Warhammer [Ignorant Armies] (8 page)

She looked amused, not shocked.

"Have I sung my song so convincingly that I must take off my scarf to prove I'm not some creature of the night?" She turned to Stefan. "I'd like that wine now."

He beckoned another wineboy.

"Bring a bottle of wine, and a cup for the lady. Make it one of your best and there'll be some coppers in it for you." He handed the boy five gold crowns, then felt embarrassed at his extravagance.

"I'm celebrating," he told her. "I got my licence today."

"I have applied for mine," she said.

The wine came before he had to reply. He poured for all of them.

"Where will you practice?"

"No idea yet," he said.

"You have no real vocation for healing, have you Stefan?' she said quietly. Close up, he saw that her eyes were dull with fatigue and ringed with blue. She seemed thinner.

He shrugged.

"I wouldn't call mixing potions to aid the overtaxed digestions of rich people a holy duty, if that's what you mean."

"The rich are not the only ones who need care." She looked at him steadily.

His nostrils filled with the stench of people lying in their own filth, rotting from inside with disease, and the sound of their thin cries deafened him. His stomach rippled; he did not see the wineboy approach the table.

"Fraulein Katya? The deputy High Wizard wishes to speak with you."

Without a word, she stood and followed him.

Stefan's hand shook as he reached for his wine. A few tables away, Janna Eberhauer leaned close to Katya, talking softly.

Josef followed his gaze. "Don't take it too hard, Stefan. She's probably happier with her own kind." He laughed. "I wonder how Eva's feeling about this."

Stefan turned to look at him, full of revulsion. Who for, he was not sure.

Over the next few days, images of Katya haunted Stefan; he saw her as he had that first time, by the gate, stained with wine, sure of her skill; he heard her singing, remembered the glitter of her eyes. But he dreamed of a different Katya, a Katya who slipped her arms around him from behind and kissed him until he moaned. And when he turned to reach for her, the arms she held out to him were scaled and taloned.

"Stefan, what catches your interest in here?"

His father sounded pleased to find him in the room which doubled as library and record repository. Stefan turned round, a scroll pushed through his belt.

"I was just looking through a few records to see if I could find an exact definition of a mutant." The lie came easily.

His father looked interested.

"Exact definition? Can't say I've ever really thought about it." He went over to a cupboard and rummaged around. "There might be something in the... ah, here we are." He dragged a volume from an orderly pile and laid it on the table. "Now, let's see."

"Perhaps I should look. You've always found references for me. Now that I have my licence, I ought to do my own reading too."

His father looked so pleased that Stefan was ashamed of his deception.

"Well then, I'll just take what I came for and leave you to it." He gathered up the pile of scrolls on the table; Stefan held the door for him. "There have been times when I've doubted you would ever make a physician, Stefan, but perhaps I have been wrong, perhaps after all you will be sorting through this pile of licence applications one day. I'm proud of you."

Stefan pulled the parchment from his belt and sat down.
Application for Licence, Physician's Guild: Katya Raine
he read. She must have hired a scribe.

He scanned the contents. She came from Schoninghagen, almost a hundred miles to the south and west. What had made her travel all the way to Middenheim? He tucked the scroll back into his belt and left.

It was one of those rare autumn afternoons when the sun streamed clear and warm into the city. Stefan had not bothered with a cloak. He shouldered his way through the crowds along Burgen Bahn. With only three days to go until Carnival, he was thankful that the Red Moon was not in the middle of the Altmarkt where it was certain to be even more crowded.

The closer he came to the Red Moon, the slower he walked. Katya's application rubbed against his skin where it lay hidden beneath his shirt. He did not know what he wanted of her. To talk to her, maybe. Or maybe not. She attracted him but made him uneasy. By the time he saw the distinctive brick of the Red Moon, warm against the grey stone of the other buildings, he was considering abandoning the whole idea and walking straight past.

