The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

VI - An Old Friend

Over the next few days you busy yourself with learning all you can of Bögenhafen and the law with which you will contend once there. The chapterhouse of your order offers all the rest and food you require to sustain you during your studies, and the famed library of the nearby Grand Cathedral provides all you could possibly need to know about the topic or any other. It was the ambition of Magnus the Pious to one day boast the sum total of human knowledge with those walls, and while that day is still a long way off, the Cathedral's rival repositories can be counted on the finger of one hand at best. You study historical charts, copies of noble charters, legal commentaries by scholars of the time and church records of the town and its surroundings, and piece by piece a picture emerges.

The Vorbergland is the richest and most prosperous part of Reikland outside the capital itself, a long strip of fertile lowland that divides the mineral-rich slopes of the Grey Mountains from the dense forests to the north, and Bögenhafen is its beating heart. Built where the River Bögen becomes deep enough to support the heaviest kind of transport barges, the town is ideally situated to serve as a hub for transport and commerce across much of the province, a place where crops and ore are exchanged for finished goods and rare imports. The river runs straight down to join the Reik near the great metropolis of Carroburg, while the Weissbruck canal offers a direct route to Altdorf for those who would rather avoid the old Drakwalder capital and its famously stringent taxes.

Normally such a prosperous trading hub would be one of the local lord's most prized possessions, but from what you can tell Graf Wilhelm von Saponatheim barely even cares to visit Bögenhafen much less take a hand in its administration. True, his duchy is one of the largest in the Reikland and his seat at Castle Grauenburg an ancient and honourable one, but there is nothing half as prosperous as Bögenhafen to be found elsewhere within its borders, and such a hands-off attitude is uncommon to say the least. Instead the Graf delegates rule of the town and its trade to a town council, itself elected by the various guilds, merchant houses and temples that rest within the walls. That could be an issue; in your experience, councils like this are prone to placing matters of profit and local influence far above mere things like heresy or the laws of the realm.

Still, the process of assembling your dossier of briefing materials proves surprisingly inspiring, and you soon find yourself branching out to take full advantage of the resources now available to you. You consult with legal experts in the cult, read introductory texts aimed at courthouse apprentices, and spend an increasing share of your time buried in the archives of the Grand Cathedral, shunning all but the bare necessities in your pursuit of understanding. What you uncover about the law and its practice is, in a word, enlightening.

At a fundamental level, all law and social hierarchy descends and draws legitimacy from Sigmar. By leading the Unberogen in conquest of the other tribes he forged a united realm beneath a single ruler, and by respecting the rights and traditions of those selfsame tribes he bound the legitimacy of their rulers to the legitimacy of the Empire itself. Why pay taxes, or train in the militia, or respect the contract drawn up with your neighbour? Because the baron decrees. Why listen to the baron? Because the duke commands. Why respect the duke's authority? Because the Emperor proclaims you must. Why pay fealty to the crown? Because Sigmar commands it so, and Sigmar is divine, sovereign over men and first among the gods.

Small wonder, then, that the Cult of Sigmar is so closely entwined with the Empire as a state. The children of the nobility often serve as priests, and the keenest among the clergy serve as lawyers in the courts of the nobility, and around and around it goes, law and dogma building on each other in an endless web that binds and strengthens the Empire at every level. Only Verena plays anything close to the same role in the governance of civilization, and her disciples are all too often concerned with abstract principles of justice and equality over the social hierarchy that binds the Empire together. The teachings of the other faiths are respected, of course, but only through the Grand Conclave can they become law, and it is the Emperor who chairs the Conclave and pays heed to their counsel. It is the Emperor who draws the line between witch and wizard, who draws the boundaries of noble fiefs, who bestows and revokes the electoral seats, who declares war and negotiates peace with the rulers of foreign lands.

Such studies are fascinating and religiously significant, but they are also tiring beyond all sensible measure and by the time the end of the week approaches you are all but praying for salvation. Your prayers are answered late one afternoon when at last you take a break from your studies in the Great Cathedral and are headed back across the plaza beyond to the chapterhouse of your order, lost in thought and planning for the trials to come.

