NIGHT TOO LONG

James Wallis

 

 

“Two beers, Frau Kolner, and a kiss for Hexensnacht!” He swooped at her, arms outstretched. She dodged around him, laughing, a tray of tankards held level with a polished skill of avoiding amorous drunks.

“Sit down, Herr Johansen, and I’ll bring your ale presently.”

“And the kiss?”

“Hexensnacht’s tomorrow night. And no kisses till you finish finding those poor missing women, and pay off your ale bill.” She swept away towards the bar. Johansen watched her go, then ran his hand over his short-cropped dark hair, smoothing it into place, and sat back down next to his companion, Dirk Grenner.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” he said.

“She’s a short, penny-pinching shrew with a half-wit for a brother and a string of suitors as long as the Great North Road,” Grenner said. “I don’t understand what you see in her.”

Johansen looked across the plain wood of the inn table with incomprehension on his face. “She’s a blonde widow who owns a pub,” he said.

“So you say, too often,” Grenner said. “The landlady of the famous Black Goat Inn. What makes you think she’d go for someone like you?”

“Me? A high-ranking officer in the prestigious Palisades, charged with protecting the Emperor and his Elector Counts?” Johansen puffed out his chest. “I’m a fine catch.”

“You’re an overworked, underpaid captain in a small division most people have never heard of. You’ve got a humourless tyrant for a boss—”

“A sarcastic ex-Watch sergeant for a partner,” Johansen said and reached for his tankard.

“—you don’t wear a smart uniform most days, and you spend your time watching Kislevite insurrectionists or Bretonnian spies. Or, Sigmar help us, seconded to the city Watch, who couldn’t find their arses if a horse bit them.”

“They’re not doing much better with our help,” Johansen said. “Four women missing in two weeks. It’s not good.”

“And while we were fooling around, Schmidt gets himself killed.”

“His own fault. He knew they suspected he was watching them.”

“Bretonnians,” Grenner said with vehemence. “Sons of bitches. Killing him is one thing, but stuffing his mouth with his—”

“Here’s to his memory,” Johnsen said. They raised their beer-mugs, drank, and were still. Grenner broke the moment.

“Still, Hexensnacht tomorrow and Hexenstag the day after. Things should be quiet. The city’s practically deserted.” He pulled his tankard closer and inspected it, thinking.

A deep boom echoed from outside. The building shook, sending ripples across the beer.

“What was that?” Grenner said.

“You tempting fate,” Johansen said. “Gunpowder. A lot of it. About half a mile.”

“Not magic?”

Johansen shook his head. “No, the echoes were wrong. Come on.” He was on his feet. Grenner stood up, staggered and leaned on the table. “Are you sure we’re on duty?” he asked.

“We’re always on duty,” Johansen reminded him.

“I’m too drunk to be on duty,” Grenner protested.

“Dunk your head in the horse-trough,” Johansen said.

They staggered to the door. Outside, flames lit the night sky above the wide empty space of the Konigplatz. Altdorf, capital of the Empire, lay still and cold under a blanket of thin snow and stars, the streets lightened by the eerie light of the two moons, one crescent and the other a day from full. Tomorrow would be Hexensnacht, witches’ night, the last night of the year.

 

The Seven Stars Inn was ruined and ablaze. The fire raged against the cold, its leaping heat forcing back the crowd of gawping citizens. Stirrup-pumps forced futile jets of water into the inferno and nearby buildings were being emptied in case the flames spread.

Grenner gazed at the blaze. Almost nothing was left except the ground floor. Nobody could have escaped this cataclysm, but he couldn’t work out why someone would blow up a prosperous merchant-inn at one of the few times of the year when it was almost empty.

He saw Johansen moving through the crowd, circling the building. The man had studied pyrotechnics when he was in the army; he’d be able to tell where the charge had been set and how large it was. Grenner’s speciality was less technical and more dangerous. He was a student of human nature.

“So, Grenner, what’s the situation?” The voice jolted him from his thoughts, made abrupt by its strong northern accent. Grenner didn’t have to turn to know General Hoffmann, the leader of the Palisades and the only man whose orders he respected, had arrived.

“Probably nine dead, sir,” he said. “No survivors found so far, nor witnesses. No reports of threats or recent trouble.”

“A hundred and fifty pounds of gunpowder in the cellar,” Johansen added as he joined them. “Blast went straight up, killing everyone inside. Very effective. Good evening sir, you’re up late.”

“Hard to sleep with so many disturbances,” Hoffmann said, his eyes dark against the flames.

“Don’t give us that,” said Grenner. “Something’s up or you wouldn’t be here. Why this inn, and why tonight?”

Hoffmann held his stare for a moment. “You’re on the ball for a man who’s been drinking all evening, Grenner. Yes, this is no routine tavern-bombing. Grand Prince Valmir von Raukov, Elector Count of Ostland, is known to share a room with a female associate here late at night. We’ve warned him it’s a security risk, but…”

“Was he inside?” Johansen wanted to know.

“He was but he left earlier, luckily for us. Someone just tried to kill a senior officer of the Empire, and in a very public way. I need to know who and why, and I need them stopped. Your job.”

Johansen looked mock-aghast, Grenner dismayed. “Can’t you put someone else on it?” he said.

“There isn’t anybody else. It’s almost Hexenstag. Everyone’s out of the city or on leave, except the Meer twins who are working incognito and Schmidt, who I don’t need to remind you is dead. Get to work.”

“We’ll start first thing,” Grenner said.

Hoffmann’s face was in shadow, the raging fire behind him. “Someone’s trying to kill an Elector, you don’t wait till morning. Start now, and don’t stop till their bodies are in jail or cold.”

Johansen groaned. “When do we sleep?”

“Perhaps the explosion deafened your ears.” The general’s voice was ice. “You don’t stop until they’re jailed or dead.”

Chains of people passed buckets of water to watchmen who flung them at the burning inn. The inferno consumed the water and blazed on, turning the sky above the city red.

 

The Konigplatz is the wide market-square separating the University of Altdorf from the merchant district. By day it is crowded with traders, peddlers, goodwives looking for a bargain, street-thieves looking for unguarded purses, pilgrims, soldiers and messengers, gawkers staring at the huge statues of past emperors that dominate the square with the hundred foot-tall figure of Sigmar, the founder and patron of the Empire, towering over them.

By night the square is quieter, the market-barrows left stacked and bare at the side of the cobbles. On cold nights between the midwinter feasts of Mondstille and Hexenstag, when the river Reik flows through the city slow and sluggish like thick blood in the veins of old tramps huddled in warehouse doors, Altdorf’s streets are deserted apart from a few drunken revellers, a few Watch patrols, those who prefer not to go home or who have no homes, stray dogs, and rats scurrying in the garbage. Those with more clandestine business suck to less well-let areas.