The door of the Red Moon opened and Katya slipped out, carrying her satchel. She turned down Zauber Strasse. Stefan peered around the corner after her; she had not seen him. He followed.

Two thirds of the way along the street, she turned into an alleyway. She walked swiftly between houses without pausing to look around; she must have travelled this way several times before. She turned again, left then right, and Stefan almost lost her, just catching a flicker of blue as she went in the back entrance of a big house. He marked the colour of the paintwork and the style of roof tiles. It should be possible to recognize the right house if he worked his way back through the alleys to the front.

It was Janna Eberhauer's. He should have known.

Eberhauer, the Deputy High Wizard. And Katya. He felt as though he could not breathe. It took him a few moments to realize that he was shaking with rage. And around and around in his head, like a temple chant, ran the thought: he should have known, he should have known.

He went round the back again and settled against a wall where he could see the door but where he would be out of sight of anyone leaving. No matter how long it took, he would wait. Then he would find out what was going on.

By the second hour, the sun was sinking, leaving the alleys in shadow. He stamped his feet to keep them warm and wished he had worn a cloak.

His legs began to ache and he was hungry. The wall he was leaning on was damp. Doubts gnawed at him: what if she had left by the front door? He pushed it to the back of his mind.

The stars were showing. The remains of his rage sat in his stomach like an undigested meal. He would not give up, but he was achieving nothing here.

Stefan reached the Red Moon just before midday. His muscles were stiff and aching, and he wore a cloak against the freezing mist. He hoped he would not have to wait long.

This time she did not carry the satchel with her drums but a different bag. Something a physician might carry. Instead of turning down Zauber Strasse, she walked south along Burgen Bahn. It was easy to follow her through the crowds without being seen. It became even busier as she led him along Ost Weg; by Markt Weg the crowds had become so dense that he had difficulty keeping her in sight. When they reached the Altmarkt, he moved to within three strides of her back, trusting to luck that she did not look round.

Luck almost abandoned him when she went into an apothecary's. Trying to duck out of sight, he crashed backwards into a barrow full of fruit alongside a stall. He panicked when the owner shouted at him then calmed as he realized Katya would not be able to pick out one noise from another in the din: fruit sellers hawked their wares; a mother pulled down her child's breeches and held him over the gutter while he shrieked in protest; a woman, passing the mother and child, got splashed and began to shout. Stefan helped the angry stall owner to pick up the fruit.

When Katya came out of the shop, she turned out of the Altmarkt towards the Old Quarter. Stefan's heart thumped. The Old Quarter was not a safe place to be, at any time. There were no crowds to hide behind here. He wished he was carrying a knife, even though he had never used one before, except to cut meat. He turned a corner. Alleys led off in all directions. He panicked; Katya was nowhere to be seen.

There was no warning; a kick caught him behind the knees and he went down, his arm twisted up his back and a knee on his spine. Stone scraped his jaw as his attacker pulled his head around to get a look at his face.

"It's you." Katya made a sound of disgust and let him up.

Stefan stood up slowly. She had knocked the wind out of him.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," he managed.

"Good. Explain why you're following me."

He wanted to shout at her, tell her how much she had frightened him.

"Why are you practising without a licence?" he blurted instead.

"I have applied. It's only a matter of days before I receive the official stamp of approval. Then your orderly mind can rest from its worries about proper paperwork."

He said nothing, remembering the parchment against his ribs.

"Come with me and see the people I treat. Then tell me I need a licence before I lift a finger to help them."

He was so close that he could smell the damp wool of her cloak, her sandalwood perfume. Mist stung his scraped chin; she could have broken his neck while he lay on the ground. Unease knotted his belly.

They walked through the worst part of the old quarter.

"Those I treat are poor, sick, old. They are not gentle people. Prepare yourself for that."

Splintered buildings gaped at him like broken teeth, waiting to swallow him, trap him in their rotteness and despair.

"This way."