"Well I'll be damned… Markus! Young master Markus, is that you?"

You stop in your tracks, stunned to be addressed so brazenly in public like this, but when you turn to look at the speaker all confusion vanishes in a moment. You recognise that thick grey beard, that even thicker belly, that mischievous twinkle in those storm grey eyes.

"Josef Quartjin," you say with a slowly blooming smile, "you old rogue. How are you still alive?"

Broad of shoulder and thick of muscle beneath a heavy layer of fat, Josef's whole body quakes when he laughs, clapping his meaty hands together and spreading them wide again like a showman about to demonstrate a new trick. When you were a young scion of the von Bruner line, still learning the shape of your ancestral fief and the source of your familial wealth, Josef was one of many boatmen who worked to ship ore and coal from your mines in the Hägercrybs to the markets of Ubersreik, anonymous and entirely unremarkable. It was only later that year, when you first donned a disguise and went slumming it through every tavern and drug den along the waterfront willing to take your money, that you actually got to know him as a man. Most would have encouraged a noble brat with more money than sense to count his blessings and go back home, but not Josef. Instead, he took you under his wing, showing you all his favourite haunts and introducing you to the roughest collection of rogues you've ever had the misfortunate pleasure of meeting. He taught you a great deal about yourself in those heady days of youthful idiocy, and you're pretty sure he saved your life at least once in the process, but it's been years since those carefree days.

"Someone up there loves me, young lord, and be it Taal or Ranald or Sigmar himself, I am here to make it everyone else's problem," your old friend bellows with laughter, before drawing himself up and looking you over from head to foot, "and what about you, eh? All respectable and sombre. You almost look like… wait, don't tell me you went and joined the clergy?"

For a moment you are confused, and then you realise; you're not wearing your hat, nor anything else that might identify you as a templar, only the kind of serious and comfortable clothes suitable for an afternoon studying at the Cathedral. Josef has no way of knowing what you are unless you tell him… and right now, at this moment, the prospect of clinging to that anonymity is too painfully tempting to ignore.

"Never mind that," you say, and you'll tell him later, of course you will, just not yet, "don't you think you're being a bit presumptuous, speaking to a noble like that?"

From another of your birth that would be a threat, but from you it is a jest, and though you have not spoken in years Josef still knows you well enough to tell the difference. He grins broadly, places one meaty hand over his chest, and gives his best impression of a courtly bow. It really isn't very good.

"Ah, a thousand apologies, milord," he says in a voice so servile and fawning you feel almost physically repelled by it, "perhaps I might beg his grace's forgiveness with some humble hospitality?"

You hesitate for a moment, abruptly conscious of the Cathedral at your back and the dutiful solitude of the quarters which await you at the chapterhouse. Then you shake off the feeling and nod. The gods have placed your old friend in your path once more for a reason, and you'd be a fool to spurn it now. Besides, you have your sword and your pistol both, a noble's privilege even in these rarified surroundings, so it is not as if there is a physical danger to be risked.

"I suppose I might," you say at last, "Lead on, peon, and pray I find your offerings of an acceptable standard."

Chortling merrily, Josef picks himself back up and sets off back towards the city north, slapping you jovially on the back when you fall in alongside him. Looking at him now, your light hearted greeting begins to feel almost uncomfortably sincere; Josef Quartjin is old. His thick waist-length beard is grey turning to white, his leathery skin is wrinkled and spotted, and his loping walk is slow enough you need to pace yourself to match. There's still muscle under that layer of flab, and he still seems to have all his wits about him, but if he were a noble he'd have retired by now, stepped back to lead a comfortable life badgering his younger relatives and enjoying the spoils of a hard life lived well.

"What are you up to these days, Josef?" you ask, because that is as close as you can get to asking without crossing one of the few lines left between you, "Still piloting that old tub around?"

