Death and the Devil

He strolled along the harbor like a casual observer. There was a crush at Rhine Gate. It was one of the few places where goods could be brought into the city, also the site of the public weighhouse for grain. Not surprisingly, there was a long queue of wagons and carts. A little farther on at Filzgraben Gate a group of city sheriffs and beadles in their brightly colored robes were checking some tattered-looking individuals. Remembering his unsuccessful attempt to steal a chop, he decided it would be better to avoid being seen. Any other way into the city would be a detour, but probably safer.

As he ambled along outside the city wall, he kept one eye on the workers, gossiping boatmen, overseers, and toll collectors hurrying past. He was ready to take to his heels at a moment’s notice. There didn’t, however, seem to be any immediate danger. With any luck his pursuer from the previous night had lost his track or, rather, his scent, after he had poured holy water over himself. Which suggested he was dealing with some creature that was only part-human, a demon or perhaps even Satan himself.

Jacob shuddered.

But could you escape from the Devil? The Arch-fiend would have found him anywhere. The Shadow, on the other hand, had lost him.

A man after all?

Suddenly Maria came into his mind. She was dead. He had some difficulty remembering what she had looked like—he had suppressed her image. The things that had happened last night seemed strangely distant, as if all the horrifying experiences belonged to the memory of another person. Jacob was intelligent enough not to be deceived by this. He had a vague feeling the affair wasn’t over, that it was only just beginning and he should be prepared for the worst. He couldn’t be dousing himself in holy water all the time. Cologne was large but anyone who was determined to find him would do so sooner or later. And the Shadow was looking for him, there was no doubt about that.

He was the quarry, not Tilman.

Perhaps the sensible thing would be to leave Cologne. He had been running away all his life, so why not now? And how many more times would he have to run away?

Jacob didn’t feel like running away. Not again.

The next gate was Wash Gate. Not hurrying, Jacob passed under the half-timbered portal, past the toll collectors with their bills of lading, drifting with the crowd. Shortly before Haymarket, he turned off down Rheingasse with the splendid stone-built house of the Overstolz family. Despite the exasperated noises his stomach was making, he decided to avoid the markets. They probably remembered his red hair all too well there, especially at the meat stalls.

His hair!

Could the Shadow have seen his hair? His hat had come off when he fell out of the tree and it hadn’t been too dark for someone to see the color of his hair. No problem finding him, then. His lurid mane was a direct invitation to his would-be assassin. And his hat had gone for good. Tilman was wearing it. What was left of Tilman, that is.

Dozens of creepy-crawlies seemed to be wriggling through his intestines. He slipped into the porch of the Overstolz house, took off his jerkin, and started to wind it around his head. Pain stabbed his right shoulder; he could hardly use his right arm. The cloth slid down over his eyes. Cursing, he pulled it off and tried again. It slid to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” a sharp voice behind him asked.

His heart missed a beat.

Slowly he turned around and breathed a sigh of relief. It was no long-haired giant aiming a crossbow at him. The man was wearing a brown coat trimmed with black fur over a pleated burgundy robe and an embroidered hat with earmuffs. His beard was flecked with gray and the eyes fixed on him had a cold gleam.

“Sorry,” whispered Jacob.

“This isn’t a place to be hanging around, d’you hear? I could set the dogs on you.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Forgive me.” Jacob picked up his jerkin and squeezed past the man.

“Hey!”

He froze. There was a lump in his throat that even the most violent swallowing could not get down.

The man came up to him. Jacob saw his hand push back the coat to rest on the pommel of a slim sword hanging from his hip in a gold-mounted sheath.

“I—I was just taking a breather,” Jacob assured him.

The other frowned. “You’re a beggar,” he said. “Why aren’t you outside one of the churches begging?”

“I didn’t want to beg.” Just a moment, why ever not? “It’s the hunger, you see, that’s all.” Jacob assumed his most heartrending expression and pointed at his belly, which, indeed, did not have an ounce of spare fat. “My knees are like wax in the sun, the same sun that’s burning my brain. I don’t know if I’ll survive till the evening. My poor children! My poor wife! But forgive me, your honor, forgive me for having stood in your way, no harm intended. Forgive me, but all I want is a little of God’s grace and something in my stomach.”

It was a load of soft soap, really, but effective. The man scrutinized him from head to toe. Then he grinned. “What’s your name?”