They climbed over rubble blocking a doorway. Her sandalwood was not strong enough to counter the smell of filth and neglect. Inside, it was gloomy; many windows were boarded up. Stefan jumped as a shadow moved nearby.

"They wonder who you are." She put her bag on the floor near the remains of a staircase and took off her cloak. She gave it to him to hold. "Wait here."

She climbed the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.

Stefan tried to concentrate on the cloak in his hands. It felt rough. When he was rich, he would buy her a cloak of fine, heavy wool, lined with silk. A green cloak, the same colour as the trousers she had been wearing by the east gate. Then he remembered Eberhauer.

Something moved.

"Who is it?" Sweat wormed down his back. "Anyone there?" His voice was swallowed by the dark. Something was watching him.

A shadow inched its way across the floor towards the dim light. It sat back on its haunches and tried to speak. Panic leapt like lightning up Stefan's spine. He ran.

He did not look where he was going, he just ran, pursued by visions of the mutant with lumpy and misshapen limbs and running sores, whose elephantine skin grew too far across its eyes and stretched over its mouth making speech almost impossible.

When Katya found him he had stopped retching. He pulled himself into a ball.

"Leave me alone."

She squatted down beside him and felt for fever.

"Keep away from me!" He pushed her hand away.

After a while, he asked, "Why do you do this?"

"Because they need me."

"Mutants don't need anyone."

She was silent so long he thought she was ignoring him.

"The one who frightened you is called Siggy. He is not a mutant. When he was two years old, his father spilled burning lamp oil on him. The burns were so bad that his arms and legs healed all out of shape and his skin thickened and grew back in all the wrong places. He can't stand properly and it hurts for him to move around even a little. Without proper attention, his skin dries out and cracks. I can help him with that."

Stefan tried to remember Siggy's face but the memory was slippery. He did not know what to think. Burns might explain the disfigurement.

"Are you telling me the truth?" His voice was hoarse.

"Siggy is not a mutant."

He was uncertain.

"I could still report you for not having a licence." It was like a talisman, a ritual chant to dispel confusion.

"I can help some of them, Stefan. You could too."

He wanted to believe her but his fear was real. She stood up.

"Come on."

She reached down to help him up. Her cloak slid back to reveal the scarf tied around her arm. Fear slammed through him again.

"Show me," he licked his lips, "show me what's under that scarf. Then I'll help you."

She went still.

"I won't bargain with you."

"Why not? There will be things you need, certain ingredients you won't be able to buy without showing a licence. I could get them for you." He pushed himself upright. "Show me what's under the scarf."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Show me."

"When I sing, Stefan, I do more than mouth a few words to a pretty tune. I give an audience mystery, myself an air of otherness." She touched the scarf gently. "This is my mystery."

"Show me. That's the price of my help."

She was silent a moment.

"It may not be what you want to see."

She unwound the scarf. Stefan's stomach curled in a tight fist as the last twist of cloth fell free.

"Look."

The arm was perfect and unblemished. Where the scarf had been, the skin was pale. Stefan reached out to touch it with his fingertips. It was warm and smooth.

There was no relief; the tension burrowed deeper into his stomach. He did not understand why. He wanted to walk away and never see Katya Raine again and could not; he had made a bargain.

"Make me a list of the things you need. I'll deliver them tomorrow."

The Red Moon looked smaller in daylight. It smelled of stale wine and ash: the remains of last night's fire lay in the grate. An elderly woman had gone to tell Katya he was here.

Stefan was tense and his head ached slightly; he had not slept well. He flinched when Katya entered the room. She was limping slightly.

"I tripped over my drums in the dark last night," she said, gesturing at her leg. "It's bruised, but nothing a bit of comfrey won't cure."

Stefan could not imagine Katya being clumsy.

"I have everything you asked for." He placed a small sack on the table between them.

"Thank you. How much do I owe?"

"I don't want your money." Confusion made him abrupt. He did not want to touch anything which had been near her. But she was beautiful.

"Thank you again." She paused. "Would you like a drink while you're here?"