The Lightstep (22 page)

And how could you retreat from here? You would have to have
allies on the rooftops. The rooftops would be important. So
would the sewers. Where did the sewers run?

He paced on down the narrow streets, fighting his battle in his
mind. The mist thickened, warning him of smoke. The enemy
would fire the town. That would clear the rooftops of any of his
sharpshooters who were downwind. It would also make it
impossible to breathe in cellars, where people would be hiding,
and in the sewers too. What could the defence do about that?
Could they soak the timbers of every house in town with river
water? Which way would the wind be blowing?

There were people ahead of him. There was a noticeable drift
among them, in the same direction that he was going – uphill
towards the cathedral. Probably there was already a crowd
assembling outside the Chapter House, waiting for news. He
might go and join them – he might at least hear how things
stood, if there were announcements after the meeting ended. But
if it ended badly, and the crowd found a uniformed man in its
midst, it might become dangerous. He would do better to go
back to the barracks.

He did not want to. All he could do in the barracks was fret.
Here in the street he could at least have ideas. This guildhall now
. . . Look beyond the carved gilt wood gleaming in the lantern
light over the door. See the windows, commanding the alley
opposite. See the French skirmishers cowering for shelter under
the fire from its roof. See them scuttling for doorways, leaving a
comrade writhing in the smoke! Then they would regroup and
attack the door. Bayonets and musket butts. Yet. . .

Stand fast. That was the answer. Make them take you down
man by man. The Lie loved weakness. It loved to whisper of the
cost. Never listen. Never surrender. Never, never, never – no
matter what the odds or the changing causes,
never
surrender.
Only that way would it have any meaning at all.

A carriage was coming up the street behind him. Its wheels
clattered loudly on the cobbles, and the sound echoed from the
walls of the overhanging buildings. People were squeezing to
the side of the street to be out of its way. The horse had nearly
reached him. He pressed himself into a doorway and let the thing
by, vaguely recognizing the device on the bodywork from somewhere.

He felt the street-muck spatter from its wheels against his
boots, and then it was past him. He stepped out from the doorway
to follow.

A man's voice sounded from the carriage, and it stopped. As he
came up with it again, a door opened and a pale face showed
from inside.

'That you, Wéry?'

It was Uhnen. He was drunk.

'It's me.

'My Virgil. Where're you going? Climb in. I'll have you there
in a minute.'

'I'm just taking the air.'

'Climb in. You're a good fellow. I want to talk with you.'

Reluctantly, Wéry climbed into the leather-smelling interior.
There was almost no light. There was no one else in the
carriage.

'Drive on,' said Uhnen to his coachman.

The carriage lurched into motion again.

'Where are we going?' asked Wéry.

'Nowhere much,' said Uhnen, lolling on the other seat. 'I think
I was going to try the Hotel Markburg next, but it doesn't matter.
We can go anywhere you like.'

'What's the matter?'

'Oh.' Von Uhnen waved his hand dismissively. 'She doesn't
want me.'

She?

'Told me so yesterday, over cards.'

She
would be Maria von Adelsheim, of course. (What had she
done about his messages? Surely someone should have gone for
them by now!)

'I thought she was already betrothed,' Wéry said.

'Oh, she is. I don't see it should matter . . . Well, why
should it? He's a boy, and anyway he barely leaves his
rooms from one year to the next! What sort of a match is
that? It's ridiculous . . . I tell you what, Wéry. I lay it on that
mother of hers. It's her way of keeping Maria with her as
long as possible. That, and spite because they made
her
marry an idiot. Ruin it for everyone else. That's what she's
doing . . .'

'I'm sorry to hear it,' said Wéry stiffly.

'I need to get drunk,' groaned Uhnen.

'You've done that already, haven't you?'

'Not half enough. We'll go down to the Markburg. I know
them there. They'll see us right.'

Wéry doubted very much if he would be welcome at the
Markburg, which was exclusively for families of Imperial
Knights. And even if they turned a blind eye to his presence, he
did not want to spend his evening nursing Uhnen's lovesick
heart. Certainly not when Maria von Adelsheim was the cause!
But Uhnen had been friendly since the affair at the
bridge. Aristocrat he might be, but he did not deserve to be
abandoned like this. Love was a great leveller,
and
a dangerous
enemy.

