The Enterprise of Death Read online

  “Really?” said Awa. “Why didn’t you tell me about him earlier?”

  “Everything’s been so crazy I didn’t think … Now, I’m not saying you ought to tell him you’re a witch or anything, that could be really bad, but if you pass yourself off as some sort of heathen healer—”

  “I could pass myself off as a convert,” Awa interjected. “I know enough about your faith to pass.”

  “Whatever,” Manuel said excitedly. “But we could enlist his help, maybe. I know he absolutely despises von Stein, and the reverse, which is good news for us, and had some harsh words regarding the Inquisition as well. That way you could be close at hand whenever my mercenary days are done, and then I could help you get established in Bern.”

  It was the worst plan imaginable, and Manuel knew it. The Swiss doctor was definitely a drunkard and probably a madman, and such a scheme would involve bringing Awa back within von Stein’s easy snatching if he should find out about her. Manny, your little cowherd? Why, he walked in with a Moorish woman yesterday, I think she’s staying with that doctor you hate. Shall I fetch them, sir?

  Just as Manuel opened his mouth to tell Awa to never mind, it could never work, forget it, he saw the overjoyed expression on her face, and that decided it. They gathered their wares and left the camp by the river, two daggers and Bernardo’s sword at her belt, a hand-and-a-half at Manuel’s, and together they marched back toward Manuel’s judgment. For fuck’s sake.

  XV

  The Judgment of Milan

  As Manuel entered the lavish room where von Stein waited, he realized why both sides of the doorway were smashed open when the palatial residence itself had been spared from the artillery their French employer had clobbered the besieged city with the year before—that great big fucking desk the bastard moved everywhere with him would not have fit through the frame, and so his men had widened the opening to fit their commander’s prized piece of furniture. Anything smaller would only call attention to the man’s girth, Manuel knew, but did he really need a desk built of solid ebony? The men who had carried the thing up all three flights of stairs had wondered the same thing, and at much greater length.

  “Manny, my cocksucking little Judas!” von Stein crowed, standing to meet Manuel. This did not relax the soldier in the least, especially when he saw that the commander had traded his old hand cannon for an expensive-looking matchlock pistol, the cord already cocked back and smoldering.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Manuel bowed, wondering if the gun would actually penetrate his skull or if the shot would merely mangle his face into a pulpy mess of bone and tissue. His sword had been confiscated at the door, which was a shame as he had resolved to murder the prick rather than grovel or hop around his own execution. Such harsh resolutions had always been abandoned in the past, but it was nice to have the option that a handy weapon afforded. “How’s your wife?”

  “Very well, very well,” said von Stein, his cheeks beaming, his nose valiantly resisting the sneeze that the feather of smoke wafting from his matchcord was trying to coax out. “And yours?”

  “I don’t know,” said Manuel, lightheaded with nervousness. “How is she?”

  Were Manuel a bachelor he would not have given a wet fart for the dance he now maneuvered through, he would have come back with blade flashing or not at all, but he had a wife, and he had a niece to look after, and he had put them both in mortal danger for the sake of a confirmed heretic and witch. While von Stein was not so mad as to needlessly harm innocent women and children he was certainly ruthless enough to slaughter a thousand families if he found some advantage in it. Manuel knew this because he had entered towns as they fell, had personally heard his captain give free rein to his men to do what they wished to those naughty, naughty besieged citizens who had callously locked the invaders outside their walls.

  “How should I know?” asked von Stein. “I’ve been out defending cities and waging wars, not taking holidays with my chummy-chums. Where are your chummy-chums, Manny?”

  “Dead,” said Manuel, meeting the man’s gaze, which meant looking over the muzzle of the pistol. “All of them.”

  “Oh my!” Von Stein gasped and staggered about in an exaggerated swoon. “How tragic! How dreadful! How perfectly predictable.”

  “I told you to let me pick my own men,” said Manuel, and forced his legs to march toward the gun, toward his martyrdom. With every step he took, von Stein took a step back, until the larger man had almost reached the rear wall and the artist had reached the front of his desk. Then Manuel pulled out one of the uncomfortable chairs and sat down, still eyeing von Stein. “Aren’t you going to ask me how Spain was?”