“Gunpowder in the cellar,” Grenner said as they headed across the square towards the Black Goat. “How did it get there?”

“Probably a barrel,” said Johansen. “Who’d notice an extra barrel in a beer-cellar?”

“The cellarman would. And they’d have to get it down there. First thing, we check out the Seven Star’s regular brewers, wine-sellers, anyone who might supply them with casks. Find witnesses. Find out who’s got a grievance against the prince.”

“A lot of work,” Johansen said, “for just two of us.”

Grenner groaned. “I know. And I’ve got a fitting at my tailor.”

“Oh yes?”

“Couple of shirts and a new short-cloak. Dark blue, Tilean style.”

“Very nice. Big evening?”

Grenner gave him a scathing look. “Hexensnacht. In case you’d forgotten.”

“Oh yes. Let’s hope we’re done by then.” Johansen, distracted, glanced across the empty square. “Wait, what’s that?” He pointed into the maze of shadows among the bases of the emperors’ statues.

It was a pile of displaced paving-stones, the bare earth beside them rude and frosted. Grenner and Johansen regarded them.

“Odd,” Johansen said. “I didn’t see that earlier.”

“Maybe you weren’t looking. Maybe it wasn’t here. We can check on it in the morning.”

Johansen looked up as if realising where he was for the first time. “Why are we back here?”

“Because we need to do some planning. And the best place for that is over a mug of mulled wine, with the chance Frau Kolner’s still around to bring it to you.”

Johansen grinned. “Let’s get planning.”

 

It was a long night. For an hour they talked and thought and speculated over hot wine brought by Frau Kolner’s idiot brother who was less interesting to look at than the landlady, but who understood instructions and did not sleep. Then they left the inn again, into the biting cold of the night to bang on the doors of informants, rousing them to answer questions in exchange for a few silver coins, a promise of future favours, leniency for relatives or associates in jail, or a stare that said nothing but threatened much. Grenner did the talking. Johansen stifled yawns, fingered his sword and blocked the escape routes.

As six bells sounded across the city, the sky still dark, they found themselves in the merchant district a few streets away from the Konigplatz, hammering on a door that didn’t respond. Johansen looked at Grenner.

“Probably spending Hexenstag in the country,” he said.

“Wish I was.” Grenner gave the door a kick and stepped away. “Enough for now. Breakfast at the Goat?”

“You’re on.” They began to walk back to the square, Grenner slapping his hands to ward off the frost.

“And what has this wasted night taught us?” he said, only partly to his partner. “That the prince has a lot of enemies. The Bretonnians and Kislevites hate him because of his trade-treaties with Norsca, his neighbours in the north hate him because his army drove a greenskin force into their lands last year, the Chaos-worshippers hate him because the witch-hunters run freely in his province, and even his own people hate him because he left the church of Ulric and became a Sigmarite. All of which we already knew. None of them have agents working in the city, as far as we know, and he’s not annoyed anyone for at least two months. We have nothing.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t the target after all,” Johansen said.

Grenner looked at him with eyes smarting from the cold. “If he wasn’t then it stops being our problem.”

“He left the inn. Perhaps he was in on the scheme.” Johansen paused, peering ahead. “Hang on. They’ve started early.”

In the Konigplatz market-traders were setting out their stalls, but Johansen’s attention was on the crew of workmen among the emperors’ statues at the centre of the square. He tapped Grenner on the shoulder, but Grenner was looking elsewhere.

“You go. Shout if you need help,” he said and walked away. Johansen shrugged, rubbed tiredness from his eyes and walked across to the crew of masons and apprentices, working with shovels and picks, digging a trench among the forest of plinths. One stopped and watched him approach, arms folded, his thin red hair a dash of colour against his sombre clothes and the dullness of the morning.

“Cold day for working,” Johansen said, raising a hand in greeting. “You the foreman?”

The man nodded, lips tight and eyes guarded.

“You’re starting early,” Johansen said.

“Aye.” The mason’s northern accent was thick as porridge. “Work’s got to be done by t’night.”

Johansen nodded, looking at the work crew. “Are all your men members of the stonemasons’ guild?” he asked. “They don’t like it when—”

“Affiliate members. From Wolfenburg,” the foreman said. “It’s rush work. Base subsidence. No local masons to do it.”

“You’ve got a guild certificate?”

“Not here.” The foreman turned his head, his eyes suspicious. “Who’s asking? Are you from the masons? Checking on us?”

“Just a concerned citizen,” Johansen said, and walked across the square to where Grenner was.

 

Grenner rapped the side of the cask on the cart. “All the way from Bretonnia?” he asked. “Why? We make wine in the Empire.”

The diminutive wineseller looked mock-shocked. “Not like zis!” he exclaimed. “Zis, she is grown under zer sun of Bordeleaux, the vines viz no frost, no fungus—ze finest wine, rich and complex, a subtle bouquet viz afternotes of cherries and oak…”

Grenner held up a hand to stop him. “I meant transport’s expensive. How can you make money on one cartload?”

The Bretonnian shook his head sadly. “Monsieur, I do not know eizzer. My buyer, who supplies ze houses of Bretonnians in Altdorf, I find ’e is dead of the plague since four months. I cannot find my customers, so I must sell in ze market like a—a—a peddler.”

Grenner nodded, studying the casks, turning thoughts over in his mind. There had been trouble with Bretonnians the summer before, and rumours said there might be more trouble next year. Not to mention the business with Schmidt. He thumped one of the barrels and it shook solidly. “Open it. I want to check.”

“Check?” The merchant looked puzzled. “Check what?”

“That there’s wine inside, not something else.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Just open it.”

“But zat would ruin ze wine!” The short man’s hands were raised beseechingly. There was silence for a moment. “Maybe I draw you off a cup?” he suggested.

Grenner shrugged acceptance, and the Bretonnian filled a metal beaker from the spigot at the base of the barrel. The liquid flowed deep and red. Grenner took it, sniffed and swigged, looked contemplative.

“Well?” The little man’s eyebrows raised into questions.

Grenner looked at him. “You say this is the finest wine in Bretonnia?”

“Oui, m’sieur.”

“Stick to making cheese and seducing married women. This stuffs swill.” He put down the cup, to greet Johansen as he walked over. “You get anything?”

“Non-guild workers doing repairs.”

“Suspicious?”

