The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [66]
The von Stein problem came to occupy more and more of Manuel’s thoughts as they neared the end of their short journey together. Assassinating the man was, while delectably appealing, out of the question—his guards even followed him to the privy. He would also expect Manuel to try something, and would have taken measures. The man was, in a word, a shit, but he had not made his reputation and fortune by being negligent or deficient in his tactics, be they the stratagem of the actual battlefield or the political arena.
Manuel the martyr pressed on down the road, and when they hit the river where they were to part ways he generously offered to escort Awa back to the very spot where she had been abducted. Awa was more than happy to accept, and so upriver they went as Manuel’s brow grew ever moister. Every bole in every tree looked like a tortured saint, every ray of sunshine cutting through the gnarled canopy overhead reminding him of the judgment awaiting him. He really ought to put himself on a plank before meeting von Stein, and then entrust Awa with returning it to his wife. Yes, that was quite good, actually, and—
“This is it,” said Awa, breaking away from the river and cutting between two willows that hunched low on the bank like overladen gleaners. “Back in here. Yes, there’s my old tunic.”
Manuel saw what must be her old clothes trampled down in the sandy soil and followed her to the place where she had decided to give up on ever finding the necromancer’s book. Two obvious graves were on the edge of the clearing but he did not inquire, instead turning his attention to the pile of dead limbs and logs stacked in the center of the clearing. Awa knelt beside it and then crawled into the heap of twisted, dry wood until only her feet jutted out. Then she backed out, a clutch of round stones in her fist, and after rooting around on the other side of the woodpile she picked up a nice-looking wooden box and into this she deposited her rocks. Witch business did not bear prying into, by Manuel’s thinking, but then she looked up at him and smiled sheepishly.
“I was going to let them go. I still will, before he takes me, but the hassle we had getting your flint working these last nights convinced me I might have use for them yet. Ah!” Awa noticed her old satchel hanging from the goat willow where she had left it, and loosening the straps she saw that the leather pack had kept her extra clothes dry. She quickly stripped off her stolen trousers and shirt and changed back into her worn leggings and tunic, Manuel blushing but not looking away. He had his obligations as an artist, after all.
“So this is it, eh?” Manuel said after they had eaten the rest of her meat for lunch. “You go your way and I go mine.”
“Yes,” said Awa, hopefully adding, “If you’re sure you don’t need my help in dealing with your master.”
“I’ve got that worked out,” Manuel lied.
“Good,” said Awa, and glancing at the ibex-horn dagger she had retrieved from her old pack and fixed to her belt, she took the stiletto she had taken from Manuel during her escape and handed it back to its owner. “It was my pleasure to use your blade, Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern.”
“Keep it,” Manuel said, standing up and brushing the sand off his legs. “We call them Swiss Swords, and excluding the commissions I put one on every painting, so I’ve got plenty.”
“What?”
“My signature,” said Manuel. “I draw a little dagger. A little cheesy, maybe, but it’s my flourish.”
“No,