"The Berebeli is a fine ship, brat, with a few good years left in her yet," Josef says indignantly, but you don't miss the look of understanding in his eyes, or the wry smile on his lips. "But if you must know, I've taken on a couple of new boathands lately. Wolmar and Gilda, good folk, married with a baby girl and all. They're saving up, putting their share of the cargo aside. Another year or two and they'll be able to buy the barge off me, I reckon. Then I can settle down in some nice little village somewhere, spend my time fishing and spinning yarns for the locals."

"Good," you exhale slowly with relief. You haven't thought about this man in years, but the mere idea of him being reduced to penury and destitution in his old age was discomforting. The Shallyans would provide care where possible, of course, but without a family or fixed community of his own, you doubt that would have been enough. "That's good."

The Street of a Hundred Taverns is named with more poetic licence than accuracy, but even the most cynical would concede that there are dozens of different taverns, inns, public houses and purveyors of vice to be found along its length. It runs from the docks all the way up to the Konigsplatz, but Josef opts to lead you to a particular establishment nearer the waterline, a squat looking building named the Boatman's Inn. Your fine and sombre clothes mark you as an outsider from the moment you step in through the door, but Josef's presence at your side is as good as a warrant in the eyes of the various hard bitten dockworkers and sailors that pack the taproom from end to end.

"Best beer north of the Reik here, my lad, trust me," Josef says cheerfully as he elbows his way closer to the far, "Una, darling, a bottle of the house special for me and my friend here."

The proprietor is a tall woman with the dusky skin of a southerner, no more than twenty years old by your reckoning, but she handles the bottles and beer steins piled around her with an expert's steady grace. "Josef, back already? Thought you had cargo to load up."

"I do, and I did, and then I met an old friend and had to catch up," Josef says cheerfully, dragging you closer to the bar and patting you on the shoulder, "Markus, this here is Una Mühlmauer, owner and mistress both since her old man passed last year. Don't let the breathy accent fool you, she's as mean as any east end cutter you'll ever meet, which makes sense given her mother was…"

"Finish that sentence old man and you'll be out on your ear," Una growls, but she's still smiling even as she produces a pair of brown glass bottles with a flourish and hands them over. Her gaze is briefly appraising as she looks you over, then she shakes her head with a snort. "Don't take this the wrong way, Markus, but you look far too fancy to be hanging around this drunken old sot."

"What can I say," you say dryly, taking the bottles before Josef can lay his hands on them, "he's grown on me. Like a mould."

Josef sputters in protest at that, but all his affronted dignity doesn't stop him from following you over to one of the few remaining tables and taking a seat, nor does it prevent him from grabbing a pair of glasses and expertly pouring a measure of the ale into each.

"Speaking of old men," he chuckles fondly, raising his glass in toast to you, "How's yours, these days? Still going strong, I assume, if you're here."

You freeze, every muscle locking up at once, then force yourself to relax. No, you suppose it isn't a surprise to hear that Josef never found out. Your family did what it could to bury the whole affair, and while fellow nobles have their ways and their grapevines of salacious gossip to call upon, revealing such things to the commoners is an entirely different matter.

"He's dead," you say shortly, swallowing your drink and feeling the burn as it goes down your throat, "They burned him. Witchcraft."

Josef coughs at that, so shocked that he almost chokes on his drink, and then with watery eyes shakes his head. "Old Man Pietr, truly? Well, I'll be damned. I guess you never can tell." For a moment you think he might be about to connect the dots, might be about to ask the question you really don't want to hear, but either his comprehension falls short or he chooses mercy because all he says is "My sympathies, lad. Not worth much, I know, but even so."

"I appreciate it," you say, quietly, bitterly, thinking of how your father died and then taking another drink, "And no. You never can tell."

"Is, uh…" Josef hesitates for a moment, struggling to put his thoughts into words that won't be as knives driven into your raw and bleeding wounds, "Is that why you're doing the priestly thing? Familial reputation? Or, uh, personal."

"Something like that," you grimace, shaking your head. You could explain it all, pick apart your own reasons and the burning drive to make it right that haunts you more with every passing day, but you won't. There's no point. "I gave up my inheritance after… well, after. Rikard inherited my responsibilities."