Johansen scratched his unshaved chin. “Maybe. If the work’s urgent there may be no guild men available, given the time of year. But the order must have come from the city council, and the local guilds get all those contracts.”

Grenner pushed open the door of the Black Goat. “The Konigsplatz will be packed with people this evening. If the statues are unsafe and there aren’t any local masons to do the work, then…” He let the sentence trail off as he slumped into a seat by his regular table. Johansen pulled out a chair and sat.

“What did you get?” he asked.

“Bretonnian with a flimsy story, selling what he said was expensive wine from a market-stall. Big barrels of the stuff.”

“Barrels, right. Did you see the wine?”

“I tried a cup. It tasted like fruity tar. Ho, Frau Kolner, how are you this morning?”

“As concerned about the size of your bar-bill as I was last night,” the landlady said. “Don’t settle yourselves. I have a letter for you.”

Johansen reached out but she gave it to Grenner, who smirked at his colleague as he snapped the seal and unfolded the paper.

“What is it?” Johansen asked.

“Hoffmann. He guessed we’d come back here. Breakfast is cancelled, we’re to get back on the streets. Hunger sharpens the mind, he says.”

“Sarcastic old sod.”

“There’s more. We report to him at noon. Alchemics should have analysed the explosion by then. And meanwhile he’s got us an interview with the Elector.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“So much for your appointment with your tailor.” Johansen swiped a half-finished mug of beer from a neighbouring table and swigged it. “Let’s go.”

 

Grand Prince Valmir von Raukov, the Elector Count of Ostland, sat upright in his four-poster bed. A tray lay beside him, hot breakfast scents rising from it: sausages and kippers. In a chair on the other side of the bed a tall man in the grand prince’s house uniform sat, not saying a word, his hand never leaving the pommel of his sword.

“Can you think of anyone who’d want you dead, your Highness?” Grenner asked from where he and Johansen stood at the end of the bed. He knew how scruffy and tired they must look compared to the opulence of the prince’s bedroom. They ought to be in dress uniform, scrubbed and shaved, answering questions instead of asking them.

“Of course people want me dead. I’m an Elector, for Sigmar’s sake. It’s not my job to be liked. You know that.” The prince regarded them from under bushy eyebrows and chewed bacon. “No, nobody has threatened me lately beyond the usual cranks—correct, Alexis?” The man in the chair nodded, his eyes never leaving the Palisades officers.

“So you know of no reason why—”

The prince raised a hand. “Captain, if I knew anything useful I would tell you now. I’m not oblivious to danger, I have people like Alexis who monitor my enemies’ activities. If we knew anything we would tell you.”

Grenner stared ahead, but in the corner of his eye he saw Alexis move, shifting position. Perhaps, he thought, he’s uncomfortable at his master’s words. He wanted to ask more, but knew better than to pose heavy-handed questions of an Elector.

“Perhaps,” the prince continued, “what you should be asking is why the Seven Stars was blown up if I wasn’t there? The assassins would surely have checked I was in the building before they set the fuse.”

“Why would they have thought you would be there?” Grenner asked.

“Because that is my habit,” the prince said. “I usually stay till morning. Last night I returned home early because I received word my wife was ill. Yet they blew up the inn all the same. Captain, either I wasn’t the intended victim, or the bombers had an informant who misled them, by accident or on purpose. There’s the next piece of your puzzle.”

“Thank you, your highness. We’ll look into it.” Grenner felt disdain but masked it. He hated it when officials did his job for him, particularly when they did it better. “Can you tell us who your companion was?”

The prince shrugged. “Her privacy makes few odds now. Her name was Anastasia Kuster. I met her in the Street of a Hundred Taverns a few months ago, when I was—I was dressed plainly, let’s just say that. She’s an honest girl, works in a glove-shop. A little scatterbrained but works hard. She’s originally from Ostland, a northerner like myself. When I’m in Altdorf we meet once or twice a week.”

“Might your wife have had something to do with the explosion?”

“My wife?” The prince snorted. “If I die, she loses everything: her title, her status, her palace, her income, the lot. She’s terrified by the thought of my death. Her relatives too, they all ride on my coat-tails. None of them would do anything to harm me.”

“Hell has no fury like a scorned woman,” Johansen said.

“Scorned? She doesn’t love me. We married because it was politically advantageous to link our families. If I want warmth and emotion and life in a woman, I’ll go to—I went to Anastasia.”

“Yet you returned home because your wife was ill,” Grenner said.

“She is heavy with my son. It would not have been seemly for the boy to be born while I was away from the house.”

“Are you sure it’s a boy, your highness?” Johansen said. Grenner flinched. It was a flip remark, inappropriate and irreverent. Such things were dangerous.

The prince regarded them from under heavy brows, and did not smile. “It had better be.” His tone was cold.

Grenner’s heart dropped. Lower ranks should know their place, and Johansen’s remark had crossed the line. They’d get no more useful information here. “Thank you for your time, your highness,” he said. “We will report anything—”

The prince’s cough stopped him. “Not so fast. I have questions too. Were any bodies recovered?”

Grenner snapped back to attention. “No, sir. The place was an inferno. It’s almost certain that everybody was cremated in seconds.”

“Not everybody,” the prince said. “The inn’s cellarman survived.”

“What?” said Grenner. “We weren’t told.”

Across the room, Alexis sat forward in his chair. “Hans Kellerman was in the stableyard,” he said. “The blast blew him twenty feet and broke his every bone.”

“He’s alive?” Johansen asked.

“No, he died three hours later. But I was able to ask him some questions first. The Shallyan priests had given him herbs to numb the pain and he was almost coherent.”

“What did he say?”

Alexis glanced at the prince, who gave a slight nod. He turned back. “A few things. He told me there were four other people staying in the inn, but nobody of consequence. Just before the explosion he heard someone leave the inn, but didn’t see who. And one of the cellar keys had gone missing a few days earlier, and he suspected Anastasia, who had taken things bef—”

The prince coughed and Alexis stopped talking abruptly, sliding back in his chair under his master’s glare. The prince turned to the Palisades officers.

“That will be all,” he said.

“Thank you for your time, your highness,” Grenner said, bowed and backed out of the room, Johansen beside him. He made sure they were twenty feet down the empty corridor before speaking. “I hate dealing with nobs,” he said. “Humourless sods.”

“This one not as stuck-up as most, though,” Johansen said. “What do you reckon? Did he get his mistress up the spout, she was blackmailing him, and he hired someone to blow up the inn to get rid of her?”

“I know you can be thick as a brick sometimes,” Grenner said, “and that may explain why you never get anywhere with Frau Kolner, but did you really not notice?”

