The Enemy Within (24 page)

“We’ll go upstairs,” she said. She put her arm around him,
guided him in the proper direction, then noticed the barman’s glare. He wasn’t
happy with her for rebuffing Niklas or for what she intended now, either,
because no money had changed hands. “I’ll pay for the room,” she told him.

It was scarcely worth paying for, just a tiny stale-smelling
hole even more squalid than the stall in which she made her home. But it had a
door to separate the occupants from the outside world, and a bed for them to
rest on. Jarla sat Dieter down on top of the straw mattress, took him in her
arms, and then he started to sob.

She rubbed his back and waited for him to cry himself out. It
took a long time, but he finally stopped shaking and lifted his head from her
shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot. He had ruddy blotches on his face and mucus
on his upper lip.

She wiped his nose. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

He hesitated, and she felt a pang of uneasiness. She was
upset already, of course, profoundly upset to see him so distraught, but this
was different.

He’d obviously run to her for comfort, and such being the
case, she would have expected that, when the time came to explain what was
wrong, the story would have gushed out like his tears. Instead, he had the air
of a man calculating precisely what to say.

But surely that couldn’t be so. He loved and trusted her too
much to withhold or manipulate the truth. It was just that, in the wake of his
ordeal, whatever it had been, he needed a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I—” He swallowed and began again. “Mama Solveig’s dead.”

“What?”

“We were going to call on some of her patients and a creature
attacked us. Not another fiery snake, but something else out of Chaos. The
Purple Hand must have sent it, too. I tried to fight, but my magic couldn’t stop
it. You see what it did to me. I thought it would kill me for certain, but it
just cleared me out of its way, because it was really after Mama.”

Jarla felt tears start from her own eyes, heralding the
bitter sorrow to come. She wasn’t truly grieving yet. The news had shocked her
numb. But she knew she would. Solveig Weiss had shown her more love and kindness
than her true mother ever had.

“Did she suffer?” Jarla asked.

“I hope not. At the end, when… the beast finally sank its
claws into her, everything seemed to happen quickly.” He started crying again,
and this time, they wept together.

When that outpouring of anguish subsided, she murmured, “I
don’t blame you for what happened, and I don’t want you to blame yourself.”

To her surprise, he jerked back out of her embrace to stare
into her face. The third eye popped open to study her as well.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“Just that I know you did everything you could to save Mama,
and if you couldn’t, no one else in the coven could have done it, either. So you
mustn’t hate yourself because the daemon or whatever it was got past you.”

“Oh. I thought…” He gave his head a shake, as if to clear
it. “You’re right. I did my best, and I shouldn’t despise myself for failing.
Mama wouldn’t want that.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She’d want us to serve the god and take
care of one another.” Perhaps because his manner was still strange, she suffered
another stab of anxiety. “You are going to stay with me and take care of me,
aren’t you? I’ve lost everyone else who really mattered.”

He sighed. “Yes. Of course.”

Dieter crouched in the shadowy alley with the taste of Mama
Solveig’s blood and flesh in his misshapen mouth. Jarla’s voice called his name
repeatedly, the sound louder, nearer, every time.

She mustn’t see him in his current monstrous guise. He
recited the words intended to turn him back into a human being, but nothing
happened. He tried again, and it still didn’t work.

Jarla appeared framed in the entrance to the alley. She gaped
at him. “Dieter! You killed Mama! You ate her!”

He wanted to deny it, but a sort of inertia held him. He
stood mute and passive, and then it was too late. She vanished, and a band of
armed men materialised in her place. Some were Krieger’s assistants, some were
Mann’s freakish followers, and the rest were the watch patrol Dieter had clawed
his way through to reach his intended victim, up and walking despite their gory
wounds.

They all charged Dieter, and he wheeled and fled before them.
They cried his name as they pounded after him.

For a while he ran through Altdorf’s benighted streets and
alleyways, and then, abruptly, the city gave way to sunlit fields of scarlet
grass. Voices shouted his name from ahead as well as behind. He crested a rise
and beheld Tzeentch’s legions arrayed in a battle formation.

