Tales of the Old World (87 page)

Both men seated themselves in the enclosed booth and once again appraised
each other. There was a moment of charged silence, broken first by Jurgen: “So
who are you? Who’s your ‘master’?”

“My master wishes to remain anonymous, and who I am is not important.” The
habitual smirk returned to the face of the young man. “You may call me
Randolph.”

Jurgen suddenly realised where he had seen the stoop-shouldered look that
this Randolph possessed: it was common among the students of Nuln’s famous
university. Being wealthy and unused to manual work, they quickly became hunched
when forced to lug about huge tomes of lore. Perhaps this Randolph was also a
student at the university; this would explain his pale complexion—the more
diligent students barely saw the light of day, spending their time endlessly
studying books in the huge university library.

“Alright, ‘Randolph’. What’s the job?”

“My master has long wished to acquire a certain object, which recently came
to his attention as being in the possession of a local merchant specialising in
exotic artefacts,” Randolph paused, and fished a small pipe from his pocket.
“However, the dealer was not willing to part with the piece, much to my master’s
sorrow. Now we must resort to more discreet methods of obtaining the painting.”

“A painting?” Jurgen asked, incredulous. “You want me to steal a painting?”

“It’s not an overly large piece; you should be able to carry it alone. Once
you have the painting out of the place it’s stored in, you’ll only need to move
it a short distance to where we can take it off your hands,” Randolph filled the
pipe with a pinch of herbs, and pulled a flint from his pocket.

“What are you offering,” Jurgen grimaced as the lit pipe began to emit sickly
sweet fumes, “assuming I accept this job?”

“Oh, you’ll accept. One hundred gold crowns now, and nine hundred more once
we have the painting.” Randolph paused for a languid draw from the pipe. “The
amount is non-negotiable.”

Jurgen felt his jaw go slack. This fee was totally out of his league; the old
gang would have been happy to pull two hundred crowns for a job. Sigmar! Jurgen
thought. Just who does he think I am? Jurgen recovered himself and found
Randolph studying him, a quizzical expression on his face.

“S-sounds fair… Hmm.” Jurgen did his utmost to appear casual.

“You accept the commission?” Randolph arched his eyebrows.

“Uh… Of course,” Jurgen smiled weakly.

“Very well. Here’s your advance,” Randolph said, rising from his seat and
nonchalantly tossing a bag bulging with coins onto the table. “The merchant is
Otto Grubach, of Tin Street, in the Merchant’s Quarter. The painting lies within
a safe inside his office.”

“What’s the painting?”

“The piece is titled
The Blessed Ones,
by the artist Hals,” Randolph
said. He carefully extinguished his pipe and replaced it in a pouch by his side.
“I shall meet you in two days, here, to discuss delivery. That’ll give you time
to examine the premises.”

“Fine.” Jurgen grasped the bag and weighed it in his hands. “Uh, look: what
made you choose me for this?”

“You came highly recommended by a previous employer—a man known as Hultz.”
Randolph flashed a knowing grin and strode purposefully from the booth.

Oh Sigmar, Jurgen thought, as his insides lurched with dread.

Getting inside Nuln University was no problem for Jurgen, who had a carefully
nurtured friendship with the regular gate guard. It had been some time since
he’d last had cause to visit the academy, but the feeling of discomfort he
experienced with each visit returned on cue. It was more than just the
intellectual and social snobbery of the university’s inhabitants which set
Jurgen on edge: there were the stories, whispered in the dark corners of taverns
throughout Nuln, concerning terrible and secretive goings-on within the academy
walls. Of course, Jurgen was too much of a sceptic to believe even part of most
of the tales he heard, but he was also cautious enough not to dismiss them out
of hand. As the old saying went, Where there’s smoke there may well be dragons…

Jurgen was here this time, within the musty dormitory complex, visiting an
old friend, Klaus von Rikkenburg II. Klaus was the third-in-line to the
Rikkenburg family fortune, built over centuries from the local wine trade. Klaus
rejected the traditional third son profession of priest and elected instead to
study at Nuln’s famous university, a decision his family welcomed.