“Notice what?”

Grenner let out a sigh. “He didn’t kill her. He was in love with her.”

“You should have pushed him for more information about the girl.”

Grenner turned on him. “Don’t tell me how to ask questions. That’s my job. You almost got us thrown out of an audience with an Elector with your ridiculous…” He stopped, pressing a hand against his eyes. “Sorry. Sorry, Karl. I didn’t mean that. It’s just… I’m tired and stressed.”

Johansen put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That goes for both of us. And it’ll get worse before it gets better. Still, come midnight we’ll be laughing about this and toasting the new year, eh?”

“I bloody hope so.” Grenner said dryly. “Right. How many glove-shops are there in Altdorf?”

 

There were six, but they got lucky with the second one. Anastasia hadn’t come to work that day, the glove-maker’s wife told them, and hadn’t sent word that she was ill. But it had happened before, and besides it was Hexensnacht, so they weren’t worried. Grenner turned on his charm and got the girl’s address in two minutes.

“Fast work,” Johansen observed as they left the shop.

“New personal best,” Grenner said. Inside he felt distant, distracted, as if there was a layer of wool between his thoughts and his actions. The bright cold sunlight made him feel cold, reminding him of too much beer and not enough rest the night before. His feet were heavy. He hoped there’d be no need for fast reactions or swordplay today.

The girl’s lodgings were close to the city’s north wall, decorated with the fripperies a rich lover buys for his fancy, or a girl not used to luxury buys for herself. Anastasia wasn’t there and the bed had not been slept in. They searched the place with a swift thoroughness born of long practice.

“She was an Ulrican,” Johansen said, holding up a silver wolf-head. “Interesting. She could read, too,” Grenner said, holding up a ragged, leather-bound book. He leafed through the pages. “Any good?”

“Hardly Detlef Sierck. What’s that?” A piece of paper fluttered down from between the pages. Grenner picked it up. “Address.”

“One she wanted to hide.”

“Wouldn’t she memorise it?”

“The prince said she was scatterbrained.”

“Oh yeah.” Grenner peered at the scrawled writing. “It’s in the docks. Warehouse district.”

“Probably a glove wholesaler, knowing your luck.”

“My luck?” Grenner looked askance. “Explain that to me on the way there, Herr Not-been-kissed-for-a-month.”

 

The warehouse on Weidendamm was old but the lock on its wide doors was new. Grenner tested its inner workings with a bent piece of metal while Johansen kept watch. Technically, as Palisades officers, they could enter and search any building, but dockers’ understanding of the finer points of the law was often shockingly bad.

“So we’re here because we found this address in the effects of an Elector’s mistress, right?” Johansen said.

“Right.”

“Why do we think this is a good lead?”

Grenner stopped his picking and looked up. “It’s our only lead. Plus we’re seeing Hoffmann in an hour and he’ll want to know what we’ve been doing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

“We could claim addled wits from lack of sleep.”

“Shut up.”

“Face it, this is half-arsed.”

Grenner stood up, put the lockpick back in his pocket, and kicked the door hard. The wood around the lock splintered and the door swung inwards.

“Subtle,” Johansen said.

“Subtlety is over-rated. Come on.”

The air inside was cold and dark and their breath hung in the faint shafts of sunlight. The floor underfoot was hard earth. A figure lay slumped and twisted a few feet in front of the door. The rest of the warehouse was bare.

Grenner went to the body. “Girl. Twenties. Pretty. Last night’s party frock. Neck broken. Want to bet she’s Anastasia?”

Johansen peered at the dead girl’s face. “Does she remind you of anyone?”

“No,” Grenner said, squinting. “Who were you thinking of?”

“I don’t know.” Johansen studied the corpse for a moment, then squatted and ran his hands over the ground, gathering a thin powder onto his fingertips. He sniffed them. “Gunpowder,” he said. “There’s the imprint of a barrel in the earth too.”

“Just one?”

Johansen blinked, letting his eyes adjust till he could make out the faint outlines on the floor. “Eight. No, twelve. More if they were stacked.”

“How many of that size would have blown up the Seven Stars?” Grenner asked. “Three at most.”

“Damn!” He stood and prowled. “So… assume the prince’s mistress is feeding information to the assassins. Maybe she knows their motive, probably not. Last night she has a lucky escape and realises that they’d kill her too if necessary. So she comes to confront them… why?”

“Scatterbrained,” Johansen said.

“They do kill her. So they were here between the explosion and now, probably clearing the warehouse. But we still don’t know who they are.”

“My money’s on Ulrican fanatics. We could look for witnesses,” Johansen suggested.

“It’s the docks. Nobody ever admits seeing anything here.” Grenner thumped the wall. “It’s going to be a city records job, get a clerk to dig out the old ledgers and find who owns this place. The cargo records too, where it came from.”

“I’m more worried about where it’s gone. Cart tracks here.” Johansen pointed to the floor.

“Cart. Barrels,” Grenner said. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“A good way to get gunpowder into an inn cellar. You?”

“I was thinking about a Bretonnian wineseller.”

Johansen stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “We’re late for Hoffmann. And I’m hungry for lunch.”

Grenner took a length of twine from his pocket to tie the warehouse doors shut. “Lunch? Some of us are still starving for breakfast.”

 

From the window of General Hoffmann’s room on the top floor of the Palisades building, the thin plumes of smoke still rising from the site of the Seven Stars were faint dark columns against the cold blue sky. Hoffmann stared out over the city, his back to his two agents.

“Twelve hours,” he said, “and all you’ve got for me is an empty warehouse and a dead girl.”

“An Elector’s mistress. That’s got to be worth something,” Grenner said.

Hoffmann shook his head. “She can’t tell us what’s going on, who these people are or where they’ll strike next. So who’s behind this?”

“Ulrican extremists,” Johansen said.

“Bretonnians,” Grenner said.

Hoffmann turned his stare to them. “Make your minds up,” he said. “The city’s in uproar, every noble is screaming for protection, we’ve got a report of skaven in the sewers, and on top of it another woman’s disappeared. The last thing I need is you two following a wrong lead.” He paused. “You do have more leads?”

The agents exchanged a tired look. “Can you send someone to the city records office, to find out who owns that warehouse?” Grenner asked.

“And the customs records, to see if there’s anything on who brought the barrels to the city,” Johansen said.

“Who do you suggest I send?” Hoffmann asked. “There isn’t anyone else. Get the records clerks to do it.”

“You think there’ll be any records clerks there on Hexensnacht?”

