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“I told him, ‘It's beautiful,’ and he responded with incense, yelling that he would condemn me to anathema.”
Upon hearing a snippet of the conversation, Agnes became intrigued. After returning home, there were no emergencies, so she took a run around the area, let the dogs chase some hares, and was now having dinner at a tavern. This establishment was considered respectable in the city—mercenaries were not allowed, families usually sat at the tables, and the minstrels didn’t sing lewd songs from the stage. That’s why she entered through the back door, hoping to have a quiet meal and then explore her options for the evening. But the mention of anathema sounded enticing.
“Excuse me, Master, but what’s it all about?”
A tired man with curly hair adjusted the heavy guild sign of the stonemasons hanging from a thick chain, cautiously assessed her attire and the number of scars on her face, but nonetheless, he overcame his hesitation and invited her to the table. There, he filled his empty mug with beer and briefly outlined the problem:
“Ingvar the Builder, Sister. Cathedrals, bridges, fortresses, and everything that requires working with stone. I have glaziers, roofers, carpenters, and other craftsmen in my company. We can put anything in place and make it last for centuries.”
“Aren’t you the ones who restored the chapel at the monastery?”
“Yes, that was our work.”
“Then I remember you... What did you do to offend Mother Church so badly that it came to anathema?”
Sighing, Ingvar pulled out a small scroll from his pocket.
“Well, they asked me to renovate a house in Heidelberg. I told the owner that the stucco was beautiful. I even had cupids and angels along the cornice to support the window. But he replied that he would complain to the local priests for that. He said the walls needed to be straight, or else all sorts of rubbish would get into the bedroom. So he wouldn’t pay, and instead, he’d demand compensation from me. He counted two hundred reichsgulden for that. The fat priest ran over at the screams and punched me. I went to the judge, but he immediately refused: deal with the bishop's relatives personally; the local authorities won’t interfere in church matters... I had to leave. If the conclave in Zurich refuses to hear the case, then I’ll go to Turin. There’s no point in going to Rome; they won’t let me into the papal office.”
“An interesting plan. So, three floors, a fancy roof, and an entrance with columns. The columns didn’t bother the client? Just the cherubs?”
“No. Although his signature is on the blueprints from when we negotiated.”
“And how much does he owe for the work?”
“One hundred and fifty reichsgulden.”
“And this esteemed gentleman's name isn’t Meyer, is it?” Agnes said with a smirk, waving the scroll. “I’ve heard about this freak. He built a shed in the port in a similar manner. He uses the fact that he’s married to the bishop's cousin to butter him up with a piece of butter on top of white bread. No one messes with this pair. And you—clearly a newcomer in those parts—hadn’t heard of such antics. And now you’ve fallen for it... You know what, Mr. Ingvar? I have a business proposal for you. A little north of Mannheim, the capital of the district, I have a brewer friend who complains he can’t find good specialists. He needs to bring the local fortress in order. He bought it for a pittance when they started rebuilding the city after the plague. He says he’s creating a family nest so his family doesn’t have to wander around. He’s already done some work in the cellars, but the walls and internal structures are still problematic.”
“There are plenty of stonemasons throughout the district,” the builder doubted.
“Yes. It’s just that my friend has his money tied up in the business, so he’s only willing to pay a third in gold and silver. The rest will be beer. For a quarter of the price. You could say it's a beer credit.”
“Beer? Why would I need beer?”
“If you have any relatives, you could set up a tavern near the fortress; Mr. Hoffman will sell you a plot for it. You can have your brother-in-law run it, serving the frothy drink at throwaway prices. And the quality of my friend’s beer is excellent. I always try to buy a barrel or two from him for the Sisters. So let’s go check it out. You’ll see what it’s like on-site. And we’ll also drop by Heidelberg; I’ll say a few kind words to the bishop and his audacious relatives. For me, it’s fine.”
