Prologue

 

‘I am ready now, Meister,’ the sorcerer said to the figure behind him.

The master stared at his student with blue eyes set in a face of indeterminable age as white as bleached bone. ‘I have my doubts,’ he replied. ‘Serious doubts. This is not like summoning your steward or a lesser demon. These are very rare and this particular breed is going to be far more powerful. Even the Exiles hesitated to summon this.’

‘I understand. But I am strong enough to control it and when I do, my power will grow.’

‘Very well.’ The master took a last look around the room as he listened to it breathe, deep and slow, like air pumping through the lungs of a giant bellows.

He doubted he was ever going to return.

The chamber was devoid of windows and furnishings, apart from a small ornate wooden cabinet in the far corner.

The walls, ceiling and floor were the colour and texture of flint – black with a creamy fudge-coloured vein swirling through it and seamlessly joined as though it were shaped from a single piece of stone. A perfection which was beautiful, alien and frightening, and so very like my student, the master thought.

‘Then I bid you farewell. This stage is for you and you alone. And know that I wish you every success.’ He dipped his head.

The sorcerer bowed his thanks.

The master vanished.

The sorcerer looked down at the circle where he stood which was etched in silver as was the flowing sorcerous script within and without.

Satisfied that his protective circle was without error, the sorcerer scooped up his spellbook, a large black leather-bound tome with a metal clasp fashioned in the likeness of a snarling, horned demon. He brushed his fingers lightly over the metal clasp and it sprang open, the pages of the book flicking of their own accord to the page the sorcerer desired.

He placed his book on the floor in front of him and began to chant. A slower but considerably safer method of casting, as the book itself aided the sorcerer in his struggle to master the arcane words which writhed and twisted, resisting all attempts to bend to his will.

The sorcerer flicked his gaze to the other occupant in the room and smiled.

Lying in another circle was a young man with fair hair and innocent blue eyes now wide with terror. He moaned, bucking and jerking as he struggled to break free of his bonds. His efforts to escape were so desperate that blood had started pouring from his wrists and ankles where the hemp rope had sanded away his skin and flesh.

The sorcerer stopped his chanting, interrupted by the sudden stench– the foul odour of a fetid sewer on a sweltering day. He looked up from his book to find himself staring at a handsome man of average height, possibly middle age, with a face devoid of lines. Even the corners of his eyes lacked crow’s feet. His dark hair, which was short and slicked back, only accentuated his pale skin and small neatly trimmed goatee and moustache. But it wasn’t his appearance that mesmerised the sorcerer, it was his eyes, large and black, like a shark’s.

The newcomer smiled, revealing teeth which were sharp and pointed and stained with a thick tallow-coloured filth.

‘Good evening,’ the figure said with a cheerful smile.

‘Greetings, honoured messenger of Lord Beraak.’ The sorcerer dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

‘Call me Francis.’

Though he carried himself with the air of a nobleman, charming and debonair, Francis’ raiment spoke otherwise. His boots were worn and cracked, his once-fine silk shirt, cloak and linen trousers were stained with the muck of ages, frayed and pocked with ragged holes. Flies, thick and black, orbited his head, buzzing noisily. He leaned on an elegant cane, expertly polished and lacquered. It was topped with a silver knob in the likeness of a fly’s head, complete with curling horns.

‘Lord Francis…’ the sorcerer began, looking up at the figure, wide-eyed.

‘Just Francis.’ He gestured to the sorcerer to rise.

The sorcerer obeyed.

‘Now, why am I here?’ Francis’ hideous smile was still fixed in place.

‘But…I…didn’t finish the incantation. Lord…Francis.’

‘No matter!’ Francis waved dismissively. ‘It’s not the words, my good man, it’s the intent that Lord Beraak hears and the sacrifice of that small bit of you,’ he held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, ‘that really counts!’

‘Yes, Francis.’ The sorcerer bowed low, suddenly noticing the unnaturally long grimy nails sprouting from the visitor’s fingers.

‘Why don’t you stop all the fawning and get down to business? What do you want – and tell me honestly – what do you really want?’