If he stayed where he was, his pursuers would catch and
butcher him. If he ran onwards, the god’s warriors would protect him, but it
would mean joining their ranks to serve forever after.

He couldn’t choose. He stood paralysed until guns banged, and
the balls hammered into his torso. He screamed, and then the vermilion
grasslands vanished. Gasping, heart pounding, drenched in sweat, he lay on his
back in darkness.

A nightmare, he told himself, it was only a nightmare. In
reality, he wore his natural form, and he was still in Mama Solveig’s cellar. Or
rather, he supposed, it was his cellar now, so long as he paid the rent.

He took deep breaths, let them out slowly, and the tension
started seeping out of his body. Then a voice said, “Dieter.”

He threw off his covers and sat up on the cot. “Who’s there?”

For a heartbeat or two, no one answered, and Dieter wondered
if the voice had merely been an echo of his dream. Then it repeated his name.

“I said, who’s there?” Dieter called, and when the voice
again failed to answer, he, too alarmed to take the time to light a candle in
the usual way, rattled off a charm. A yellow teardrop of flame flowered atop the
nearest taper, illuminating the infirmary, and, to a lesser degree, the shadowy
spaces beyond. As far as Dieter could see, he was alone.

Mann had told of a voice that spoke from empty air. Had
Dieter’s lunatic scheme actually worked? “Are you the Master of Change?” he
asked.

“I watched you,” said the disembodied voice. It was
masculine, with a shivering metallic undertone like the fading note of a gong.
It sounded from one point, then another, as if the speaker were physically
present and flitting around the room like a fly. “I saw everything.”

Dieter swallowed. Saw everything? What did that mean? Was the
Master, if this was really he, saying that he knew Dieter was a spy? That he’d
watch him murder Mama Solveig?

Dieter rose from the cot. If he was in danger, he wanted to
meet it on his feet. “Just tell me who you are,” he said.

“I saw you quell the curse Adolph so stupidly unleashed. I
watched you teach the others. I saw you rob the armoury and journey into the
forest.”

Dieter felt marginally better. It only made sense that even
if the Master of Change had the ability to spy on him, he wouldn’t spend his
every waking moment doing so, and by the sound of it, he hadn’t been watching
when Dieter met with Krieger, or did anything else incriminating.

“Then I hope you were pleased. Assuming that you are who I
think you are.”

The voice laughed, which made the hint of vibrating metal
more overt. The sound had a crazy quality as well, like the cackle of a senile
old man finding humour where sounder minds saw none.

“Now why would you assume that?”

“Mama Solveig is dead. If the Master of Change wants to
maintain governance over the coven she assembled, he’s going to have to
communicate with one of the other members.”

“But why would it be you, the new recruit? Why not someone
who’s served the Red Crown long enough that his loyalty is beyond question?”

Dieter didn’t care for the implication that his own fidelity
was not, but decided not to respond to it directly. Not yet, not unless he had
to, for fear of making the situation worse. “The high priest of the coven needs
to be an accomplished warlock, and with Mama, Adolph and Nevin dead, and Jarla’s
skills so rudimentary, I seem to be the only candidate.”

“You’re arrogant,” said the voice.

No, Dieter thought, I’m the sword of Tzeentch, his anointed
champion. In the long run, likely more important than you. Then he faltered,
appalled to catch himself embracing, even for an instant, the venomous lie the
priest had told him.

But now was not the time to agonise over this further
evidence of his psychic division and deterioration. Rather, he needed to show
more respect. “I don’t mean to be arrogant,” he said. “I bristle when I’m
uneasy, and you rattled me by calling out of the darkness. Truly, I was only
trying to answer the question you asked. But if that answer wasn’t good enough,
maybe this one will be.” He opened his new eye.

He thought that when he did, he might somehow catch a glimpse
of the Master of Change even though the cult leader was apparently projecting
his voice from far away. Unfortunately, he didn’t. The only thing he saw that
hadn’t been visible before was a purplish shimmer crawling on Mama Solveig’s
worktable, the bundles of herbs hanging above it, and the thick brick pillars.

