Lothar fumbled open the door to his tenement room and saw his old boss standing in the dingy hallway. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was still hallucinating, but it was Francesco all right, standing there as real as anything, although the vermilion hue of his cloak, the green of his ruffled shirt, and the black of his tricorne hat blended into one another and his powdered wig rippled to some unheard rhythm.

  Lothar was just coming off a nepenthe high, and the eyes could play tricks. Those minor effects didn’t distract him much, though. If he had been cresting, the figure before him would sprout gossamer wings and flippers and wash in on a sea of beer.

  Yeah, it was Francesco. Lothar would know that disapproving look anywhere. The Fop from Florence, that’s what he used to call him. He hadn’t changed a bit. Francesco wore his fine clothes as naturally as his air of superiority, but the rapier and poniard hanging from his belt were no fashion statement. Francesco was the captain of the guard for the powerful Eisenbach merchant family. The Italian had been Lothar’s boss when he worked for the family as a sorcerer, predicting the weather for Eisenbach’s trading vessels and hexing those of competing families. But that … well, that was a long time ago.

  Lothar rubbed his eyes again, trying to focus.

  “I hope that you will invite me in,” Francesco said, smoothing his short, pointed beard. “I wouldn’t want it known I requested entrance to such a place.”

  “Um, come in,” Lothar mumbled. Francesco entered, taking in the warped floorboards, the nosepipe lying by the lumpy straw pallet, and the complete lack of other furniture in one sneering sweep. After a moment, he turned to Lothar.

  “I’ve been in the German lands twelve years now, and I must say I have never seen an abode quite like this. I won’t ask how you are, because I can see clearly enough. I’m glad to say I’m still in good health.”

  “Cut the sarcasm and get to the point.”

  “Herr Eisenbach has a problem.”

  “Then fix it yourself. You got me fired, remember?”

  “You got yourself fired, smoking that noxious paste.”

  Lothar’s eyes narrowed. Although he couldn’t remember much of the day before, he certainly remembered the day (what? five years ago?) Francesco caught him taking nepenthe in Herr Eisenbach’s house. Francesco’s outrage, his own stumbling excuses, Herr Eisenbach’s grave injunction never to set foot on his property again …

  Lothar wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing away a thin trail of blood that he wiped on his breeches. Francesco’s eyes widened.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, handing him a silk handkerchief.

  “It’s nothing,” Lothar said, taking the cloth and wiping his nose.

  “It’s that rubbish you’re smoking.”

  “Nah, just the change in the weather. I always get nosebleeds in the autumn.”

  “It’s still summer.”

  Lothar shrugged and tried to return the bloodied handkerchief. Francesco waved it away.

  “Keep it. Let me take you out for breakfast. It looks like you could use a good meal, and I’d like to talk to you about a job.”

  Lothar’s awareness cleared instantly. A job meant money. He was completely broke, and he’d smoked the last of his nepenthe the night before. If he didn’t get more in a day or two, things would get ugly. In a sudden flurry he got dressed, grabbed his worn, patched cloak, and hustled Francesco out of the room.

  In the quiet of early morning, the beer hall was dark and empty. A sleepy-eyed waitress set down sausage and cheese as the two men sat at a table in the corner. At one end of the room an old marble statue of Bacchus stood next to a large oil painting of Odin. The faint whiff of burnt offerings on the altar nearby carried over to them, but Lothar was more interested in the beer keg next to Bacchus.

  “Get me a beer,” Lothar demanded of the woman.

  “A bit early, is it not?” Francesco asked.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  “No, it is not. And get one for the Italian too!” Lothar called after her.

  “I don’t want one.”

  “Don’t be stingy. If you don’t drink it, I will.”

  Francesco sighed and studied the gaunt, ragged man before him. He shook his head.

  “You look like you’re about to nod off so I’ll get straight to the matter at hand,” he said. “Herr Eisenbach recently discovered Birgit is smoking nepenthe.”

  “But she’s just a kid!” Lothar gasped. He remembered Birgit, Herr Eisenbach’s daughter, a bright-eyed child who was the joy of the household. Part of Lothar’s job had been to teach her Latin and geography. Lothar always spoiled her a little, letting her play in the garden when she should have been reviewing her declensions or memorizing the cities of Cathay, but she did well in her studies anyway. He had been “Uncle Lothar,” her favorite tutor.