‘Greater knowledge of sorcery, Francis.’

‘And power, yes?’

‘Yes. And power.’

‘And what are you willing to sacrifice for this power?’

‘Anything.’

‘Anything?’

‘Anything!’ the sorcerer confirmed.

‘You’re certain? The price will be steep.’

‘Yes. Anything you command.’

‘And my payment?’ Francis asked casually, admiring his grubby nails.

‘Whatever you ask for. Whatever Lord Beraak demands.’

‘Very well. I’ll grant you the name of a powerful demon and the identity of a powerful sorcerer whose magic you can seize. In return, you must feed Lord Beraak the souls of the innocent and the pious, the ones fat with Vis, but especially the devout. Do you agree to this?’

‘I do, Francis.’

‘Excellent!’ Francis clapped his hands. ‘Then we have an agreement.’

The sorcerer dipped his head. ‘We do.’

‘Now, if there’s nothing else…’

‘Our business is concluded.’

Francis gave an exaggerated bow and, with his yellowed smile still playing on his face, vanished, leaving behind the faint smell of faeces and the buzz of a single fat fly.

The sorcerer bent his head to his spellbook where the long, graceful script of sorcery had appeared sinuously slithering its way across the pages. He chanted again and blue flames erupted from the boy’s circle, swaying and roaring as they grew in intensity.

The young man was no fool. He had been schooled in this kind of lore and knew what the flames heralded.

The knowledge only fuelled his fear, and he started mewling and sobbing in terror.

And then he froze.

Through the dancing flames, he had spied a figure.

It looked like a person, but the creature, the size of a newborn babe, had no skin to speak of. It moved by dragging itself, using its arms like a seal, as it shuffled forward, staring at the young man with milky orbs. It stopped an arm’s length away from him and opened its mouth, stretching its jaws impossibly wide to reveal rows of pointed white teeth with long sticky strands of saliva stretched between them like webbing.

The young man was still, eyes wide, caught in the depths of its soulless mesmerising gaze. The creature reared, swaying for a moment before it shot forward with blinding speed.

It punched straight into the young man’s abdomen, folding him in half and throwing him backwards. He clutched at his gut and screamed, curling into a foetal position, thrashing as tears poured from his eyes while his lifeblood leaked through his fingers.

Tearing into the stomach was just the beginning of the creature’s journey. It set off, munching its way through the young man’s innards and then up, using the spine like a set of bone stairs spiralling upwards towards the real prize.

The young man’s body arched in pure agony as his screams and pleas echoed around the chamber.

The creature’s hunger caused it to kill slowly but after an eternity of pain, the young man’s prayers were answered as, with a final shudder, his body slumped and his soul floated free of his flesh.

The creature was indifferent. It continued with its feast-journey, chewing its way through meat and crunching bone until it reached the brain.

The sorcerer could hear it slavering and smiled in satisfaction when he saw the young man’s skull writhe and pulsate as the creature scrambled inside.

The body jerked and thrashed violently again and then, as swiftly as the fits had started, they ceased.

The body sat up and looked around with eyes that belonged to a serpent – yellow lamps with black slits which he fixed on the sorcerer as he fluidly rose to his feet, smiling. He blinked and his eyes reverted to the innocent blue of the novice whose innards he had just dined on.

‘Why have you summoned me?’ He looked around at his prison, the blue-flaming circle.

‘To do my bidding, demon.’

‘I need to feed, master.’

‘What do you require, my servant?

‘The energy of the gifted.’

The sorcerer fell silent as he and the demon locked gazes, neither moving nor wavering. The battle of wills lasted for a few heartbeats before the demon brought it to an end by bowing low. ‘What is your will, master?’

The sorcerer flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture and the circle’s blues flames vanished. The creature was a prisoner no longer.

The sorcerer beckoned the young man forward.

The demon within the body resisted, refusing to obey.

The sorcerer smiled and exerted his will, and the demon found its feet moving of their own accord as he walked obediently to the sorcerer who spoke softly to it. When he finished, the creature bowed low again before departing.

