The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [5]
“Now you do.” Von Stein plunked a bag down on the table, a purse closer in size to a saddlebag than a pouch. The captain leaned forward, clearly delighted with his presentation. Manuel waited to see if the man’s enjoyment would shrivel if he let it alone long enough, but when the smile did not fade Manuel sighed and took the bait, reflecting that unless one is quite blond or white of hair having teeth that match your beard is a most unfortunate circumstance. The captain’s beard was a pepper-flecked auburn.
“A raid at midnight into a fortified city? A one-man assault on a gunner embankment? An assassination?” Manuel hefted the bag, poorly concealing the strain it took to lift it.
“An errand. You deliver something to the Andalusian border, then you go home. None of that Papal dye or what have you, unless complications arise. Brigands on the road, that sort of thing.”
“Spain?” Manuel cocked his head at von Stein. “What do I deliver? And how many men do I pick to go with me?”
“Five men, and I’ve already picked them. Werner—”
Manuel cursed.
“Bernardo—”
Manuel cursed louder, glowering at the stained knee of his hose.
“And the Kristobel cousins. The three that are left—”
“Two.”
“Eh?”
“We’re down to two Kristobels as of this afternoon, which is still two too many. Why do I get the dregs?”
“Are you really asking? We march tomorrow, Manny, you would prefer I give you my best and boldest?”
“Let me take Mo, and you keep the rest. The two of us—”
“You would prefer I give you my best and boldest! No no, my powder maid stays, and you take the five. Er, the four.”
“You said five. So let me choose someone else, anyone else, to mind my back. Werner and Bernardo aren’t too choosy about where their thumbs come from.”
“They’re cowards, Niklaus,” said von Stein, the sour expression on Manuel’s face at the use of his first name a welcome sight to the captain. “They’ll listen to you because you’re not. Now, along with the package I’ve got a letter for you to deliver, and if I don’t receive a letter back confirming that everything went smoothly you will find yourself in a bit of trouble.”
“Right.” Manuel still held the satchel aloft. His arm was hurting, and he liked it. “Spain. What’s the delivery?”
“Her.” Von Stein nodded behind him at a lump on the floor of the tent that Manuel had hereto failed to notice amidst the tent’s clutter, a faint smile on the older man’s lips, lips that looked oily as poached eels in the light of the candle on the desk between them. The lump was shaped like a human sitting with her legs crossed, a thick sack over her body with two bands of chain encircling it, one at the throat and the other at the waist. Manuel dropped the satchel on the table.
“Get fucked.” Manuel turned toward the tent flap, his face gone as pale as his most recent model.
“She’s a witch,” said von Stein, and Manuel did not need to look at him to know he was still smiling.
“Of course she is,” said Manuel, willing his feet to carry him outside and down to the mercenary tents, to wine and food and murder in the morning, good honest murder with a crown bonus for each thumb. “Spain. Of course. I’ve heard about what they’re doing.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. Have you?” Manuel turned back to look von Stein in the eye.
“No. I can imagine, though. Spaniards are evil cunts, as we both know from—”
“What’s special about her? Those godless bastards don’t have enough heretics or madwomen to burn, they’ve got to import ours now? Fuck that, and fuck you.” Manuel’s wife Katharina would like that when he told her, he knew, and that helped propel him out of the tent.
“They’ll rape her,” von Stein called after him, and he saw Manuel’s boots pause underneath the flap. “I knew you wouldn’t do the poor bitch, being as high and mighty as you are, so I wanted you to head it up, but if my work’s not to your liking I’ll put Werner in charge and hope—”
“Fuck that, and fuck you.” Manuel came back in, his lips drawn back like the cadaver of a hanged man. “I’ll