TOM HARPER
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Also Available by Tom Harper
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
Chapter LIX
Chapter LX
Chapter LXI
Chapter LXII
Chapter LXIII
Chapter LXIV
Chapter LXV
Chapter LXVI
Chapter LXVII
Chapter LXVIII
Chapter LXIX
Chapter LXX
Chapter LXXI
Chapter LXXII
Chapter LXXIII
Chapter LXXIV
Chapter LXXV
Chapter LXXVI
Chapter LXXVII
Chapter LXXVIII
Chapter LXXIX
Chapter LXXX
Chapter LXXXI
Chapter LXXXII
Chapter LXXXIII
Chapter LXXXIV
Chapter LXXXV
Colophon
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409035879
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2009
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Copyright (c) Tom Harper 2009
Tom Harper has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 2009 by Arrow
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ISBN 9780099545576
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for OwenArt and Adventure
Tom Harper was born in Germany and studied medieval history at Oxford university. He has written eight novels, includingKnights of the Cross and Lost Temple. He lives in York with his wife and son. Also available by Tom Harper
The Mosaic of Shadows
Knights of the Cross
Siege of Heaven
Lost Temple
I
Oberwinter, GermanyThick snow covered the village that morning. A cold silence gripped the streets. The cars parked opposite the hotel were shrouded with frost - except one, where a gloved hand had scraped a rough circle clear on the driver's window. Behind the black glass, the red eye of a cigarette blinked and glowed.
A young woman came round the corner and hurried up the hotel steps. She was dressed as if for a run: a hooded sweatshirt and jogging trousers, running shoes, a woollen hat and a small rucksack on her back. But it was not a morning for running, and no footprints had left the hotel since the overnight snow. She let herself in the front door and disappeared. The cigarette in the car glowed faster, then went out.
Gillian reached the top of the hotel stairs, tiptoed across the landing and slipped into her room. A dirty half-light seeped through the curtains, making the shabby room look even shabbier. It stank of nicotine: in the thin mattress and untouched sheets, the heavily varnished furniture, the threadbare rugs slung over the floorboards. The black laptop on the dresser was the only sign of change in the last thirty years.
Gillian pulled off the hat and shook out her raven-black hair. She glimpsed herself in the mirror and felt a faint pang of surprise: the new hair colour still didn't feel right. If she couldn't recognise herself, perhaps others wouldn't either. She unzipped her top and stripped it off. Mud streaked her pale arms; her fingers were cracked and bloody from climbing in the dark, but she hardly noticed. She'd found what she'd gone for. She crossed to the computer, flipped up the lid and turned it on. Down on the street, a car door slammed.
As the machine clicked into life, something gave inside Gillian. The adrenalin drained away. She was exhausted - and shivering with cold. Too tired to wait for the computer, she went to the bathroom and undressed, peeling the damp fabric away from her skin. She left the clothes in a heap on the floor and stepped into the shower. The old hotel might lack some comforts, but at least the plumbing worked. The hot water blasted her face, slicking her hair flat against her scalp. The sharp droplets pricked warmth back into her skin; her muscles began to relax. She closed her eyes. In the dark space that opened, she saw the castle on the cliff; the icy rock face and the tiny crevice; the terror in her throat as she pushed against the ancient door . ..
Her eyes snapped open. Over the white noise of steam and water, she'd heard a sound from the bedroom. It might have been nothing - the hotel had its share of creaks and bumps - but the last three weeks had taught Gillian new fears. She left the water running and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a skimpy hotel towel. Wet footprints pooled on the floorboards as she tiptoed through to the bedroom.
There was no one there. The laptop sat on the dresser between the two windows, chattering away to itself.
The sound came again - a knock at the door. She didn't move.
'Fraulein -telefon.'
It was a man's voice, not the hotel owner's. Gillian looked at the door.She'd forgotten to attach the safety chain. Did she dare slip it on now, or would that only alert him to her presence? She grabbed the hooded top from the bed and zipped it over her breasts, then pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms from under the pillow. That made her feel less vulnerable.
'Fraulein?' The voice was harsh, impatient - or was that just her imagination? No. In horror, she saw the door handle start to turn.
'I'm here,' she called, trying not to sound frightened. 'Who is it?'
'Telefon. Is important for you, Fraulein.' But it didn't sound important - it sounded false, a rehearsed lie at the wrong moment, dialogue out of sync with the film. The handle was still down, the tongue of the lock bumping the frame as the man pushed against it.
'I can't take it right now,' said Gillian. She snatched the laptop from the dresser and stuffed it into the rucksack. 'I'll be down in five minutes.'
'Is important.' An ill-fitting key scrabbled in the lock.It was opening. She flew across the room and slammed the safety chain home. She grabbed the handle and tried to hold it, but the grip on the other side was remorseless. Her fingers went white; her wrist was twisted back.
With a pop, the lock gave. The door sprang open, flinging Gillian backwards onto the floor. The chain snapped taut, bit - and held. The door shuddered to a standstill. Gillian heard a muffled curse. An unseen hand pulled it back a fraction and thrust it forward again. Again the chain held.
Dazed and desperate, Gillian pushed herself up. Blood ran down her cheek where the door had grazed it but she didn't notice. She knew what she had to do. She slung the rucksack over one shoulder, pulled open the window and climbed out onto the tiny balcony. A rusting ladder, the fire escape, ran down the side of the building. She'd insisted on a room next to it, though she hadn't expected to need it. She'd thought she'd lost them after Mainz. She pulled her sleeves down over her hands and reached for the nearest rung.
A second before she touched it, the whole ladder shivered. The snow on the rungs shook loose. With her arm still outstretched, she looked down.