Josef nods soberly. "Well, he'll probably do well with them, I imagine. No disrespect, of course, but he always was the more scholarly of you two."

You smile, despite yourself, remembering your little brother's eager eyes and the way he always used to get ink on his hands. "Smarter, too. Harder working. Actually attended to his studies instead of letting a drunken old boatman drag him around the waterfront."

Josef grumbles something of a protest at that but you're too distracted to hear him. Someone else has just walked into the tavern, and like a stone cast into a still lake his presence ripples out before him like a wave, dock workers and tavern regulars falling silent one after the other. He's a tall man, gaunt and pale of skin, with slicked back hair and a neatly trimmed beard that doesn't quite cover an ugly scar that extends up one side of his cheek. You don't see anything approaching a uniform, only a leather jerkin and trousers stained the colour of old soot, but when he approaches a table the locals there get up without a word and depart. The stranger takes the seat they left vacant, and a moment later the landlady is coming out with a bottle of whiskey that he pays for with a grunt and a handful of gleaming silver coins.

"Max Ernst," Josef grumbles quietly, keeping his voice down so the new arrival cannot hear him, "Debt collector, most of the time, the kind that you send if you're less worried about the money and more the message. Surprised nobody's stuck a knife in him yet."

"Looks like he's here for a fight," you murmur back, husbanding your liquor as you study the rangy looking back at his table. You're not the only one, but if Max cares at all he doesn't show it. You expect everyone is waiting to see if someone else is going to pick the fight first, and if they don't, who the thug will pick to vent his foul mood on.

Josef shrugs and takes another drink, setting the cup back down with a deliberately nonchalant clink as conversation slowly picks back up. "Well, let's hope he likes his chances against someone else a little better. Until then… I need you to stop me if it looks like I'm getting into my cups, alright? I've got a shipment of wine and salted meat going out to Bögenhafen tomorrow, and I need to be up and mostly sober with the sun to make the first leg on schedule."

You blink at that, turning your attention back to your old friend and self-appointed mentor. That you should encounter a figure from your past like this, one conveniently going where you need to go and with a form of transportation to hand, strains the bounds of coincidence. Perhaps this meeting truly is the work of the gods. "Bögenhafen? I actually have business out that way soon. Any chance of a spare bunk?"

"Hah! For you, young master, always," Josef grins broadly, revealing a gap-tooth smile stained brown by a life you'd rather not contemplate right now. "Assuming you can be down at pier six by dawn tomorrow, anyway. I'm serious about that schedule, you know - I need to get there by the time the schaffenfest starts or my cargo loses half its value."

The schaffenfest is something you recall seeing mentioned in your earlier studies of Bögenhafen, but before you can ask about it further the door to the tavern opens again and another group comes in. These ones are, if anything, even more worthy of caution than the black clad thug, for while four of them are clearly bodyguards in hard and practical leathers, the remaining two are young men in the very finest of courtly fashions. They could not be any more obviously nobles, and unless you miss your guess they are already more than a little drunk.

"Oh my, what a quaint little establishment," the first young man, his face flushed and beaded with sweat, chuckles as he saunters up to the bar, "Landlord! Two of your finest beverages, please."

Una Mühlmauer smiles and inclines her head and immediately fetches a clear glass bottle from under the bar, filled with an amber liquid you are sure must be ruinously expensive. You're surprised she even has something like that, but it was probably a gift or a memento of some kind, and now she has to sacrifice it to appease a pair of drunken nobles out play-acting at slumming it with the masses.

"Oh, I say Georg," the second young man comments, his immaculately coiffed black hair as out of place here as a mutant in a ballroom, "your man wasn't lying. She really would be quite the looker if she cleaned up a bit."

Una's jaw tightens, but she doesn't say anything, and nor do any of the other patrons of the establishment. They know how this goes, how it always goes when young nobles like this decide to have a little fun at the expense of their social inferiors. You could probably get involved yourself, but then it might very well escalate, and the locals probably wouldn't thank you for it.

