For the next ten days the Adelsheims kept to their house in the Saint Emil quarter. There was no guard at their door (as there were outside the houses of Jenz and Löhm, further down the same street), but Lady Adelsheim resolutely acted as if she too were under arrest. She kept to her study, morning and afternoon, writing letters of petition to the Prince and the Countess on behalf of her neighbours, on behalf of her cousin Canon Rother, imprisoned in the citadel, and even for Doctor Sorge, who had been caught by the frontier dragoons on the road to Nuremberg. She also wrote more widely, to influential acquaintances in the city and in neighbouring states, telling them that the supposed threat to the city had been fabricated to allow the Prince to rule like a dictator, and urging her readers to offer him no comfort. Maria knew what the letters contained, because her mother read them to her before sending them. She had never done such a thing before.
'But what if the French truly are preparing to take the city?' Maria ventured.
'Pish! It is lies. He lies about us and he lies about the French too. It is all to win himself more power. He gulls the Ingolstadt set with stories of invasion, so that they do not protest as he builds up his strength. But soon he will move against them also. He is devious. Do you know whom he has made jailor to my cousin? That man Wéry – now Colonel Wéry indeed! Commander of the citadel! And Gianovi is Governor of the city, I hear. Fanatics and foreigners, you see. He can find so few honest Erzbergers to back him.'
'Even so, is it wise? What if the Prince came to hear of what you say?'
'I am not so stupid, child,' said Lady Adelsheim. 'Our own people will carry these and will see that they arrive safely.'
Maria was in agony. However loyal the messenger, there were risks to any message – as she knew well. And there was also the danger that the next Ingolstadt canon that she addressed might simply hand her letters over to the palace. Moreover, she remembered her talk with the Prince in the Painted Room. She remembered, very clearly, the hunted look in the man's eyes as he had lifted the buff sheet of paper from Wetzlar. She did not think he had been lying about the French. And if they came . . .
But if she were to say that, then in the eyes of her mother she would have joined the Prince's party. It would mean another quarrel. Perhaps, after all that had passed between them about Albrecht, it would be the final one. And she knew this was why Lady Adelsheim was subjecting her to these letters: it was to test her loyalty, and to force her to choose her mother's side. For it was not possible to listen to the things her mother had written and yet remain neutral. If she did not oppose, she must acquiesce. She did not want to do either. She wished only that none of this was happening, and that she and her father and Anna at least were all safely away at Adelsheim.
At nights she woke up in fear. And then she thought that her mother was afraid too. But what mother feared was not punishment or siege but the loss of control. The world would no longer obey her, and she knew it. Under her wilful and confident manner, she was becoming less certain. Perhaps that was another reason why she called in Maria to hear what she had written and confirm her in what she had to say.
Damn her! Damn her!
But nothing seemed to come of the letters. Soldiers tramped the streets, with their long muskets sloped at their shoulders. They never stopped at the Adelsheims' doors. Maria watched them pass, wondering where they had come from. Most of them would indeed be honest Erzbergers, whatever Mother said. And soon they might have to level those muskets, and fire on thousands and thousands of oncoming Frenchmen. And their bodies would be exposed to French fire. And what would become of them?
'Well,' said Lady Adelsheim, putting down a letter at breakfast. 'He will take us. But what a fool he is!'
Franz, Anna and Maria looked up. Father went on burrowing over his food as if nothing had been said.
'A fool, Mother?' said Maria warily.
'See for yourself, if you wish.'
It was from Effenpanz, the butterfly-collecting Count with whom they had stayed in Bohemia when Erzberg had last been threatened by French armies. The Count wrote, in his own cramped hand, in reply to a letter Lady Adelsheim must have sent him very soon after martial law had been declared.
Of course, it said, he would shelter his dear, brave cousins. How much he admired them! What a noble thing it was to stand firm in the face of threats from these terrible revolutionaries! He only wished that the Emperor, so ill-advised by the spineless men around him, would gather such courage as was shown by the city of Erzberg. Surely with the example of Erzberg to inspire them, the soldiers of the Empire would be irresistible. He himself was now spending many hours a day in preparing his militia. But his home would for ever be open to those who could make such a courageous choice . . .
Anna was looking at her inquiringly. But instead of handing it on, Maria lifted it to her eyes again. The thought of that distant, peaceful Count leaving his butterflies to see his peasants in boots and straps and muskets was very strange. He had no doubt where the right lay. So little doubt, it seemed, that he could hardly have read Lady Adelsheim's letter closely.