  “How was Spain?”

  “I didn’t go.”

  “Ah.” Von Stein advanced on the table as Manuel took the open bottle of wine next to the commander’s glass, gave it a sniff, and then tipped it back. He wondered if it would be the last thing he ever tasted. “And why didn’t you go to Spain?”

  Manuel wiped his mouth. “The witch got away before we got there.”

  “Ah. I thought you said there was no such thing as witches. I thought you said she was a madwoman.” Von Stein rounded his table, which meant squeezing between the desk and the wall. He kept his pistol on Manuel.

  “I was wrong,” Manuel chortled. “Very wrong. She’s a witch.”

  “And how did she escape, Manny?” Von Stein had lowered his voice and was moving behind Manuel now but the soldier did not turn to follow his captain, instead taking another pull from the bottle and looking straight ahead. This was much closer to how he had always imagined his death, a dignified discussion followed by a quick and brutal act of violence. No cowering in a cave, whimpering at witches, just pure, self-righteous pontificating concluding with his martyrdom. Better, then, but still bad enough to sour the wine in his stomach.

  “They tried to rape her, and once the chains were off she stole my dagger and killed both Kristobels and Bernardo.” Being entirely honest with von Stein was actually quite a bit of fun, but while he dearly wished to see the look on the man’s face, Manuel did not want to spoil his presentation by turning toward him.

  “I see,” von Stein murmured, just behind Manuel now. “And what were you doing at the time?”

  “Killing Werner,” said Manuel, and almost giggled.

  “I see,” said von Stein, and Manuel felt the metal cylinder push through his hair and rest gently against the back of his head. At least his face would be spared, and it seemed his family would as well. Manuel was almost disappointed, with death so close, that von Stein lacked the imagination for a more fitting martyring. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I don’t get the pay you offered to deliver her?” Manuel smirked, closing his eyes and imagining his wife and niece in the garden, von Stein’s sharp intake of breath the wind stirring the ivy on the side of the house. He heard the pistol’s mechanism clicking, metal ratcheting on metal, and marveled at how impossibly slow time had become. Had the gun gone off already?

  “You could at least act contrite, you little cow-fucker,” said von Stein, removing the pistol from Manuel’s scalp and cuffing him hard on the back of the head as he went back around the desk. Manuel opened one eye and then the other as von Stein settled into his chair, muttering to himself as he removed the smoldering matchcord from his gun and dropped it into his wineglass, the dregs bubbling as the cord hissed out. Tossing the priceless pistol onto the table between them, von Stein crossed his hands on his stomach, pursed his lips, and frowned long and hard at Manuel.

  “I’m sorry?” Manuel eventually said to break the silence.

  Still wordlessly eyeing Manuel, von Stein opened his desk and took out a letter. Letting his dour gaze fall away from the soldier to the parchment in his hand, he opened the letter and pretended to read it with the same ham-fisted mock surprise he had employed when talking with Manuel before.

  “Do you know what this is?” von Stein finally whispered, shaking the letter at Manuel.
“Do you?”

  “It’s a letter saying I never delivered the witch?” Manuel hazarded, but von Stein shook his head slowly, sadly, as if he were a doctor bearing exceptionally bad news.

  “It’s a fucking pardon, is what it is,” said von Stein.

  “Oh?” Manuel leaned forward and reached for the letter. “From whom?”

  “From God, you ungrateful bastard,” said von Stein, putting the letter back in his desk before Manuel could take it. “And me.”

  “That’s awfully generous of the two of you,” said Manuel, hoping his voice was not shaking as badly as his boots.

  “You—” Von Stein pursed his lips again, shaking his head even more vigorously. “You are a lucky, lucky boy, Niklaus. Kahlert’s been excommunicated.”

  “Who?” Manuel was terrible with names, but that one sounded familiar.

  “The Inquisitor! The one you were supposed to take her to?!” Von Stein finally lost it, which pleased Manuel immensely. “You … you need to get your shit together, Niklaus, and quick!”

