The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [67]
“Yes, of course. Please. And if all goes well with von Stein I should be back in Bern before winter, so do call. My house is white with green trim, on Gerechtigkeitsgasse. If—”
“My name is Awa,” said she, and Manuel nodded, recognizing from her previous stark refusal to tell him that she put a high commodity on keeping it secret. “Awa.”
“Thank you, Awa,” said Manuel awkwardly. He should be frightened that she would kill him or curse him, he knew, but somehow he could not raise a single hackle. “Well then.”
“Do you think I could find work in Bern?” Awa said, wiping her eyes.
“I don’t really know …” Manuel suddenly imagined her showing up on his stoop, all Moorish and witchy, and that got his heart going. “I don’t know if it would be safe, I mean, people are scared of Moors, and what, what do you do? Other than, you know, knife things? Witch things?”
Awa shrugged, not really needing the reminder that she was a pariah but accepting it just the same. “I can make traps and catch small animals with them, and I can clean and cook them, and I can sew and I can knit and I can turn wool into yarn, and I can heal wounds, and I can read, and I can—”
“Enough, enough.” Manuel smiled. “You’re overqualified to be landvogt, er, bailiff, let alone a washerwoman or servant. I —”
“You …” Awa watched him, the smile on Manuel’s face widening and contorting into a very strange look indeed. “You what?”
“I know a leech who was haunting the camp when I left, a Swiss leech calling himself Para-something. Everyone thought he was a magus, a sorcerer, and he certainly didn’t do much to counter the rumor. I drank with him a few nights before I met you, before the battle, and one thing that struck me about him was his openness to witchery. That’s right … he was almost obsessed with the occult, was saying we ought to be learning from witches instead of burning them.”
“Really?” said Awa. “Why didn’t you tell me about him earlier?”
“Everything’s been so crazy I didn’t think … Now, I’m not saying you ought to tell him you’re a witch or anything, that could be really bad, but if you pass yourself off as some sort of heathen healer—”
“I could pass myself off as a convert,” Awa interjected. “I know enough about your faith to pass.”
“Whatever,” Manuel said excitedly. “But we could enlist his help, maybe. I know he absolutely despises von Stein, and the reverse, which is good news for us, and had some harsh words regarding the Inquisition as well. That way you could be close at hand whenever my mercenary days are done, and then I could help you get established in Bern.”
It was the worst plan imaginable, and Manuel knew it. The Swiss doctor was definitely a drunkard and probably a madman, and such a scheme would involve bringing Awa back within von Stein’s easy snatching if he should find out about her. Manny, your little cowherd? Why, he walked in with a Moorish woman yesterday, I think she’s staying with that doctor you hate. Shall I fetch them, sir?
Just as Manuel opened his mouth to tell Awa to never mind, it could never work, forget it, he saw the overjoyed expression on her face, and that decided it. They gathered their wares and left the camp by the river, two daggers and Bernardo’s sword at her belt, a hand-and-a-half at Manuel’s, and together they marched back toward Manuel’s judgment. For fuck’s sake.
The Judgment of Milan
As Manuel entered the lavish room where von Stein waited, he realized why both sides of the doorway were smashed open when the palatial residence itself had been spared from the artillery their French employer had clobbered the besieged city with the year before—that great big fucking desk the bastard moved everywhere with him would not have fit through the frame, and so his men had widened the opening to fit their commander’s prized piece of furniture. Anything smaller would only call attention to the man’s girth, Manuel knew, but did he really need a desk built of solid ebony?