these alleyways you want to escape, let me guide you, or someone will surely cut your throat even before the watchmen can arrest you for arson.”
An old man clad in rags emerged from a stone portal. In the dim light it took Simon a few seconds to recognize him as Hans Reiser, the blind beggar he’d healed the day before in the market square. Reiser’s stubbled, pockmarked face beamed at Simon with joy. He wore a patch over his right eye, but he gave Simon a cheerful wink with his left as he ran up to the medicus with arms wide open.
“I prayed to God to send you back to me again so I could repay you!” he cried out. “Thanks be to God. He heard my prayers!”
“Very well,” Simon said in a low voice. “Perhaps some other time. At the moment-well, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so please-”
Reiser put his finger to his lips and grinned. “You needn’t tell me a thing. I know the authorities are looking for you and the girl because of the fire last night.”
“But how do you-?” Simon began.
“We beggars know many things,” the old man interrupted in a whisper. “The citizens think of us as lice- infested, starving sacks of shit who hold out our hands for every last little coin, but in reality we’re even more powerful than many of the guilds.” He winked. “We even have our own guild house, though it’s not as fine as those of the merchants, bakers, or goldsmiths. Believe me, nothing remains a secret from us for long.”
“You promise you won’t betray me?” Simon whispered.
Horrified, Reiser shook his head. “Betray my savior? Am I Judas? I wish to help you!”
“But what do you intend to do?”
“For starters, we’ll make you and your girl disappear,” the beggar replied. “I’ve already sent a messenger to the Whale who will bring the girl back here to us. I also know you’re trying to find out more about the bathhouse murders. Let’s see if we can’t find some clues for you.”
“But that’s impossible!” Simon cried. “We haven’t told anyone about the murders!”
“Aha, and your conversation in front of the bathhouse just yesterday morning?” Reiser grinned. “In Regensburg the walls have ears, and most of those ears belong to us beggars. Now quit standing there gaping like a fool and come along!”
Tentatively Simon followed. “Where are we going?”
Reiser looked over his shoulder to glance at the medicus with his good eye. “To the king of the beggars. I’ve already spoken with him, and he will grant you an audience.”
“Who?”
Reiser giggled. “The head of our guild, you idiot! Consider yourself lucky; it’s a great honor to be invited to see him. And now hurry along before the guards catch up!”
Shaking his head, Simon followed the old man through the labyrinth of narrow lanes and trash-filled courtyards. Darting shadows reminded them that they weren’t alone.
Magdalena awoke to a knocking sound that grew louder and louder. She was about to get up and give the troublemaker pounding at the door a slap when she realized the noise wasn’t coming from outside but from her own head. She slowly opened her crusted eyes but closed them again as a flash of light seared her pupils. Next she attempted a cautious squint as she groped for a pitcher of water she vaguely remembered had been standing beside the bed when she collapsed the night before. She grabbed it and poured its cold contents all over her face. Spluttering, she shook the water from her hair. The pounding had stopped, but a sharp ache still coursed through her head in waves.
The thought of waves immediately made her nauseous.
Suppressing the need to throw up, she tried to remember the night before. The fire in the bathhouse, their narrow escape, their arrival at the Whale… After Simon went up to bed, she’d loitered down in the tavern, showing the men there that holding one’s liquor wasn’t just a matter of body weight or years of training. The Kuisls were widely known for their cast-iron stomachs. The night before any execution, Magdalena’s father would get so drunk that Anna-Maria Kuisl had to lug him cursing and hollering into their bed in the wee hours of the morning. Yet odd as it was, without fail the hangman would be on the scaffold stone-cold sober just a few hours later, even if he did look rather grim-an appropriate appearance for a hangman on execution day. Magdalena had apparently inherited this particular brand of stamina from her father. Throughout the night she had also chewed on some of the bitter black coffee beans Simon so adored, and that had no doubt helped her stay at least partly sober.
“Simon? Are you there?” she croaked, feeling the empty bed beside her. She sat up with a moan. The medicus must have gone downstairs already. She wondered whether he was still angry at her for having stayed down in the tavern the night before, drinking with the little Venetian. She opened the door and staggered down the stairway, her head pounding. The scent of frying bacon permeated the air, causing her stomach to rumble loudly. In the main room she saw the tavern keeper behind the bar, helping herself that very moment to a slug of brandy.
When she noticed Magdalena, she pointed back to the kitchen. “If you’re looking for your drinking friend, he’s in there,” she mumbled, taking another swig. Magdalena nodded and went back to the smoke-filled kitchen where wood logs glowed inside an enormous hearth.
“Simon?” she asked, but the only person in the room was Silvio Contarini, who stood by the hearth, whistling as he stirred the contents of a clay bowl with a spoon. Next to him bacon was sizzling in a pan, permeating the room with a delicious aroma.
“Ah, you slept in?” The Venetian winked at Magdalena and pointed toward the pan. “I’m preparing an old Italian home recipe,
Although Magdalena had intended only to inquire about Simon, now that she saw the golden egg hissing in the pan, she couldn’t resist.
She nodded, and her mouth began to water. “A little… yes.”
With the elegance of a royal cupbearer, Silvio set a plate, knife, and spoon down in front of her on the table and poured diluted wine from a carafe.
“The perfect cure for a hangover,” he said with a grin, serving her a hearty portion of eggs and bacon. “Guaranteed to bring the color back to
“I just turned twenty-four this summer, if you want to know exactly. You needn’t bow when you talk to me.” Magdalena smiled to herself as she stared at the plate in front of her. She had never before seen a scrambled egg so yellow-it gleamed like liquid gold. “It looks wonderful,” she said.
“The saffron does that,” Silvio explained as he noticed Magdalena’s astonishment. “I like my eggs to shimmer like the sun.”
“But isn’t saffron very expensive?” she asked, perplexed. The hangman’s daughter knew that saffron was weighed against gold and therefore merchants often mixed powdered marigolds in with it, despite the high fines for being caught doing so.
The Venetian shrugged. “Food, drink, love… There are some things one doesn’t scrimp on.”
Magdalena nodded, her mouth full. “Stlishish!”
She wiped the grease from her lips. “I said it’s delicious. Have you ever heard of a drink called coffee?”
Silvio nodded. “
“That’s not necessary,” she interrupted. “Simon always has a few beans with him. I was only thinking it would go well with the egg.” Suddenly she remembered why she’d come to the kitchen in the first place. She took one more bite before she stood up. “Have you by chance seen Simon?”
“Your grim little
Magdalena smiled. “Didn’t we do enough of that yesterday?” She turned to leave. “But as far as the coffee and the saffron egg are concerned… we’ll do that again some other time. Thank you very much.”
The little Venetian raised his hands to heaven. “You’re ungrateful! At least allow me to accompany you. I