She wondered if he remembered to wear his wig on his parades.
'I think we shall accept his invitation all the same,' said her mother dryly. 'I no longer wish to weary myself with this town.'
Maria put the letter down slowly.
'Why, Mother?'
'Why?' repeated Lady Adelsheim sharply. 'I have said why.'
'Mother, if you weary of the city, perhaps you should go to Adelsheim. I see no cause to go to Bohemia, unless we truly fear invasion.'
'Maria, you are impertinent. To go to Effenpanz is merely prudent. I will not debate it.'
He mother's tone was final, of course. It always was, especially when there was something that might indeed be debated. Maria felt her skin tremble slightly as she drew breath.
'I do not wish to go,' she said.
For a long moment Mother looked at her. They all looked at her – Anna, Franz, Johann the footman, poised at Mother's shoulder. Only Father muttered and chomped on over his food.
'What concern is it of yours?' said Lady Adelsheim. Her face was very white.
Maria did not know. She had not thought. She had not prepared for this moment. Yesterday, if she had been offered the chance of leaving the town, she might have cried for joy. But . . .
'I believe Effenpanz misapprehends us,' she said.
'Why should that sway me in the slightest?'
'If we were indeed as he sees us, we would not flee to him at all. We would remain here.' We would face the siege, she might have said. But Mother had not yet admitted that there would be a siege – although it was plain now that she believed it.
'There is no purpose in remaining here.'
'I am sure that there is as much and more as there has been over the past fortnight.'
'Enough! Maria, this is scandalous! I cannot support this! You will go to your room and remain there, at once. And there you will make yourself ready to leave.'
'But I believe that Father would also wish to stay!' cried Maria.
Father made no sign.
'Maria! You may not presume to speak for your father. You are at times a great disappointment to him and to me. No, it is impossible. He will accompany me. Nor, much though I might wish to abandon you, can I spare Anna to remain with you. Now go to your room at once!'
Seething, Maria trod the stairs. She was furious with her mother, and with herself. How stupid – how stupid – to speak out before she had thought what she would say. It had been stupid, too, to invoke Father. Mother could not allow herself to lose control of him. Of course not. Without him, what was she – except for an over-educated woman with a sharp tongue? So Father must go. So must Anna. They all must. Mother would drag them all along with her, accessories to her existence. And Maria would never be free of her, until at last Lady Adelsheim stirred herself to bring about her daughter's marriage.
There is no purpose to us remaining here. Was there not, now that all her petitions had failed? But a terrible hour was coming for the city. Everyone knew it. Even in Bohemia they knew it. Would they flee now? Like lice that could not longer live on the body that had fed them because it had become a corpse?
Mother was a louse. She was a louse, heavy with the blood she had sucked, heavy with the things she had stolen! She had stolen Father. She had stolen Albrecht. She had even stolen Michel Wéry – or the man Maria had imagined him to be.
He would stay – the flawed, twisted, brave man. He would face the spirits of war that he had once summoned in Paris. From the window of her room she could look south along the crags above the river and up to the walls and angled bastion of the fortifications around the Celesterburg. There, in the breach made last autumn, a crowd of tiny figures were labouring, digging out the rubble that had fallen into the ditch and dragging it, in barrows towed by long ropes, up to the line of the wall again. Things that looked like hurdles had been placed along the gap in the wall. Slowly, painfully, the earth was being piled around them to fill the defences in.
'I cannot help it,' she said, to the man she imagined was looking down upon her. 'I cannot help it. I am her prisoner.'
'This will be your room from now on, your Excellency,' said Wéry, lifting the lantern. 'Your servant will sleep here. There is a sleeping chamber for you beyond that door. I regret that it is not as convenient as the gatehouse, but it will be more sheltered from cannon fire. You have my word that we will do everything in our power to make you comfortable.'
Canon Rother-Konisrat peered around the slit-windowed, narrow room in the south-east bastion.
'Your powers appear to be limited, Commander,' he sighed. 'Although I do not blame you.'
'There will be a guard at your door, to whom you may pass requests at any time. Nothing in reason will be refused you. You will continue to have the opportunity to walk the walls for half an hour in the morning and again in the afternoon.'
'And what hour is it now?'
'It is just past ten of the clock.'
