The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,254

simply existed. It filled him and gave him an inner peace he’d never experienced before. Johann wondered how his life would have evolved if he’d met Greta sooner, if he’d been her father from the start. Would it have put an end to his endless searching, his unquenchable thirst for knowledge? Probably not. But it would have steered his life down calmer roads.

Johann jutted out his chin with determination. This life—their life together—couldn’t be over yet.

It had only just begun. And he would fight for it.

The noises of the spectacle on the main square blew over to them on the breeze—the crashing of a cannon, shouting, the metallic ringing of a bell. Johann guessed the people of Nuremberg had put out the fire by now. The feast was over and folks would go home.

Johann dozed and soon nodded off, soothed by the feeling of having saved his daughter—for the moment, at least. Soft music caressed his ears, heavenly fanfares, angelic, almost . . .

So tired . . . so awfully tired . . .

“Wake up, Doctor!” Karl’s voice tore him out of his dreams.

“Leave me . . . ,” he said weakly. “So warm, the music . . .”

But Karl wouldn’t give up. He pulled at the doctor’s robe like an irritating mutt, and finally he gathered the few handfuls of snow left under the shrubs and rubbed them on Johann’s chest.

“How dare you, you insolent . . .” Johann shot up, his good hand ready to strike, but as soon as he saw Karl he knew where he was. His daughter was sleeping beside him, her chest rising and falling steadily. He shook himself to dispel the fatigue.

“Those madmen are going to search for us,” said Karl imploringly. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“Forgive me. You . . . you’re right.” Johann brushed the snow off his robe and felt awake again. “We need to get out of Nuremberg as fast as we can.”

“Only question is, How?” Karl looked around skeptically. He shivered underneath his thin robe. The sun had moved on and stood low above the nearby city wall. The icy waters of the Pegnitz flowed past them lazily. “If it’s true what you say and Tonio has men everywhere, then he’s probably watching the city gates. We won’t get out of town the way we look. Most likely, not even the regular city guards would let us pass. We look like outlaws.”

“We must at least try. We can’t stay in Nuremberg—it’s much too . . .”

Johann faltered when he heard the music again. When he was half-asleep, he’d thought he was imagining it, but now he realized it was real. Flutes, drums, tambourines—soft, but clearly there. Even the quaking sound of a bagpipe was among the instruments. The music was coming not from the main square but from somewhere to the northeast, where the Laufer Gate led onto the road to Prague.

A quiet suspicion sprouted in Johann’s mind.

“Quickly—follow me,” he ordered.

“What’s your plan?”

But instead of replying, Johann shook Greta awake. “Child, wake up! You must try to walk—just for a short while!”

“What . . . what . . . ?” she murmured. She opened her eyes and looked around with confusion.

“Pick her up and run!” said Johann to Karl. “Before it’s too late!”

Without another word he hurried back to the bridge. Breathing hard, Karl lugged Greta up the narrow, steep stairs. Staggering along slowly, they headed northeast, past wells, taverns, and smaller markets that gradually filled with people again. They walked around a corner by the old Egidienkirche Church and finally reached the wide, cobblestoned street that led to the Laufer Gate. The music had steadily grown louder and sounded very close now.

And then Johann saw them.

There were about a dozen flautists, several drummers, and a short fellow playing an ancient march on the bagpipe. Never before had the quaking, mind-numbing noise sounded so sweet to Johann’s ears. The musicians were followed by jesters in red-and-blue costumes doing cartwheels and juggling balls, a real camel, and a series of colorfully painted wagons hung with all sorts of household items. Striding with self-important expressions between the wagons were several itinerant preachers who probably made a living as traveling scribes and relic traders. They all headed toward the Laufer Gate like one big, glittering snake. There was no sign of any Schembart runners.

“The jugglers from the square!” cried Karl. He and Johann were holding Greta between them now, and she managed to stumble along in small steps. She was still