After thinking it over, Ingvar agreed. Even if he couldn’t collect the debts, maybe the nun could help him contest or reduce the “penalty.” And new work is always good. There really were crowds of stonemasons in towns and villages. People were rebuilding. And before you could blink, a potential order could be snatched right from under your nose.
And there would be somewhere to place his sister. Her husband died at the beginning of the plague, and now she was wandering around with the children. Having her own tavern would be a decent livelihood, especially if the brewer agreed to keep an eye on it and protect it if necessary while Ingvar went to work in other towns.
***
The bishop's mood began to sour during lunch when a relative sat down next to him. No, Meyer was polite, smiling, and brought bribes on time. But lately, he had grown a bit too bold and started to break the unwritten city laws. Not only did he refuse to pay for completed work, but he also tried to impose made-up fines. Once it passed, twice, but the third time… For example, like now. The bishop had seen that blood-red cassock somewhere before.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Approaching the table, Agnes smiled sweetly, then pinned the man in the expensive silk tunic to the tabletop with her dagger, driving her left palm down. He didn’t forget to show off his ill-gotten gains, the monster. Seeing the scoundrel’s mouth drop open, the Plague Midwife landed another punch on his nose for better understanding. Without brass knuckles, just her fist. Because she needed a living and relatively capable client, not an invalid with broken bones.
“Listen here, donkey urine. I had to kill two creatures to get here. And they’re shamelessly gouging prices at the inns along the way. So you owe one hundred and fifty reichsgulden for the house we built for you. And I need fifty for expenses. You have until the evening. If you’re late, as soon as they call for evening mass at the church, I’ll absolve your future sin and hang you from the nearest tree by your own guts. As a lesson for others... Is that clear? Nod if you can... That’s it, I’m done with you. Note that I didn’t touch your right hand so it would be easier for you to count the money.”
With a swift motion, Agnes yanked out her dagger, disdainfully wiped the blade on the tunic, and turned to the now pale bishop.
“Your Excellency. I understand you don’t choose your relatives, but you might as well drown him in a toilet if the occasion arises... I’ve roughly calculated how much he’s been skimming from you. And somehow, I feel like you haven’t been paying your tithe on those earnings. That’s why I sent a letter to a nice monastery. Get ready to pay them a visit. I understand your neighbor was recently put on the rack for much lesser sins. So, get in shape and throw a couple of buckets of dirt from the yard into your bed. To get used to your near future... That’s it, I’m going to rest. I stopped at the tavern "The Crooked Whore." When you’ve counted the money, come there...”
Having already taken a couple of steps toward the exit, Agnes remembered something. She turned back and added:
“Yes, I love idiots the least in the world. So if anyone tries to escape without paying, I’ll let you in on a secret: my dogs are trained to rip apart unclean things. And they never lose a trail. If I have to run after a debtor, I’ll set them loose and won’t call them back. Let them have some fun.”
The bishop tilted his head to the right to see the dogs at the entrance to the hall. Yes, there they sat. Two of them. Black. Muzzle-heavy. And their eyes were at the level of an adult’s head. Which means they were bigger than the local bulls. And even the wolves were afraid to mess with the local bulls. So His Excellency looked at the idiot relative, who was struggling to get out from behind the table, took a knife, and plunged it into the same injured left palm.
“Where do you think you’re going, Meyer? Counting the debt and collecting money for the payout? That’s good. My guards will be here soon to escort you. So you really don’t try to get lost. Because I’ve heard a lot about that bitch. She’d start by unleashing the dogs on me and then open a hunt for you... So you’ll go, gather every last coin, and under guard, you’ll head to the “Whorehouse.” You’ll hand it over and pray. You’ll pray earnestly that this will be the end of your troubles. Because you’ve not only shat yourself. You’ve also shoved me headfirst into the shit... Once you settle the debt, you’ll sit in the church basement. You’ll bow down and pray that I come home alive and well after being summoned to the authorities. Otherwise, you’ll really have to get used to the ground. They’ll bury you right there in the basement.”
