Tales of the Old World (88 page)

“DeNunzio’s page boys are lookin’ pretty shabby these days,” Hans rumbled
sarcastically.

Jurgen ignored him imperiously, as did Grubach. “Which piece was your master
interested in?” The merchant wrung his hands, and glanced about distractedly.
Jurgen got the feeling that Grubach wished to get rid of him as quickly, though
as politely, as possible.

“A certain vase. Milord provided me with a detailed description… Ah! I
believe that is the very piece there,” Jurgen indicated a large vase, which
stood at the head of some stairs to the rear of the shop.

“Ah… I’m terribly afraid that piece has been, hmm, sold.” The refusal came
haltingly from Grubach, and Jurgen could see he was cursing himself for selling
for what must have been a far inferior price to that which would be offered by
one of the wealthiest men in Nuln. “Still, I should think Lord DeNunzio would
have nothing to do with such… such an inferior piece. Perhaps he would be more
interested in something like this?”

Jurgen was led through the cluttered store to examine various vases, urns and
other assorted containers. Grubach became increasingly agitated, casting nervous
glances about each time he ushered Jurgen to the next piece. Hans, by contrast,
was like a rock, unflinchingly inspecting Jurgen’s every move.

A section of the second storey had been cleared of artefacts, and a large tub
half-full of water had been placed beneath a leaking section of ceiling. “Must
be quite a hazard in this business,” Jurgen commented pleasantly. Grubach
assented, grumbling that the roof repairer was due but had not yet shown.

It took less than twenty minutes for Grubach to show Jurgen every piece of
glassware and pottery in the place. Only one section of the shop remained
unseen: a door to the rear of the building, which judging by the layout of the
building led to a fairly small room.

“Anymore pieces through here?” Jurgen asked casually, knowing he was pushing
things.

“No! Em, no, just my office.” A look of panic crossed Grubach’s eyes for a
moment, before he brought himself back under control.

Hans placed a heavy hand on Jurgen’s shoulder, gripping it tightly: “You’ve
seen all the pieces that are for sale,” he said, talking slowly and
deliberately, “and I think it’s time you left to consult with your master. Don’t
you?”

It was Grubach, strangely, who answered the somewhat rhetorical question.
“Er, yes,” the merchant appeared rather distressed, caught between the need for
politeness to the servant of a powerful man, and his need to be rid of the same,
“I do have some pressing tasks to attend to, so if that’s all…”

“More than sufficient, thank you,” Jurgen began moving towards the front
doors, though in truth he had little choice since he was being bodily propelled
towards them by Hans’ vice-like grip on his shoulder, “Lord DeNunzio will be
most grateful for your time.”

Jurgen was shoved onto the street, tripping and falling into the dust at the
final push from Hans. The door slammed shut, and the heavy bolt slid loudly back
into place. Jurgen rose and dusted himself off, thinking hard. He was sure from
the way Grubach had behaved that the painting was present, and the theft
actually seemed relatively simple. There were obviously complicating factors: he
would be working alone, for one thing. Grubach’s nervous manner did not bode
well either. Romanov had probably alarmed him with suspiciously large bids on
the painting, Jurgen suspected that if the burglary was not performed
immediately—which meant tonight—the piece would most likely be transported
to a safer location. That did not leave long to arrange matters…

Jurgen strode off briskly down the street, remembering to retain his
servant’s poise until he was some streets away.

From the alley opposite the house, a dark figure emerged, looking decidedly
sober now. The figure paused to make sure it was not seen, then skulked off
after Jurgen.

Wooden shingles shifted under Jurgen’s feet as he stepped cautiously across
the rooftop. He checked his movement for a moment, and then crept on more
carefully, testing gingerly for loose tiles in the darkness with the point of
his boot. His planning would all be for naught if he lost his footing now and
plunged to become a bloody mess on the cobbled street below. The faint light
emitted by a thin blade of moon, poised overhead like an assassin’s knife,
picked out the edge of the building in front of Jurgen. He crouched down,
crawling slowly to the lip of the two-story precipice. Jurgen looked down into
the street briefly and then wished he hadn’t: he had never been much good with
heights, which was a considerable liability in his chosen profession.