They were less impressed when he proceeded to almost completely ignore his
official studies in order to pursue regular extensive studies into the quality
of his “family” vineyard produce, and its market competitors, alongside much
research into the anatomy of local womenfolk. His family concluded Klaus had
“fallen in with bad sorts”, which—as Klaus proudly pointed out—his
association with Jurgen was testimony to. Jurgen considered Klaus a good friend,
one that had not hesitated in the past to use his influence and intelligence to
help him out of not a few tight spots.

“It’s good to see you again, old man.” Klaus, having fixed his guest a drink,
swept the clutter from an ancient-looking chair and seated himself. “Where in
Ulric’s name have you been these last few months?”

“Uh, you know, saving the Empire and all that.” Jurgen glanced around the
small dormitory room and shifted awkwardly; he’d made a seat of a low,
over-stuffed cushion and was beginning to regret it. “Well, I suppose I’ve been
in a bit of trouble actually.”

“Really? Jurgen, I am shocked,” Klaus grinned, raising a mocking eyebrow.

“That’s not important. I wanted to ask you about someone.”

“Yes?”

“I got approached by this young aristocratic-looking man who wanted me to do
this job, right? Only he wouldn’t tell me his real name, or who he was working
for.” Jurgen paused for a quick sip of the spicy-sweet wine Klaus poured for
him. “Thing is, I reckon he looked a bit like he could be a student of the
university, so I thought you might know him.”

“There are a lot of students at this university, Jurgen,” Klaus paused to
gulp down a half-glass of wine. “Well I suppose it’s worth a try. What’s he look
like?”

“About my height, pale, dark eyes, blond hair down to his shoulders—”

“You just described half of the student population,” Klaus smirked.

“Smoked some horrible sickly-sweet weed, smirked a lot, bit of a fool. Come
to think of it, he reminded me of you.”

“This tobacco, it smelt a bit like rancid perfume? I don’t believe it!” Klaus
seemed genuinely surprised. “That sounds… Tell me, did he walk around like
this?” Klaus stood and did an impeccable burlesque of Randolph’s haughty
demeanour.

Jurgen laughed loudly, almost spilling wine all over himself. “Yeah, that’s
the one. Then again, all you aristocrats look that way to us common folk.”

Klaus grinned. “It sounds like Eretz Habemauer; he was in my art history
class. He’s been smoking that disgusting Araby weed ever since he took up with
Count Romanov last year.”

“Who’s he?” Jurgen leaned forward, carefully setting his wine on the floor.

“Lives on the Hill. There are some odd stories about him. There used to be a
lot of big parties in his manor, but they stopped because many of the noble
families didn’t approve of the things happening at them.”

“What do you mean? What was going on?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure. But some say that they were taking riffraff—if you’ll pardon the expression—off the street and, well, using them for
entertainment.” Klaus paused while he carefully refilled his glass. “Eventually
all the bodies began turning up and people started asking questions, so his
little soirees stopped. Or perhaps the count has been more discreet since.”

“By the gods…” Jurgen leaned back, exhaling slowly. “So what’s Habemauer to
Count Romanov?”

“Romanov seems to have taken him as his protégé, and now it seems Eretz
shares the count’s mania for exotic intoxicants and obscure relics. He really is
a clown.” Klaus snorted with derision. “Did he really ask you to do a job?”

“Yeah. He offered a heap of money, on behalf of his ‘master’, for me to
steal a painting. By someone, Halls or something—”

“Hals?” Klaus demanded sharply.

“Um, I think—”

“Not
The Blessed Ones
?” Klaus stared at Jurgen intently.

“Yes. What do you know about this?”

“I studied the finer arts once, mainly to annoy my parents, and gave a
dissertation on mythological art: ancient pieces which are legendary, despite
the fact that nobody can be sure they even exist.
The Blessed Ones,
by
Hals, was one such piece: rumours of its whereabouts keep turning up but the
painting’s never been found,” Klaus pondered his wine glass for a moment,
swirling the contents gently. “The thing is, well, this old painting was
supposed to grant the possessor, erm, eternal life. So, well, naturally, many
people are interested in finding it.”

“Then this could be big…” Jurgen was standing abruptly to leave. “Klaus, I’d
better go. Do you think you could find out anymore about this painting, or
Romanov?”

“I can try.” Klaus sat forward but did not rise. “So this painting is in
Nuln?”

