03 - Sword of Vengeance (2 page)

He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. The days had been
hard, and the memories bad. Like everyone else, he needed to believe the worst
of it was over. Every sign of renewal was seized upon, welcomed and documented.
Averheimers wanted their city back. They wanted their lives back.

Tochfel’s skin was now a shade less grey, his eyelids a
little less red, but he still had the hunched look of a scholar. His life before
the affair with Schwarzhelm had been dominated by parchment ledgers and legal
depositions. It was much the same now. Rulers might come and go, but the real
business of governing changed little.

Ahead of him, dressed in the crimson and gold of the
Grosslich hierarchy, Captain Erasmus Euler was busy overseeing the unloading. A
dozen of his men lounged nearby, their halberds casually leaning against the
warehouse walls. The scene was relaxed. Merchants haggled in small groups around
them, exchanging bills of lading.

Tochfel walked up to the nearest barge, the
Rosalinde.
She was ugly, dark and low in the water. Most of her crew were ashore. The cargo
was obvious—building materials, and lots of them. Every day brought a fresh
consignment from somewhere. Granite from the mines in the east, marble from
Sartosa, iron from Nuln. Averheim was sucking it in, and Tochfel didn’t even
want to think about how much it was costing. It wasn’t on his ledger, and that
was the important thing.

“Good day, Herr Euler,” he said, waving to the captain.

Tochfel thought he caught a flash of irritation on the man’s
face.

“Good day to you, Steward,” Euler said, handing a sheaf of
documents to one of his men. “What can I do for you?”

“Thought I’d take a look at how the project’s coming on. Even
I feel stale eventually, cooped up in the citadel.”

“It’s going fine.” Euler’s voice was semi-hostile, but
Tochfel was prepared to cut him a good deal of slack. Before Grosslich’s
elevation, the man had barely commanded more than a dozen men. Now he was in
charge of hundreds.

The Steward looked out across the river. Behind the
Rosalinde
there were two more barges in line for the berth. More were
visible under the wide arches of the Griffon Bridge. The queuing had become a
problem. “How many more are we expecting this week?”

“Couldn’t say. Get used to it, Steward. They’ll be coining in
for weeks.”

Tochfel gave a rueful look. “Oh, I am used to it, captain.
Though I can’t pretend I don’t have my concerns.” He checked to see if Euler was
in a tolerant mood. He’d heard the man had developed a temper. “These landings
are used for more than building materials. There are supplies for the citadel
that are now two weeks late.”

“Then land them further down.”

“I would do so, Herr Euler, if you could show me one clear
berth. The elector’s project—important as it no doubt is—seems to have taken
things over somewhat.”

He tried to keep his voice deliberately light—there was no
point in provoking a fight over this. Euler ran his fingers through his hair. He
looked tired.

“Things have changed,” he said. “There’s business you’re not
in command of anymore. You’ll have to talk to the elector yourself.”

“You think I haven’t tried that? I can’t get near him. I
can’t even get near to Herr Alptraum, whom I’ve now not seen for over two weeks.
I thought perhaps this might be best coming from you.”

For a moment, just a moment, there was a flicker of fear in
Euler’s eyes. Tochfel could see the hollowness in his cheeks, the tightness
around his mouth.

“The elector’s busy. If you want to bother him with this,
then feel free. I’ve got more important things to see to.”

Tochfel decided to take that as a warning. It was a troubling
thought. If even men like Euler disliked bringing things to Grosslich’s
attention, then dealing with the elector would be difficult. For all the stories
they told about Marius Leitdorf, he’d at least known how to keep trade flowing
along the river.

“I see,” was all he said. He turned to look across the water.
Half a mile distant, peeping over the crowded roofs of the poor quarter, was the
object of all this work. With astonishing speed, Grosslich’s grand project was
going ahead. The wooden scaffolding was already higher than the buildings around
it. Beneath the cages of oak, the frame was starting to take shape.

Tochfel couldn’t suppress a shudder of distaste. Of course,
he didn’t know what it would look like when complete, but the early signs
weren’t promising. What kind of an architect came up with a tower made entirely
of iron? Perhaps it would all become clear later. Perhaps he’d be surprised by
it.