Jurgen steadied himself, slowly unhooking a small device from his belt. It
was essentially a compact, three-pronged grappling hook, to which was tied a
length of slim and sturdy cord. It had taken almost an hour of cajoling,
wheedling, and finally a sizeable deposit of gold before Konrad, a nervous,
small-time fencer, had agreed to lend it.

Taking a deep breath, Jurgen regained his feet and concentrated on the stone
gargoyle on the roof of Grubach’s house opposite. He swung the hook around his
head, letting it gather momentum before releasing it to glide across the
intervening space. The grapple-iron looped about the statue and caught, one of
the prongs finding purchase in the nostril of the hideous effigy. After testing
the line, Jurgen secured his end of the rope to a disused flagpole.

Jurgen tried to quell his quickening breaths as he pushed himself gingerly
off the roof, dropping a few feet as the line adjusted to his weight. Sigmar
save me, he thought, fighting to remain calm as he dangled two stories above the
cobbled ground of the alley below. After a few deep breaths, Jurgen settled into
a desperate rhythm of hand-over-hand for what seemed like hours, then suddenly
found himself dangling against the opposite roof. Jurgen carefully lowered
himself to the relative comfort of the tiles below him.

He rested briefly before ascending the slate roof cautiously, to the point at
which the roof-leak inside the house had been. Sure enough, some of the tiles
had slipped, leaving a small cavity leading into the darkness of the building’s
attic. Working carefully, Jurgen eased the surrounding tiles out of place,
carefully piling them next to him until he had made a sizeable hole.

Jurgen lowered himself though the hole into the cluttered darkness of the
attic. After some careful blundering, he managed to find his way to the trapdoor
leading down into the building proper. Easing the trapdoor up gently, he
surveyed the room below. Lamplight emanated upwards from the ground floor, but
Jurgen heard no sign of any occupants. He slithered through, pulled a knife from
his jacket, and began a stealthy descent of the staircase, checking cautiously
over the banisters for possible assailants; Hans, in particular, he was not keen
to face. The room appeared empty, however, the only sign of any occupancy a
single lamp burning on a table.

Jurgen crept to the door Grubach had told him led to his office, listening
carefully for sounds of occupancy. Once again, there was nothing. What in
Sigmar’s name is going on here? Jurgen thought, as the unlocked door opened
readily to his touch.

Beyond lay a small office, containing a small desk holding neat piles of
documents, and a large wooden cabinet. The cabinet had evidently been moved from
its regular place, where it had concealed a sizeable wall safe which now stood
open and empty but for a few papers. Jurgen was almost ready to weep with
frustration—when he noticed a painting, about the size of a large child, which
lay propped against a low table in a shadowy corner of the room.

Jurgen carefully approached the painting. A strip of moonlight through a
window provided no more than a glimpse of the subject contained within the
gilt-edged frame: the green of forest trees, the pale pink of bare flesh, and
then an angular face of raw crimson, staring insane and demented from the
canvas. Jurgen shuddered and turned away, feeling nauseous. Steeling himself, he
turned back to check the small signature in the bottom-right corner of the
canvas, and made out the name “Sena Hals” penned in strange script.

A sheet of black cloth on a table nearby made an adequate cloak for the
grotesque painting. Jurgen shouldered his prize and proceeded towards the back
door that led from the office to the street.

As Jurgen moved to open the robust oak door, he noticed that it was already
ajar, and swinging slightly in the autumn night breeze.

Jurgen emerged from the building into a narrow lane, its cobblestones slick
and gleaming in the moonlight. A light rain had started, and Jurgen had trouble
keeping his balance on the slippery surface as he wrestled with his bulky load.
As Jurgen stumbled along, he became suddenly aware, by the innate and
indefinable sixth sense which had allowed him to survive thus far in his
profession, that he was being followed. He took a quick glance over his
shoulder, making out a vague blacker-on-black silhouette of a figure as it crept
towards him.