The icy air seemed to freeze in her lungs. Through the swirling mist and snow, she saw a dark figure climbing towards her. From inside the room she heard another crash: the impact must have almost torn the chain from its housing. Perhaps someone had heard the noise, but she doubted it. She hadn't seen another guest since she checked in.
She was trapped. Only one thing mattered now. She ducked back through the window, ran to the bathroom and locked the door. It wouldn't hold two minutes, but perhaps that would be enough. Trembling, she perched on the edge of the bathtub and opened the laptop. In the bedroom, she heard a splitting crack as the chain finally gave. Footsteps ran in, paused, then headed for the window. That would buy her a few more seconds.
But not enough time to write - to explain. She reached behind the machine and turned on the webcam built into the lid. The light on the data card blinked as it established a connection; on screen, a new window opened with a list of names. She cursed. All of them were greyed out, dead to the online world. Probably still fast asleep.
Out in the bedroom, voices conferred for a moment, then approached the bathroom. A heavy boot slammed against the door, so hard she thought they'd kick it off its hinges. But the door held. She scrolled frantically through the names. Someone must be up. The light on the data card blinked orange and her heart almost stopped, but a second later the connection re-established itself and the light turned green. Another kick; this time the door buckled.
There. At the very bottom of the list, she found what she was looking for: a single name rendered in firm bold letters. Nick - of course he'd be up. A flash of misgiving shot through her, but more pounding on the door drove it out instantly. He'd have to do. She clicked the button next to his name to open a connection. Without waiting to see if he answered, she found the file and clicked SEND. The light on the data card flashed a furious pulse as it started streaming the information out of the computer.
Come on, she mouthed. She waited for Nick's face to appear on screen so she could warn him, tell him what to do with it - but the box where he should have been stayed black, blank. Answer, godamit.
'About 1 minute remaining,' the status bar said. But she didn't have that long. There was a small window behind the bath: she reached up and jammed the laptop into the opening. Her fingers scrabbled on the keyboard as she typed two brief lines of text, praying that the message would find someone. Another kick. She pulled the shower curtain across the bath to hide the computer.
The door smashed open. A man in a long black coat and black gloves stepped through the splintered frame and advanced towards her, the cigarette glowing like a needle in his mouth. Unthinkingly, Gillian tugged up the zip of her top.
Outside, a faint scream drifted down the street until the cold mist smothered it. Loose snow filled the footsteps outside the front door. The car drove away, the chains on its tyres clanking like a ghost. And on the other side of the world, a handful of pixels flashed up on a screen to announce that a message had arrived.
IIThe Confession of Johann GensfleischThe Lord came down to see the city, and the tower which mortals had built. And the Lord said, 'Look, they are one people and they all have one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; from now, nothing that they propose to achieve will be impossible for them .. .'
God have mercy for I have sinned. Like the men of Babel I built a tower to approach the heavens, and now I am cast down. Not by a jealous god, but by my own blind pride. I should have destroyed the cursed object, cast it in the river, or burned it in a fire until the gold leaf melted off the pages, the ink boiled away and the paper charred to ash. But - beguiled by its beauty and its creator - I could not do it. I have buried it in stone; I will write my confession, a single copy only, and they will lie together in eternity. And God will judge me.
It begins - I began - in Mainz, a town of wharves and spires on the banks of the river Rhine. A man may bear many names in his life: at this time, mine was Henchen Gensfleisch. Henchen was a childish form of Johann; Gensfleisch was my father's name. It means goose meat, and it suited him well. Our family's fortunes had grown fat and he had grown with them, until his belly sagged below his belt and his cheeks drooped around his chins. Like a goose, he had a sharp bite.
It was only natural that my father's financial interests led him eventually to the source. He became a companion of the mint, a sinecure which catered perfectly to his vanities. It gave him a pension and the right to march in pride of place on the St Martin's Day procession, and demanded little in return except the occasional inspection of the mint's workings. One day, when I was ten or eleven years old, he took me with him.
It was a black November day. Cloud had settled on the pinnacles of the cathedral, and rain pelted us as we scurried across the square. There was no market that day; the rain seemed to have washed every living thing from the streets. But inside the mint all was warmth and life. The master met us himself; he gave us hot apple wine, which burned my throat but made me glow inside. He deferred constantly to my father, and this also made me happy and proud (later I realised he ran the mint under contract, and hoped it would be renewed). I stood close beside my father, clutching the damp hem of his robe as we followed the master into the workshops.
It was like stepping into a romance, a sorcerer's laboratory or the caverns of the dwarves. The smells alone intoxicated me utterly: salt and sulphur, charcoal, sweat and scorched air. In one room, smiths poured out crucibles of smoking gold onto guttered tables; through a door, a long gallery rang with pealing hammers as men on benches pounded the sheets flat. Further along, a man with a pair of giant shears cut the metal as easily as a bolt of cloth, snipping it into fragments no bigger than a man's thumb. Women worked them against wheels until the corners and edges were ground into discs.
I was entranced. I had never imagined such harmony, such unity of purpose, could exist outside the heavens. Without thinking, I reached for one of the gold pieces, but my father's heavy palm swatted me away.
'Don't touch,' he warned.
A small boy, younger than me, collected the pieces in a wooden bowl and brought them to a clerk at the head of the room who tested each one on a small pair of scales.
'Each must be exactly the same as the others,' said the master, 'or everything we do would be worthless. The coinage only works if all its pieces are identical.'
The clerk swept a pile of the golden discs off his table into a felt bag. He weighed the bag and made a note in the ledger beside him. Then he passed the bag to his apprentice, who carried it solemnly through a door in the back wall. We followed.
I could tell at once that this room was different. Iron grilles covered the windows; heavy locks gripped the doors. The...
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