 

***

 

It was dark when the novice entered the cloisters of the seminary. He nodded to the guards on patrol who bowed, never thinking to stop and challenge a familiar person.

Once past the unsuspecting guardsmen, he glided quickly and silently through the shadows of the cloister and up the stairs to the first-floor gallery where he moved along the rows of sturdy arched wooden doors. He stopped at one, halfway along the corridor, and pressed his ear to it.

He knocked.

The scratching quill stopped, followed by a soft curse and the scraping of a chair being moved and then the slapping of sandaled feet on stone as someone approached the door.

It was opened by an old man whose eyes widened slightly in surprise at the figure, but the frown vanished in the light of recognition, and he smiled.

‘Ah dear boy…wait a minute, you’re not–’ The old priest’s words were cut short when the initiate’s hand shot out, grasping him by the throat. He struggled to break the grip but was held fast.

The novice pushed him effortlessly back into the room, still maintaining a hold on the old man, and with his other hand closed the door behind him. He brought his face near to the priest’s and opened his mouth, stretching it unnaturally wide to reveal row upon row of pointed teeth.

The old priest’s eyes widened in horror.

‘Kiss me, Father,’ he whispered, grinning as he gripped the priest’s face with his other hand. ‘I hunger for it.’

The initiate pressed his mouth over the old priest’s while the cleric squirmed in his grasp, swatting ineffectually at the boy, trying to break free of his grip and pull away from the sucking lips.

Eventually his protestations grew weaker until they completely subsided and his body sagged.

The boy pulled back and sighed with pleasure, looking at the old cleric with swollen eyes that now resembled a snake’s. ‘Delicious!’ He smiled, licking his lips.

‘My Vis…’ the old priest croaked.

‘Exquisite!’ the boy replied. He brushed his lips delicately against the cleric’s ear. ‘Thank you for your power, old one. Go into the void knowing that I will feed on all your brethren.’

The old man tried to scream but could only choke and gasp as the novice, with the effort of a child squashing a moth, crushed his neck with a soft crunch. He lowered the body to the floor and left as silently as he had arrived.

He glided back down the stairs and along the gallery, gesturing to the guards again as he passed them and left the seminary behind him.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

The sign above the door depicted a naked elf maid making a suggestive face while below it, two large bald heavies searched punters at the door and fed them the standard line, ‘No weapons in the Lewd Elf.’

They didn’t search the lean figure swathed in a black cloak with a black wide-brimmed hat. Him, they gave a nod and let pass unmolested. In turn, he threw them a wink and slipped a couple of silver coins in their pockets; it always paid to keep the muscle sweet.

Once past the door guards, the lean figure was met by a tall beauty with the kind of curves men duelled over, large blue eyes and chestnut-coloured hair which spilled down to her slim waist.

This evening she wore a flowing red dress which exposed plenty of her ample bosom on which glinted a snowflake-shaped pendent made of platinum and diamonds.

She drifted up to him with a sway that drew every gaze in the room.

‘Vogel,’ she said in a husky voice, offering a silk-gloved hand.

‘Marianne.’ Vogel raised her hand to his lips while he gazed into her cool blue eyes.

‘The usual?’

‘Please.’  

She smiled, slipped her arm through his and led him through the common room where men lounged on couches with scantily clad women hanging on them, towards a set of stairs leading to the upper floors. As they drifted through the crowd, Vogel took his time to eye up the clientele and note their appearance, class and profession. He wasn’t concerned about being surreptitious, not when Marianne was on his arm. He could have been dressed as a capering court jester with a jingling cap and bells on and no one would have paid him any mind. Every eye in the room was locked onto her as she sauntered through, smiling and nodding to the crowd, her every movement utterly graceful and mesmerising.

A far cry from the woman he had first met those many years ago.

 

Vogel is fourteen when he first meets Marianne Breitmeyer.

He’s working in the Sunken Galleon in the docks district, tending tables and picking pockets in the evening when she shuffles through from the kitchen one morning, head low, her long dark unwashed hair covering her face.