  “So the Inquisitor’s been sacked, is that it?”

  “I thought his demanding we find a particular witch in our vicinity or lose our indulgences sounded harsh, unreasonable.” Von Stein sighed. “ In our vicinity. Apparently that same letter went out to every commander, captain, and mayor within five hundred leagues of Barcelona, and while the cardinals were discovering the letters, firing the bastard that sent them, and sending us retractions and apologies we were busy actually capturing the bloody witch and sending you lot to deliver her. So as I don’t care for being threatened by distant Church functionaries”—didn’t hear you saying that the last time we spoke, thought Manuel—“I’m actually rather pleased she got away instead of being handed over to this Kahlert cunt.”

  “Happy day,” said Manuel, having swallowed quite a bit more wine than he had intended during the captain’s posturing.

  “Indeed it is. You missed out on most of the fun outside, I’m afraid. We stumbled over another Imperial contingent a day out, and much sport was had. Mind, they had some tasty guns.” Von Stein nodded at the matchlock on the table between them, the pistol inlaid with silver filigree. “But rougher though they may look, our guns were just as loud, and my maid kept her men cool and fire was met with fire, though I gather she’s caught a different sort of fire herself. A shame, that, she’ll be difficult to replace. We’ve already hung all the Imperials we caught, and the bulk of them have run home, tails tucked, without even knocking on the door of this fair city. They’re saying the Emperor might be out of the fight with this one.”

  “Good show, sir,” said Manuel, taking another pull from the bottle. “So you’ve led my countrymen to victory over your countrymen and your former masters, and all for the fucking Milanese.”

  “All for my fucking self,” said von Stein, opening his desk again. “And the Kakerlake King, of course—the Milanese stay fucked and French, which is perhaps redundant. If you’re really interested in politics you ought to pay more attention to whom you’re working for, Manny. As for countrymen, well, your countrymen are my countrymen, and the word is Maximilian had even more Swiss marching this way than us, so be thankful they changed their minds and went home before brother had a chance to slay brother, eh? Or might you have relished the chance to stick it in some Basel-backer, or whoever you Bernese are squabbling with this week?”

  “All members of the Confederacy are Swiss,” Manuel said numbly, suddenly wondering how many of the saints he had martyred along the road to Milan were cowherds or merchants’ sons from the next canton over and not, as he had previously assumed, Imperial. Both sides were paying, so why should he think all the Swiss would gravitate to one foreign banner instead of whoever approached them first? And why the fuck should it matter if the boys—the men, he corrected himself—if the men he had killed were confederates or not? They were saints just the same …

  “— Manny, and we both know who’s in charge here.” Manuel might have sighed at von Stein’s redundant tapping of his own chest if the man’s other hand had not taken another saltpeter-soaked cord out of his desk and lit it on one of his gauche purple candles. Manuel might have snatched the gun away but he was a little drunk and by the time he fully registered what was happening von Stein had picked up his pistol and cinched the sputtering cord into place after cocking the hammer. Then he stood and moved around the desk as Manuel finished the bottle, the artist’s hand around its neck to bash von Stein if he got crazy. Manuel had listened to far too much of the man’s shit today to allow himself to go quietly and—

  “The campaign’s over,” von Stein said. “For me, at least. I’m going home, and suggest you do the same. The Emperor’s fled and Milan’s saved, which means we’re finished.”

  “But I haven’t got enough money yet!” Manuel protested.

  “Then find a new master,” von Stein sniffed. “Or go back to painting. Everyone else will be nipping off, and those who actually helped defend the city earned more than enough to be happy for quite a few years to come, so you might be lonely if you stay.”

  “Defend from what!? You said the fucking Imperials never showed up!”

  Seeing von Stein’s expression, Manuel shifted his approach.

  “I would’ve helped!” He stood to face von Stein, the bottle still gripped in his left hand. “You sent me away or I would’ve been here, you know it!”

