XVI
A Word

'Aux amies, citoyens,' said Wéry boldly, as he marched into his office.

Asmus, the new clerk, looked up from the one desk they had to share.

'Guerre aux chateaux!' he replied.

'Paix aux chaumières' trumpeted Wéry, and flung his coat into a corner.

'Et sois mon frère, ou je te tue,' said Asmus wryly, gathering his papers and rising from his place. 'I like that one especially, citizen.'

'Thank you, citizen,' said Wéry. He picked his hussar's cap off a dusty shelf and balanced it on his head. Ponderously he took his seat. 'Now, Asmus, I am uniformed, at my desk, in my barracks. I am an officer of the Prince and of the Empire once more. And so?'

'For God and Emperor, sir!' 'The Divine Order! And shall we yield the Rhineland?'

'The integrity of the German body must be maintained!' cried Asmus, raising a defiant fist to the ceiling.

'Exactly. We may shout for revolution, but we fight for integrity and order. That is our contradiction. And underlying our contradiction is the deeper truth, from which all things spring. And it is?'

'You said it was "Fuck the French", sir.'

Wéry's brow furrowed. 'I thought we decided that was too broad. Was it not to be "A Plague on Paris" or "Damn the Directory"?'

'You said, sir, that "Damn the Directory" was insufficiently poetic.'

'You are right. I did,' Wéry sighed. 'Even to be a poet, one has to lie a little.'

Asmus was a young man, with long, brown hair so thin that the white of his scalp showed through it. He was capable, spoke some French and had a dry sense of humour that made working with him a pleasure. He had not seemed to mind being taken for days at a time from his prestigious and presumably lucrative work in the First Minister's offices. Best of all, he could think. He had opinions on philosophy, politics and the personalities of Erzberg, and was more than ready to share them.

It was he, for example, who had finally explained to Wéry that the Countess Wilhelmina Pancak-Schönberg (whom everyone called simply 'the Countess') was not only the Prince-Bishop's mistress but also his aunt. Wéry had been wondering why his fellow officers would joke freely in his hearing about the Countess's fondness for young women but would fall quickly silent if he referred to her relations with the Prince. Now at last he understood. Incest as well as fornication! It was too much for Erzberg to admit to the outsider.

Wéry had warmed to Asmus from that moment. He had warmed further when he found that Asmus was willing to take part in some of the joke-rituals that Albrecht von Adelsheim had invented, such as the 'Slogans of Contradiction', in which the participants shouted the rallying-cries of opposite sides with increasing fervour. Altogether he was far more valuable than any promotion. The only sadness was that he might soon be withdrawn because Wéry had, after all, so little for him to do.

'You had better make the most of him while you can,' Fernhausen had said ruefully. 'Gianovi nearly had a fit when he heard we were after the fellow. He may even try to raise it with the Prince.' It had sounded, then, as if Asmus's recall might arrive any day. But September had given way to October and still Asmus came down to the barracks twice a week to take his place in Wéry's office. Perhaps Gianovi's influence had declined. Indeed it must have done if his notoriously busy staff could be depleted for the sake of an intelligence officer who struggled to gather any intelligence!

'How was the mission, sir?'

Wéry sighed again. 'Kranz is dead. French dragoons did it.'

'Oh!'

Asmus was shocked. His hand made a curious movement, searching the air behind him. It was reaching for a chair for his body to sink into. But there was no spare chair in the office, which had only recently had to accommodate two men rather than one.

'Because he worked for us, sir?'

'No knowing. Robbery, grudge, assassination – it could have been any or all. The others are all right. Of course they are scared now, which means they will be less likely than ever to stick their necks out because we ask it.'

'I see.' Asmus thought for a moment more. 'And is there news?'

That was the question. That was what every man in Erzberg, from the Prince downwards, wanted to know. And Erzberg would pass quickly enough over the loss of a hired man, so long as there was news. Wéry had done the same himself, in those moments after he had seen the cold-hearted puff of pistol smoke across the valley. It was just that he knew now what the news amounted to.

