The Beggar King

place up there where we’d be as secure.”

Simon grinned. “I know a place where the guards can’t get to us.”

The hangman’s daughter raised her bushy eyebrows. “And where would that be?”

“The bishop’s palace,” Simon said, triumphant. “I even have an invitation.” The medicus reached into his pocket and fished out the beer-stained document Brother Hubertus had given him and waved it under Magdalena’s nose. Before she could say a word, he went on.

“I met the bishop’s brewmaster this morning-a wise, well-read monk. I left the powder in his care so he could examine it.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Magdalena had to get hold of herself to keep her voice from rising. “You gave the only possible piece of evidence we have to a complete stranger? Why didn’t you just scatter it to the winds from the balcony of city hall? No doubt you also told this bishop’s servant about the alchemist’s workshop!”

Simon raised his hands, trying to calm her down. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t know a thing. And, that said, I’m not going to ask about all the things you may have blabbed to that old Venetian goat. You trust your dwarf just as much as I trust my fat brewmaster. Understood?”

“Keep Silvio out of this, will you?”

“Silvio? Aha!” Simon sneered. “At least we have the first two letters of our names in common. But never mind that…” He turned serious again. “I think Brother Hubertus would have no objection to our lodging at his place. Nobody will think to look for us in the bishop’s palace.”

“And how do you think you’ll…”

Magdalena broke off when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Torchlight filled the doorway, but it took a while for them to recognize Nathan’s dimly backlit face. The beggar king wore such a broad grin that his golden incisors sparkled like crown jewels, even in the half light.

“Ah, there you are, my dears,” he said. For a brief moment Magdalena feared Nathan had been eavesdropping on their entire conversation and had come over only because he wanted to silence them. Instead, he just stood stock-still, his hand extended cordially.

“I’ve looked for you everywhere,” he said, sounding somewhat peeved. “I was worried when I didn’t see you leave the cathedral this morning.”

“Oh, but we left,” Magdalena replied curtly, trying to conceal her initial fear. “The one who never showed was you!”

Nathan cocked his head to the side. “Then we’ll have to blame the damned morning fog. Who knows?” As he turned to leave, he said, “Upstairs there’s a little boy with a very high fever and a cough. Could the Herr Medicus have a look?”

Simon nodded silently, and together they climbed the crumbling narrow stairway up to the rooms above. Nathan lit the way for them with his lantern, pausing at every low doorway to bow slightly and wave Magdalena ahead of him. Such gestures had just recently seemed witty, even comical, to her; but now she found them obsequious and insincere.

“Our brother Paulus rescued an abandoned barrel of brandy from the street,” Nathan told them with a grin as they hurried through the passageways. “It was just standing there in front of the Black Elephant Tavern. In his boundless mercy Paulus decided to take the barrel in. If you hurry, there may still be a drop or two left.”

When the beggar king rounded a corner and disappeared, Simon pulled Magdalena close.

“This is our chance!” he whispered. “Once they’re all drunk, we’ll pack our things and clear out.”

Nathan’s face suddenly reappeared from around the corner. A glint of suspicion shone in his eyes. “Why are you whispering?” he snapped. “We don’t have any secrets between us, do we?”

Magdalena put on her sweetest smile. “Simon was just telling me how nice it might be to be alone together tonight. I’m sure you don’t want to know the details.”

“Young lovers!” the beggar king exclaimed, rolling his eyes theatrically toward the ceiling. “They’re always thinking of just one thing. But first you’ll have to fill me in on what happened this morning in the cathedral.”

“Later, later,” Simon replied. “The little sick boy comes first.”

He squeezed Magdalena’s hand, and together they hurried through the narrow, crumbling corridors and archways toward the large subterranean hall. The beggars’ catacombs didn’t feel so much like home anymore.

After countless hours in near total darkness, Jakob Kuisl had the feeling the roof was closing in on him. This room was slightly larger than his cell in the dungeon, but he still felt as if an iron vise were clamped around his chest, squeezing him tighter and tighter.

Kuisl was a man reared on sunlight and forests. Even as a child, he’d never been able to endure being cooped up. Sunlight and green moss, birdcalls and the rustle of pines and beeches-all these were as essential to him as the air he breathed. It was in the dark, then, that the shadows of the past lurked. In the dark the Great War reached long, shadowy arms out to seize him…

Blood trickling down onto the furrowed field like a light summer rain, the screams of the wounded, the muffled sound of cannon fire, the sharp odor of gunpowder… Germans, Croats, Hungarians, Italians, Frenchmen, Spaniards, all united in a shrill, monstrous chorus. In the vanguard, men with pikes over five paces long; behind them, musketeers and dragoons, sitting high atop their horses and thrashing away at the surging mob in front of them.

He is Jakob, the hangman’s son, the man with the two-handed sword. In his pack he has stowed a certificate validating his mastery of the longsword. As a “double mercenary,” he receives twice the pay of an ordinary soldier. A sergeant, their leader.

He is one of them.

When they are encamped before the gates of the city, the surrounding countryside is like a festering wound. The villages are scorched and deserted, the farmers are dead or have long since fled into the forests and swamps. His men now and then capture a ragged figure and hang the poor wretch by his feet over the fire. Where are your cattle? Out with it! Where have you stashed your silver? Where are the women? Speak! They force a tube down the farmer’s throat and fill it with urine and feces until he chokes. Spit it out! Talk! Die, you bastard! They take whatever they lay their hands on, then set the shabby cottages on fire.

How often has he watched this from afar? How often have his men ridden back into camp with bloodstained coats and a mad light in their eyes? He never asks. He keeps silent because that’s war. Because men have a gnawing hunger and a desire for women, and the long wait inflames them. Because he knows they respect him only for his strength and his courage. Because he fears punishment… Because…

Because he’s afraid?

Kuisl couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out of here. Gasping, he struggled to his feet and leaned against the barrel blocking the low entrance. It was just yesterday that Teuber had wrenched Kuisl’s shoulder back into its socket. It throbbed now with pain, and the wounds on his arms and legs felt as if they were on fire. From outside the room he probably could have rolled the barrel aside, but from here all he could do was try to push with all his strength against the hundred-pound barrier. He braced his legs and bore down with his bandaged back against the wooden surface, biting his lip to avoid crying out in pain.

There was a soft scraping sound, and a crack of faint light appeared between the barrel and the wall.

Again the hangman pressed against the wooden barrier until the crack was at last wide enough to slip through. On the other side he collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily as the room around him began to spin. He closed his eyes and waited until his dizziness subsided.

The effort of moving the wine barrel had robbed him of much of the strength he’d gathered in the past few hours. But at least he was able to get to his feet and walk around unassisted now. He stood up straight and looked around the damp cellar. A smoking torch near the stairway cast a dim light over the room. Lined up along the walls among wine casks were barrels of sauerkraut. Smoked sausages and legs of pork hung from the low ceiling, and dried cherries, onions, and withered apples from the previous year lay in straw-filled baskets. Kuisl took an apple and bit into it.

It tasted wonderful.

While the hangman ground the apple’s flesh in his teeth, he pondered his next move. Outside it was probably night now. He could walk straight up the stairs, out the front door, and disappear into the darkness. But how far would he get once he was out there? If Fat Thea was right, if Kuisl was actually being sought for two more murders, every bailiff in the city would be looking for him. The gates would be under strict surveillance. He could