He hoped so. Just for once, it would be nice for the
surprises to be good ones.

Heinz-Mark Grosslich sat on the electoral throne in the
audience chamber of the Averburg. He was draped in crimson and the crown of his
office sat heavily on his brow. The late afternoon sun slanted through the
narrow windows, bathing the dark wood of the walls. As with every part of the
citadel, banners with the Grosslich device hung along the room’s flanks. The
more traditional emblems of Averland and Solland were nowhere to be seen.

There were two other men present with him. At his side sat
Schwarzhelm’s aide, the spy Pieter Verstohlen. He was dressed in his habitual
garb—a long leather coat, waistcoat and breeches, linen shirt, all beautifully
tailored. His slender, handsome face gave little away.

Grosslich avoided making eye contact with him. The man’s
continuing presence was an irritation. Schwarzhelm’s leftovers would have to be
dealt with at some stage, but for now the need for a respectable front remained
acute. The eyes of Altdorf were on him. The eyes of the Empire were on him.

That fact was demonstrated by the presence of the second man.
A messenger from the Imperial Palace, kneeling on the stone not five yards from
him. It had taken longer than Grosslich had expected, but had been bound to
happen eventually. This was the beginning, the start of the tussle between
elector and elected. Even if he’d been an ordinary provincial governor with
ordinary provincial aspirations, the balance of power between Altdorf and
Averheim was always fraught.

But he was no ordinary governor, and his ambitions went
beyond anything the Emperor was capable of imagining. Soon even Karl Franz would
realise it.

“Rise,” he drawled.

The messenger clambered to his feet. He was armoured and wore
the red and white Palace livery. His tunic was emblazoned with the Imperial
griffon, and he carried a heavy sword at his belt. The man’s grey hair was
cropped close to the grizzled scalp, his shoulders were broad, and he looked
like he knew how to use his weapon. A knight, then, seconded to the Palace’s
messenger corps. When he looked at Grosslich, there was no fear in his seasoned
eyes.

“I bring word from His Most Imperial Highness, Emperor Karl
Franz I von Holswig-Schliestein, Grand Prince of Altdorf, Count of the Reikland,
Protector of the Empire.”

“That’s nice,” said Grosslich. He felt Verstohlen stiffen
slightly at his side. Perhaps he should resist the temptation to mock. The
vermin around him needed humouring for a little while longer, as tedious as it
was to do so.

“The Emperor has instructed me to congratulate your lordship
on the succession to the throne, achieved though it was at such a high price. As
war has conspired to prevent an assemblage of the Estates in recent months, his
highness begs me to enquire of your lordship when your entourage intends to
travel to the Palace, so that his highness may pay his respects in person.”

The stilted language was that of Imperial diplomacy, and to
the untrained ear might have sounded like a gentle request. Grosslich was
worldly enough to know what it really conveyed: he was being summoned to
Altdorf. Karl Franz wanted to see if his intervention in Averland had brought
him what he wanted.

“Convey to his highness my profound thanks for his gracious
concern,” replied Grosslich. “He’ll be aware of the difficult circumstances of
my inauguration. The traitors who conspired to ruin this province remain free
from capture. There is work to be done on the city, and need for more men under
arms. I trust he’ll understand that I cannot leave the city for the foreseeable
future. When all is placed in order, I’ll be honoured to accept his magnanimous
invitation.”

The messenger remained stony-faced. He could interpret the
response as well as any of them. Grosslich might as well have told the Emperor
to run along back to his stinking Palace and wait for him to turn up in his own
sweet time. Grosslich allowed himself to enjoy the moment.

“May I ask your lordship if there might be a more… precise
indication of how long the work will take? You’ll appreciate that the Emperor
has many and pressing concerns of his own, and his highness has a personal
interest in bringing this to a satisfactory conclusion.”

The translation being: think carefully what you’re doing.
Karl Franz doesn’t tolerate insolence from anyone. He helped put you here, he
can help remove you too.

The naiveté was almost touching.

“When Helborg is dead and the Leitdorf’s are on the rack,”
said Grosslich, speaking deliberately, “then I will come.”

