Ring of Fire III (27 page)

“Preferably with a knife.” Lasse shrugged and looked into the young priest’s eyes. “Would it help if I told you that most of them deserved it and would in fact have been hanged if their crimes had been exposed in a court?”

“I don’t know.” Nicolaus shook his head and sat down on a wooden post, ignoring the horse tied to the post even as it knocked off his hat and started nibbling at his hair.

“You must have guessed that I had to kill to escape Otto, and Viktor is an arms dealer. Part of my work for him is as a bodyguard, and many of the people he does business with are not nice people.”

“But you are so pretty. And so young.”

“And therefore anyone targeting Viktor is going to concentrate on the more obvious threats.” Lasse smiled slightly. “Eh, Nicolaus. You really don’t have so much hair on your head that you should feed it to the horses.”

Nicolaus put a hand to his head and looked around to stare at the horse. “I think I better go home.” He got up from the post and stood a bit, wobbling.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Lasse kept himself from reaching out to steady Nicolaus. If Nicolaus couldn’t accept what Lasse was and how he made a living, they’d better stop it now.

“No. Thanks. I’m fine. I just need to think.” Nicolaus gave a rather wavering smile and set off more or less in the direction of the small house he’d rented near the St. James Church.

“Hello, Cookie. Did you tell him you were pregnant? He looked that shocked.”

Lasse turned with a smile to answer Tat’yana. He had spotted her during his talk with Nicolaus, but she was in her tavern doxy persona today, and the few people going in and out of the small shops would have wondered at Nicolaus talking to her. The area around the Church of St. James was still partly a ruin after being destroyed by Wallenstein seven years earlier, and Nicolaus’ scattered colleagues had simply accepted Lasse as an old friend of Nicolaus from the university in Rostock with an occasional taste for low company. With the exception of a widow well known for her pretty young male servants, Lasse had been very careful to select his customers entirely from the travelers staying in the harbor area, and of course there was no overlap between the clerics of St. James and Viktor’s people at the Vulgar Unicorn.

“No. I told him that you were, and that you were going to claim him as father,” said Lasse.

Lasse and Tat’yana both stepped aside as a man came out from the fishmonger with a brace of dried cods over his shoulder and untied the horse. He hesitated, looking at the well-dressed young man and the whore in the stained red dress, but when Lasse raised a questioning eyebrow the man just shook his head, mounted, and rode on.

“There’s been questions asked.” Tat’yana sat down on the post Nicolaus had just left. She kept a bright smile on her face as she looked up on Lasse, but her voice was dead-serious.

“Who and what?”

“One is addressed as von Werle. I don’t know about the other two. They are staying in the house of Herr Buchman, who has ordered his servants to give his guests absolutely everything they want, and who practically genuflects every time he meets them.”

“I don’t believe I know Herr Buchman.”

“He’s a major merchant living in the big new brick house by the market square. Viktor has occasionally rented space in one of his warehouses. The three men are searching for a runaway Swedish servant who is also a thief and a murderer. They have a drawing that two of them show around in taverns. One of the children I sometimes hire saw it and came to tell me it looked like you. It’s only a question of time before someone either tells them where you live, or that you often walk around the harbor.”

“I’ll go grab some belongings. Will you ask Boris to buy me a horse and meet me at St. James Tower? I’ll send Viktor my address if I’ll settle down in a place where I might be useful.”

“I’ll have Viktor lend you his big roan horse. It’s faster than any for sale right now. Anything else?”

“No. And thank you, Tat’yana.”

* * *

Lasse quickly made his way among the potholes and rubble surrounding the partially rebuilt St. James, but stopped immediately as a rat ran past him down the hill. Rats ran away from—not toward—people. Nicolaus didn’t like the shells of the abandoned houses that once had housed his neighbors, so he always went straight to and from his home. It might of course be nothing more than a hunting cat that had scared the rat, but with Otto in town Lasse preferred not to take any chances.

By leaving the cleared path and moving carefully through the ruins, Lasse made his way to the small yard behind the house, but stopped at the sound of a whining voice coming from the study next to the kitchen.

“I want to take him along. Surely a priest as sacrifice at a Black Mass would produce a spectacular result.” Black Mass? Lasse paused to listen. Had Otto taken up Satanism or was this something entirely different?