  “It’s been five years, remember? She’s sixteen now, and arranged to be married to the Margrave of Nordhausen. When Herr Eisenbach found out she was smoking, he locked her in her room. Unfortunately she escaped and hasn’t been seen in a couple of weeks. We’ve been looking all over for her, but our men are stretched pretty thin at the moment and we were hoping someone with your … connections … might have better luck.”

  “How much is in it for me?”

  “A hundred franks, more if you can return her, ah, intact. She’s due to be married, after all.”

  “If she’s living on the street, don’t count on it.”

  “The important thing is to get her back. We can worry about her virtue later.”

  “I’ll need money upfront, I might have to pay for information and … ”

  “Certainly not. I’m not giving you any money so you can stick that pipe up your nose and burn your brains out. You’ll get your pay when you find Birgit. Until then you stay straight.”

  Lothar tensed. He needed money now. But he knew Francesco too well to argue. There was no budging that fellow.

  “Why can’t you have her traced? Don’t you have another sorcerer now?”

  “Yes, although I have to say he’s not as good as you once were. His tracing ritual brought up nothing, strangely enough. He thinks there’s a magical block.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  “No ransom has been asked for. And kidnap victims don’t usually leap from second story windows and run off into the night.”

  No, but someone in withdrawal would, Lothar thought. If Herr Eisenbach wanted to straighten his daughter out, he should have nailed the windows shut.

  He’d been through withdrawal himself: the nausea, the skin crawls, the pain that pervades the entire body until it’s impossible to think of anything else. The only thing that could cure it was more nepenthe, and he didn’t want to share with Francesco what he thought Birgit might do to get it.

  “Perhaps I could try a trace. I’ll need to get some components … ”

  “I’ll buy them for you,” Francesco’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well, I guess if there’s a block on her there’s really no point.”

  “No, I suppose not. Are you going to eat something?”

  Lothar looked at the table. He’d drained his stein and started on Francesco’s without asking, or even really noticing, but the chest and bratwurst in front of him remained untouched.

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “I’ve heard nepenthe kills the appetite, but you still need to eat.”

  “What do you know? It actually makes your body more efficient. It balances the bodily humors so that you don’t need as much sustenance.”

  “Oh yes, Lothar, your humors look wonderfully balanced. I’d say you’re in the prime of health. Eat, that’s an order. I’m not going to hire you if you’re such a wreck.”

  The Italian shoved the plate closer to him and piled some of his portion onto the sorcerer’s meal. Lothar took a few reluctant bites.

  The clomp of boots made them look up. A crowd of soldiers carrying muskets tromped down the stairway from the inn above. After kneeling at the altar of Odin set in the corner and burning some oak leaves, they sat down at one of the tables.

  “Aren’t those Hohenstadt militia? What are they doing here in Kranzburg?” Lothar asked.

  “Where have you been hiding the past month? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. The Duke has been calling in all the provincial militias. The Baron of Saxony is threatening war. He’s contending the Duke’s right to the throne.”

  “The Baron’s still trying to press that old claim? The Duke’s family has been ruling Anhalt for five generations. He’s got a clear right. The Rathaus would never accept anyone else.”

  “The Rathaus is a bunch of stuffy old men. They’re not going to argue with Saxon cannon.”

  “You don’t think the Baron would really march on Kranzburg?”

  “He might. This is why we’re stretched a thin at the moment. We’ve had to double the guards on our river shipments just in case. Which reminds me,” Francesco fished in his cloak and produced a pistol and a powder horn. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

  “I’m not a cripple, Francesco! I did my time in the militia like everyone else.” Francesco handed the pistol and horn over. Lothar admired the pistol’s fine quality, cocking it and studied the lock. The flint was newly worked and the pan scoured clean. Francesco was always fastidious with his weapons. It would bring a good price, but the suspicious Italian would probably ask to see it every time they met. Unless …

  “I’ll want that back.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “Take this too, you can show it around,” Francesco said, handing over a small locket.

  Lothar’s eyes gleamed as he saw the gold pressed into his palm, then clouded when he opened it. Inside was a miniature of a young woman’s face. High cheekbones and blond curls framed wide blue eyes from which sparkled hope and intelligence. It was Birgit, much grown. Somewhere along the line she’d turned into a young woman and Uncle Lothar had missed it. He closed the locket and put it away. No, he wouldn’t sell that.

  Francesco called the waitress over and paid her, rising to leave.

  “There are some things I need to take care of. Considering the situation, you can imagine how much sleep I’m getting. Start making enquiries with your … friends, if that’s what you call them. Report back to me soon. Herr Eisenbach is beside himself.”