The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [68]
“Manny, my cocksucking little Judas!” von Stein crowed, standing to meet Manuel. This did not relax the soldier in the least, especially when he saw that the commander had traded his old hand cannon for an expensive-looking matchlock pistol, the cord already cocked back and smoldering.
“Good afternoon, sir.” Manuel bowed, wondering if the gun would actually penetrate his skull or if the shot would merely mangle his face into a pulpy mess of bone and tissue. His sword had been confiscated at the door, which was a shame as he had resolved to murder the prick rather than grovel or hop around his own execution. Such harsh resolutions had always been abandoned in the past, but it was nice to have the option that a handy weapon afforded. “How’s your wife?”
“Very well, very well,” said von Stein, his cheeks beaming, his nose valiantly resisting the sneeze that the feather of smoke wafting from his matchcord was trying to coax out. “And yours?”
“I don’t know,” said Manuel, lightheaded with nervousness. “How is she?”
Were Manuel a bachelor he would not have given a wet fart for the dance he now maneuvered through, he would have come back with blade flashing or not at all, but he had a wife, and he had a niece to look after, and he had put them both in mortal danger for the sake of a confirmed heretic and witch. While von Stein was not so mad as to needlessly harm innocent women and children he was certainly ruthless enough to slaughter a thousand families if he found some advantage in it. Manuel knew this because he had entered towns as they fell, had personally heard his captain give free rein to his men to do what they wished to those naughty, naughty besieged citizens who had callously locked the invaders outside their walls.
“How should I know?” asked von Stein. “I’ve been out defending cities and waging wars, not taking holidays with my chummy-chums. Where are your chummy-chums, Manny?”
“Dead,” said Manuel, meeting the man’s gaze, which meant looking over the muzzle of the pistol. “All of them.”
“Oh my!” Von Stein gasped and staggered about in an exaggerated swoon. “How tragic! How dreadful! How perfectly predictable.”
“I told you to let me pick my own men,” said Manuel, and forced his legs to march toward the gun, toward his martyrdom. With every step he took, von Stein took a step back, until the larger man had almost reached the rear wall and the artist had reached the front of his desk. Then Manuel pulled out one of the uncomfortable chairs and sat down, still eyeing von Stein. “Aren’t you going to ask me how Spain was?”
“How was Spain?”
“I didn’t go.”
“Ah.” Von Stein advanced on the table as Manuel took the open bottle of wine next to the commander’s glass, gave it a sniff, and then tipped it back. He wondered if it would be the last thing he ever tasted. “And why didn’t you go to Spain?”
Manuel wiped his mouth. “The witch got away before we got there.”
“Ah. I thought you said there was no such thing as witches. I thought you said she was a madwoman.” Von Stein rounded his table, which meant squeezing between the desk and the wall. He kept his pistol on Manuel.
“I was wrong,” Manuel chortled. “Very wrong. She’s a witch.”
“And how did she escape, Manny?” Von Stein had lowered his voice and was moving behind Manuel now but the soldier did not turn to follow his captain, instead taking another pull from the bottle and looking straight ahead. This was much closer to how he had always imagined his death, a dignified discussion followed by a quick and brutal act of violence. No cowering in a cave, whimpering at witches, just pure, self-righteous pontificating concluding with his martyrdom. Better, then, but still bad enough to sour the wine in his stomach.
“They tried to rape her, and once the chains were off she stole my dagger and killed both Kristobels and Bernardo.” Being entirely honest with von Stein was actually quite a bit of fun, but while he dearly wished to see the look on the man