“Then you do it. I’ve got my hands full.” Hoffmann turned back to the window. “We got the explosion report from Alchemics,” he said. “Inconclusive. The sulphur in the gunpowder was Tilean, the saltpeter was gathered near Wolfenburg and the charcoal could be from anywhere. The ingredient ratio suggests a Middenheim-trained alchemist, but that means nothing.”

“Couldn’t you send someone from Alchemics to the records office?” Johansen asked.

Hoffmann snorted. “Nobody’s going to do your book-work for you. And don’t dare fall asleep over them, or I’ll have your guts for garters. Go on, get out.”

 

The street outside the Palisades was quiet. A cat padded silently down the gutter. Grenner watched it go, yawned and flexed stiff muscles.

“If we’re going to the records office,” he said, “can we go by Weberstrasse?”

“What’s in Weberstrasse?”

“My tailor.”

“You and your clothes, I swear—” Johansen said, but Grenner wasn’t listening. Movement had caught his eye: a laden cart moving past the end of the street. He ran after it.

He was right: it was the Bretonnians cart, still piled high with barrels. The short man was staring straight ahead, as if deep in thought. Grenner overtook him and stood in the road, hand raised.

“Stop,” he said. “Where are you going?”

The Bretonnian reined in his horse. “Ah, m’sieur,” he said. “You have come to buy some wine? Ze aftertaste of cinnamon, she has lingered on your tongue…”

“Where are you going?”

The wineseller shrugged. “The market is finished. I go to find some taverns, maybe zey buy.”

“Where were you last night?”

“I put my cart in an alley, I sleep zere.” The little man raised his hands in supplication. “M’sieur, I have no money. I am—”

“You’re under arrest. I want you off the streets.” The Bretonnian turned white. He grabbed for his whip and swiped it across the horse’s rump. It started forward, towards Grenner, who ducked sideways and groped in his jerkin for a throwing-knife. A hand landed on his arm, restraining him. He turned. It was Johansen.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m arresting this man.” The cart was rattling away behind him. “It’s not him.”

“How do you know?” Grenner demanded, turning to give chase. Johansen gripped harder. “It’s not him. It’s Ulrican extremists, trying to kill their Elector.”

“I think he’s working with them.”

“Why?”

“Because…” The cart was gaining speed. “Look, he’s up to something or he wouldn’t be running.”

“Not our problem,” Johansen said. “Electors in peril, the safety of the Empire to protect, that’s us, remember? Leave him for your friends in the Watch. Besides,” he added, “if I was stopped by someone looking like you, I’d run too.”

“What do you mean?” Grenner ran a hand through his blond hair.

“You’re unkempt. Not to mention unshaved, haggard and smelling of last night’s beer.”

“Visiting my tailor would let me—”

Johansen laughed, a short humourless bark. “Forget it. We’ve got records to check.”

 

They went to three breweries, to ask about beer deliveries to the Seven Stars. Nobody knew about anything unusual.

They knocked on the doors of the houses around the remains of the Seven Stars to see if anyone had been awake before the explosion, or had heard or seen anything. Nobody had.

They spoke to a couple of winesellers about the Seven Stars, but the inn had only taken small casks. Grenner asked about a Bretonnian wineseller dying of plague four months ago, but they didn’t know of anyone. Grenner looked at Johansen significantly. Johansen raised his eyes to the ceiling.

They walked through the Konigplatz. The market-stalls had closed up early for the day, clearing the space for the evening’s celebrations. There was no sign of the stoneworkers who had been there earlier.

They went to Grenner’s tailor, who fitted his new clothes and wanted to know how the search for the missing women was going. Even wearing a new shirt and stylish short-cloak, Grenner still looked unkempt and sleepless.

After several hours, after putting it off for as long as possible, they went to the city records office, in the basement of the council-hall. There was one clerk on duty, but after he showed them the section of leatherbound warehouse and tax records that they needed, he excused himself and they didn’t see him again.

“Typical work-shy civil servant,” Johansen said.

“Not very civil either,” Grenner observed.

The books were cold, wide, dry and dusty. Their parchment pages were filled with tightly written records of who owned everything in Altdorf, who had sold it to them, and what percentage of the sale the tax collectors had taken. It was slow, tedious work.

Johansen yawned and picked up the fifth ledger in the pile beside him. It was hard to stay awake: the cold air and the candlelight were soporific, and outside the narrow window daylight had fled hours ago. Across the table, Grenner echoed his yawn.

“We’re doing this the wrong way,” he said.

“What?”

“We’re looking for where they’ve been. We should be working out where they’re going. Who they’re going to target next.”

“Oh yeah?” Johansen raised a weary eyebrow. “How do we do that, a crystal ball? You know what Hoffmann thinks about that scryer the Watch uses.”

Grenner passed a hand over his face, trying to wipe tiredness away. “It was just an idea.”

Footsteps weaved through the racks of records towards them. Johansen raised his head to look. It was Alexis, the prince’s bodyguard.

“Sigmar’s teeth, you two are hard men to track down,” he said.

Johansen thought of a snappy response, but swallowed it. It was too late and he was too tired. “What’s this about?”

Alexis leaned on the edge of the table. “Anastasia.”

“You know we found her body?” Grenner said.

Alexis nodded. “We heard.” He paused. “The prince lied to you. He sends apologies but he was trying to protect her.”

Johansen was suddenly very alert. Across the table, Grenner pushed his chair back.

“What was the lie?” he asked.

“His wife wasn’t ill. He was going to stay the night at the Seven Stars, but Anastasia told him he was in danger and he should leave.”

“So she was the person the cellarman heard leaving a few minutes later,” Grenner said. Alexis nodded.

Johansen absorbed the information, fitting it together. “She wasn’t an innocent,” he said, “she knew what the Ulricans’ plan was. But she couldn’t go through with it. She may even have lit the fuse, knowing the prince had left. And they killed her for that.” He looked up at Alexis. “When you learned the prince was seeing Anastasia you checked her background, had her followed, right?”

The bodyguard nodded. “We didn’t find any links to known troublemakers.”

“What other northerners did she meet regularly? Friends? Associates?”

“Her brother’s in the city.”

“What does he do?” Grenner asked.

“He’s a stonemason.”

Johansen exhaled sharply. “Grenner,” he said, “remember I said the dead girl reminded me of someone?”

“Yeah?”

“The stoneworkers’ foreman in the Konigplatz this morning.”

Grenner stared at him, horror across his face. No words were needed. They sprinted from the records room, out of the council building, heading towards the Konigplatz.

