of beer? The very thought of asking the arrogant Venetian for help was absurd! Well, maybe not completely absurd… Silvio probably had influence and could offer them a place to stay, but for Simon it was out of the question. How did Magdalena imagine it would play out? Would Simon stand calmly by as this dwarf made advances to her? Even if Silvio did manage to smuggle them both out of the city, did she think Simon would play the willing cuckold?
As he got ready to toss the next sack of grain against the wall, Simon had to acknowledge he was in fact jealous.
Magdalena was probably right; Silvio was their last hope. With a sigh he lowered the sack to the ground and sat on a pile of stones next to the secret doorway. From the room behind he heard a splintering sound and assumed Magdalena had knocked something over. He considered calling to her but decided against it. He’d give the girl a chance to figure things out for herself, for once. If she needed help, she could always come back.
Simon picked up a handful of grain from the ground and sifted it through his fingers. The last half-hour had rattled him. Just when all three of them had managed to reunite after such a long struggle and to plan their escape at last, they were all running off on their own again. It was enough to drive a man out of his skin! The kernels passed through his fingers, one by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
But something held him back, a sudden premonition he couldn’t quite place. He contemplated the rye in his palm: yellow and firm, the little pearls popped open if you squeezed them long enough between your fingers, revealing a damp white flour inside.
But some of the grains were different-they had a bluish sheen-and when Simon rubbed them, they gave off a musty, sickly sweet odor.
He knew this odor.
The medicus held his breath. This was the odor he first detected in the bathhouse storage room and, later, in the underground alchemist’s workshop, where he and Magdalena had come upon the burned powder. Several hundred pounds of the stuff must have been stored down there.
What had Brother Hubertus said shortly before his death?
Simon slapped his forehead. For a moment he forgot the dead monk in the brewing vat; he forgot Kuisl; in fact, he even forgot Magdalena. Was it possible? Could
The medicus almost burst into hysterical laughter, but fear seized him first. The idea was so monstrous, so insane, that at first he couldn’t believe it, but bit by bit the scattered tiny tiles of the mosaic began coming together; an image was beginning to form. He tore the page out of the herbarium and stuck it in his jacket pocket.
Finally Simon thought he knew what this damned powder was and where he might find more.
Much more.
Magdalena took the scarf from her shoulders and wrapped it around her head. She walked stooped over so that from a distance she’d look to passersby like a harmless old woman. She knew full well this disguise wouldn’t help much. After all, it was the middle of the night, when even old women were forbidden to be out in the street. All the same, she felt safer this way.
She scurried westward under the arched bridges but decided to avoid the main entrance of the bishop’s palace, where guards were likely still on the lookout for her. She took a detour instead, approaching the cathedral square from the opposite side.
At last she came upon the Heuport House. The building, grim and menacing, rose up before her with nothing of the charm and nobility it emanated in the light of day. In the darkness it looked more like an impregnable fortress.
Magdalena rattled the handle of the towering double door, if only to make sure it was locked, as she expected. Hesitantly she reached for a bronze knocker molded in the shape of a lion’s head and pounded with all her might. Once-twice-three times, the knocks echoed in her ears like a blacksmith’s hammer. If she kept on, she’d wake all of Regensburg.
A window on the second floor finally opened on a maid’s pinched face. She wore a white nightcap and squinted wearily down at Magdalena. This was the same maid who’d looked at her so crossly on her last visit. When she recognized the hangman’s daughter on the street below, the maid’s eyes flashed.
“Go away!” she sneered. “There’s nothing for you here, my dear.”
“I must speak with the ambassador,” she replied, trying not to sound overbearing. If the maid didn’t let her in or alerted the guards, all would be lost. “It’s an emergency; please believe me!”
The servant girl eyed her skeptically. To Magdalena the woman’s gaze was nearly palpable; she could almost feel the woman’s eyes looking her up and down. “The master isn’t home,” she replied finally, but less condescendingly this time. “He’s over at the Whale playing cards, as usual. Don’t waste your time-he’s likely found someone else to sit in his lap.” She spoke the last sentence with a certain smugness.
Magdalena sighed. She should have figured as much. Naturally Silvio was camped out at his favorite tavern.
“Thanks,” she said, turning to leave. Suddenly she turned back around. “Uh, if I don’t run into Silvio, could you please-”
The shutters banged closed.
“Silly old goose,” the hangman’s daughter grumbled. “No doubt your master’s thrown you out of his bed more than once, you flat-chested, bitter old broomstick!”
But the cursing didn’t help. The window remained closed, and with a sigh, Magdalena set out for the Whale.
The tavern lay east of the little bridges, not far from the bishop’s palace, so again she decided on a detour through one of the unguarded back alleys. At last the warm, inviting lights of the tavern appeared in front of her. With candlelight emanating into the street through its bull’s-eye windows, the Whale was like a guiding light in the dark-the only place in Regensburg with any life at this hour. Magdalena surmised the innkeeper had to pay the city a pretty penny for that privilege-an investment that paid for itself, if the loud singing and laughter inside were any indication. The door swung open and three raftsmen lurched out, evidently having spent their last hellers on drink. Babbling noisily, they staggered off in the direction of the raft landing.
Magdalena bit her lip. Did she dare set foot in the lion’s den? There probably wasn’t another woman in the place, with the exception of the innkeeper. Were she to go prancing in, she’d surely attract everyone’s attention, not least that of the guards, who might in fact already be waiting for her inside. All the same, it was a risk she had to take.
She tightened the black scarf around her head once more, took a deep breath, and opened the door. A warm wave of all kinds of odors assailed her: sweat, brandy, tobacco, smoke, and the stale residue of some kind of stew. Every last seat in the sooty low-ceilinged taproom was occupied. Raftsmen, workers, and young bull-necked journeymen sat, foaming mugs before them, singing, playing cards, and throwing dice. In back, in his usual stove- side seat, the Venetian ambassador was busily rolling dice with three rather coarse men. Compared to his simply clad companions in their linen shirts and leather vests, the Venetian was nothing less than a colorful bird of paradise. He wore a red shirt decorated with white ribbons and a very high collar; wide, flared trousers; and, on his head, a dashing musketeer’s hat complete with a plume of feathers. Silvio was either winning at the moment or so deeply engaged in his game he didn’t seem to see the young woman in the doorway.
The other men, however, hadn’t failed to notice Magdalena. Some of the workers stared at her lustfully, while others whistled or ran their tongues over the dark stumps of their teeth.
“Hey, sweetheart!” a potbellied, curly-haired raftsman bellowed. “Not satisfied with the day’s earnings? Then