“Yes,” said the voice, “the mark of the god. It means a great
deal, and yet, not all of us who receive his favour are as thankful as we ought
to be.”

“I am.”

“I hope so. My divinations suggest you’re destined to
accomplish much in the service of our lord. But I’ve found that prophecy by
itself can prove a treacherous guide. A mage should never ignore his common
sense.”

Dieter’s pulse ticked in the side of his neck. “And what does
your common sense tell you?”

The voice laughed. “Nothing conclusive, but it is troubled
that in the brief time since you joined your coven, the mistress and four other
members have died.”

“You said it yourself: it was Adolph’s folly that killed Nevin
and Maik and himself, for that matter. He forced me to strike him down. As for
Mama, we assume the Purple Hand waylaid her. I certainly had no reason to do it.
I liked her.”

“Yet even so, perhaps you coveted her position.”

Dieter shook his head. “Adolph did. I didn’t. Not while she
was alive.”

“What about now?”

“Well, to be honest, yes. Who wants to be a common soldier if
he can be a captain instead? So, if you truly doubt me, tell me what I must do
to win your trust.”

“Fair enough. I intend to summon you to the next gathering of
coven leaders. When you come, bring Jarla Kubler along with you.”

Dieter hesitated. “I understood that no one but coven leaders
ever attend such assemblies.”

The Master of Change chuckled. “Then you were misinformed.
Naturally, we bring lesser folk. We need them. When the lords of the Red Crown
pay homage to our patron, it’s only fitting that we offer a finer sacrifice than
goats.”

“I’ll gladly secure one. But Jarla is a faithful servant of
the god.”

“Up to now, perhaps, but she’s soft and weak. Better to send
her to her reward before she fails us.”

“If you kill her, what effect will that have on the rest of
our circle?”

“None, because they’ll never know what became of her. She’ll
simply disappear, and then, not immediately but not long after, you’ll show them
new documents full of dark lore. It will prove you’ve been to see me, and I
chose you to succeed Mama Solveig.”

Dieter struggled to think of another objection, but nothing
came to him, or nothing helpful, anyway. It was useless to argue that murdering
Jarla would be cruel and unjust. Devotion to Chaos was supposed to transcend all
such petty considerations. Nor would it help to plead that he loved her, because
that was exactly the point. The Master of Change was demanding that he betray
her to demonstrate his absolute commitment.

Damn it, why was he even worrying about a whore, a Chaos
worshipper, when the accomplishment of his mission might finally be at hand?
He’d known from the start that if he actually succeeded in taking down the Red
Crown, she was almost certain to burn with the rest of the cultists. He’d
reminded himself again and again that she was expendable.

Yet he realised now that she mattered to him. Perhaps not
sufficiently to sway him from his course, but certainly enough to make it
bitter.

“All right,” he said. “Just tell me where I’m supposed to
bring her.”

“I’ll guide you when the time comes.”

The mauve and violet shimmering faded, and Dieter sensed he
was alone once more. His head started throbbing a moment later.

As he followed Krieger through the door, Dieter saw that the
tavern was less busy than on their previous visit. Perhaps this evening’s
combatants had less of a following, although the broad-shouldered, leather-clad
victor of the most recent contest looked formidable enough. Gripping his
handler’s outstretched hand, he clambered up out of the pit, and a few
well-wishers babbled at him and slapped him on the back. Not dead yet but
probably well on the way, leaving a trail of blood behind him, his opponent
crawled feebly on the floor of the arena. Other spectators, apparently
disappointed by the loser’s performance, shouted taunts and insults down at him,
or hurled chicken bones and empty bottles. One man unbuttoned his breeches to
piss.

As before, Krieger bought two tankards of ale and hired the
private alcove. Dieter dumped Mama Solveig’s bag on the floor. Though he lacked
all but a smattering of her knowledge of the healing arts, to provide himself
with an income he’d continued treating the old woman’s patients. Since he wasn’t
tainting the elixirs and poultices with the effluvium of Tzeentch’s icon, he
suspected that, on average, those who received his ministrations were faring
about as well as they had before.