And it was not as though he had much else to do! He only
hoped that Asmus would have the sense to go home when he did
not reappear.

'She
seemed
to like me very well,' groaned Uhnen.

'She may well do. But that doesn't mean everything.'

'And I've been protecting them! I could destroy them with a
word. But I've not told her that. I won't.'

'Destroy Adelsheim? It would have to be a very powerful
word.'

'Oh,' said Uhnen, with affected weariness. 'Illuminati.'

Even in his drunken nonchalance there was a tremor in his
voice.
Illuminati.
Who had secretly inspired the Revolution?
Who were determined to bring down the Mother Church? Had
you never seen one? That only proved how clever they were.

Wéry said nothing. He had seen two revolutions without
laying eyes on a single Illuminatus. Before coming to Erzberg he
would have sworn with confidence that the Illuminati no longer
existed, and that even if they did they were an irrelevance. And
yet time and again the word was spoken here, with a conviction
that sometimes shook his own.

'I could have told her how much she owes me,' said Uhnen
absently. 'How much all her house owes me. Maybe I should . . .'

'It's probably just gossip.'

'That it is not! I was there!'

Wéry drew a long breath. For a moment he almost changed
the subject. But then he said: 'You had better tell me about it.'

Von Uhnen looked at him, swaying slightly with the movement
of the carriage.

'You're a good fellow, aren't you? You're my Virgil. You'll know
how to treat this.'

Wéry said nothing. Von Uhnen knew that he reported to
the palace. He would know, too, that the palace thought the
Illuminati were in league with the French. And yet he was still
going to speak.

'There was a reception at the Adelsheim place last week . . .'
Uhnen began.

'Which one?'

'The house in Saint Emil quarter.'

In the city. On the Prince's territory. That was unwise. But of
course the Lady Adelsheim would think herself invulnerable.

'There was a funny little man there called Sorge. Lady
Adelsheim said he had come to educate them all . . .'

'The name again – Sorge?'

'Doctor Sorge, of Nuremberg.'

Sorge. In German that meant
Worry.
Apt, and memorable too.
Although Nuremberg, an Imperial city nestling in Bavarian
territory, was not the first place he would have looked for French
agents. Perhaps their reach was longer than he had thought.

'He came under the wing of Baron Löhm. The strange thing
was, my father said, when they all sat down and started to talk,
both the Baron and Sorge seemed to think that it was the Baron
who was under Sorge's wing, and not the other way about . . .'

'Your father was there?'

'My father went into the meeting with them. I didn't. Most of
this I had from Father. They were trying to seduce him, because
he's on the inquiry into Hersheim. Of course that didn't work.
But according to him, Löhm said there were Illuminati in half the
cities in Germany. There are some in Nuremberg, some in
Frankfurt, some in Cologne – I can't remember all the places.
They recruit followers, and those followers recruit more
followers, and so on until they've a great net of people in every
state, influencing the government and what have you. Apparently
they've even got someone here, in the palace. Highly placed. I had
thought it was all rubbish but . . .'

'How high? A canon? An official?'

'Can't tell you. Sorge told him to stop blabbing, I think.'

Connections with the French; connections with an
Illuminatus; opposition to the Prince; rumours that could have
been
designed
to undermine the army; and now secret infiltration
of the palace! What did the Adelsheims think they were doing?

God! And it was to Adelsheim that he had trusted the link
with his contacts across the Rhine!

The coach rocked and clattered slowly over the cobbles. There
was a sick feeling in Wéry's stomach. Steady, he thought. Steady.

Fears make nightmares of the smallest things. There did not
need to be anything in this. The men in Lady Adelsheim's set
were exactly the educated, bored, free-minded sort who might
band into secret brotherhoods out of a vague philanthropy and a
love of being mysterious. Canon Rother, in particular, was no
French tool. His aim was clear enough: to foster enough disaffection
with the Prince for the Chapter to appoint him
coadjutor, to rule the city and state alongside his enemy Why
should any of this mean there was a conspiracy? When you hear
them singing the Marseillaise in the city quarters, that's when you
need to worry.

Nevertheless, it sounded as if the Adelsheims had been very
unwise indeed.

'We're going to have to start again. And I'll need this written
down. Can you come back to the barracks with me?'

'I don't want to go back to the barracks!'

