth, and in some subtle way far more pleasing to look on.
"Hold the lamp up. There!" She pushed something, and a door slid open. Peredur blinked as daylight flooded in, and he took longer than she had clambering up. Whiteflower untied her skirt and led the way out. They were in a corner between the city wall and the buttress by the postern, having scrambled up the great wall's foundation!
They had saved a few minutes, but anticipation hurried them through the Lower City towards the market square. The crowds were large for the hour, all heading in that direction.
The Upper City was built on a curved hill, like a crescent moon. The outer wall ran between the two horns; the Lower City was on the inner slopes, its streets stepped down to the market. The sun was already above the eastern arm of the hill, bright in a pale blue sky misted with translucent clouds. As they scurried down from the gate its rise reversed; buildings eclipsed it more and more often.
Turrets and minarets thrust weirdly into the sky with none of the regularity of the Upper City, which could have been in any part of the Empire. Here travellers and dealers in strange goods from Kislev, the Border Princedoms and beyond had recreated their distant, exotic homes with no order or plan: a place where the spiced aroma of enticing foreign foods mingled with the incense of strange temples and the odd scent of unknowable goods in small and evil-looking shops; where they sensed the gaze of bleak little eyes from every shuttered window or dark, uninviting door.
The steeply stepped streets around the market formed a theatre, which was already crowded - but they knew a narrow passage beside the bookseller's shop, which led to a balcony he let them use. No stalls had been set up in the market place. The traders hung round the edge, looking with curiosity, resentment and fear at the group which dominated the square.
Rumour was right: no such party had passed this way in their time. The strange men were every sort you could imagine, colourful in dress, often with some plate or mail armour - though few wore the full suits which were uniform among the Graf's guards. They did not resemble an army, with no appearance of discipline or drill; though they were drawn up in a kind of formation, close around their wagons, and had the look of men used to working together.
Peredur could have filled a book with the appearance of this outlandish crew, had his eyes not fixed on the leader: as huge a man as he had ever seen, human in aspect though with an air of something savage - wolf or ape or bear. His black hair was not long, but curled wild and almost matted, as did his beard. He wore a double coat of mail with some heavy plates attached, but no helmet: his coif was thrown casually back. He led a steed which increased the fierceness of his look. This was no charger, but a gigantic boar, high at the shoulder as a stallion: such a beast as wild hordes ride who are not men. Its tusks were as large and hacked as swords, and the warrior had a bigger one yet as handle to his massive battle hammer, shaft and iron head alike inscribed with runes. The man had a vast power about him, though whether for good or evil was hard to tell.
Beside him stood a man powerful as he, but shorter His beard was long, and he wore a doublet of rough cloth: no mail. He had a kindlier expression than his companion, carried a heavy staff that did not have to be a weapon, and led a horse which, though very large and shaggy, was still a horse.
Behind this formidable duo, was the strangest sight yet: a wicker chariot, light and graceful beside the gaudy wagons, drawn by six greyhounds (these were bigger and sturdier than dogs bred for racing; but had a look of swiftness and grace no word can better describe). Two were pure white, two almost black, and two of both colours, exactly half and half. The car had an awning, black/grey and white, from which hung veils of ephemeral silk behind which two figures could just be seen: no details could be made out, but their presence alone had beauty.
A trumpet sounded from above. The main gate of the Upper City had a huge barbican which extended down the hill like an arrow nocked to a bow. Graf Manfred appeared on the battlement, splendid in his scarlet cape and hat, with a squad of his men. Peredur's Uncle Rhenhardt was in command, and most carried loaded crossbows. There were other archers on the walls above.
The Graf spoke sternly: "Who are you, strangers who have passed our outer gate, by what enchantment I cannot guess? What business have you? If you are not our enemies, your words had better be convincing!"
The big barbarian was the spokesman. His voice was loud, surprisingly cultured, with but a trace of accent: "Lord Count! We are not enemies! We keep the laws of civilized lands, and seek only to help those we visit. Nor do we come empty-handed: we can trade or entertain,
and are men of many skills. If any of your folk are hardy and honourable, seek noble adventures, and have something to offer, we will welcome them to join us."
Graf Manfred still looked suspicious: "So, you seek to recruit from our citizens - or is it to kidnap them? To trade - or is it to steal? To entertain - or is it to bewitch? You do not even give us your names, the land of your birth or the purpose for which you travel in this extraordinary caravan!"