'I did not hear the bells.'
'The cathedral bells are being taken down, sir, to be placed in hiding in case the city falls.'
1 see.
Wéry watched him moving around the narrow room like a man in a dream. The Canon paused by the plain wooden chair and ran his fingers over the back of it as if to assure himself that it really was there.
'Did I see my colleague Steinau being brought in under guard last night?' he asked suddenly.
'You did, sir.'
'So our Prince has now turned on the Ingolstadt set too. I warned Steinau that he would. And what of our friend Bergesrode?'
'He has been dismissed from his post, sir, for association with the Ingolstadt clergy.'
'Arrested?'
'I believe not, sir.'
'The man shows some gratitude, in the end,' muttered the Canon. 'Yet I cannot see how he strengthens himself by making enemies of two-thirds of the Chapter. We have no sympathy with the Republic. We have only a certain lack of sympathy with those who wish to gather all power into their own hands. Was it thus in Paris, Commander?'
'I beg your pardon, sir?'
'That the rulers, having seized power against one faction, then persuade themselves they must remove all other actors from the scene, in order that their power should be secure?'
Wéry swallowed uncomfortably. 'Sometimes, sir, yes it was.'
Canon Rother smiled thinly at the chair back. 'You see,' he said. 'Well, it seems I now have no part but to wait upon events. Many more worthy than I have been persecuted for their faith. I shall make their example my own. Is there such a thing as a Bible in your citadel, Commander?'
A Bible? Wéry had no idea. After ten days in this neglected fortress he was still reckoning the ratios of powder and shot to cannon on his walls.
His mind was so full of many things now that siege loomed: duties and manpower and stratagems and supplies; a hundred little blows that could be struck, a thousand preparations to be made. His thoughts consumed him all the time: at table, in the middle of conversations, striding from place to place, and waking in the night from dreams of the days to come. And deep beneath the turbulence of his brain was the voice of the demon within him, bellowing, At last! The fight! At last!
'Sir,' he said. 'Your books will be brought across from the gatehouse as soon as possible and I am sure . . .'
'Perhaps you would grant me the loan of one for the morning. There will be one at least in the chapel.'
'Yes, sir,' said Wéry.
He was turning to go when the Canon, now peering through the narrow slit of the window, spoke again. 'And how does our Prince think he is going to deliver himself from this situation?'
'I believe he has a plan, sir.'
'I hope it is something other than to stand and be crushed.'
Maria walled herself in silence on the morning of their departure. It was the only protest she could make.
She sat by herself with a stole around her, eyes on nothing, waiting to be called. And when the time came to leave she climbed tight-lipped into the second coach and took her place by one window. Everyone knew she had been put in the second coach because she was in disgrace. Franz was to travel with her, but that was only because Lady Adelsheim could not endure the way he would fidget on a journey.
'I do not want to talk,' she said bluntly.
'I know that,' said Franz, and gawked out of the other window at the leading coach, which carried Father, Mother and Anna, and also Icht, so that Lady Adelsheim would have someone to converse with during the day.
At length the grooms stirred the horses, and the coaches lumbered into motion. Maria stared hard at the house front as it rolled past, as if she could hook herself to it with her eyes, Dietrich, Johann, Pirenne and the other servants drawn up at the door. She wondered if she would ever see them again. She wondered, too, what instructions Lady Adelsheim had given to them should the French come. Very likely she had told them to count the spoons!
They crossed the bridges, climbed to the Church of Saint Simeon, and passed on down the broad Bamberg Way towards the eastern gate of the city. There they were halted and soldiers asked to see their papers. Maria prayed that they would be turned back. Her hopes grew when she heard her mother beginning to protest to the officer from the window of the leading coach.
'I beg your pardon, my Lady,' came the officer's voice. 'It's the siege, you see.'
'There is no siege,' said Lady Adelsheim. 'And, Captain, I am not used to being treated this way.'
'I beg your pardon, my Lady, but we have our orders.'
'Do not speak to me of your orders. I see no sense in them. I see no sense in what you are doing on these walls, sir. Your duty is folly, Captain, and I think your uniform a butcher's apron.'
'Damn her,' muttered Maria aloud. 'I am going to scream.'
Franz gave her a startled look. Then he went back to leaning out of the window.
The grooms must have found the papers, for the voices sank to murmurs. Maria sat, fists clenched, waiting for more expostulations from her mother. There were none. Perhaps Anna had managed to soothe her. Perhaps she was simply preparing her next salvo.