'Not much. Comings and goings. If anything, there's been a slight reduction in the strength at Wetzlar – another demi-brigade posted back across the Rhine. They still have plenty of force if they want to move. There's no sign of an increase in supplies, but that doesn't mean anything because we know the French don't believe in supplies when they are in a hurry. They will need more artillery but otherwise they can come and get us when they want.'

Asmus had drawn pen and paper to himself across the desk, but his nib did not touch the sheet. He looked up, 'So – no change?'

'Dress it up to make it look as though we've been busy. We have been busy, after all. But yes, that's the message.'

'Who is the source?'

Wéry hesitated. If he let it be known that he had been skulking around Wetzlar himself, scratching on doors and whistling at windows, there would be another difficult interview with Bergesrode. Just the thought of it made him feel tired.

'For the purposes of the report, you say that Kranz told it to me while he was dying in my arms.'

'You want me to say that he is dead?'

'Yes, of course.'

'If I do, the Treasury will cut his pay from our funds.'

Wéry groaned. (Erzberg, Erzberg! Lose a man but keep the money. And pocket it if you can! But Asmus was right. That was exactly how the palace functionaries thought.)

'He's dead in the Prince's service. Let him have a line of ink.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now, what's been happening here?'

Asmus shrugged. 'There have been more demands from the French about the d'Erles party.'

'Telling us the émigrés have got to leave, and the walls must be blown up, and if we don't do it ourselves they will come and do it for us?'

'Exactly. I must say . . .' Asmus was fiddling with his pen in a rare sign of agitation. 'I cannot understand why His Highness does not just send d'Erles away! Can it really be that the Countess is so fond of this wastrel?'

'That's up to His Highness,' said Wéry. 'If there's a fight, we fight. That's all.'

'Yes, indeed. But . . .'

But Asmus was right. Whether out of love for his godchild, devotion to his mistress or loathing for the Republic, the Prince was playing a terrible gamble with his state.

'What does the Chapter say?'

Asmus glanced out of the window in the direction of the cathedral. The light was going early today.

'They were to meet this evening,' he said. 'Very soon, now, I imagine. Many of them are against him. Perhaps most. And there's an extraordinary meeting of the Estates tomorrow.'

'Maybe they will haul His Highness back.'

'Maybe.'

Maybe, maybe. But they did not know. No one knew. Would the French move now? Would they wait until spring? Would they do nothing but threaten? Wéry was the only one who could tell them. And at present he could not. His agents in Nassau were frightened and resentful. All they wanted to do was hibernate. That only left the Rhine, if anything useful could be gathered there. And if the messages could get through.

'Did that passport go to the address I gave you?' he asked.

Asmus looked at him.

'Yes.'

'There was no trouble about it?'

'None yet, sir.'

'Good.'

If she kept her promise. How long? Perhaps a man was already on his way to the Jürichs. Would there be something waiting for him? Probably not, because they would not expect him. So they would have to keep him there, or send one of their own when they did have something. How long then? No knowing.

Damn it, again he did not know!

'The War Commission has appointed the panel to investigate Count Balcke-Horneswerden,' said Asmus.

'Have they?'

He had not told Asmus there was a link between the passport and the investigation. Asmus must have guessed. But he had asked no questions yet.

'They are Steinau-Zoll, the Canon Inquisitor, Canon Rother-Konisrat, and the Knight von Uhnen.'

'Ho,' said Wéry thoughtfully.

So Balcke-Horneswerden was to be investigated by one clever man from the Ingolstadt set, one clever man from the peace party – its leader in fact – and the mercurial Uhnen, whose son might be a hussar, but 'who could not safely be associated with any faction. They would be armed with hindsight, knowing that the action at Hersheim had been useless. There had been no need to save the army, because peace had already dawned when Balcke had ordered the attack. And if that Frenchman ever appeared before them, Steinau and Rother at least would be happy to take his word over Balcke's. That might be enough to tie the noose.

Wéry shifted uncomfortably. He did not like to think he might be responsible for Balcke's dismissal. Balcke had helped him in the past. There was no denying that. And if the French came in force, Erzberg would need Balcke a thousand times over.