For the first time, a shade of disapproval coloured the
messenger’s face.

“No doubt you remember the order made by his highness
concerning the Lord Helborg. He is to be recovered alive.”

“Yes, I noted the request. If it falls within my power,
Helborg shall be preserved.” He gave the messenger a sly look. “If it falls
within my power,” he repeated.

There was a pause.

“I understand. This shall be conveyed.”

Grosslich didn’t reply, and his silence concluded the
appointment. The messenger bowed and backed down the length of the audience
chamber, never turning his face away from the dais. As he reached the heavy
double doors at the far end, they opened soundlessly and he withdrew.

“So what did you make of that?” asked Grosslich, turning to
Verstohlen with a satisfied smile.

The spy didn’t look amused. “A dangerous game to play. I
don’t see the advantage in goading Karl Franz.”

Grosslich laughed. “Ever cautious, Verstohlen,” he said.
“That’s good. It’s what I employ you for.”

“You don’t employ me.”

“Ah. Sometimes I forget. Perhaps you’d better remind me what
your intentions are here. I get used to having you around.”

“As soon as I hear from Schwarzhelm, I’ll let you know,” said
Verstohlen. “I find it odd that I haven’t had word already.”

Grosslich kept his impatience well concealed. Verstohlen’s
usefulness had long since expired. If he didn’t find a reason to leave the city
soon, then something might have to be done.

“Until then, your counsel will be invaluable,” he said.

“Any news of Leitdorf?”

“Which one?”

“Either.”

“There have been reports of Rufus from the east,” said
Grosslich. “I have men on his trail, but the country is wild and we can’t cover
everything. Don’t worry. It’s only a matter of time. Their power is broken.”

Verstohlen shot him an irritated look. “So you evidently
believe. But time has passed, and evil seeds will spring up anew.”

Grosslich found himself getting bored of the man’s piety.
Verstohlen had no idea about the potential of evil seeds. No idea at all.

“We’ll redouble our efforts,” he said, looking as earnest
about it as he could. “The traitors will be found, and justice will be done.
Believe me—no one wants the Leitdorf line terminated more than I, and it
will
happen.”

Markus Bloch leaned on his halberd and shaded his eyes
against the harsh sun. He was high in the passes of the Worlds Edge Mountains,
far from the warmth of Averheim. Around him the granite pinnacles reared high
into the empty airs, heaped on top of one another like the ramparts of some
ancient citadel of giants. To the north and south, the summits soared even
higher, crowned with snow the whole year round, glistening and sparkling under
the open sky. The passes were clear, though the air was still bitter. It didn’t
matter how balmy the summers were in the land below; here, it was always winter.

The army he’d brought to the mountains with such labour was
installed a few miles away in one of the scattered way-forts that lined the road
to Black Fire Pass. Even though the way-forts were capacious, many of the lower
ranks had been forced to camp in the shadow of its walls. He had over two
thousand men under his command, the kind of force that only Black Fire Keep
could accommodate with ease.

The place where he stood was far from the road and the
way-forts. It was a desolate spot, a patch of wind-blasted stone in the heart of
the peaks. A wide flat area, perhaps four hundred yards across, was bounded on
three sides by sheer cliffs, cracked with age and flecked with mottled lichens.
The piercing sun made little impression on it, and there was a dark aspect to
the rocks.

Bloch didn’t speak for a long time. This was the third such
site he’d been shown. It never got any better.

He turned to his companion, the mountain guard commander
Helmut Drassler. The man was tall and rangy, and like all his kind wore a beard
and was dressed in furs. Drassler looked over the site with a kind of blank
distaste. After seeing so many of them, perhaps there was little other reaction.

Aside from Bloch and Drassler, only Kraus, Schwarzhelm’s
honour guard captain, was present. His expression was as hard, cold and
unreadable as his master’s.

“This one’s the worst,” muttered Bloch. Drassler nodded,
saying nothing.

The site was a natural killing place. The cliffs on all sides
turned it into a cauldron of death. For any forces out in the middle of it,
there was only one escape—back through the narrow gap where the three of them
stood. If that route were blocked, then there could be no hope for any trapped
within.