The next salvo did not come. There were friendly calls ahead, and suddenly the sound of the leading coach beginning to move. The next moment their own followed it. They passed out of the city. Goodbye, thought Maria, looking at the faces of the soldiers and the last few people at the roadside.
Goodbye. We are abandoning you. I cannot ask you to forgive us.
The faces were gone. No one called after them.
'How far is it now?' asked Franz sullenly.
She was silent for a moment longer. And then she realized that with Franz there was no point.
'It will be most of the day,' she said. 'You must be patient. We are going to spend the night at Adelsheim. If we stop before that, it will only be for horses.' She supposed that there were still horses to be found on the roads that ran to war.
Franz's face brightened. 'Can I go riding when we get there?'
'It will be dark.'
The roads were busy. They passed cart after cart heading for the city. Some were in trains with what must have been supplies for the garrison. Others carried families with their belongings: people who had heard that invaders were coming and feared to wait in their villages to find if it were true. They also passed small columns of soldiers on the march – poorly uniformed peasants, for the most part, led by some landlord or landlord's bailiff on his horse to assist in the defence.
Goodbye, thought Maria bitterly. I would be with you. I would carry a pack and a musket gladly. I have seen a man die, and I am not afraid of it. But I am luggage, no more.
An hour and a half from Erzberg the coaches stopped at an unmarked turning in the road. Craning through her window, Maria saw that another file of soldiers was approaching down one of the roads. The way was narrow. The coaches had checked at the junction to allow the men to pass.
On they came. She could hear the patient squelch, squelch, squelch of their feet as they legged another mile away. She heard the horse blow and the rhythm of the noises change as they sidled past the coaches. She heard calls exchanged between the grooms and the horseman – friendly, surprised calls, as if the men had recognized one another. She leaned from her window again. It was a very small file – twenty men at most, and one on horse. The horseman was guiding his mount past at that instant.
And she did know him. It was Windhofer, the bailiff from Adelsheim.
They were from Adelsheim! From their own estate, going up to the war.
She pulled herself hurriedly back from the window, thinking, Please! Mother Mary, please! Don't let her realize! Don't let her see!
'Stop!' said Mother's voice. 'You there, stop, all of you!'
The door of the leading coach swung open. Lady Adelsheim stood on the step, steadying herself with a hand on the door. The horseman checked his mount and looked back at her.
'My Lady!' he exclaimed.
'Down you come, my man. Come and speak with me.'
He dismounted obediently.
'Where are you going?'
'To the city, my Lady. Lord Harzen, he says all militias in our district to go up to the city.'
'You are not Harzen's people but mine.'
'No, my Lady, but Harzen always . . .'
'If Harzen has orders from the Prince, he can furnish him with his own men. But it is wrong of him, and wrong of you to go without my let—'
Franz suddenly exclaimed, 'That's my horse.'
Maria looked at it. And yes, it was Dominus, the horse that had been Albrecht's: a great, brown, handsome animal, waiting patiently there in the road.
Windhofer had taken Albrecht's horse! That was impertinent of him. But perhaps there had not been much choice. And perhaps Albrecht would have given it to him freely, if he had known where Windhofer was planning to go.
Yes, he would have done. Albrecht – the real Albrecht – had been like that.
Franz had climbed out to pet the animal. But Dominus lifted his head away from Franz's hand, as if there was no time for that now, and other things that an honest horse should be thinking about.
'It is a shameful thing – shameful – that he is calling you to do. I will have no part in it. I will not sully myself with support for what this Prince does . . .'
Maria's fists were clenched. She could not shut her mother's voice out. She looked at the horse, Albrecht's horse, still facing back the way they had come, waiting to continue his journey. The memory of her brother sat in that long, gentle face.
Where are you going, Dominus? she thought suddenly, remembering the apostle Peter on the road outside Rome. Domine, quo vadis?
Venio Romam, the Lord had replied. Iterum crucifigi.
To be crucified again.
'My Lady, I have been sent papers . . .'
'He's taken my horse, Mother,' said Franz. 'This is my horse, from the stables there.'
'Begging your pardon, my Lady, but there were not many suitable . . .'
'It is an outrageous liberty,' said Mother. 'I will not countenance it. Now, you will turn these men around and we will proceed to Adelsheim together. And when we are there . . .'