 

It was later than they had realised and the darkened streets were thronged with revellers. Johansen let Grenner take the lead, following the former Watch sergeant move through narrow alleys and through short-cuts, avoiding the crowds. After five years in Altdorf he still couldn’t understand why people celebrated Hexensnacht, the night of witches. Back home in the south his family would be around the fire tonight, doors locked and windows shuttered. Bad things happened on Hexensnacht.

Above them the two moons sat, one thin and one fat in a sky that flashed with bursts from fireworks, their explosions echoing off the buildings. It was not a good omen. As he ran, Johansen clenched his fists and made a silent prayer to Sigmar that he was wrong.

They burst into the Konigplatz. The square was a sea of people and movement, lit by flickering braziers on poles. Johansen leaped onto a market-barrow to scan the crowd.

“The statues,” he shouted to Grenner over the hubbub, and began pushing his way to where he had seen the work-crew. They had been digging a trench, he recalled, deep enough for several barrels.

A knot of merrymaking students blocked his way. “Clear a path! Imperial officers!” he bellowed, shoving through them. Ahead a red-haired figure turned sharply, slapped someone on the shoulder and raced away through the crowd, towards the base of the statue of Sigmar. Johansen felt a rising dread, and gave chase. They’d spent the day assuming an Elector was in danger. They hadn’t thought about symbols of the Empire.

If the Ulricans had buried gunpowder, he thought, there would be a way of lighting it, some kind of fuse. As if on cue a firework went off behind him, throwing colours over the crowd. The red-headed man ducked between the bases of the outermost statues. It was darker in there and the crowd was thinner. Johansen saw Grenner to his left and gestured towards the maze of stonework. Grenner nodded. That was all the plan they needed: they knew how each other worked.

Johansen drew his hand-crossbow from its holster and stepped into the shadows, heading for the statue of Sigmar. He surprised an entwined couple between the feet of the Empress Magritta, and sent a black-lotus peddler scurrying away from under Ludwig the Fat. Around the plinth of Leopold I, he could see where the Ulricans had been working that morning. Above, Sigmar’s mighty hammer eclipsed the moons, and in its shadow he could see the red-haired man kneeling on freshly laid paving-stones, crouched over something. A spark. It was a tinderbox.

Johansen knew he was out of time. He rushed forward, his crossbow raised, shouting, “Drop it!”

The man didn’t turn as he’d hoped, but crouched lower, blowing on something that glowed. Johansen charged in, firing as he ran. The bolt hit the Ulrican in the arm and the tinderbox went flying. The man twisted, his face maddened with rage, and Johansen kicked him in the teeth. He went backwards, his skull hitting the base of the statue with a crack.

Johansen’s eyes searched the ground. A white cord lay between two flagstones, one end raised and singed. He grabbed it, pulling it with both hands. It came free, about three feet of fuse. He dangled it in front of the man’s eyes.

“Happy Hexensnacht,” he said.

The man grinned through broken teeth and raised something in one hand, smashing it down onto the stones. Shards of clay splintered and a liquid spread, covering the ground, seeping between the flagstones into the soil below. Johansen punched the Ulrican in the side of the head, then dipped a finger and smelled it. Oil.

“Johansen!” Grenner yelled and he jerked his head up. A man was running out of the shadows, carrying a torch. It was the man the Ulrican had slapped in the crowd. A back-up. From the other direction Grenner’s throwing knife spun and sunk into the new man’s chest, a second into his eye. He fell. The torch went up, curving a bright path towards Johansen.

He jumped to catch it, and his foot slipped on the oil. It bounced through his hands and hit the flagstones. The oil burst into flames. He stared for an instant. “Run!” Grenner was bellowing. “Run!”

He ran, roaring warnings, grabbing people and pushing them ahead of him. As he ran past the Empress and out into the crowd, he thought he might be safe.

Then the world picked him up and flung him across the square, filling his senses with bright loud disaster. He ducked and rolled, bruised and breathless, clambering back onto his feet, running through the panicked, screaming crowd to get away. There was a second explosion. People were knocking each other down, trampling over bodies, desperate to get away.

The statues were falling like trees in a gale, crashing into each other. Stone limbs dropped, torsos cracked, heads fell and exploded. Leopold collapsed into the Empress Magritta, her hollow bronze frame booming like a bell across the stampede in the square. She crumpled down into the crowd, crushing—Johansen didn’t want to think how many people. He could see bodies impaled on the spikes of her crown. He felt sick.

Above the mayhem, the mighty figure of Sigmar stood firm, warhammer raised against the sky, the symbol of the Empire. Johansen, swept away by the crowd, tried to keep his eyes on it. Could it have survived the blast? Would it stand? Then he saw the first crack appear in its right leg. Pieces of stone fell. The crack grew. The leg shattered. The stone warhammer moved against the sky, slowly but unstoppably.

Johansen watched, not caring about the people streaming and screaming past him, as the first emperor fell from his plinth like a god falling from the heavens, smashing its hundred-foot length across the flagstones and crowds of the Konigplatz, splintering into uncountable pieces. The head of the warhammer, ten feet across and solid granite, bounced once, rolled and crashed into the Black Goat Inn. Beams fell, tiles cascaded off the roof into the crowd below, and part of the front wall collapsed.

Johansen felt a hand grip his forearm and turned to see Grenner. His partner’s face was gaunt and covered in dust, his clothes torn, his face bleeding where it had been cut by flying stones. They stared at each other and at the devastation around them. Grenner raised an arm and pointed at the wreckage of the inn.

“You know,” he shouted above the tumult and chaos, “that’s hurt your chances of getting a snog tonight.”

Johansen almost hit him. Instead after a second he said, “Give me your cloak.” Grenner passed it and Johansen tore it into strips. Together they knelt and began bandaging the wounded.

 

* * *

 

“Get some sleep,” Hoffmann said.

It was four hours later. Altdorf was in shock. The Konigplatz lay in chaos, corpses still strewn amidst the rubble of two thousand years of history, everything covered with a layer of powdered stone, made ghostly by the flames of a hundred torches, lighting the rescuers’ efforts to find more wounded. The temples and hospices were full, and the cold stone slabs in the temples of Morr too. Messengers had already ridden out from the city to carry the news across the Empire, like a rock dropped in a frozen pond, the news fracturing and rippling out across the land.

That, Johansen thought, was what the Ulricans had wanted, what they were prepared to give their lives to achieve. In the north of the Empire, in Ostland and beyond, the fall of Sigmar would be a rallying-cry. Come the spring, there might even be civil war.

He sat in Hoffmann’s office, drinking hot spiced wine, Grenner beside him. The three had spent the night lifting rocks, carrying bodies and comforting the wounded and the grieving until they were utterly exhausted. Logically, he thought, they should have been searching for the other Ulricans. But this was more important.