The sooner they got news of the French advance, the better then! There would be no time for inquiries after that. And no place for a French witness either! Damn it . . .

'Take the seat,' he grumbled. 'I'm getting changed.'

He retreated into his narrow bedroom, got rid of his mud spattered civilian disguise, and pulled on his hussar's tunic and trousers. His thoughts would not leave him alone.

The Chapter was meeting this evening. Perhaps it had already begun. He tried to picture the Prince and the Canons – including Canons Rother and Steinau – all speaking in those soft voices of war. The Prince was relying on the reports Wéry had given him.

There had been nothing new for weeks! Back in the office the light was going fast. He stalked around the room, ignoring Asmus, who was busy at the desk inventing who-knew-what to justify both their salaries. On the wall the white eyes of the dying Christ rolled grotesquely in the gloom.

He peered out of the window at the gathering evening, and tried to decide whether the barracks should be another strong point in his plan for the defence of the city. It had thick walls, and a good open square where troops could be ordered or stores piled. But it was overlooked by the onion-dome of the Saint Lucia church. Any defence would have to hold the church as well. And if the church was a strong point, why bother with the barracks? Manpower would be limited, after all.

The less warning of attack, the less manpower there would be.

Damn it! He could not just sit here!

'I am going out,' he said. 'Get that report written up, will you?'

'Yes, sir,' said Asmus, still writing.

'And get yourself a lamp, for God's sake. It's nearly dark already.'

'Yes, sir.'

It was indeed nearly dark, and the mist was coming off the river in a thick, cold smoke that filled the lower streets. For all that, there seemed to be more people about than was normal for the hour. Men passed him, striding swiftly, hurrying to some house or friend or gathering that he could not guess at. Others hung in doorways or at street corners, murmuring to one another or listening to someone holding forth by the light of a lantern. They glanced at him as he strode by in the shadows like a rumour of war. A man spoke to him. It was a question, but because of the accent he did not catch it. He stared at the fellow, who stared back at him, holding out a pamphlet. There were a stack of other pamphlets under the man's arm. He saw the man realize that he was an officer, start, and draw back even as he put out his hand to take the sheet. Then the pamphleteer was scurrying away in the mist, leaving him standing arm outstretched, fingers empty.

Five years before, in Brussels, in Paris, he had taken pamphlets like that one eagerly He had even written some of them. Now he was on the other side. He took off his plumed cap and drew his coat around him as he went, hiding his uniform as far as he could. And he walked among them, like a hidden enemy.

Enemy? No, not enemy. This was not revolution in the air. It was fever. Fear. He caught the words Prince and émigré and Chapter again and again. People were pressing each other for news. Anyone who could be imagined to know what was happening inside the Chapter meeting was being called over, to exchange rumour and counter-rumour. Wéry heard the phrase the French have demanded . . . but whatever it was they were supposed to have demanded was lost in the noise of someone coughing up fog. He heard the word siege uttered like the hiss of a snake in a thicket.

He stopped in the little square of Saint Lucia and the church loomed down at him, lightless and silent. It was broad-fronted, with a high tower, small windows and walls of stoutly-built stone. It stood corner-wise on to the street opposite. Cannon fire from down there would be deflected by the angle of the walls. The other streets onto the square were narrow and twisted. Any guns firing up those would have to be positioned so close that the crews would be at risk from sharpshooters in the spire. You could post watchmen up there. You could loophole the walls. The place could be a little redoubt, as long as men were determined to hold it. And as long as they had powder and shot. When that ran out the defenders would have to retreat or die like rats in a trap.

And how could you retreat from here? You would have to have allies on the rooftops. The rooftops would be important. So would the sewers. Where did the sewers run?

He paced on down the narrow streets, fighting his battle in his mind. The mist thickened, warning him of smoke. The enemy would fire the town. That would clear the rooftops of any of his sharpshooters who were downwind. It would also make it impossible to breathe in cellars, where people would be hiding, and in the sewers too. What could the defence do about that? Could they soak the timbers of every house in town with river water? Which way would the wind be blowing?