'They are not your people!' Maria cried aloud.
She jerked herself out of the coach and stood swaying on the step. All the faces were turned to her. Mother, on the step of the other coach. The factor, the men, even Franz looking up from where he stood at the horse's head.
'They are not your people!' she screamed. 'They are Father's! Have you asked him?'
She swayed, and nearly lost her balance. To steady herself she put out her hand and touched the horse's saddle. It shifted. The stirrup was near her foot.
'Maria!'
It began as an effort to save herself from falling. Her toe found the stirrup, her hands the saddle. And then it was just natural, one move following another with the inevitability of a dance, that she should swing herself up onto the horse's back.
At once she found that her dress was wrong and the saddle was wrong too. She swayed. Her hand reached instinctively for the rein. Everyone was staring at her. No one, not even she, knew what was going to happen. (And whatever happened she must not fall!) She controlled the beast beneath her.
'Let go!' she cried to Franz.
Gawping, he obeyed.
'Maria – get down at once!'
'I will not get down,' she said over her shoulder. She had her voice under control now. 'I will not get down for you.'
She steadied the horse, swayed – it was impossible to ride sidesaddle in a seat like this! – and spoke over her shoulder again. 'I am going back,' she said.
'You will not!' exclaimed Lady Adelsheim's voice.
Maria laughed, and set the horse at a walk along the road.
'Stop her!' commanded her mother from behind her. 'Stop her! Catch that horse!' Lady Adelsheim repeated.
Maria looked back. The men were still standing there, astounded. Now three or four of them were moving towards her. She kicked the horse, and it lumbered into a short trot that nearly threw her from the saddle. There was nothing for it but to bring her leg, dresses and all, over the beast's neck and sit astride with all her skirts rucking up and her shins and ankles in view to every man's eyes.
'Maria, it's my horse!' called Franz plaintively. But he had stopped coming after her, knowing it was hopeless. Some of the militia, weapons discarded, were still chasing her. She could not stay.
'Catch me if you can,' she called cheerfully to the men.
Then a last look, back at the coaches. Mother still on the step, watching her go. Anna, dismounted on the far side. Franz. Father was the only one she could not see. Only the hulk of the coach, like a sturdy old gentleman oblivious to all around him, faced on down the road to Bohemia.
'Goodbye,' she whispered.
And then she rode, hard, until the last of the militiamen gave up their vain pursuit.
Never in her life, never in her dreams, had she been so alone. There was no one to help her but Dominus (a good, responsive animal). There was no one to point the way – she must find it for herself, making her own choices when her memory of the morning's journey failed. There was no one to house her, dress her, feed her. She had no money, unless by the mercy of some saint, Windhofer had been carrying his wallet in his saddlebags. She should stop and search them. There might be many useful things. But she did not want to stop. If she stopped she would have to think. She would have to think about what she had done, and about what could possibly happen now.
They might be pursuing her. They could have turned the carriages around and be hurrying after her. They would not move very much slower than she. So of course she could not stop. Because she was never, never going back. She saw again her mother's face, looking at her from the coach step.
'Never,' she said aloud.
She would starve or drown herself first, she thought.
She was going to the city. That was what she was doing. She was going back to be one of the people there. Perhaps people under siege all cared for one another in a way that they did not when at peace. She did not know. Whether or not they did, the city was the only place to go.
Saints grant that the enemy had not already arrived! The long miles passed. She grew saddle-sore because she was not used to this way of riding.
She saw people in fields and on wagons. They stared at her. They stared at the long white gleam of her stockings exposed by her rucked-up travelling gown. She looked firmly ahead. Let them think as they wished. This was war, was it not? And they did not know who she was. They could not possibly know, because she no longer knew herself.
But when she saw a file of militia ahead of her, struggling under load towards the city, she turned off the road and made a wide circle across country. She did not want to be stopped and have questions asked of her. And she was not sure she would be safe with soldiers, even those of her own side. So it was that when she finally approached the city, it was from the north-east and not the north, and it was to the Saxon Gate that she came.
There was a crowd there, and many soldiers drawn up in ranks, wearing their packs and grey overcoats. On the opposite side of the road was a full squadron of hussars, facing north. The horses tossed their heads. Stirrups and steel gleamed in the sun. Officers were moving to and fro, checking boots, straps and horseshoes. The men were preparing to march. The crowd around them were families and townspeople, come to wave them goodbye. Where could they be going? Heads turned to stare at her as she came up, and went on staring. She felt awkward; obvious and at the same time indecent on her perch with her legs showing at her horse's flanks. Stiffly, she dismounted.