Jurgen slowed and peered ahead in the gloom of the lane’s end, although he
already knew there would be at least one more in front; footpads rarely worked
alone. The few Jurgen had ever associated with had been callous, spiteful,
stupid cowards. Men who lived by preying on the weak, who all feared—despite
their desperate bravado—ending up like their victims: trapped, friendless,
alone, bleeding to death anonymously in some dark alley.

There, a second, inching his way through the darkness. Jurgen stopped. He
knew he couldn’t possibly escape carrying the painting. Yet he could not leave
it. The painting was his new-found hope, a way to repay the borrowed time he had
been living on. Jurgen backed up against the wall, awaiting a move from the
strangers.

The stalkers knew they were spotted and emerged from the shadows. There were
only two, which at least Jurgen could be thankful for, and they appeared to be
typical street thugs, though well-equipped. Their swords, drawn as they
approached, were of a fine make, not the usual rough-hewn barracks-quality
usually wielded by street ruffians.

“Good job, Herr Jurgen,” the shorter man said, a menacing undertone belying
the compliment. “We’ll handle it from here.”

Jurgen had no doubt the man’s tone would not have altered one bit, were he to
be uttering the phrase “Give us what we want and you won’t get hurt.”

“What about my payment?” Jurgen spoke casually, desperately trying to
formulate some kind of plan. “I’m not delivering the goods until I get what…
what Romanov promised me.”

“Very well. If you come with us to the count’s estate, you’ll get your
payment there. You don’t expect us to carry that kind of money around, do you?”
The short man smiled, or attempted to; a strange grimace strained his face. The
taller thug, who seemed a little slow, guffawed at his companion’s wit.

So Romanov is behind this after all, thought Jurgen; at any other time he
would have felt pleased with his cleverness. But in the small thug’s facial
contortions and hard, dark eyes, Jurgen knew that the only payment that would be
made at Romanov’s manor would be with his own life. He had to get out of there
fast. He did the only thing he could think of.

“Here you go!” Jurgen hurled the painting towards the small man, and
immediately sprang towards the tall hoodlum, smashing the surprised thug in the
face with a quick jab. There was a crunch of cartilage. The man screamed as he
reeled backwards, one hand flying to his shattered nose. Jurgen pressed home his
advantage, drawing his knife and slashing in one quick motion. The man screamed
again and collapsed to the ground, clutching desperately at his side.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jurgen saw the smaller hoodlum, who had dropped
his weapon to catch the precious canvas, scrambling forward on his knees to
retrieve his sword. Jurgen span and stamped down on the base of the blade, just
as the man grasped the hilt. The thug looked up, fear and defiance in his eyes.
Jurgen gritted his teeth and brought the pommel of his dagger down on the man’s
head.

Jurgen shook uncontrollably as he raced through the streets with his heavy
burden, all caution gone. The immediacy of death never failed to make an
impression on him. The two bloodied men he had left back there would most likely
survive; Jurgen was not in the habit of killing unnecessarily, and he did not
intend to start now. He had two new enemies in Nuln, however, for men like that
did not easily forget such moments of vulnerability.

If he had been calmer, the thief would have been rather embarrassed to admit
that he had not planned as far as where to go once he actually had the painting.
So he stopped, gasping for breath in a shadowy doorway, and considered his
options. He could not go to the inn he had been lodging at, nor any others,
since the bulky package would start rumours flying immediately. All his regular
underworld bolt-holes were off-limits, since there was no one he could trust not
to hand him straight to Hultz, or even Romanov.

Jurgen was stumped for a moment, the panic welling up inside like dark
spring-water, and then he had it: the one place he could go, where no one would
think twice about a man carrying a strange artefact. Jurgen grinned in the
darkness.

The university gatekeeper greeted Jurgen with a nod and detained him a moment
with his latest joke, something vile about dwarf and halfling procreation.
Jurgen hardly listened, just chuckled politely and strode into the academy, the
man still chortling behind him.

He made his way to the dormitory houses without difficulty, though several
times he was amicably jostled by inebriated students returning from a long
evening at the local tavern. Arriving at Klaus’ small dormitory house, Jurgen
set down the painting and knocked heartily on the door.