'We cannot talk about this at the Markburg.'

'Then we'll talk about something else. I don't mind.'

'I could have a bottle brought to my rooms,' said Wéry and
groaned inwardly at himself.

'Make it one each, to start with,' said Uhnen promptly.

Then he seemed to hesitate. 'You're a good fellow, Wéry, he
said uncertainly. 'You'll do the right thing.'

'I don't know what I'll do,' said Wéry frankly. 'But let's hear it
anyway.'

He was suddenly feeling very tired. And the coach had
stopped again. Noises surrounded it. A crowd was pressing past in
the narrow way.

'You'd think half the city was out,' mused Uhnen.

'Perhaps it is.'

A white uniform gleamed beyond the carriage window. A
voice Wéry knew was calling urgently.

'Lanterns! Lanterns!'

Wéry looked out. There, standing in the roadside behind the
coach, was the stocky figure of Heiss.

Heiss, like all the officers close to Balcke-Horneswerden, had
acquired a hunted look in recent weeks. More and more of his
colleagues seemed to think it bad luck to associate with him. He
had become moody, unpredictable, prone to fits of temper and
long silences. Now he cut a wild figure in the gloom. He was
hatless, cloakless, and held a pistol pointed up at the sky. With his
other hand he was gesturing to the crowd to gather around him.

'What's the matter?' called Wéry.

'Who's that?'

'Wéry, and I've got Uhnen with me.'

'Good man! Get down – we need you!'

In a city where officers were barely showing themselves by
day, the crowd was rallying around Heiss like a ragged platoon.
Lanterns danced among them. A number of them held sticks.
Drawn by the urgency of the voices, Wéry climbed out. Von
Uhnen followed him.

'What the devil's going on?'

'Devil may be the word for it. There's saboteurs out. Fireraisers.
Someone's seen them, down on the quays!'

'Fire-raisers?'

'My brother saw them!' said a voice. 'Down there, by the Old
Bridge!'

'I don't believe it!' said Wéry.

The mist was cold, and the wide-eyed faces pressed around
him. Suddenly he was not so sure. He felt their fear, and his
muscles stiffened with it. In the Chapter House, the city was
debating war. But what if the French were already in the city?
What if they struck first? That was what they were like. That was
far more credible than any talk of Illuminati. You watched your
front, and you watched your front; and then suddenly they were
on you, round your flank and marching for your lines!

'I don't believe it,' he repeated lamely.

'That's what we're going to find out,' snapped Heiss. 'Come
on!'

He led and they all followed him. Down the twisting streets
they poured like a pack of hounds. Feet pounded and slipped
upon the cobbles. Voices called. A head looked out of a first storey
window and cried out a question.

'Fire-raisers!' they answered as they ran past. 'On the quay!'

All at once Heiss turned to his right and plunged down a
narrow alley. Wéry hesitated. Then, as if swept up by the others
who pushed past him, he followed. The ground was muddy
beneath his boots. The alley stank and there was little light. Men
hurried ahead of him, squeezed by the close walls into a thin
straggle of ones and twos. Others panted behind, pressing him on
with their pursuit. There was no time to look round.

'Hey, hold up!' came Uhnen's voice from far behind. 'Hey
there!'

But the men ahead of him ran on. Wéry followed, caught by
the fever of the hunt, and his duty melted into the mist behind
them.

Down, turn, and on down. They were somewhere near the
city's small Jewish ghetto, but he did not know where. They were
heading towards the river, but where they would come on it he
could not guess. Heiss must be aiming to strike the waterside as
high as possible, so that his little force could then scour the length
of the quays in one sweep. But for God's sake, what was it they
had seen? A torch? A plume of smoke? How could you tell smoke
from mist in this murk?

'Lights! LIGHTS!' roared Heiss from ahead. He was standing
in an open space, looking back up the alley. Beyond him was the
gleam of water. Three or four men joined him. One had a
lantern. As Wéry arrived on the quay, gasping for breath, Heiss set
off again, striding along the narrow wooden walkway that ran
before the mean house-fronts of the Riverside Quarter. Wéry
followed, a pace or two behind the others.

'No fires yet,' said someone.

'Keep your eyes open,' growled Heiss.

More men were reaching the quay behind them. But voices
were still calling among the alleys above and to their left.
Some were still making their way down. Some were already lost.

