Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

Jacob leaped.

Beneath him he saw the pile of eels like a tangle of snakes, the jagged red sea of crayfish, the silvery waves of herring. The stall seemed to go on forever, as if some fiend kept adding on another bit, with different kinds of sea creatures waiting to enfold him in their slimy embrace. He stretched out his arms and prayed for wings, but it didn’t stop him dropping down toward an ocean without water, moist, twitching bodies, gaping mouths and claws, spidery legs, a sticky, shiny mass of slithering obscenity into which Jacob was falling, down and down, desperately flailing his arms, to land in a pile of octopuses.

At first all he could see was tentacles. They grabbed him, their suckers attaching themselves to his clothes. Then he saw the chaos his dash for freedom had created. The three pursuers, once they had overcome their initial amazement, had tried to follow him, but this time the stallholders had been ready and blocked their path. Two of the men couldn’t stop in time. They crashed into the furious fishmongers and all went sprawling across the counter in a welter of flying fish. The stall began to wobble dangerously. With shrieks and cries women leaped out of the way, trying to fend off the sea creatures flying toward them. The pile of eels turned into a whirlpool in which one of the pursuers disappeared head first, while the stall tilted more and more, raining crayfish on the other. Finally the great long counter toppled over, burying fishmongers, customers, and pursuers beneath it. Jacob saw several carp skimming across the ground toward him. He rolled out of the octopus tangle, went sprawling on the slippery surface, then managed to get to his feet. No one was paying him any attention, even though he was the one who had triggered off the mêlée. It all happened so quickly, and everyone was trying to get themselves to safety.

Then he saw his first two pursuers coming around the collapsed stall. He set off running again, retching from the smell of fish, past Great St. Martin’s and through the rest of the fish stalls. The others kept on his heels, but the distance between them was gradually increasing. He had to do something to shake them off before reinforcements appeared from the opposite direction again. Panting, he sped along between the city wall on the Rhine embankment and the cathedral building site and turned into Dranckgasse. That took him out of sight of his pursuers for a moment, even if it must be obvious to them which direction he had taken. Somehow he had to become invisible. He had to—

A covered wagon drawn by two shaggy oxen was rumbling along the street, the carter dozing in the sun. There was a slight gap between the two parts of the canvas cover, but it was impossible to tell what load the cart was carrying. Only one way to find out: jump in. Jacob gathered his strength for one more leap and dived into the blackness between the two sheets.

His head cracked against something hard. With a groan, he rolled onto his back then sat up.

Barrels!

Head throbbing, he crawled to the back of the cart and cautiously peeped out between the canvas sheets. The two men appeared by the Wall at the end of the street. They seemed confused and were jabbering and gesticulating at each other, clearly arguing about what to do next.

Then one pointed to the wagon.

“What has the Devil got against me?” Jacob sighed. Hurriedly he looked around for somewhere to hide. Nothing, apart from the barrels, and they filled the front of the cart with nowhere he could squeeze into between them.

Suddenly there was a terrible screech from the axles and Jacob was thrown to one side as the wagon slowly turned left, to the accompaniment of a bizarre series of noises. They must be going through Priest Gate. That meant they were out of sight of his pursuers, at least for a few seconds. Quickly Jacob crawled to the back and dropped out under the canvas, catching his foot on the planks and bashing his head again. He could dimly hear footsteps approaching. His head was spinning.

“The cart went in there,” shouted a voice.

“And what if he’s not in it?” asked a second, out of breath.

“Where else would he be, stupid?”

They were coming and Jacob the Fox was lying in the street, gift-wrapped. If only he could think clearly. He scrambled to his feet and, half staggering, half running, caught up with the cart. Then he dropped to the ground and crawled underneath, only narrowly avoiding the iron-clad wheels, pulled himself onto the broad central shaft, drew up his legs, and stuck his fingers through the gaps between the planks above him. He was clinging to the underneath of the cart like a bat. As long as they didn’t check there, he was invisible.

The steps came around the corner and up to the cart. Turning his aching head to one side, he saw two pairs of legs.

“Hey, you! Carter! Stop!”

“Whaaat?”

“Stop, goddammit!”

The wagon came to an abrupt halt. Jacob held on even tighter so as not to be thrown off the shaft by the jolt.

“What d’you want?” he heard the carter demand gruffly.

“A look in your cart.”

“Why?”

“You’re hiding a thief in the back.”

“A thief?” The carter laughed uproariously. “Don’t you think I’d know if I was, you blockhead? It’s wine I’ve got.”

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, then let us check,” insisted the other.

“If you must,” grumbled the carter, jumping down. Jacob saw the legs of the three of them go right around the cart, then he heard the cover being pulled back. There was more clatter and the cart swayed as one of his pursuers jumped up and walked around on the planks, bent double.

“Anything?” his partner called up.

“Barrels,” came the surly reply. “What’s in the barrels?”

“Thieves,” cackled the carter. “Pickled thieves, one to a barrel.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” snapped the one in the cart. The planks creaked under his feet. He was coming closer to the part above Jacob. Too late he remembered that his fingers were sticking out slightly through the gaps. The next moment the man trod on them. Everything went black and red. Jacob bit his tongue to stop himself crying out. Get off, he prayed, please get off.

“Come on, get down,” said the man on the ground. “He’s not there. I told you so.”

The other turned on his heel a little, scraping the skin off Jacob’s fingers. The sweat was pouring off him. Scarcely conscious, he gritted his teeth.

“There’s a stink of fish here.”

“You’re imagining it. We all stink of fish. Now won’t you get down?”

“All right then.”

Wonderful! The relief! The boot had gone. Trembling, Jacob slowly let out his breath.

“And what was it your thief stole?” asked the carter, now full of curiosity, as the man jumped down.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Now just a minute. If I stop and let you search my cart, the least you could do is tell me why.”

“He stole a guilder from our master, Matthias Overstolz,” the other explained. “Right there in the street! Right outside his house in Rheingasse!”

“Unbelievable.”

Jacob couldn’t believe his ears. Stolen a guilder? Him? When, for Christ’s sake?

“A redheaded bastard. Tell us if you see him. We’ll be keeping up our patrol around here for a while yet.”

“All that for just one guilder?”

“Herr Overstolz doesn’t like being robbed.”

“No, and he doesn’t like us shooting our mouths off either,” said the other, adding to the carter, “Off you go now.”

Muttering something incomprehensible, the carter climbed back into his seat.

“Matthias will be furious,” said one of the pursuers softly.

“Not to mention his odd friend,” replied the other.