Vogel greets her with a smile and a, ‘Hello.’

She responds by looking up and shooting him a nervous glance before hurrying on. Her face is pale, her cheeks sunken and her almost skeletal arms and legs make it apparent that she could do with a few more hearty meals. But that’s not what makes Vogel stare after her with his brows furrowed in anger – it’s the large angry bruises covering the left side of her face.

It’s several days later before Vogel has the pleasure of meeting her husband, Herr Eric Breitmeyer, a large man rolling in fat and muscle with a bald head and small eyes, who elbows the staff aside as he barges into the kitchen.

The screams draw Vogel, the staff and Father Pohl Heinz, a priest.

The Innkeeper ignores the screams, preferring to keep out of a domestic row.

The group rush into the kitchen to find Marianne on the floor, trying to shield her face from Herr Breitmeyer, who is gripping her long hair in one fist and hammering at her face with the other. He pulls back for another punch, but Father Pohl steps in and catches his arm.

Eric responds by shoving the cleric back and closing on him with the threat of violence clearly written on his face. A mistake. Father Pohl is a witch hunter and has faced far worse than abusive husbands. In a heartbeat, his form is wreathed in the golden flames of divine magic which whip and tear at his cassock. He invites Eric to take the first swing.

Nobody has ever seen a priest or templar fling divine fire at an ordinary person, but everyone knows that the clergy use their powers to combat demons, sorcerers and the undead, so it’s a safe bet that they could easily melt the flesh off the bones of most tossers. When it comes to giving women and the weak a good beating, Eric is a hero, but against clergy wielding divine magic he all but shits himself and withdraws, pushing past Father Pohl but not without giving the old priest a defiant glare.

Marianne is helped to a bench, her wounds are washed and a cup of wine pressed into her hand. An hour later she’s back at work washing and cooking, and in the evening she’ll return to the man who uses her face as a punchbag.

Father Pohl offers to talk to her husband on her behalf, even threatening to have him arrested for his behaviour, but Marianne begs him not to interfere.

Vogel has seen this behaviour countless times from the mothers of the children in the gangs he’s run with; boys and girls who have left home because of the Marianne and Eric Breitmeyers of the world, where mum is unable or unwilling to stand up to dad’s constant brutality, or mum is the brute herself.

Vogel tries to stay out of the matter, but he just can’t. The only way he can sleep soundly is if he deals with Eric Breitmeyer personally.

It’s a month before the opportunity presents itself.

Marianne is accompanying her husband home after an evening in the Angel on the South Bank. She has one of Eric’s arms draped over her shoulders, supporting him, as they totter along the streets.

Vogel leaps out of the darkness, a throwing knife in his raised hand, poised to end Eric’s life.

Eric’s in no shape to challenge Vogel. He can barely stand.

Marianne is shrieking and begging Vogel to stop, not kill them. She tosses the pouch of meagre coins they have to the floor, swearing that they have nothing more.

It’s clear from the rags Marianne wears that she’s poor, and if Vogel was an ordinary footpad after loot, he might have grabbed the pouch and left, but not tonight.

Tonight he has other business.

He ignores Marianne’s pleas and lets his knife fly.

Marianne’s fear reaches hysterical proportions and something within her snaps. Suddenly she and her husband are wrapped in golden flames which cause Vogel’s knife to ricochet off the divine magic shield she has managed to create.

Vogel quickly shrugs off his shock and flees.

Events pass in a blur after that.

Word spreads, thanks to Vogel, of Marianne’s divine magic gift and the Church swiftly descends upon her. Within days she has disappeared into its ranks while Eric Breitmeyer is given a fortune by the Church and told to fuck off and forget his wife.

He happily does so.

Vogel sees Eric weeks later strutting along with a skinny girl of seventeen summers trailing behind him; probably the daughter of a destitute family who sold her to him.

She looks at Vogel and he notes the large bruises on one side of her face before she quickly turns away.

Vogel sighs, shakes his head and walks on.

