Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart - By Jesse Bullington Page 0,113
airs. I seen you.”
Sir Jean would not have learned German even if given the chance, believing the Holy Roman Empire and its guttural tongue to be beyond contemptible. Instead he smiled slightly at this peasant’s coarseness, which earned him wine splashed in his face. Sir Jean’s hand went to his empty scabbard and his cinder-hued cheeks turned ashen, his blue eyes bulging. He told Manfried precisely what he thought of him, starting in French but shifting to Italian for the benefit of the watching guards and the Arab.
Al-Gassur began translating, at which point Sir Jean went paler still and his diatribe dried up. Manfried nodded appreciatively and stood. Sir Jean did not shrink away but leaned forward to accept the blow that never fell.
“Tell’em to take off that armor,” Manfried ordered Al-Gassur, who went to task.
“Tell him I will do nothing he commands, but will wait for the captain to return,” Sir Jean interrupted.
“Begging your apologies, dear Frenchman,” Al-Gassur said, taking liberty with his duty, “but I believe Master Grossbart is seeking a provocation to murder you. I would do what he says, unless you are ready to end as the cardinal did.”
“Cardinal Buñuel’s been killed?” Sir Jean swallowed. “Are they mad?”
“Quite. Now haste might be a better ally than even myself…”
Manfried checked his urge to strike the Arab, Buñuel being recognizable in the stream of nonsense. Sir Jean stood and reluctantly removed his armor, which took quite a while without his squire. Manfried circled him, paying close attention to how the iron carapace fit together.
Hegel scowled at the sun, at the guards curiously watching them, at Buñuel’s twisted rictus, and at Martyn. Dropping the real cardinal in the hay, Hegel seized the bottle the new cardinal had stowed in his armpit and set to prowling around the stable. Martyn wiped his excrement-covered hands on the side of a horse, which Hegel glared at, daring the animal to make the first move. It blinked and he resisted the impulse to slay it.
“What is that?” Martyn motioned out the door.
“Eh?” Hegel looked at the apparatus constructed in the back garden. The main supports rose nearly as high as the house, a huge beam balanced between them with one end tethered to something behind the shrubbery. Utterly baffled as to the purpose of such a device, he lied to Martyn.
“That’s the instrument a our victory,” said Hegel.
“You know of its purpose? Wonderful!” Barousse came from the house.
“Er.” Hegel scratched his beard.
“Grab hold of the body and bring it with us, and you shall help me ready our final blow.” Barousse veered off toward the contraption, and with much cursing Hegel and Martyn followed, towing Buñuel’s corpse.
Closer inspection only perplexed the two more, but Barousse took hold of a wheel and with Hegel’s assistance winched down one side of the teetering shaft. Attached to the end sat a spacious wooden basket, which they unceremoniously dumped Buñuel’s corpse into. Several guards watched from the terrace, in theory minding the rear wall lest the doge’s men storm it.
“I told the builders it was to be filled with an anchor’s weight worth of flowers to honor Strafalaria,” Barousse grunted, leading Martyn and Hegel onto the terrace and through the back door, “so it should be calibrated proper. I’ve got an actual anchor to drag out, lest a boulder undo the counterweight and foil the accuracy. That, along with the cardinal and a few hundred ducats ought to ensure the streets are thronged and our flight unnoticed.”
“A sound scheme,” Hegel acknowledged, possessing all the mechanical intuition of a mule.
“What is its purpose?” Martyn asked, earning him Hegel’s silent thanks.
“You’ll learn soon enough.” Barousse rubbed his palms together. Entering the rear door behind the central staircase, he motioned toward the dining room. “See that your brother hasn’t murdered our other hostage, and make sure the twit doesn’t learn of our scheme. I’ll be back as soon as I attend to my business.”
Barousse’s face darkened as he hurried toward the kitchen, while Hegel and Martyn went to see what Manfried was about. Retrieving the bucket of live sardines from beside the kitchen table, Barousse saw Rodrigo coming up from another wine-run to the cellar. Sloshing back across the kitchen, Barousse turned to the flushed young man.
“I know I’ve been difficult, at times. Hell, most of the time.” Barousse stared into the bucket. “I’d have lost myself years ago without you and Ennio, and I’m sorry about how it’s all played out up until here. I’m sorry about your brother,