The giant hung his head slightly, as though his appearance was so impressive that he had no need to act savagely. The shorter man beside him now spoke up: "We are of many countries, most of them distant. I am known among our fellowship as K'nuth the Stout. This is my kinsman, N'dru the Strong. Among our own nation, it is not required of a guest or stranger to give one's born name: there are those who would abuse the knowing of it!"
"You are not yet guests!" The Graf seemed little mollified.
The huge cousin spoke again: "It must seem strange that so much about us is veiled in mystery. We are law-keepers, with a mission of great benefit to all civilized folk. I can tell by my runes, by the smell of your air, that this city is not in thrall to the cults of darkness: yet evil has its tendrils everywhere. There are those who would promise much to know the object of our quest, and their spies cannot always be recognized."
The Graf whispered with Rhenhardt, then replied: "So! You will tell us nothing of yourselves. False names, precious little else! Anyone can claim a noble quest and powerful enemies. You are so many, I would call you a small army if you wore livery."
There was a rattle of movement above: a bombard was trundled onto one of the large bastions; a bolt-catapult appeared on another. Peredur tried to place himself protectively in front of Whiteflower, but she pushed past him again.
The huge N'dru was losing patience: his hands tightened on the carved ivory shaft of his mighty hammer. Peredur wondered if he would try to batter down the great gate single-handed. Given time, he surely could have, but the soldiers above were raising their crossbows. Now the cousin K'nuth whispered frantically in his leader's ear; and one of the mysterious figures in the chariot sprang to her feet so that conveyance rocked wildly for a second.
The giant returned with effort to his humbler mood. He drew a mighty breath and said: "Great Count, I swear that I and my companions mean you and your people no harm. Indeed, great good will come to you when we achieve our aims. I will swear so on the high altar of Ulric, and of any other god you nominate."
The Graf relented a little: "This city worships Our Lady Verena. We enjoy her special protection: she will not permit the foul adherents of the dark to succeed in their disgraceful arts within our walls. On her altar you must swear, along with that of your own fierce god."
"That, I and my men will willingly do," said N'dru the Strong.
The atmosphere relaxed. Peredur heard the distant striking of a clock. "It's late. I must hurry." Whiteflower made a face, but did not stop him dashing up the steps to the Academy. He reflected on the strange things they had witnessed. The life of adventure was forbidden, yet he did not regret seeing the strangers, and yearned to know the secret of their mysterious quest.
Brother Martin had finished the register when he rushed in. "Where have you been, Peredur? It's not like you to be late."
"There was a commotion in the town. Strangers. I thought for a minute there would be a battle, right there in the Market."
"Strangers! That's a strange excuse! No more of this!"
It was tense at the Academy. The others were mostly from families without noble blood, children of merchants or other leading burgesses. They resented Peredur's status as nephew to the Garrison Commander, and felt he was over-privileged because of it. But they feared him, as one who trained with the squires. Some tried flattery, which was more annoying than hostility. They were a miserable lot, well suited to a future without action.
During lunch, Brother Martin sought him out. "So. You saw the mysterious ones. Let us put your escapade to some use. What kind of men were they? What can you learn from what you saw?"
Martin was about thirty, less bound by books than most of the clerics. He listened carefully to Peredur's description, then said: "There are lands where men fear to reveal their names. They are nests of wizardry, where the battles of lawful and unlawful magic are waged more fiercly than in this relatively tranquil city."
Peredur tried to digest this. "You fear the barbarians may be plotting to deceive the Graf, using spells of illusion?"
Brother Martin shook his head. "No. Such spells have no power in the Temple. But there are many ways to speak the truth." He looked down the colonnade, and made a bow towards the owl of Verena which watched over the entrance. "One must be fair. Men who dwell outside the Empire are not necessarily barbarians, nor always wicked by design. Yet in places where names are unsafe to utter, the worship of Ulric goes often hand in glove with that of Solkan the Avenger. Their followers are not corrupt, but can be unjust: a hard faith to reconcile with worship of Our Lady."