"Jacob, my good man, you would find a pig attractive in the right light," the first scion replies in a grand voice, downing the first glass that Una sets before him with no appreciation for the cost or the quality of the liquor within. He belches loudly, then makes a show of sniffing at the air. "Though I suppose that might explain the smell. Urgh. Have none of these people ever heard of bathing?"

"Tell me I was never that bad," you murmur to Josef, ducking your head to hide your wince of embarrassment. You went slumming it more than once, but you never took your bodyguards with you when you did. That defeats the entire point.

"No, and thank Taal for that," Josef mutters back, likewise grimacing at the sudden air of strain that fills the bar. Lashing out at these boys or even raising one's voice will end badly for anyone else here, at the hands of those stone-faced bodyguards immediately and the class hierarchy in time, but that doesn't mean nobody will. Sometimes you run into someone with nothing to lose, or more likely, someone too drunk to realise what they're getting into before the fists start flying.

Markus makes an Average (+20) Intuition test, skill is 62, result is 62, bare pass.

Without conscious thought, your gaze drifts over to Max Ernst, the debt collector here looking for a fight. As you expected he is studying the nobles and their bodyguards carefully, but to your surprise there's no immediate hostility in his gaze. He looks like he's waiting for something.

"This could get ugly," you mutter to Josef, setting your glass aside and rising to your feet, "Let's move on."

The boatman grunts his agreement and follows you back across the floor, but as you get near the door two of the bodyguards step deliberately into your path, blocking the way with their bodies. They're stone-faced men, both of them, with the grizzled air and old scars of former soldiers taken up into new employment, and neither of them are looking at you directly.

"Get out of my way," you say flatly, but neither of them so much as twitch a muscle. Great. Just great.

"I say, is that a rat I see, fleeing for its hole?" One of the nobles calls out in a singsong voice, drunken humour blurring his high class accent, "First pigs and now rats… this place really is a mess."

"Now now, Georg," the other noble chimes in, chuckling at his own wit, "Everyone knows that commoners run away at the first excuse, especially if they're scared of something. Maybe he just finds us a bit too intimidating for him?"

"A thousand apologies, milords," Josef says reluctantly, bowing deep at the waist as he tries to defuse this before it gets any worse, "Our boat leaves at first light, and we wanted to get a start on loading it up."

It's a decent excuse, the sort that any reasonable man would accept with a negligent wave and let you both go, but these two brats aren't here to be reasonable.

"Oh my! A pig that speaks!" The first of them, Georg, says with a kind of malicious humour, "You know, I don't think pigs are meant to speak. Maybe we ought to fix that."

You sigh, giving up on your dreams of a relaxing evening of reminiscing with an old friend or even a graceful exit from the conversation, and turn. Before you can say anything, though, you are interrupted by the gaunt figure of Max Ernst, who rises from his chair and stalks over to stand before you.

"I wouldn't do that, pea-brain," he growls, shoving you hard in the chest and sending you stumbling back. "Why don't you just sit down and enjoy your drink, yeah?"

You say nothing, too astounded to reply. Truly, the consequences of relative anonymity are catching up with you. To these people you look like nothing more than a scholar of middling means out on the town after a hard day of work; the perfect victim, in fact. Georg and Jacob clearly seem to think so, clustering together and sniggering violently at the show that has just started up in front of them.

"What's the matter, dipshit, too thick to speak?" Max growls, goading you now, seeking a response that he can use to start a fight. "Little rats like you should know your place, crawling around on the floor. Go on, then. Crawl!"

Article:

A local debt collector/thug for hire is trying to start a fight with you, almost certainly on the orders of two noble brats out for a fun night of making their social inferiors fight for their amusement. How do you wish to proceed?

[ ] Punch Him. They want a fight, and frankly you think you'd enjoy one yourself right now. No weapons, just fists and liquid courage.

[ ] Introduce yourself
- [ ] As a Noble. Making your birth and house known will remove you and Josef from the list of viable targets. You might even be able to talk the young brats out of their plans.
- [ ] As a Witch Hunter. It isn't quite within your legal remit, but you doubt Sigmar would object overly much if you terrified these little shits into being less of a disgrace to their class and station.

[ ] Write in