The tavern lay east of the little bridges, not far from the bishop’s palace, so again she decided on a detour through one of the unguarded back alleys. At last the warm, inviting lights of the tavern appeared in front of her. With candlelight emanating into the street through its bull’s-eye windows, the Whale was like a guiding light in the dark-the only place in Regensburg with any life at this hour. Magdalena surmised the innkeeper had to pay the city a pretty penny for that privilege-an investment that paid for itself, if the loud singing and laughter inside were any indication. The door swung open and three raftsmen lurched out, evidently having spent their last hellers on drink. Babbling noisily, they staggered off in the direction of the raft landing.
Magdalena bit her lip. Did she dare set foot in the lion’s den? There probably wasn’t another woman in the place, with the exception of the innkeeper. Were she to go prancing in, she’d surely attract everyone’s attention, not least that of the guards, who might in fact already be waiting for her inside. All the same, it was a risk she had to take.
She tightened the black scarf around her head once more, took a deep breath, and opened the door. A warm wave of all kinds of odors assailed her: sweat, brandy, tobacco, smoke, and the stale residue of some kind of stew. Every last seat in the sooty low-ceilinged taproom was occupied. Raftsmen, workers, and young bull-necked journeymen sat, foaming mugs before them, singing, playing cards, and throwing dice. In back, in his usual stove-side seat, the Venetian ambassador was busily rolling dice with three rather coarse men. Compared to his simply clad companions in their linen shirts and leather vests, the Venetian was nothing less than a colorful bird of paradise. He wore a red shirt decorated with white ribbons and a very high collar; wide, flared trousers; and, on his head, a dashing musketeer’s hat complete with a plume of feathers. Silvio was either winning at the moment or so deeply engaged in his game he didn’t seem to see the young woman in the doorway.
The other men, however, hadn’t failed to notice Magdalena. Some of the workers stared at her lustfully, while others whistled or ran their tongues over the dark stumps of their teeth.
“Hey, sweetheart!” a potbellied, curly-haired raftsman bellowed. “Not satisfied with the day’s earnings? Then come have a seat here with me and give my beard a stroke or two.”
“Let her have a stroke of something else, Hans!” his companion shouted, wiping his fat lips with his shirtsleeve. “Come over here, girl. Take that ugly scarf off and show us what you’ve got!”
“Off with the scarf, off with the scarf!” some men at a neighboring table began to shout. “We want a better look at the lady, ha-ha!”
A loud crash and the sound of breaking glass interrupted the jeers. The crowd grew silent and turned toward Silvio, who stood now on the stove-side bench and looked almost meditatively at the broken bottle in his hand. He raised the bottleneck to the dim overhead light so the rough, razor-sharp edges sparkled menacingly.
“Con calma, signori!” he said softly. “The gentlemen will not lay hands on a signorina. Especially not when la bella signorina in question stands under my personal protection.” He smiled at Magdalena and pointed to the chair next to him. “I implore you, have a seat and make yourself-come si dice-at home.”
“Hey, dwarf!” growled a fat raftsman struggling to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are…?” Two other men restrained him, whispering something in his ear. The fat man turned white and sat back down quietly. Evidently his comrades had explained just who the hell indeed the ambassador was.
“Grazie for understanding, everyone.” Silvio bowed slightly. “And now, innkeeper, a barrel of brandy for the entire house! To the signorina’s health!”
Guarded cheers came from the tables, and the threatening mood dissipated quickly like an unpleasant odor. The brandy made the rounds, and over and over the men toasted Magdalena, whom they had to thank for this welcome gift. Silvio’s three roughneck companions carried on their card game without him, drinking freely of the brandy, apparently having quickly lost interest in the beautiful new arrival.
“Nice to see you again,” Silvio whispered, still smiling at the crowd, very much like a little king graciously accepting the homage of his subjects. “I thought you might forever be angry with me on account of that kiss. I shouldn’t have done that, but where I come from-”
“Forget it,” Magdalena interrupted gruffly. “To be brief, Simon and I need your help. May we stay a while at your house?”
The Venetian grinned from ear to ear. “I would be delighted! I never understood anyway why a bella donna such as yourself elected to sleep in the gutter with beggars and thieves. Is your proud little companion in agreement with this, then?”
Magdalena didn’t hesitate. “He has no choice.”
Silvio smiled. “Ho capito. You are wearing the pants, it seems-that’s the expression, isn’t it?” Then his face turned serious. “But I can see in your face that something’s the matter. Tell me, what’s happened?”
“The baldheaded murderer,” she whispered. “He’s on our heels, all on account of a powder!”
“Powder?” Silvio squinted at her, perplexed.
“We found some powder in the bathhouse owner’s secret alchemist’s workshop,” she whispered. “Half of Regensburg is apparently trying to get their hands on it. And the baldheaded man wants to silence us because he thinks we know too much! We need a place to hide-you’re our only hope!”
“And your father?”
“He’s already…” Magdalena stopped short. A premonition told her they were being watched. She raised her head to look around. Most of the men seemed to have forgotten Magdalena and were back to playing cards and drinking. In a far corner of the room, however, a cloaked figure stood out from the rest of the men.
The man, who had pulled his cowl down over his face, sat sipping from a little tin cup. As he wiped his thick lips with his sleeve, his cloak slipped back a bit to reveal a bald head. On the back of his head he wore a white bandage.
Magdalena flinched. It was the same man she’d hit over the head with the statue of Saint Sebastian in the cathedral!
“Look!” she whispered to Silvio. Throwing caution to the wind, she pointed at the stranger. “I’ll be damned; the bastard’s followed me!”
Now the Venetian recognized the man as well. Their eyes met; the stranger rose and slowly moved toward their table. His movements reminded Magdalena of a deadly poisonous snake.
“Let’s get out of here!” Silvio whispered, standing up abruptly from the table. He pulled Magdalena along, and together they made their way through the boisterous crowd. The stranger followed, jostling men to his right and left to catch up with them. Several drunk patrons shoved him in return, and an uproar broke out. For a moment the stranger fell to the ground, out of view, but he appeared again like a ship’s sail on a rough and stormy sea.
By now Magdalena and Silvio had reached the exit. Turning around for one last look, the hangman’s daughter saw the bald stranger drawing his rapier. With loud shouts the men scattered, opening a path through which the man came running toward them.
“Quick, let’s go!” Silvio shouted, pulling her out into the alley. “We have no time to lose!”
The stranger followed just a few steps behind and seemed to be calling something out to them, but Magdalena couldn’t hear anything over all the noise.
Breathlessly she staggered into the street.
Despite the almost impenetrable darkness, Silvio found his way through the city as if he were a native. He led Magdalena into a narrow side street, which they ran down together while, behind them, they could hear the stranger’s pounding footfalls on the hard-packed ground. At some point Magdalena thought she heard at least two more sets of feet, and it sounded as if they were gaining on them. Had their pursuer called for reinforcements? In their last two encounters with this man she and Silvio had escaped by the skin of their teeth. If he had help this time, they didn’t stand a chance.