with their pikes pointed straight ahead, and Kuisl detected a mixture of fear and bloodlust in their eyes.
“Everyone to the Pfaffengasse!” one shouted. “He’s in the Pfaffengasse! Over here! He’s-”
Kuisl gathered all his strength and, with a single leap, soared headlong over the pikes, landing a punch in the face of the screaming guard that knocked the man down like a felled tree. The other dropped his spear and pulled out a large hunting knife. He lunged for the hangman, but Kuisl bucked like a wild horse. With a kick to the gut, the man collapsed, moaning.
The hangman turned to discover more and more guards streaming into the lane. Panicked, he spotted a low archway on his left that seemed to lead off into a narrow path. Without a moment’s hesitation, he fled through the archway and down the path, arriving soon at an interior courtyard surrounded on three sides by tall buildings.
A dead end.
Turning around, Kuisl saw three or four bailiffs approaching through the archway with their halberds raised. Cold smiles played across their lips, and their eyes gleamed. They were clearly now in no hurry. They had cornered their prey at last, and now they’d finish him off.
Someone tossed a torch into the middle of the courtyard, casting a larger-than-life shadow of Kuisl on the wall behind him. In the flickering light the hangman made an easy target.
A crossbow bolt splintered on the plaster wall behind him, then another. Out of the corner of his eye the hangman looked all around for a way out. There wasn’t a single door in sight; the windows were all on the second story and therefore out of reach, with no trellises or trees to climb. In one corner of the yard a two-wheeled oxcart was parked and loaded with hay. The cart had a heavy, waist-high shaft with iron fittings. The hangman hesitated. Then an idea hit him.
Doubled over, he ran toward the wagon as arrows rained down around him like hailstones. With his good right arm he grabbed the wagon shaft and turned the vehicle so that the rear was now facing the soldiers. Kuisl knew his strength was about to give out; this was his only chance.
Taking a deep breath, he ran to the middle of the courtyard, grabbed the burning torch from the ground, and threw it at the cart. In a flash the dry hay was ablaze, and the wagon an enormous fireball. Disregarding the brutal heat, Kuisl picked up the shaft again with his good arm and pushed with all his might. The burning wagon rolled backward toward the guards-the only way out. The bailiffs screamed and leaped aside, but burning hay bales fell on them, setting their hats and jackets on fire.
The wagon now began to gain speed. At last Kuisl reached the archway and headed straight for the narrow exit.
The wagon squeezed through the exit and rolled out into the Pfaffengasse. Kuisl gave the cart a final shove so that it veered to the left, crashing into a doorway, where it exploded. Burning hay and glowing splinters rained down as the flames began to spread.
Wheezing from the smoke, the hangman ran down the Pfaffengasse, looking back one last time. By now the fire had spread to the building’s ground floor and the shop window on the floor above. Everywhere citizens were shouting and running to the public well with buckets to get water. In spite of his pain, Kuisl couldn’t suppress a grin. This would keep the guards occupied for a while at least.
The hangman ran on a few yards, finally turning into a little side street, where he found a pair of old splintered barrels. One of them lay on its side, and with the last of his strength Kuisl folded up his legs and squeezed himself in so that he was no longer visible from the outside. Numbed by his fever and the wine fumes inside, he felt half dead as the shouts of the crowd gradually moved away. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to fall asleep. He had to get out of here, at once. Where was Teuber? Where was his house, the safe house of the executioner, his friend…?
When Kuisl heard singing, he thought he was dreaming at first. The song was definitely not of this world, but from a time long ago.
He listened in astonishment. The singing wasn’t coming from just anywhere, but from the street to the immediate left of where he was hiding. And it was no figment of his imagination but reality, pure and simple.
Now the voice was right beside him, both off-key and very familiar.
“Do you really think we’re going to find your father this way?” Simon complained. “So far we’ve only managed to avoid being hit by a chamber pot-twice. And frankly, your singing leaves something to be desired.”
“It’s not about how well I sing, just that I’m singing,” Magdalena snapped. “The main thing is it’s loud enough for Father to hear me.”
Simon laughed. “Well, loud you are, all right. You’re even drowning out the alarm bells.”
They were moving slowly south from Neupfarr Church Square, winding through little side streets. Three times already they’d encountered bands of armed city guards, who on any other ordinary night and without a second thought would have thrown Magdalena and Simon into the House of Fools for disturbing the peace. But the pale, anxious guards were otherwise occupied now and simply peered intently at the strange couple before setting off again. Simon and Magdalena could hear the shouts of guards from every direction and then a far-off but very loud explosion.
“Let me think,” Magdalena whispered, already going hoarse from singing
As a child, the hangman’s daughter often sang with her father. Now she hoped he might recognize her voice and the songs she chose. In this way, at least, she looked a lot less suspicious than if she were running around calling out his name. For the watchmen, as well as the curious onlookers who stared out at them from behind shutters, she looked like just another drunken prostitute staggering through the streets with a client.
Magdalena was struggling to think of another song when her face brightened in a flash.
“I have one more,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner!”
She started singing a lullaby her father always hummed to her just before bed. And as she did so, memories of her father passed through her mind in fragments.
Tears ran down her cheeks, but still she kept on singing.
Suddenly a ghost emerged from a rotten wine barrel in the gutter and staggered to its feet. The enormous figure wore tattered trousers and a bloodstained linen shirt, its arms and legs covered with bandages and its face dusted with cinders. Magdalena knew at once who stood before her.
“Father, my God, Father!” she screamed, nearly hysterical, not giving a single thought to whether guards might be nearby. Quickly she covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “Holy Saint Anthony, we’ve really found you. You’re alive!”
“Not for much longer if you keep on singing like that,” Kuisl replied as he staggered toward his daughter. Only now did Magdalena realize how severely wounded he was.
“We have to… get away… from here,” he stammered. “They’re… on our… trail. The third inquisitor…”
Magdalena frowned. “The third inquisitor? What are you talking about, Father?”
“I thought he’d caught you,” he said in a low voice. “He knows you and the name of your mother. The devil is out for revenge.”
“It’s got to be a fever,” Simon said. “Hallucinations that-”
“Weidenfeld!” Kuisl shouted through his pain. “He’s out for revenge!”
“My God!” Magdalena put her hand over her mouth again. “There’s that name again. Who’s this damned Weidenfeld?”
The alarm bells were still ringing, and over them the guards’ voices sounded suddenly much closer than before, only a few streets away now. A window opened directly above the little group, and a toothless old man in a nightcap glared down at them suspiciously.
“Quiet, goddamn it! You good-for-nothing drunks! If you want to have a good time, take your woman somewhere else!”