'Quietly, now!'

Thump, thumpety-thump!
went a dozen boots upon the
walkway.
Ripple-ipple,
murmured the dark water. The mist
blocked the far bank and the Celesterburg from sight. Squinting
as he strode, Wéry could just make out the loom of the Old
Bridge, barring the river. And the figure on the walkway thirty
yards ahead of them, part-lit by a glow from a window. 'There!'
he cried.

Others shouted at the same moment. The figure turned, looking
their way. It wore a heavy cloak.

'You there!' cried Heiss.

The figure wavered, and seemed to back away.

'You there! Stand! Stand!'

There was a flash from Heiss's upraised hand, and the report of
the pistol. The figure disappeared.

Wéry swore, and pushed past the others. For a few lonely
seconds he was out and alone, with his boots thumping on the
boards and his heart pounding, a cold, sick feeling in his guts like
the river beneath his feet. Then he gained the stonework of the
quay proper. What seemed to be a pile of cloths was lying there.
But the pile had a foot, and an arm flung out of it. And a faint,
keening noise came from it.

It was a man.

'Bring a light!' yelled Wéry. 'Bring it!'

The others gathered round. The lantern swung above the
fallen man's face.

It was an elderly man – a Jew, from the beard and long locks.
His eyes were open. His face, yellow in the lamp-light, was drawn
in pain. His mouth moved, gasping. His right hand was groping
for his left shoulder, where the dark cloth of his cloak was
beginning to soak with blood. Wéry looked up into Heiss's
horrified face.

'I challenged him,' Heiss gasped. 'He didn't stand.'

A wealthy Jew, on his way back to the ghetto before the gates
locked for the night. And a mob had run up out of the darkness
and shouted at him. Of course he had retreated. And . . .

'Eeeee – eeee,' the man whined. One hand clutched at the air
near his wounded shoulder. His eyes were screwed up and his
nose was a sharp yellow peak jutting up from his face against the
shadows behind.

Wéry's knees were wet. He looked down at the dark pool that
was growing around him, and already becoming sticky as it grew.
His trousers were stained, irreparably.

'You –
idiot!'
he exclaimed.

Others had run up and were looking down at the wounded
man. Von Uhnen was among them.

'There's a surgeon down by the New Bridge,' someone said.

'Help me lift him,' said Wéry.

They hung back. Lift a wounded man, and a Jew at that?

Wéry cursed them in French, as he struggled to get the man's
bloody arm over his shoulder. The man cried out.

'Help me!'

It was Uhnen who stepped forward. Heiss had disappeared
somewhere, eyes dazed and pistol dangling. The lantern swung in
Wéry's eyes.

'Get out of my way,' he snarled, furious with all of them.

Saboteurs indeed!

'And run ahead,' he added. 'Rouse up that damned doctor, and
get the bottle out of his lips!'

The wounded man shrieked.

'Now my man,' said Uhnen beside him. 'Don't you worry.
We'll have you down to the doctor, and he'll set you right . . .'

Other hands were helping now, lifting the head, a trailing foot,
anything they could touch or raise. It still seemed to Wéry that
he had two thirds of the weight. His grip was not good, but
because of the crowd around him he could not stop and adjust
himself. He was hobbling down a foreign quayside, carrying a
wounded Jew, with the son of an aristocrat on the other side and
a crowd of war-scared murderers around him.

'You know,' gasped Uhnen with false cheerfulness. 'I went –
through four years of campaign – never touched a wounded man.
Always left the lads to do it. Sorry – about that, now.'

'You may yet get your fill of it,' grunted Wéry.

War, war. It was fear of the war that had sent them all running
down the alleys after a rumour. They had gone charging off, like
green troops into a forest. No wonder someone had got shot!
And if he'd had the pistol, he might have fired too.

The lantern was waiting for them at a door downstream from
the New Bridge. The doctor stood in his shirtsleeves in the hallway.

There was a scrum as the bearers rearranged themselves to
carry the victim in. Relieved of the burden, Wéry sank exhausted
to the cobbles. Von Uhnen felt unsteadily for the doorway, and
disappeared inside. From within came the voices of children, one
excited by the bustle, the other complaining her supper had been
interrupted. Probably they had cleared the dining room table and
dropped the wounded man straight onto it.