C. Werner: Dead Winter

The rat-catcher cast a backwards glance at the hooded men and their little cart filled with dung. They’d be hard-pressed selling the night soil this time of year. No farmer would need manure now. It was possible they might be able to sell some of it as fuel, but only the poorest of the poor in the shantytown beside the south docks would resort to such measures. Hardly the most wealthy clientele.

Again, Walther reflected upon the benefits of being a hunter. In addition to the bounty offered by the burghomeister, there was always a market for his catch.

From out of the darkness, a battered wooden sign swayed upon rusty iron chains. There was no lettering upon the board — few in this part of the city were literate — but the painted image of a hog’s head did a serviceable job of proclaiming the sort of business housed within. Walther shifted the heavy sack from one shoulder to the other. Using the haft of the pole he employed in his work, he knocked against the door.

It was a few minutes before the door was tugged open. A balding, overweight man dressed only in his nightshirt stood blinking in the doorway, a foul-smelling candle clenched in his fist. He stared bleary-eyed at Walther. The rat-catcher knew he must present quite a sight, his wool garments caked in the filth of Nuln’s sewers, his hands stained with blood, his face drawn and haggard from the long night crawling after rodents.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ Walther said, his tone gruff and impatient.

‘Schill,’ the fat man said, stepping aside to allow the rat-catcher entry. ‘I’ve told you before to come by the back way,’ the man grumbled as he closed the door behind his visitor.

‘I’m in too much of a hurry,’ Walther told him, blowing out the rushlight and stuffing the remains of the taper into a cowhide holster. ‘Hunting was good tonight. I lost track of time.’ He strode through the little shop, around bins of pig-feet and goat-ears, past racks of ham hocks and the plucked carcasses of chickens. With a sigh of relief, the rat-catcher set his bag down on a wooden counter at the back of the shop.

‘In a hurry,’ the fat man scowled, coming around the counter. He set the candle down beside a pair of bronze scales. Fumbling about behind the counter, he produced a number of tiny stone weights. ‘You mean you’ve been dry too long.’ He reached over and untied the twine closing the bag. ‘You should talk Bremer into making you a partner with all the money you drop at the Black Rose!’

Walther’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. Angrily, he drew the bag away. ‘I don’t go there to see Bremer and I don’t come here to be lectured, Ostmann!’

‘Have it as you want,’ Ostmann apologised. ‘Let’s see what you have.’ The butcher reached into the linen bag, removing the long furry body of a rat. He jostled the dead rodent for a moment in his hand, trying to estimate its weight before resorting to the scales. ‘A big one. Might be sixteen ounces.’ He cast a glance at the bulky bag. ‘Are they all like that?’

Walther nodded. ‘I said the hunting was good. Forty-three longtails and not a runt among them.’

Ostmann made an appreciative whistle, sliding the first rat over to the scales. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you much coin,’ he said. ‘There’s not too much demand for dog fodder…’

‘You’ll pay what you always pay,’ Walther told him, reaching for the bag. Ostmann quickly laid a protective hand atop it. The rat-catcher drew back, waving his hand at the empty meat hooks hanging from the ceiling and the empty bins lined against the wall. ‘I’m well aware of what you need. This talk of plague has made the burghers nervous. Count Artur has outlawed the transport of cattle from Stirland to try and keep it from spreading into Nuln. The guildmasters assure that they can buy enough Reikland beef to make up for it, but one look at your shelves makes me think otherwise. The burghers might be peasants but they aren’t serfs. They want some meat with their supper.’

The butcher drew back, his face aghast. ‘Surely you aren’t suggesting…’

‘I might do more than suggest,’ the rat-catcher threatened.

Ostmann licked his lips nervously. He began drawing rats from the bag, setting each in turn on the scales, scribbling figures on a scrap of sackcloth. ‘Care for something to eat while I tally this up? Some sausage?’

Walther gave the man a crooked smile. ‘Ostmann, just because I catch them doesn’t mean I want to eat them.’

Altdorf

Nachgeheim, 1111

The meeting of the Imperial Grand Council broke apart some hours later, disgruntled noblemen slipping back to their private manors scattered about Altdorf’s Palace District, others retreating to their chambers within the Imperial Palace itself. There was no arguing with one of the Emperor’s diktats and nothing but anger and frustration to be gained by trying.

Some of the dignitaries, however, felt enough resentment to accept the invitation of Prince Sigdan Holswig. The titular ruler of Altdorf, much of Sigdan’s power was subordinate to that of Emperor Boris, leaving him with few duties and even fewer responsibilities. Since assuming the title from his late father, Sigdan’s chief concern had become soothing the tempers of those who had felt the sting of the Emperor’s decrees.

Situated overlooking the river, Sigdan’s castle was a relic of older times. It was said to have been built by Sigismund II as a bulwark to command the approach to the Reik. In those distant days, Norscan reivers had been bold enough to sail their longships down the river as far as Nuln and Pfeildorf. It had been the river castles built by Sigismund II which had finally ended the depredations of the longships.

Gazing down from the lead-lined window overlooking the river, Dettleb von Schomberg could almost see the longships coming again, Snagr Half-nose sailing down the Reik with a fleet of berserkers to plunder and pillage the heart of the Empire. Only a few years ago, the nobleman would have found such a thing impossible. Now, he wasn’t quite so certain. He’d just had a very forceful reminder that the greed of his Emperor knew no limits.

‘Of course they will discharge their warriors,’ Baron Thornig’s voice drew von Schomberg away from the window. A dozen or so noblemen and their retainers were gathered at Prince Sigdan’s table, picking at the remains of a roast boar and plates of pickled eel. ‘What other choice do they have?’

‘You make it sound as if you don’t intend to discharge your own soldiers,’ observed Palatine Kretzulescu. The Sylvanian dignitary looked even more drained and exasperated than he had in the Imperial Palace.

A wolfish grin spread beneath Baron Thornig’s beard. ‘I can speak for Graf Gunthar. He won’t pay this criminal tax!’

‘Don’t think Boris will let him get away with that,’ said Aldo Broadfellow. The halfling was sitting on a large cushion, massaging his hairy feet. He glowered at his toes. ‘Why that man insists on my wearing boots when I see him…’ he grumbled to himself.

‘The half-man speaks the right of it,’ cautioned Count van Sauckelhof. ‘Try to keep a schilling from Boris’s purse and he’ll lay siege to the Ulricsberg.’

‘With what?’ Baron Thornig growled. ‘He’s made it impossible to retain an army big enough to do the job!’

‘Don’t think he hasn’t thought of that,’ von Schomberg said as he returned to the table. ‘Boris has already granted a dispensation to Westerland and Drakwald in recognition of their ongoing travails.’

Van Sauckelhof drained his goblet of wine in a swallow. ‘I half expected him to make us pay for each barbarian,’ he snapped.

Kretzulescu caught the old knight’s meaning, his face growing even more pale. ‘You mean Drakwald?’