It was the quiet, Karl realized. And then it dawned on him.
There were no children.
In any village or town, small boys and girls raced through the lanes, shouting, making a racket, playing with their spinning tops and marbles, jumping in puddles, and rattling the nerves of the grown-ups. But not here. Just like at the other villages they had passed through in recent days, it looked as though the earth had swallowed up any and all children. As if some kind of creepy pied piper had lured them away, stolen them and left behind only the old folks. Where were they all? Karl looked around searchingly. He couldn’t believe that every single child had been snatched and killed by Tonio. He thought it was more likely that parents no longer allowed their children out of the house.
Because they knew what could happen.
Karl still didn’t believe that the devil himself lived in Tiffauges. But he had to admit—the place was creepy. His and John’s footfalls sounded too loud, and soon Karl could feel eyes on his back, following their progress from behind dark windows. John felt them, too.
“I wouldn’t say we’re particularly welcome here.” John pointed at the many shutters that were closed despite the fine weather.
The houses seemed to Karl as if they were sick, their paint weathered or flaked off, their beams black and rotting. During their short round of the village, they didn’t encounter anyone except the market women and a group of old men who had glowered at them from bench perches.
“The tavern’s open,” John said, pointing at a tin sign with a wild boar painted on it that swayed above the entrance with an awful screeching sound.
John was about to head toward it when Karl held him back. “We don’t know if Lahnstein or someone else has taken up lodgings there. Let’s look through the window first.”
John nodded. They entered a narrow alleyway beside the building, but all the windows were barred with heavy shutters. John pulled out his knife and levered at one of the shutters until it opened a tiny crack. Karl kept his eyes out for passersby.
As John peered through the gap, Karl scrutinized his companion from the corner of his eye. He could understand why Greta liked that red-haired Scotsman so much. John was funny and smart, even if he wasn’t particularly learned, and he was handsome and would one day make an excellent father. Once again Karl grew painfully aware that he would never be blessed with such fortune. In the last few days he had often thought that it was time to leave the doctor and try his luck elsewhere, just like Greta was bound to do soon. But he just couldn’t do it. He still loved Faust, even if the doctor was becoming stranger by the week.
Meanwhile, John had turned away from the shutter again. “I think it’s the back room,” he said in a low voice. “Some men are sitting there by candlelight even though it’s the middle of the day. They’re drinking and playing dice, as if they’re waiting for something. I can’t make them out very well, but I think some of them are wearing the colorful garb of soldiers.”
“Which colors?” asked Karl.
“I think it was blue, yellow, and . . .” John paused and cast another glance through the crack. “And red.”
“The Swiss guard,” hissed Karl. “That means some of them made it out of Chinon alive. But how the hell do they know we’re here?”
“They might have eavesdropped on us somewhere.” John shrugged. “Maybe as far back as Amboise. Or that Lahnstein figured it out himself. This castle is the former residence of Gilles de Rais, after all.”
“Did you see anyone who looked like the papal representative in there?” asked Karl. “You should recognize him by his face. Little Satan bit off his nose at Bamberg.”
“No wonder he doesn’t like you very much.” John grinned and brushed his hair out of his face. “No, I would have—”
A noise made them both spin around. A long shadow darkened the alleyway, reaching for them as if with long claws.
A very large shadow.
“Jesus Christ,” croaked Karl, the blood draining from his face.
Hagen stood between them and the main road.
Evidently, the Swiss mercenary had noticed that someone was watching the tavern. With a deliberately slow movement, the giant drew his longsword and started to walk toward them. Karl looked around in panic. Stacked up behind them stood rotting barrels and trash, and behind that was a wall. The alley was a dead end!
“You and I have a score to settle,” said Hagen to John in his harsh Swiss accent. “I forgot to finish you off last time.”
Karl instinctively took a step back. He and John had left their swords behind so they wouldn’t attract attention in town. That had been a mistake. But Karl had something else—something cool and smooth inside the pocket of his vest: the hand cannon from Albert MacSully, a brand-new wheel-lock pistol, and this time it was loaded and cocked.
Karl pulled it out and trembled as he pointed it at Hagen. “Let us pass,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “Or your dumb skull is going to explode like a rotten apple.”
Hagen hesitated for a moment. Then he moved with a speed that Karl would never have thought the giant capable of. He leaped toward them, dodging from side to side like a dancing dervish.
Karl pulled the trigger.
The bang was so loud that he thought he would go deaf. The recoil made him stumble backward and fall. He couldn’t see if he had hit Hagen; the narrow alley was filled with powder fumes. John pulled him to his feet.
“Out of here!” John shouted and dragged Karl toward the road. Karl didn’t stop to look around but ran past the tavern, where more soldiers came streaming out the door. John turned sharply and Karl followed.