There was no one to hold Dominus for her. She would have to hold him herself, or let him go.
'Stay,' she murmured to him and made her way into the crowd. She moved slowly, for she realized now that she was very sore indeed.
The people had come out to see the soldiers. They were calling to them, some weeping, some laughing. She saw ragged children run up and hug a man in the back rank by the leg. He fluffed their heads, and told them to leave him, but they went on hugging his leg and calling up to him until a sergeant yelled at the man and the children ran away.
An officer was standing near her. She knew him. It was Karl von Uhnen. He had not looked her way.
Her first instinct was to shrink back a little. She could not have said why, but she did not want him to see her. He was too much part of her old life. He would only be shocked by what she had done. Besides, he must be busy. He must be about to depart with them. He could hardly help her find her way in the city.
But who else would there be? Here at least was someone she knew. There was no need to tell him yet what she had done.
Still uncertain what she would say, she began to approach him. He had not noticed her yet. When she touched his arm he would fairly jump out of his skin . . .
Another green-and-white uniform shouldered its way through the crowd and stood in front of Karl. It was Michel Wéry. Maria stopped.
Slowly, Karl lifted his hand in a salute.
'Sir,' she heard him say.
'No need for that,' said Wéry. 'I came to say two things.'
'What would they be?' said Karl. Maria did not think his voice sounded friendly.
'First, good luck.'
'Thank you.'
'Second. If, when this is over, you and the others come to me, I will say whatever you need me to say.'
'I see.'
'I think it will satisfy you. And if it does not, I will meet you when and where you want.'
'I see.'
Wéry seemed to be waiting for more than that. He was looking at Karl with his head cocked on one side. 'Well?' he prompted.
'I'll think about it.'
A loud bellow from the ranks cut short whatever Wéry had been about to say. Karl von Uhnen saluted him once more, and strode to where a man was holding his horse at the head of his squadron. Wéry watched him go. His back was towards her. She stole up to him and touched him on the arm.
He did jump. It was very satisfying. And as he stared down at her she felt her own face break into a mirthful grin.
'I thought you had left!' he stammered.
'I came back,' she said.
She had so many things to say to him. I have displeased my mother. You would oblige me if you did not ask me about it. And: Can you tell me how I may help? And: I must speak with you about things you said in Paris. And: Can you have someone look after my horse? She did not say any of them. For the moment she wanted only to look at him and know that she had arrived.
With a long clattering of hooves the hussars wheeled onto the road. People were cheering now, waving hats, and weeping. She saw Karl von Uhnen at the head of his squadron. She saw him look down and see her, standing at Wéry's side. She waved and smiled. His face was wooden. Then he was carried away down the road to war.
There was a lump in her throat. A flood of wordless feelings engulfed her as the people called and the dust rose. She turned to the man beside her.
'I came back to help,' she said. 'Can you tell me how?'
'You can keep me sane,' he said.
'Now, the Dürwalds,' called the colonel of the infantry. 'Let's nip those buggers' arses.'
'Ho! Hurrah!' bellowed the ranks, and the lead company surged onto the road in the wake of the hussars.
'Surely he should not say things like that!' exclaimed Maria.
Wéry looked at her helplessly.
A voice in the second company had started to sing. Others joined it, first here and there among the regiment, and then all along the ranks as the song swung into the chorus.
. . . And we've fucked our mothers and we've fucked our hogs And we fucked the Frenchies and we fucked their frogs. We're the damned, damned, dogs of the Dürwald, Rolling in Blinki's train.
'Oh – but we should have our own Marseillaise!' she protested, putting her hands to her ears. And then she smiled. These were soldiers, and their feet would soon be sore. And this was the world she had entered, where all ties were broken and women rode bare-legged, where the world might end tomorrow, and until it did the soldiers would always sing like this.
'Who – or what – is Blinki?' she asked.
Wéry took a moment to answer. 'Old Blinkers,' he said at last. 'Balcke-Horneswerden.'
He was still staring at her, as if he could not believe that she was there. And on the road the soldiers swung by, singing as they passed, as if their leader's honour had never been tarnished, as if it had not gone downstream in a coffin almost a year ago.