  “I do.” Von Stein nodded. “But you weren’t, and you disobeyed my orders. I’m a gentleman, Manny, not a cheap, cheating little peasant, and if you had done as I told you I would have paid you for it, even though it would have pained me, knowing as we do now what a fraud that Kahlert turned out to be. So if you had followed orders you would be just as rich as if you helped guard the city, if not more so, but instead you played the martyr, strolling in here with your head held high like you’d just fucked the Duchess of Ferrara and her daughter instead of losing a little girl and getting all your men killed. You Bernese can’t take a punch to the nose or a hard shit without slapping yourselves on the back.”

  “What am I going to do?” said Manuel, as much to himself as to his gloating captain. He was smarter than von Stein, much smarter, and nobler, for being of a lower birth, and a hell of a lot more handsome and talented, so how the fuck did he always end up with the short end?

  “Paint,” said von Stein, waving his gun in the air with a flourish. “I’ll commission a piece for my wife, and another for my mistress. Just don’t go getting them mixed up!”

  “Paint.” Manuel sighed, knowing too well just how poorly that paid.

  “Don’t worry, Manny,” said von Stein, putting his free hand on Manuel’s shoulder and leading him back toward the door. “I’m flush as a virgin’s cheek on her first poke, so expect a fair price for your work. Which hand do you paint with?”

  “My right,” said Manuel, still distracted from the wine and his pardon and his diminished prospects, and so he failed to notice von Stein stepping behind him until the gun went off. He shot the fucking bottle, Manuel thought as the glass exploded and smoke enveloped them both, and then he realized his left hand had caught fire. Stumbling forward, he held his arm in front of him and saw a ragged hole punched through most of his palm, his middle two fingers attached to the rest of his hand by nothing more than raw, scorched skin. Then the blood came and he reeled, collapsing on the carpet as von Stein delivered a few lazy kicks to his backside.

  “— orders, you self-righteous little shit,” said von Stein, and through the massive gaps on either side of the door Manuel saw the guards storming the room. The last thing he heard as two men scooped him up was von Stein saying, “And don’t take him to the good leech, give him to that batty fraud. The boy’s fond of witches.”

  XVI

  Syphilis and the Magus

  “Theophrastus Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim,” said the ugly little man as he bowed. “But you may call me Doctor Paracelsus.”

  For a moment Awa could not speak,
amazed by the length of his name and trying to commit it to memory.

  “Right,” said Manuel, cracking his knuckles and trying desperately to forget that if his reunion with his captain did not go exceptionally well he might be dead within the hour. “And remember, Doctor, von Swine hates Moors, so not a word.”

  “The lady’s presence in my clinic will be a secret known only to the inner sanctum of we three now present, for I shall adorn her as a bandaged nun upon your departure,” said Paracelsus. “In truth, I doubt your commander’s prejudice to those of the darkest land can compare with my aversion to his good graces, and so upon calling in the future request Sister Gloria instead of whatever unpronounceable, to our honest tongues, and esoteric name the Moor has gone by in the past.”

  “The Moor?” Awa blinked. “Me?”

  “Know thyself, Sister Gloria, and be free!” said Paracelsus. “What herbs do you use in your practice?”

  “Ah, wormwood,” said Awa, looking fearfully at Manuel. This so-called doctor was barely older than she and very clearly blind drunk. “Lots and lots of wormwood.”

  “A fine plant, useful in so many applications! Those with trouble of stomach would do well to sample its leaves, and the root, when mashed and mixed with—”

  “Right, take care, Sister Gloria,” said Manuel, backing out of the small room Paracelsus had ushered them into. “I’ll be by to visit from time to time.”

  “Be careful,” Awa called after him, but then Paracelsus had seized her arm, looked her up and down for the umpteenth time, muttered something in a language even she did not recognize, and then set to swaddling her with a roll of thin white linen bandages. After this layer he provided her with a musty, oversized habit that had a small cut and a large dark stain on the right shoulder, and finally gave her white gloves. Only her eyes, nose, and shards of her temples were not obscured by the bandages, and he then smeared a pale ointment on these visible patches of skin.