 

Marianne led him upstairs to a private room with an ornate table and plush rugs on the floor. Once she had closed the door, she pulled off her silk gloves and kicked off her shoes and sat at the table, rubbing her feet and sighing.

Vogel smiled and tossed his hat on the table and his cloak over the seat opposite her before he sat.

Marianne smiled at him. ‘Do you want to go first?’

Vogel shook his head. ‘Ladies first.’

Marianne snorted. ‘I’m hardly that.’

‘You’ve always been a lady.’

Marianne dipped her head in gratitude. ‘Ever the charmer.’

Vogel shrugged. ‘So, what’s the news?’

‘Nothing concrete, I’m afraid. Just the usual gossip and hysteria about sorcerers, demons and monsters, all blamed on the foreigners and Jews. I’ve checked a few of them out. They’re nothing.’

‘And the rest?’

‘I’m still investigating.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Just more rumours. Something about a sorcerer in the Viertel, but that’s not your concern. That said, I have got something up your street.’

Vogel raised an eyebrow.

‘I think I’ve discovered the money behind the Crescent Moon – a Sicilian, by the looks of him. I don’t have a name yet but I have seen him with Mathilda. They’ve also got foreign guards on the doors –inside and out.’

‘I’ve seen ’em, big scary fellas with scalp locks and long thin moustaches. Are they from the Dragon Empire?’

Marianne shrugged. ‘That’s on the outside.’ She smiled slyly. ‘On the inside, she’s got women from the same land as the men. They’re dressed like exotic houris but they’re not working girls. I’ve seen them use their swords, and I can tell you, they’re experts!’

‘You managed to get into the Crescent Moon – how did you wangle that?’

Marianne winked. ‘You’re not the only one with charm and training, Vogel. Besides, as one madam to another, Mathilda and I get along.’

Vogel drew a breath. Fair enough.

‘I’m trying to seduce the sword houris into working for me,’ Marianne said, ‘but no joy so far.’

‘Didn’t Mathilda say her husband was the money behind the place?’

‘Turns out Herr Rositzke is skint.’

‘So what’s Mathilda hiding?’

Marianne shook her head. ‘Perhaps nothing. Maybe she’s just embarrassed that they’ve fallen on hard times and rather the world didn’t know. Who knows?’

Vogel understood. Pride – the deadliest sin. ‘There again, it could be that she is hiding something – a front for a gang?’

‘It’s the “or something” that concerns me. I’ll investigate and give you a shout if there’s anything juicy.’

‘Appreciate it.’

‘Now, what do you have for me?’

Vogel pulled out a piece of parchment and slid it over to her.

She unrolled it and Vogel watched as her eyes took in the scroll’s contents while she played with her diamond pendant. Only the closest of examinations would have revealed a small symbol of a three-pointed throwing star with a cross at its centre etched into the heart of the gem.

‘Three?’ Marianne said.

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re sure they’re bad?’

‘Foul. I’ve seen the bruises on their wives and kids.’

Marianne rolled the parchment up and stuffed it down her bosom. ‘A pleasure doing business with you, Vogel.’

She rose and crossed to a small dresser in a corner of the room on which was a tray with a jug and two cups. She brought it back to Vogel and poured wine for them both which they drank as they leaned back in their chairs and gossiped and relaxed.

Vogel rose an hour later, snatching up his cloak and hat before he kissed Marianne’s hand. For all her grace and beauty, her hands and knuckles were heavily calloused from years spent pounding sand, wood and stone.

Vogel gently stroked them. ‘Same time, next week?’

She smiled. ‘Until then.’

Once outside, the spy paused to take a deep breath of the fresh night air while he gazed at the Lewd Elf. He turned slightly at the sound of a figure approaching.

‘Evening, Vogel.’

‘Evening, Kris.’ Vogel smiled at the newcomer, a boy of about fifteen summers with mud-coloured hair and blue eyes.

‘Anything new?’ Kristian asked.

Vogel shook his head before motioning that they should move, and the pair strolled to the end of the street where they stopped in front of a small house.