Jurgen offered a guarded shrug of his shoulders by way of a reply. “Thanks
for all your help, Klaus,” he said, before briskly turning to leave.

“Not at all, friend,” Klaus called as Jurgen hurried out of the door,
slamming it shut behind him. The impact stirred up motes of dust coating the
ancient door frame. “Not at all.”

Jurgen dodged his way across the city, hurrying through dingy lanes and
twisting back alleys. Few knew Nuln as Jurgen did, which was the only reason he
had managed to evade Pharsos’ men when the last operation had blown up in their
faces. Jurgen would be sad to leave this place, but he suspected his departure
from this corner of the Old World was long overdue.

As he raced through Nuln’s filth-strewn streets, already choked with the
first leaves of autumn, Jurgen’s mind sped. He knew Hultz was out for his blood,
so being hired at his advice could only mean this job was, in one way or
another, a death sentence. His every instinct told him to stay away from this
strange employer and his obscure artwork. And yet… if this priceless painting
really lay within the merchant Grubach’s shop, then a solution to Jurgen’s
cash-flow problems could be at hand.

Jurgen slowed as he reached the end of an unkempt alley, stepping over an
unconscious drunkard, to find himself facing the small merchant’s house lying at
the end of Tin Street. Ducking back into the alley, he squatted down against a
broken crate. Fishing a small hand-mirror of beaten brass and a tiny wooden box
from the pockets of his jacket, Jurgen proceeded to apply the contents of the
box—a pair of dark eyebrows and a styled goatee—to his face. He carefully
moulded these new features until he was satisfied they appeared authentic.

Jurgen contemplated his rather shabby clothing for a moment, reflecting that
it was a pity he could not afford the time to purchase a more appropriate
outfit. Or the money, of course.

Taking a deep breath, Jurgen assumed the bearing of a servant on an important
errand and strode purposefully from the alley. He stopped smartly before the
narrow, two-storey building, adorned with worn, leering gargoyles. The building
was flush with its neighbour on one side, with an alley on the other.
Approaching the double front doors, he heard faint sounds from within. He rapped
briskly on a solid door.

The noises inside ceased for a moment, then cautious heavy footsteps
approached. The clunk of a beam lifting was heard from within, and the door
opened slightly to reveal a thick-set man. His face—a jigsaw of scars—held
an expression of extreme annoyance, which only deepened at the sight of Jurgen.

“We’re closed,” the man growled. Jurgen quickly shoved his foot into the
small space. He had to suppress a howl of pain as the man slammed the door on to
his leather boot.

“Take your foot out of the door, now, or you’ll be carrying it home in a
sack.” The scarred man’s voice dripped with malice.

“My master would be most disappointed if I returned without having spoken to
the merchant Grubach,” Jurgen contorted his voice into the whining-yet-superior
speech common to the servants of nobility.

“You ain’t hearing too good,” the man snarled, and pushed his face closer to
Jurgen’s. “We’re closed. Begone, you worm!”

Jurgen struggled to maintain his composure as he felt the man’s hot breath on
his face, and was about to back off when he heard the faint shuffle of a second
figure behind scar-face. Jurgen stretched to peer around the thug’s head at the
interior of the store, and was rewarded with a glimpse of a rather pudgy figure
peering at him from round the corner of an ornate dresser. The figure
immediately ducked back behind the antique.

Jurgen raised his voice: “A pity! Lord DeNunzio will be most upset. I had
come to lay a considerable bid for—”

“Lord DeNunzio sent you?” The pudgy figure said, emerging cautiously into the
light. Jurgen resisted the impulse to smile; the invocation of the name of one
of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the city rarely failed to gain
the attention of those of a mercantile persuasion.

“Yes, Herr Grubach. His Lordship was most interested in a piece you have
acquired.” Jurgen did his best to speak confidently; not easily done with the
thug snarling into his face.

“Well, of course!” The merchant’s manner changed, a congenial tone entering
his voice, although he still appeared extremely nervous. “Come in, do! Please
allow the poor man in, Hans.”

Hans scowled, but stood back from the door and gestured impatiently for
Jurgen to enter. Jurgen stepped smartly into the store, then proceeded to make a
show of smoothing down his clothes and examining his boot for scuff marks.
Hans’ scowl deepened. Jurgen took this opportunity to quickly scan the
cluttered store.