“No, Wilhelm.” The sound of Otto’s voice not only answered Lasse’s question, it also made him break out in a cold sweat. “We came for Lasse, not just to grab anything that came our way. You really need to show more discrimination. Lasse is a work of art. Perhaps my very finest. And I want him back to see what new possibilities this small taste of freedom has opened up. This rather pathetic little priest isn’t even pretty enough to keep around for amusement.”

So they had Nicolaus in there and he was still alive. Lasse turned to head for Viktor and Boris, only to see a man standing among the ruins with a gun in his hand.

“So, we meet again, Lasse. Why don’t you go inside? All this sunlight really isn’t good for your complexion.” The man came closer and Lasse recognized Johan, one of Otto’s oldest cronies. Johan had never shown any interest in Lasse and had always withdrawn early from the excesses of Otto’s parties. Johan had probably been concentrating on the political aspects of Otto’s schemes. Not that this was likely to be of much help right now. Whatever Johan’s deal with Otto was, it was highly unlikely that Lasse could offer the man anything better.

“Open the door, and go say hello to Otto. He has been talking a lot about you since you left, and I think you’ll find that you have escaped from the frying pan, only to find yourself in the fire.”

Lasse took a deep breath and went inside, then turned to slam the door behind him, and close it with the thick bar he had installed himself. Three quick steps brought him across the tiny kitchen and into the study.

Nicolaus was sitting in his usual chair behind the table, but across from him, where Lasse usually sat, was Otto. Right beside Lasse stood an unknown man, gaping in surprise.

“Ah, Lasse my dear, do come join us.” Otto turned his head with its gleaming curls to smile at Lasse, but kept his gun pointing straight at Nicolaus. The man to Lasse’s right closed his mouth and started turning his gun toward Lasse. Lasse grabbed the gun with his left hand while sliding his knife into the man’s stomach and jerking it upwards. If Otto shot Nicolaus there would be nothing Lasse could do. Once they lost the advantage of surprise they would have no chance against the armed men, and Nicolaus would certainly die anyway.

Lasse pulled his knife from the man sliding screaming to the floor, and swung the gun around to shoot Otto, only to see Nicolaus turning over the heavy table. Nicolaus leaped over the table with the heavy pewter candlestick in his hand. He swung it toward Otto’s head. The candlestick connected with a sound like a dropped egg, just as the bullet from Otto’s gun buried itself in the heavy oak table.

“Keep down. There’s one more man outside.” Lasse tried to listen for any sound of movement, although the screaming of the wounded man interfered. There was nothing to be seen through the thick bubbled glass of the window, and there was no air movement suggesting that Johan had opened a door. There would have been time enough for the man to get around to the front door or even break open one of the windows.

Nicolaus was kneeling in front of Otto, staring at the man he had killed. No help there. Lasse glided toward the front door as silently as he could. It was neither locked nor barred. Slowly he pressed down on the handle and stood aside to let the door swing open. Nothing. Outside was silence. Inside, the screams had faded to a whimper.

Lasse waited. This was the kind of situation where impatience would get you killed. Then a slow shuffle outside. A horse? Lasse chanced a quick glance out the door. Viktor’s big roan horse was walking slowly past the door snatching at the weeds growing along the path.

“Boris! Are you there?” Lasse shouted.

“Yes, with friends! All clear?”

“All clear in here, but one man outside.”

“He’s no longer a problem,” the gravelly voice of Viktor sounded from beside the door. “Brigitte is quite protective of you. She insisted we all come. Who’s the hurt one?” Viktor came through the door with Tat’yana close behind.

“I’ve no idea, but I spilled his guts. I’ll go clean it up.” Lasse would have liked to give the woman a hug, but judging from her flat watchful eyes her Brigitte persona was still in control, so he’d better just leave her alone until it faded. Tat’yana was in many ways even more damaged than Lasse, but she had dealt with her problems in her own way, and usually managed to balance her various personas quite well. Still, when Brigitte was in control, you’d better be careful.

Nicolaus was still kneeling by Otto’s corpse, tentatively reaching out to touch the bloody curls.

“He’s quite dead. They don’t look like that if there’s any chance they’ll wake up.” Tat’yana had gone forward to squat beside Nicolaus, who looked up at her with unseeing eyes. “How do you do?” Tat’yana held her hand out almost into his face, and he took it by reflex. “You must be Nicolaus. Lasse has told me about you. I’m Tat’yana.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m Nicolaus. Lasse, what are you doing!”

Lasse stood upright. “Nicolaus, no one recovers from that kind of wound. It really would have been no kindness to let him live.” He paused. “Or did you want to shrive him? Give him a chance to confess his sins? I really don’t think that would have helped his soul. Providing he still had one. I heard him wanting to sacrifice you at a Black Mass.”