“Sorry we didn’t stop them, sir,” he said for the fifth time. Across the room, Hoffmann shook his head. The leather of his chair creaked with the movement.

“Not your fault. You did everything you could. We didn’t have the manpower, it was as simple as that.” He looked contemplative. “Get some sleep.”

“Shouldn’t we find the rest of them, sir?”

“They’re probably miles outside the city by now,” Hoffmann said, “heading north. But don’t forget the two of you are on duty at seven bells.”

“You’re bloody joking,” Grenner blurted out.

“I’ll overlook that insolence, Grenner, given the circumstances. Hexenstag dawn: the Emperor will be at the cathedral service for the blessing of the new year. We attend him. Plain clothes, not uniform. And shave, for Sigmar’s sake.”

“Won’t it be cancelled?” Grenner asked. “Under the circumstances?”

Hoffmann shook his head. “The Emperor’s determined to show his people that Sigmar’s Empire and its faith are still strong—and to mourn the dead as well. He’s adamant. He’s instructed all the Electors in Altdorf to be there too.”

“Oh Sigmar,” Johansen said quietly.

“What, Johansen?” Hoffmann asked.

“Don’t you see?” His mind was exhausted; perhaps that was how he could understand the Ulrican fanatics, the way they thought, the depths of their madness and the extremes they’d go to. He remembered the eyes of the red-haired mason, a man who knew he was going to die and didn’t care. “It’s not over. The cathedral with the Emperor and the Electors, all the nobility of Altdorf… that’s the next target. They’re not settling for sending a signal, they want to start the war. Today.”

Hoffmann stared at him. “Sigmar’s balls, man, didn’t they use all their gunpowder this evening?”

“No.” His neck ached. “The crater in the Konigplatz wasn’t deep enough. I reckon they’ve got four or five hundred pounds left.”

Hoffmann stared across the dark room. “An hour’s sleep,” he said. “No more. Then we search the cathedral from top to bottom.”

 

Something clanged, and Grenner was instantly awake. It knelled again and he realised what he was hearing: the great bell of the cathedral, ringing to summon the faithful to worship. Light streamed through the windows. He threw off his blanket and shook Johansen on the next bed. “We’ve overslept! We’ve bloody overslept!”

Johansen was alert in a second. “What happened to Hoffmann? He was going to wake us.”

“No idea.”

Johansen began throwing on his torn and filthy clothes. “You know he’s an Ulrican?”

“Who?”

“Hoffmann.”

“What are you saying?” Grenner stared at him. “Nothing. Just an observation.”

“I hope you’re right.” They rushed downstairs and out into the street. Nobody turned to look at them: there were too many ragged, haggard people in the city that morning. Thin grey dust coated everything. Two horses stood at a hitching-post outside a building opposite. Grenner caught Johansen’s eye. A moment later they were on horseback, galloping towards the great cathedral of Sigmar.

“How would they have got barrels of gunpowder into the cathedral?” Grenner shouted above the clatter of hoofs on cobbles.

Johansen gestured with one hand. “Bribery. Concealment. The powder may not be in barrels anymore. Where the hell’s Hoffmann?”

“How should I know?”

Ahead, they could see a crowd around the cathedral’s high doors. Many people had come to worship alongside the Empire’s greatest citizens today, to mourn loved ones, or ask for divine retribution on their killers. Grenner could see armoured guards by the doors, swords drawn.

“Stop,” he shouted. Johansen reined in his horse.

“Why?” he said.

“We need to think about this.”

“Every second counts.”

“They’re not going to let us into the cathedral looking like this.” He paused. “How much gunpowder did you say the Ulricans had left? Enough to bring down the building?”

“Enough to make a hole in it, maybe.”

“They want more than that.” Grenner grimaced, thinking. “Maybe they’re going to crash a Bretonnian wineseller’s cart stuffed with gunpowder through the doors and blow themselves up.”

“Not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.” Grenner wiped his brow and stared up at the huge building, its buttresses rearing up into the sky around the peaked slates of the pitched roof. Between their stone arms, hanging over the high crenellated wall around the top of the building, a scarlet flag was blowing in the wind.

“What would five hundred pounds of gunpowder do to the roof?” he asked.

Johansen furrowed his brow. “You could collapse the whole thing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think they’re up there?”

Grenner pointed at the flag that had caught his eye. “Recognise that?”

“No.”

“You should pay more attention to fashion. That’s Hoffmann’s cloak.”

Johansen was silent for a second. Then: “How do we get up there?”

Grenner grinned. “Follow my lead.” He dug his heels into his horse and galloped down the street, heading for the crowd around the cathedral doors, Johansen hard on his heels. Heads turned as people heard their approaching hoofbeats, there were shouts, and a path opened. Grenner rode down it, heading for the doorway, holding his reins tight to keep the horse straight.

The guards tried to block them with their swords but they weren’t fast enough and their blades weren’t long enough: Grenner thanked the gods that they hadn’t been pikemen. He flashed past them and into the cathedral’s antechamber, glanced back to check Johansen was still behind him, then crouched low as the horse plunged through the smaller arch into the vaulted expanse of the long nave.

People in the pews either side leaped to their feet as the two horses galloped down the cathedral’s central aisle. There were shouts of surprise and anger. Grenner ignored them. He knew a stairway in the south-east transept; it led up past the gallery where the Elector Counts sat to watch the service, then spiralled upwards to the roof. That was their way up.

He galloped past the choir. Almost there. People behind them were chasing on foot, but he was well ahead of them. The horse cantered into the shadows of the transept, Grenner leaped from its saddle, drew his sword and ran to the stairs, taking them three at a time. Johansen was right behind him.

A wall of armed men blocked their way.

Oh Sigmar, he thought. The Electors’ guards. There was no way through. He twisted round, to see more soldiers behind him. No way out either. Trapped.

There was a strange hush in the cathedral at this invasion of a holy place. Off to one side Grenner could see the open gallery where the Electors were seated. He recognised faces among them. He’d saved some of their lives, but they wouldn’t know him.

No, he thought, one would. Grand Prince Valmir von Raukov, Elector Count of Ostland.

“Prince Valmir,” he shouted. “The men who killed Anastasia are on the roof.”

The Elector’s head jerked up and he stared at the Palisades officers as if woken from a dream. He looked surprised and alarmed. Startled, Grenner thought, to hear his mistress’ name echo across the cathedral. It was a risk. If the prince was a typical cold-blooded noble he could ignore them and the guards would cut them down. But if, as Grenner had guessed, he had really loved the girl…

The prince stood. “Let them pass,” he said.