Vogel and Kristian looked around to ensure that there were no eyes on them before Kristian unlocked the door and they slipped inside.

They stood in a small entrance hall with a kitchen before them and a room to their left. To their right a set of stairs led to the house’s top floors.

The old man sitting in the kitchen raised a hand in greeting to Vogel.

‘Evening, Wulfram, everything all right?’ Vogel smiled.

The old man nodded. He was a soul of few words and though nearly eighty summers old still had bright eyes and the body of an athlete – all lean and hard muscles.

Vogel tossed him two pouches, one of which clinked slightly.

The old man ignored the pouch of coins and fumbled at the other pouch from which he took a large pinch of tobacco which he stuffed into his pipe. He lit it and leaned back in his chair, puffing contentedly.

Kristian shook his head as he followed Vogel up the stairs.

‘A pipe, a full belly, a warm roof over his head and some coin in his hand, and old Wulfy is as happy as a pig in shit,’ the boy said.

‘Amen!’ Vogel replied.

The attic room was swept every day – at Wulfram’s insistence – and covered with a thick rug and lit with lamps hanging from beams criss-crossing the room. It had a single window and five cots, two for the girls and three for the boys, all aged between ten to twelve who sat on the floor in the centre of the room passing around a leather bag. From it, they fished cheap trinkets.

‘Vogel!’ They cheered when he and Kristian entered the room.

‘Evening all!’ Vogel greeted his urchins with a smile as he swept off his hat and unfastened his cloak. It was warm in the attic thanks to the fire from the kitchen below.

‘Evening, Vogel, evening, Kris!’ they replied as they shifted to make room for the newcomers.

‘What’s this?’ Vogel pointed at the leather bag.

‘Yeah, this should be good.’ Kristian grinned as he leaned against a beam with his arms folded.

The sound of the front door opening and closing caused Vogel to turn to Kristian.

The lad waved dismissively. ‘That’s just Wulfy off to the Elf for a beer and a cuddle.’

Vogel turned back to the urchins. ‘Well?’

‘We’re celebrating!’ one of the youngsters said.

Vogel looked at Kristian who shook his head.

‘Celebrating what, Julian?’

Julian’s eyes darted between his gang. ‘Er, my twelfth birthday.’

‘You’re twelve now?’ Vogel said.

‘Yes.’

‘And when was your birthday?’

‘Yesterday?’

‘And how did you celebrate?’

‘You said that we could thieve when it was someone’s birthday. Soooo…’ He looked at the leather bag.

‘Julian also got another ink,’ a girl called Bettina said.

Julian pulled up his shirt to reveal two robins tattooed on his back.

‘So you celebrated Julian’s birthday by getting him inked and nicking junk?’ Vogel said to Julian and the children.

‘Er, yeah,’ Julian said with a doubtful look at the others who giggled and stared at the floor.

‘So, if you’re nicked by the watch and they look at your back, they’ll have no idea what gang you belong to, will they?’

‘But we all have the ink!’ Julian said. ‘It’s our gang ink…’

The kids burst into laughter.

‘You fuckers!’ he roared at them ‘You told me we all have the same ink!’

Vogel turned to Kristian who was still chuckling and shaking his hung head. The spy grinned at the kids. ‘I was your age once.’

‘A long time ago,’ Kristian added.

‘Piss off,’ Vogel said. ‘Anyway, I remember the thrill of stealing, but you kids are getting older.’ He indicated Julian. ‘Time to consider settling down and a proper career.’

‘What, like being an agent for the Teutonic Order? Like you?’ Julian pulled a thoughtful face.

‘Why not?’ Vogel shrugged and looked at Kristian who nodded his support. ‘You really want to spend all your lives thievin’? And when you’re too old to thieve, what then – back to the streets?’

The children exchanged looks before turning back to Vogel and shaking their heads.

‘Sod that,’ Bettina said. ‘I’m never goin’ back to livin’ on the streets.’

And the begging and the beatings, Vogel thought, and that’s if you were lucky.

Far worse happened to children on the streets. Most never lived beyond their twelfth birthdays.