There were people ahead of him. There was a noticeable drift among them, in the same direction that he was going – uphill towards the cathedral. Probably there was already a crowd assembling outside the Chapter House, waiting for news. He might go and join them – he might at least hear how things stood, if there were announcements after the meeting ended. But if it ended badly, and the crowd found a uniformed man in its midst, it might become dangerous. He would do better to go back to the barracks.

He did not want to. All he could do in the barracks was fret. Here in the street he could at least have ideas. This guildhall now . . . Look beyond the carved gilt wood gleaming in the lantern light over the door. See the windows, commanding the alley opposite. See the French skirmishers cowering for shelter under the fire from its roof. See them scuttling for doorways, leaving a comrade writhing in the smoke! Then they would regroup and attack the door. Bayonets and musket butts. Yet. . .

Stand fast. That was the answer. Make them take you down man by man. The Lie loved weakness. It loved to whisper of the cost. Never listen. Never surrender. Never, never, never – no matter what the odds or the changing causes, never surrender. Only that way would it have any meaning at all.

A carriage was coming up the street behind him. Its wheels clattered loudly on the cobbles, and the sound echoed from the walls of the overhanging buildings. People were squeezing to the side of the street to be out of its way. The horse had nearly reached him. He pressed himself into a doorway and let the thing by, vaguely recognizing the device on the bodywork from somewhere.

He felt the street-muck spatter from its wheels against his boots, and then it was past him. He stepped out from the doorway to follow.

A man's voice sounded from the carriage, and it stopped. As he came up with it again, a door opened and a pale face showed from inside.

'That you, Wéry?'

It was Uhnen. He was drunk.

'It's me.

'My Virgil. Where're you going? Climb in. I'll have you there in a minute.'

'I'm just taking the air.'

'Climb in. You're a good fellow. I want to talk with you.'

Reluctantly, Wéry climbed into the leather-smelling interior. There was almost no light. There was no one else in the carriage.

'Drive on,' said Uhnen to his coachman.

The carriage lurched into motion again.

'Where are we going?' asked Wéry.

'Nowhere much,' said Uhnen, lolling on the other seat. 'I think I was going to try the Hotel Markburg next, but it doesn't matter. We can go anywhere you like.'

'What's the matter?'

'Oh.' Von Uhnen waved his hand dismissively. 'She doesn't want me.'

She?

'Told me so yesterday, over cards.'

She would be Maria von Adelsheim, of course. (What had she done about his messages? Surely someone should have gone for them by now!)

'I thought she was already betrothed,' Wéry said.

'Oh, she is. I don't see it should matter . . . Well, why should it? He's a boy, and anyway he barely leaves his rooms from one year to the next! What sort of a match is that? It's ridiculous . . . I tell you what, Wéry. I lay it on that mother of hers. It's her way of keeping Maria with her as long as possible. That, and spite because they made her marry an idiot. Ruin it for everyone else. That's what she's doing . . .'

'I'm sorry to hear it,' said Wéry stiffly.

'I need to get drunk,' groaned Uhnen.

'You've done that already, haven't you?'

'Not half enough. We'll go down to the Markburg. I know them there. They'll see us right.'

Wéry doubted very much if he would be welcome at the Markburg, which was exclusively for families of Imperial Knights. And even if they turned a blind eye to his presence, he did not want to spend his evening nursing Uhnen's lovesick heart. Certainly not when Maria von Adelsheim was the cause! But Uhnen had been friendly since the affair at the bridge. Aristocrat he might be, but he did not deserve to be abandoned like this. Love was a great leveller, and a dangerous enemy.

And it was not as though he had much else to do! He only hoped that Asmus would have the sense to go home when he did not reappear.

'She seemed to like me very well,' groaned Uhnen.

'She may well do. But that doesn't mean everything.'

'And I've been protecting them! I could destroy them with a word. But I've not told her that. I won't.'

'Destroy Adelsheim? It would have to be a very powerful word.'

'Oh,' said Uhnen, with affected weariness. 'Illuminati.'