The guards moved aside. Grenner pushed between them and headed up. Behind him, Johansen paused to take a loaded crossbow from one of the soldiers. “I’ll borrow that,” he said, and followed his partner.

 

The door at the top of the stairs was closed. Grenner shoulder-charged it and it flew open with a crash. Outside, in the narrow trough between the low wall of battlements and the steep pitch of the roof, three men looked up. One grabbed for a lit lantern, one for a bow, and one did not move because he was bound hand and foot, gagged and leant against the wall with his cloak flapping in the cold wind. Hoffmann.

Grenner dived to one side. Behind him, Johansen raised his borrowed weapon and shot the other bowman in the head. He fell.

The second man, dark and heavily built, ducked behind Hoffmann, wrapping an arm round his neck, using him as a shield. “You cannot win,” he shouted. “This is Ulric’s year! The false god Sigmar has been destroyed and his temple and priests shall perish too! It is ordained!” His voice had a northern accent and the hectoring tone of a true believer.

“Morning, sir,” Johansen said, looking at the network of oil-soaked cords running over the roof, doubtless leading to caches of gunpowder. Grenner had been right: they were planning to bring the roof down on the worshippers below.

“Don’t move, or the nobleman dies!” the Ulrican shouted, pulling Hoffmann with him. The fuses were joined into a single twist of cord, Johansen saw. So they were all linked. Any fuse lit would ignite the others. Thirty feet away the Ulrican was moving towards the cords, lantern in one hand, Hoffmann in the other.

Johansen slowly raised his hands. “Don’t kill the nobleman,” he said.

“It’d look bad on our records if you did,” said Grenner from behind him. “Sorry about this, sir.” A throwing-knife flashed from his hand and embedded itself in Hoffmann’s thigh. The general’s leg gave way and he collapsed. Johansen was already drawing his small crossbow from its shoulder-holster and firing, running forwards.

The Ulrican took the bolt in the temple and fell, throwing the lantern at the cords. It struck the stonework of the gutter at an angle and rolled, the oil inside blazing up.

Johansen sprinted and kicked it as hard as he could, away from the fuses. Glass shattered and glistening liquid sprayed out as the lantern soared away over the battlements and down into the city below. He didn’t hear a crash.

He turned. Grenner was crouched beside Hoffmann, cutting his bonds. Johansen made an abrupt gesture and Grenner stopped.

“What?”

“Remember last night?”

Grenner’s eyes widened. “Back-up guy.”

“Where?” There was no sign of anyone else. Johansen took a few paces, checking around the exit to the stairway.

There was a scream from the top of the roof and a figure hurtled down the steep slope full-tilt, a lantern in one hand, a sword in the other.

The sword slashed at Johansen’s arm. He dodged sideways, grabbing for the man’s jerkin, lifting him as he ran, using his momentum to throw him over the wall.

The man screamed all the way down.

 

“I can’t believe Hoffmann went to start the search on his own,” Grenner said as they walked away from the cathedral, leaving the oblivious crowds behind them. “He must have known the Ulricans would have left people on guard.”

“Why didn’t they kill him when they caught him?”

“They wanted him to distract people like us. They only needed a few seconds.”

“They almost got them.” Johansen looked around. “Where are you taking me?”

“Since the Black Goat is out of commission,” Grenner said, “I thought I’d treat you to Hexenstag breakfast at a place I know by the west gate.”

“I’d rather have a wash and get some sleep.”

“You’ll sleep better with a full stomach.” Grenner paused. “Have you noticed that nobody thanked us?”

“Hoffmann did.”

“Hoffmann is deducting his surgeon’s bill from my wages. That’s hardly thanks.”

There was silence as the two men walked on through the city. Some things didn’t need to be said out loud. The watery sun was warm on their skin and the light breeze helped them forget how dirty and tired they both were.

There was a queue of carts, wagons and pedestrians at the west gate, waiting to leave the city. Already security had been tightened after the Konigplatz explosion, and every guard wanted to be seen doing his job. Grenner felt Johansen’s elbow dig into his ribs and looked up. His partner was pointing at a familiar cart in the queue. “You owe someone an apology,” he said.

Grenner gave him a long look, then sighed and walked up to the cart, its cargo of wide barrels stacked upright and roped together for travel. He reached up a hand in greeting.

“It is Hexenstag morning, a time of goodwill, monsieur,” he said, “and I owe you an apology.”

The Bretonnian wineseller in the driver’s seat looked startled and scared. He groped for his reins to jolt his horses into motion. Grenner stepped back, raising his hands in appeasement.

“We were looking for the men who caused the explosion last night. I thought you might be involved. I was wrong. So,” he added, “you’re leaving Altdorf.”

The short man nodded sourly. “Zis city, she is not friendly to strangers, you know? And zis thing last night, very bad. I go home.”

“Did you sell your wine in the end?” The Bretonnian nodded.

“Oui. In the end.”

“Well, that’s something. Travel safely.” Grenner nodded farewell and walked away from the cart and back to Johansen. “Stop looking so smug,” he said.

Johansen grinned. “Hexenstag morning, a time of goodwill,” he said. “You hate admitting you’re wrong, that’s your problem. You should keep some goodwill in your heart the rest of the… What?”

Grenner was staring at the back of the Bretonnians head. “If he’s sold his wine,” he said, “why’s he still got the barrels on his cart?”

Johansen turned to look. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you want to ask?”

“You do it.”

The queue of carts had moved and the Bretonnian was almost at the gatehouse. Grenner waited as Johansen walked up to the cart, then went to its rear, climbed up and stood between the upright casks. He drew his sword, turned it and smashed the hilt down on the lid. It cracked and splintered. A female face, gagged and bound, terrified, streaked with tears, stared up at him from inside. The Bretonnian leaped from his seat and ran for the gate, but the guards were ready for him. They caught him, holding his arms as he struggled and hissed.

Five barrels on the cart. Five missing women. And he’d known there had been something strange about the wineseller from the moment he’d met him. Johansen hadn’t believed him, but he’d known. The man was a kidnapper, a slaver or something worse.

From the ground, Johansen looked up at him. “Result?”

Grenner nodded. “Happy Hexenstag,” he said. He stared up at the sun, letting its warmth massage the weariness from his body. “The nights start getting shorter now.”

“They’ll get longer again soon enough.”

“I know. So enjoy them while you can.” He tugged the rest of the barrel lid away and reached in to help the woman inside to her feet. “I know you’re not much use at handling women, but I could use some help here.”

They set to work.