Nicolaus shook his head and looked away. “This is a nightmare,” he whispered.

“No, my dear friend. This is encountering and fighting evil. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Lasse pulled Nicolaus up from the floor. “Come say hello to my friends. Tat’yana you have already met, but this is Viktor and Boris is outside, probably preparing for getting rid of the corpses. These are very good people to have along if you jump into fire.”

All God’s Children in the Burning East

Garrett W. Vance

1630, Kingdom of Ayutthaya, Southeast Asia

The setting sun floated like a red paper lantern in the darkening sky, casting the golden temples and palaces of Ayutthaya in crimson and bronze, as Nishioka Yoriaki paddled his small wooden boat lightly down the Menam river. Today the tides ran out to sea, making his journey home easy. Sometimes he stole a glance backward at the fantastic scene, surely a glimpse of Paradise although he would never admit to thinking such a thing to the Dominican or Jesuit fathers. He crossed himself quickly to clear his mind of such fantasy.

He had done well that day, selling his Japanese style
bento
lunches and snacks to all kinds of folk as he made his journey around Ayutthaya’s island stronghold, the paragon of Siamese civilization. It seemed Moor and Malay, Chinese and Portuguese, Dutch and Cochin all relished his wife’s cooking. Even a silk-clad seneschal of the highest Siamese nobility had sent a servant down to the water’s edge to purchase six lunches! Soon after, a group of gaily clad rich young Siamese women waved to him as he passed by their waterfront gardens. They each bought a bento, opening their banana leaf wrappings right then and there to see what the day’s treat may be, in this case grilled catfish. “Tell your wife we should like shrimp tomorrow if she can manage it!” they told him in the musical tones of their language. He managed to answer that he would do so, his tongue tripping as he blushed at the attention of such fair and noble women.

As he mumbled his shy thanks and paddled quickly away, Yoriaki thought that such as these were lovely indeed, but to him his wife Momo was still the best. She was as pretty as the peach she was named for. He had to admit to himself that part of the reason he had become a Christian was to get close to the Nihonmachi Christian’s daughters, who were mostly pure blood Japanese. Certainly the Siamese, Mon and Lao girls that most of the samurai and merchant class married were beautiful, with their large smokey eyes and slender figures, but to Yoriaki they couldn’t match the pure radiance of a
Yamato no deshiko
, a perfect flower of Japanese womanhood such as Momo. Upon their marriage he had left behind the warrior life to become the simple man he was today, and was much happier for it.

Yoriaki knew that Ayutthaya was one of the few places in the world where people from Asia and Europe mixed so freely. That was certainly a large part of the kingdom’s financial success. He had been lucky to end up here, considering that when he left Japan he had no idea where he was going, content to board any ship that promised to sail far from his homeland. Yoriaki smiled to himself but his mood fell as he sighted the spire of the Portuguese Dominican church down the river’s west side. It was a modest piece of architecture compared to the fantastic designs of the Siamese temples, but with a quiet beauty of its own in the rosy light.

Through the course of Yoriaki’s daily travels, he had learned to speak and understand the basics of the many languages found in the cosmopolitan realm of Ayutthaya. Everyone said that he had a gift for tongues. As he sold his delicacies he heard many things and lately not many of them had been good. On the last Sabbath after attending holy mass Yoriaki, who had become nearly fluent in Portuguese since embracing the Christian faith, had overheard several of the good fathers discussing rumors from the Siamese court in hushed tones. They feared the new king, Prasat Thong. He had formerly been the regent or
Kalahom
appointed by the boy’s father, good king Song Tham on his death bed to look after his son and successor, fifteen-year-old King Cetthathirat. There was no doubt the scheming
Kalahom
was responsible for that boy’s untimely death and had certainly gone on to murder Cetthathirat’s younger brother and successor as well, poor little King Athittayawong, who had been just a boy of ten. Although all feared to say it aloud, Prasat Thong was an ursurper with blood all over his hands. To make matters worse, he had managed to remove the only possible obstacle to his plans, Yamada Nagamasa, who to everyone’s horror seemed fooled by the usurper’s lies and had allowed himself to be sent to the south, safely out of Prasat Thong’s way. Upon hearing such discouraging words from the fathers, Yoriaki slipped away home then, feeling ashamed that his people’s revered leader in this distant land had been tricked by the
Kalahom
, no, “king.”