Agnes had good reason to choose a dive near the port. On one hand, the place was considered dangerous, and outsiders weren't particularly welcome. On the other hand, the tavern owner remembered who had saved his wife and child from unclean spirits when the beasts attacked the caravan. So the best room and a separate table in the corner of the hall always awaited the Plague Midwife.
“You bandit-faced thug,” Agnes hugged the short, lively man, then patted the shoulder of her familiar bouncer. “So, there are fifteen people with me. I need to find them a place for a couple of days; we’ll be on the road again the day after tomorrow. Feed them well and serve drinks moderately. I’ll pay, and don’t give me any sour faces.”
“Are they also from your lot?” the tavern owner asked, eyeing the group of men gathered at the entrance with interest.
“No, these are peaceful guys. They’ll build anything you want and do it in a way that no one will be able to break it later. Didn’t you have some squeaky boards in the toilet? I remember thinking last time—will I have to pop up if something cracks beneath me? So, feel free to ask; they’ll bring the most hidden dreams to life in granite and marble.”
***
Hofmann could hardly believe his luck. He circled around Mr. Ingvar, showcasing the front of the future works.
“We need to fix that tower. This one. And that one... Yes... And there’s a wall that’s cracked. The wood is holding it for now, but I’m afraid it might collapse...”
The other masons were seated, tasting beer. Once the boss sorted out the future contract, they would shake hands and finalize the plans.
The masters exchanged respectful bows with Agnes. Not only had she extracted gold from the swindler, but she also covered the caravan on the road. And when some strange creature dared to step onto the path and feast on humans, she quickly made an impression with a flamethrower, leaving the smoldering remains on the roadside. If anyone in the bushes was still contemplating trouble, all the undead fled from the dying screams as if they had never been there.
Now—a fortress. Yes, it was old. But there were almost no new ones left in Europe. Still, it was stone, with plenty of visible problems and flaws. So they could settle here for half a year or a year. The main thing was how the leadership would negotiate.
“So, from what I can see right away. The entrance arch, two walls, and a cobblestone path in the center. Plus three towers, the central chambers with stained glass. The roof needs to be redone everywhere—it’s unacceptable. You’re a respected man; what straw? Tile! And only that...” the mason finished making notes on a waxed board and began to estimate the total cost.
Agnes sat next to him on the sawhorses and curiously poked the end of her staff at the gargoyle statue. The gargoyle grimaced in displeasure and tried to sink its fangs into the piece of wood.
After finishing the preliminary calculations, Ingvar looked at the strange fangs and wisely stepped back:
“What kind of magic is this?”
“No magic at all. Alchemy. Mr. Hofmann bought the beast from the peasants. They had been rummaging around, trying to eat cows. So the locals mixed wine with the goo that’s added to the mortar for stonework. You know about that?”
“Yes, mixed with eggs, flour in various proportions. The masonry holds the cannonball afterward.”
“Exactly. They mixed it, the gargoyles licked it all up, and they couldn’t fly far. It affected them. They can barely move up top, and down below—they’re just stone... Were you talking about cupids and angels? Put them at the gates; let them bulge their eyes. At night, no thief will come close.”
“And how many of them are there?” the mason assessed the unusual ‘statues.’
Hofmann, who had run in with a pitcher of beer, flicked one of the creatures on the nose and reported:
“Eight of them. There were nine, but one broke during loading. Only the head rolled into the ditch and tried to bite when we were pulling it out.”
“Would you part with a couple for the future tavern?”
Pouring the fragrant drink, the owner of the fortress smirked:
“We’ll work something out! We’re practically family now! As soon as we finish haggling over the price, take them. Let them guard the materials we’ll order... So, that’s four walls, five towers, two squares, and tiles here and on my house in the city. Did I forget anything?”
***
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