‘Yeah, why not?’ Julian said looking at the others. ‘I could be like you, couldn’t I, Vogel? I could spy for the Order and still thieve every now and then.’

‘Oi!’ Vogel protested. ‘I don’t thieve.’

They all gave him unconvinced looks.

‘Well, not too often,’ Vogel mumbled. ‘Anyway, just consider what I’ve said. Right, well, seeing as it’s Julian’s birthday,’ he said to the children, ‘let’s have some presents.’

The children grinned broadly as Vogel waved to Kristian who tossed over another pack which the spy rummaged in for a few seconds before his hand emerged clutching a number of pouches. He tossed one to each child who caught them with ease.

The children emptied the contents of their pouches into their palms and when they saw the silver coins shining up at them, gave Vogel five large grins.

‘Right,’ Vogel said to them. ‘Anyone have any news for me?’

Julian stood. ‘Anna from the Elf.’

The spy turned to Kristian who raised a curious eyebrow.

‘What about her?’ Vogel said.

‘She’s been seeing this fella, Bernd, says he’s a ship’s captain. Anyway, she’s more than a bit keen for him and he feeds her shit about taking her away from the brothel.’

‘And what’s so special about this Bernd?’ Vogel said.

‘He’s a smuggler, or so he says.’ Julian shrugged. ‘Trades in sorcery, smuggles in books an’ magical stuff.’

‘Right, boys and girls!’ He held up five more pouches. ‘Which of you clever little devils know where I can find him at this time of night?’

Five hands went up.

Vogel grinned and tossed the pouches to the children.

‘You got anything else for us, Vogel?’ Julian asked.

Vogel spread his arms wide. ‘Of course I have. You know I wouldn’t come here without treats.’ He turned to Kristian and smiled.

Kristian tossed him another sack and from it Vogel produced ale skins and bundles wrapped in cloth. He laid the items on the bed and when he unwrapped them, the children gasped at the sight of the roasted hams and beef, soft bread and wheels of ripe yellow cheese.

‘Dig in, gang!’

Vogel and Kristian staggered from the house a couple of hours later, having eaten a little and drunk a lot with the children.

‘Do you think they’ll do as I suggested,’ Vogel asked Kristian, ‘and seriously consider jacking in the thieving?’

‘They respect you, Vogel. You’re the nearest thing they have to a proper parent.’ Kristian shrugged. ‘You look after them. Protect them.’

‘I’m no dad. Wulfy’d make a better parent that I would,’ Vogel said.

Kristian shook his head. ‘Nah! He’s the embarrassing grandad that farts loudly and pisses himself.’

Vogel chuckled. Wulfram Brenner was anything but that as he recalled the evening they met.

Vogel was staggering down Arbeiterstrasse behind an old man who was suddenly set upon by four n’er do wells intent from parting him from his purse. In heartbeats, he left them lying on the ground, bloody and battered.

Yeah, he could see old Wulfy kicking the bells out of thieves, but never a doddering old has been.

Kristian put his hand on Vogel’s shoulder. ‘If you tell ’em to do something, Vogel, they’ll do it. For you.’

Vogel rumbled thoughtfully.

‘Anyway, what the fuck is Bernd up to now?’ Kristian said as they walked along Zimmermannstrasse towards the Artisans Quarter.

Vogel shrugged. ‘I hope the shit he fed Anna about dealing in sorcery really was that – shit. One of these days that arse is going to get himself killed. Er, why are we going this way? Aren’t we going to the Drowning Duck?’

Kristian shook his head. ‘The littluns are right about Bernd drinking in the Drowning Duck, but I know for a fact that tonight he’ll be in the Sunken Galleon in the south docks.’

Vogel slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good lad.’

‘And what about Anna? What’s going to happen to her?’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Vogel said softly. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

Which meant he’d have a word with Marianne.

Anna would be bribed and scared into forgetting her beau and keeping her mouth shut – Marianne was an expert at that. If not, Anna would wind up floating in the Elbe – Marianne Breitmeyer was really good at that too.