R.
He didn’t want to ask Tonio. He was afraid the master would once again ask him why he hadn’t used the knife to stab the false monk. In Tonio’s eyes, Johann was a coward and a weakling.
It was a throwing knife, and Johann practiced by hurling it at dead tree trunks. At the beginning he was just as clumsy as with the bagpipe, but after a while his throws became stronger and more accurate. Sometimes he imagined faces of people on the tree trunks—Ludwig, his older brothers, or his stepfather. But he found that he grew increasingly angry that way, more aggressive with every throw until sweat ran down his forehead. Panting, he’d put the knife back in his pocket, where it felt cold and heavy.
Icy winds swept across the fallow fields; icicles like daggers hung from the bare trees. To the south, they could make out the steep, snow-covered peaks of the Alps. Johann remembered that Rome and Venice lay somewhere beyond that mountain range. But how did pilgrims manage to get across that wall of rock and ice? So far, the master hadn’t given him any clues about their destination, but Johann couldn’t imagine they’d cross the mountains during winter.
At least they no longer slept outdoors but at inns and taverns along the imperial road—mostly at one of the many new post stations, which offered a decent amount of comfort. There was a station every twenty miles, where post riders changed horses or handed over their mailbags to the next rider. That way, the riders could travel up to a hundred miles each day—a speed, compared to their lumbering cart, that seemed to Johann like the flight of a bird.
At every inn, the master, acting like a noble lord, always took one of the best rooms, while Johann, as his apprentice, slept with the horse in the stable. But at least it was warm there and he was left in peace. Only the suspicious looks of the raven and the two crows disturbed him. It almost seemed like they were spying on him so they could report to the master later.
Tonio often held court in the taproom, just like he had done in Knittlingen. It never took long for a crowd to gather when the great Tonio del Moravia spread his books and scrolls full of mysterious symbols on the table. The tomes bound in crumbling leather were part of the show, demonstrating what a learned man the master was. Now Johann could finally watch Tonio at work.
There appeared to be different ways of predicting the future. Most of the time the master studied the client’s palm, running his finger along the various lines and murmuring mysterious phrases. If it was a young woman, he’d say, “Look at that, your Fate line and Heart line cross right here—a good sign! Next spring you’ll be standing at the altar with your dapper bridegroom.” If he was reading the hand of an old man, he’d say, “The Life line has many small branches, but it runs deep. You’ve been blessed with a long, interesting life, thank the Lord!”
This was what the master called the art of chiromancy. Tonio never foretold harsh blows or death. Mostly it was rich harvests, an imminent wedding, or unexpected wealth that would befall his clients.
For those willing to pay a little extra, Tonio would read their destiny from a glass of water or the flickering flames of the open fire. Those mysterious arts were called hydromancy and pyromancy. The master could also read from the clouds, crystals, and playing cards.
Very rarely someone requested a nativity chart. Such customers would invariably be wealthy citizens, like the village bailiff or burgomaster, and one time even an abbot. A pile of money would change hands, and Tonio would ask for the client’s day and place of birth and then retreat to his chamber, where he’d work all night. The next morning, he’d emerge from his room looking pale and tired, carrying a length of parchment covered with small writing and symbols. Johann could make out circles and drawings of animals, though he didn’t understand them. But the clients always seemed very pleased.
Johann was dying to know what the master was doing in his room, but as much as he begged and pleaded, the horoscopes remained Tonio’s secret. Neither did he allow Johann to look at his books. When they were on the road, he kept them locked up in one of the chests under the benches. At the