Death and the Devil

He knocked several times and went in. Downstairs everything seemed the same as usual. Clemens was just taking the roast off the fire. On the table was a large bowl of gruel. Margarethe and Wilhilde were just bringing four mugs and a jug of wine.

“You again,” said Clemens.

“Me again.”

“You’ve only just gone.”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders. His glance rested longingly on the burned meat.

“A banquet?” he said morosely. “What are you celebrating?”

“Business is booming,” growled Clemens in a voice that had nothing of booming business in it. “And it’s no business of yours what we fill our bellies with here. Think you can get Maria’s portion? Huh! Forget it.”

“Where is she, anyway, miseryguts?”

Clemens nodded in the direction of the steps.

“Be down soon, I should think. Her last client’s just gone. A real gentleman. Knew you too, though it’s a mystery to me why he should.”

“Who?” Jacob exclaimed in surprise.

“Who, who. I don’t ask no names.”

“And I don’t know no gentlemen,” said Jacob, his foot already on the bottom stair. “What did he look like?”

Clemens bared his teeth. It was meant to be a grin. “Better than you, anyway.”

“Obviously.”

“Twice as tall, I’d say.” He gave a hoarse laugh. “No, make that three times. And his hair—”

“Angel’s hair,” said Margarethe with a dreamy smile.

“Down to the ground,” groaned Wilhilde, still drooling over the memory.

Jacob stared at the hand grasping the banister. The knuckles were white. He felt his blood run cold. “Dark clothes?” he asked.

“Black as night.”

It can’t be, he thought. His mind was racing. It can’t be!

He was up the stairs faster than he had ever been before. He stopped at the door.

“Maria?”

No answer.

“Maria!” Louder.

It can’t be, it can’t be.

In a fever of apprehension, he pushed open the door.

Maria was by the window, her back against the wall, looking at him. She didn’t speak.

“Maria, I—” His voice trailed off. There was something wrong with her face. He took a step toward her, a closer look.

His jaw started to quiver.

Maria was looking at him.

But only with one eye.

A small crossbow bolt had gone through the other, shattering her skull and nailing her to the wooden wall.

RHEINGASSE

“I’ll slice him into little pieces!”

With a howl, Kuno stormed into the candlelit room, the tears pouring down his cheeks. With his fists he hammered on the massive oak table at which seven people were enjoying a sumptuous dinner. He was quivering all over with fury.

“You’ll pay for this,” he shouted at Johann, “you and that witch Blithildis.”

Matthias threw away the chicken bone he had been gnawing and jumped up. “And you will learn to knock before you enter,” he retorted icily.

“Watch what you say!” screamed Kuno. “You deceived me! You gave me your word, your sacred word, nothing would happen to Gerhard and now everyone’s saying he’s dead.”

“He is. But not because of anything we did, but through his own carelessness.”

“Falling off the scaffolding?” Kuno laughed hysterically, raising his hands in supplication. “Do you hear that, all ye saints? Do you hear the lies—”

“This is not the moment to call on all the saints!” Johann broke in sharply. “If you must pray, then pray for your own soul, for forgiveness for what we all decided on together. You’re no better than we are, and we’re no worse than you. D’you understand?”

“Let me throw him out of the window,” snarled Daniel, only controlling himself with difficulty.

“Why did you do it?” Kuno sobbed. He sagged and put his face in his hands. Then he stared at each of the others, one after the other. “And it’s all my fault,” he whispered. “All my fault. That’s the worst of all. My fault.”

Theoderich took a goblet, filled it with wine, and placed it on the table in front of Kuno. “Who would you be thinking of slicing up into little pieces?” he asked casually.

“Urquhart,” Kuno hissed.

Theoderich shook his head. “Have a drink, Kuno. What has Urquhart got to do with it? There are two witnesses who saw Gerhard slip and fall off the scaffolding. We’re just as devastated as you are, believe me.”

He placed a consoling hand on Kuno’s shoulder. Kuno shook it off, stared at the goblet, then took a deep pull at it. “Witnesses,” he said with a snort of contempt.

“Yes, witnesses.”

“It was Urquhart.”

“Urquhart only does what we tell him to and pay him for.”

“Then you paid him to kill Gerhard.”

“You watch what you say,” growled Daniel. “If you dare call my grandmother a witch just once more I won’t even give her time to turn you into a toad. I’ll split your empty head open, you little turd.”

“I’ll—”

“Pull yourselves together!” Johann commanded silence. “All of you.”

“Dung puncher,” Daniel added quietly.

“The time has come to talk openly,” Johann went on. “Since this unfortunate affair with Gerhard we’ve all been at loggerheads. That has got to stop. Yes, it’s true, we didn’t trust Gerhard. It is also true that it necessitated an unfortunate extension to Urquhart’s instructions. The witnesses were his idea. Paid, of course.”