In Wurtbad there were large temples only to Verena, Ulric and Sigmar. If foreign cults had gained a toehold in the Lower Town, Peredur was not deemed ready to learn of them. His mother hoped he would live in those quiet colonnades, avoiding conflict over things more desparate than the exact meaning of ancient texts. Elen had influence, being in charge of her brother's household, and Rhenhardt was not treated as a mere freelance, having been married to Saskia's mother, the original White Flower of Wurtbad. The latter had been the Graf's favourite sister, the most beautiful woman ever to have lived in the city.
Peredur was taught about the Empire, the centre of civilized life, and little of the lands beyond. Intrigued by what he had seen that day, he was boldened to ask his uncle at supper if the visitors had taken their oaths in a satisfactory manner.
"So it would seem. The clerics took precautions against illusion, and didn't detect anything." Less convinced of Our Lady's protective power than most, Uncle Rhenhardt never scoffed openly. "They didn't look like perjurers in action to me."
Peredur's mother had a different view: "They must have used magic to enter the Lower City - unless you hire men who sleep on sentry duty and leave the gates open." She glared at Rhenhardt, who seemed about to reply, but she hurried on: "By all accounts, the adventurers are wild creatures, scarcely human. I'm amazed they were not sent packing when they were under your guns."
He replied mildly. "They have a frightening look, but it is merely a matter of dress and style. I examined them closely. They do not include any half-orcs, or even dwarfs."
"Perhaps. But you must at least keep the children away from them, and not let them attend this ghastly show."
Peredur had heard about no show, and had no idea what to protest about. Whiteflower had, and was very indignant. "I am not a child, I am the Graf's niece, and I am not being told what not to attend. The 'show' is to be a festival in honour of Ulric the White Wolf, who is neglected here in Wurtbad."
Elen opened her mouth to scold Whiteflower, but Rhenhardt spoke rapidly for once. "Although the visitors are guests here, they have invited us to attend this festival. It is the Equinox of Spring, sacred to Taal as well as the White Wolf. It would be discourteous for the family to not attend."
Elen spent the next days haranguing Peredur about the dangers posed by adventurers, and the evil gods they must worship in secret. Each day he went straight to the Academy as required, merely peering down the steps into the Lower Town on the way, trying to see he knew not what. In the event, he saw nothing. Rumours were started by students whose fathers had sold the visitors supplies, or bought from them strange treasures. They reported that the strangers had constantly asked questions about the layout, history and traditions of the city. After a few days, one whose father kept a tavern reported seeing the man K'nuth standing drinks and asking about the tunnels in the ruins under the Upper City - about who had made them, and how they could be entered.
That evening, Peredur and Whiteflower went again to
those hidden passages. They saw nothing but ancient stones, murky shadows and dust. Yet in the distance, several times, they seemed to hear sounds: voices, carried perhaps through air holes; boots stepping heavily on rock; the clank of iron. And once or twice they noticed a peculiar smell, not unpleasant but quite alien to the clammy world beneath the earth: smoke, heavy with some rich oil, and a hint of sandalwood, as though exotic lamps had guided someone's path through the underworld, then vanished through the old unyielding walls.
The Spring Equinox dawned. The parade in honour of Ulric would be followed by a demonstration of martial skills and a dance in honour of Taal, Lord of Nature and Wild Places. His worship had faded in Wurtbad, since it no longer had wildness, save the wildness of men. Elen said it would be a violent, obscene performance, like the Bull Dances of decadent southern lands - not festivals of true religion. But she did not object when Rhenhardt said they would be seated in the Graf's box, in a house overlooking the market, with terraces of seats.
The Academy closed early and Peredur hurried over. It was still mid-afternoon, and few people had arrived. He ducked into a half-enclosed courtyard: it was shaded there, only the rear being open to the sky. One could get water from a fountain, fed by a mineral spring. At first he did not see the woman who was there, but it was more than surprise that made him start. Though he could not see her face at first, she had a grace and sad dignity he had never dreamed of. She turned sharply at the sound of his footfall, like a fellow deer startled while drinking at some secluded brook in the forest. Her uncannily beautiful face was unlike any he had seen: framed by slightly waving night-dark hair, the bones exotic, delicate. Her complexion was bronze-tinted by the sun, though somehow pale also, as though the blood was afraid to linger. She wore a cloak which fell to her feet, fastened down the front with silver. It was of a very rich material, mostly blue in colour but winter-dark, with white embroidered clouds and flecks of snow, lightened by tiny jewels like stars and a silver moon.