The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [69]
“I see,” von Stein murmured, just behind Manuel now. “And what were you doing at the time?”
“Killing Werner,” said Manuel, and almost giggled.
“I see,” said von Stein, and Manuel felt the metal cylinder push through his hair and rest gently against the back of his head. At least his face would be spared, and it seemed his family would as well. Manuel was almost disappointed, with death so close, that von Stein lacked the imagination for a more fitting martyring. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“I don’t get the pay you offered to deliver her?” Manuel smirked, closing his eyes and imagining his wife and niece in the garden, von Stein’s sharp intake of breath the wind stirring the ivy on the side of the house. He heard the pistol’s mechanism clicking, metal ratcheting on metal, and marveled at how impossibly slow time had become. Had the gun gone off already?
“You could at least act contrite, you little cow-fucker,” said von Stein, removing the pistol from Manuel’s scalp and cuffing him hard on the back of the head as he went back around the desk. Manuel opened one eye and then the other as von Stein settled into his chair, muttering to himself as he removed the smoldering matchcord from his gun and dropped it into his wineglass, the dregs bubbling as the cord hissed out. Tossing the priceless pistol onto the table between them, von Stein crossed his hands on his stomach, pursed his lips, and frowned long and hard at Manuel.
“I’m sorry?” Manuel eventually said to break the silence.
Still wordlessly eyeing Manuel, von Stein opened his desk and took out a letter. Letting his dour gaze fall away from the soldier to the parchment in his hand, he opened the letter and pretended to read it with the same ham-fisted mock surprise he had employed when talking with Manuel before.
“Do you know what this is?” von Stein finally whispered, shaking the letter at Manuel. “Do you?”
“It’s a letter saying I never delivered the witch?” Manuel hazarded, but von Stein shook his head slowly, sadly, as if he were a doctor bearing exceptionally bad news.
“It’s a fucking pardon, is what it is,” said von Stein.
“Oh?” Manuel leaned forward and reached for the letter. “From whom?”
“From God, you ungrateful bastard,” said von Stein, putting the letter back in his desk before Manuel could take it. “And me.”
“That’s awfully generous of the two of you,” said Manuel, hoping his voice was not shaking as badly as his boots.
“You—” Von Stein pursed his lips again, shaking his head even more vigorously. “You are a lucky, lucky boy, Niklaus. Kahlert’s been excommunicated.”
“Who?” Manuel was terrible with names, but that one sounded familiar.
“The Inquisitor! The one you were supposed to take her to?!” Von Stein finally lost it, which pleased Manuel immensely. “You … you need to get your shit together, Niklaus, and quick!”
“So the Inquisitor’s been sacked, is that it?”
“I thought his demanding we find a particular witch in our vicinity or lose our indulgences sounded harsh, unreasonable.” Von Stein sighed. “ In our vicinity. Apparently that same letter went out to every commander, captain, and mayor within five hundred leagues of Barcelona, and while the cardinals were discovering the letters, firing the bastard that sent them, and sending us retractions and apologies we were busy actually capturing the bloody witch and sending you lot to deliver her. So as I don’t care for being threatened by distant Church functionaries”—didn’t hear you saying that the last time we spoke, thought Manuel—“I’m actually rather pleased she got away instead of being handed over to this Kahlert cunt.”
“Happy day,” said Manuel, having swallowed quite a bit more wine than he had intended during the captain’s posturing.
“Indeed it is. You missed out on most of the fun outside, I’m afraid. We stumbled over another Imperial contingent a day out, and much sport was had. Mind, they had some tasty guns.” Von Stein nodded at the matchlock on the table between them, the pistol inlaid with silver