Tag: the brandenburg sanction

Dowsing!

In theory, finding the safe’s new location would be simplicity itself. I had the dowsing rods recalibrated to the vibratory frequency of the safe where it had touched the floor. That made it separate from the frequencies of the safe and the floor, so all I had to do was dowse until I had a nibble. That would give me a direction to start with. Then I would go to a second location, dowse again, and get the direction from there. After that, it would be a simple matter of using a map and some math.

Ah, yes. ‘Simple.’

The primary problem was that the range on my dowsing rods was constrained by the very specificity I needed. Getting the frequency of just the bank safe had been accomplished by finding one that was from the same manufacturer, and made at the same time. That was trivial, given how regimented the Third Werk had been — and I was able to triangulate from halfway across the town, in the privacy of mine and Francesco’s rented rooms.

That wouldn’t be an option here. I’d need to be considerably closer to my target before I got a meaningful hit, and unfortunately that would mean having to take readings in public. People notice dowsers. They especially notice dowsers who hang about government offices and military garrisons. Being a foreigner might not even matter; they’d already be assuming I was a spy.

Complexities!

“Too much,” rumbled Gefikst, once we were back in our own rooms. “Did you see the bitter look he gave you, there? He may be a bandit and a sneak thief, but he has his pride.”

“The pride is what I’m worried about,” I told it as I poured myself some mineral water. You need steady hands and bright eyes for recalibrating a dowsing rod. “I don’t want Francesco wondering why we’re still so ready to raid that safe. I do want him in a nice froth: too upset to think clearly, but not so infuriated as to toss a knife my way the next time my back is turned. It’s an intricate dance.”

“That’s fair,” Gefikst admitted. “I must admit, you do, ah, froth him well.”

“I blessed well hope so.” I sank into the couch. “Acting like this is harder than it looks. Being the complete Britonic upper-class blitherer takes work, you know.” Worth it, though. I first got the trick from a Pinkerton agent by the name of Sawyer: he could play the country bumpkin so well that it could take you a day to notice that the blighter had stolen your wallet and your teeth. Taking advantage of people’s expectations is a clever gambit, and I’ve never been shy about learning from our Washingtonian cousins.

Complications!

Neither of us heard anything (Francesco wasn’t even trying to listen, not that he was the kind of rogue who could notice a Scandinavian war-bear if it fell on him), which in retrospect should have been more of a hint. At the time, I just chalked up the general lack of movement in the basement of a bank as being more evidence of just how backward and backwoods Schmoditten-Schloditten was — and still is, mind you. It’s the sort of place that will bring its sidewalks in at night, once it actually gets around to buying some.

Ah, I digress, probably from lingering embarrassment. It wasn’t until we actually got to the bank vault that we discovered that it wasn’t actually a vault anymore. It lacked certain amenities, like a guard post, alarms either arcane or mundane, and indeed a solid door. Instead there was a barred door that even Francesco could unlock with a sniff.

I let him get to that while I fiddled with my dowsing rods; Gefikst rumbled up to me while I was making my final adjustments. “So, about my being able to pop the hinges on the safe if need be, Mr. Weld. I should mention that I’d need to actually find the safe first?”

“Yes, ha, ha, very droll,” I muttered back. “I don’t see the blasted thing either. But the rods still do, dammit.” Indeed, they did. In fact, they were unerringly pointing to a particular spot on the floor; one showing signs of a heavy object being removed. “We’ll need to take a sample from the dirt and scratches.”

Walls!

Gefikst could have punched through the wall in about thirty seconds, but that would have just ended with us eventually fleeing Schmoditten-Schloditten with a host — well, at least a mort — of soldiers after us. Worse, and more importantly, we’d be doing so in public. The idea was to be discreet in our burglary. Making a splash wouldn’t help any of us. That’s why the golem was instead carefully vibrating one finger through the mortar holding the bricks together. Once it had one brick cleared, it would gently yank it out, and give it to me to be carefully stacked on the ground. Francesco ignored the work entirely, but then we didn’t really mind. Honestly, I couldn’t trust him not to drop a damned brick on his foot.

It wasn’t as slow as it sounds, and we didn’t need to take the whole brick wall down, but it was still a nerve-wracking ten minutes of tense work. Yes, nobody was likely to patrol the basements, and yes, security for this building was lax at best, and yes, they weren’t supposed to have even a hint that we were coming, but you wouldn’t believe the things that can happen in even a small caper. At least I was able to hear if someone was coming, once the first brick was out. I’d have trusted Gefikst’s echolocation trick a good deal more if I was the one who was imitating a bat.

Sewers!

When I said a quick heist, I meant precisely that; we were in the sewers the very next evening. They were Third Werk make, back when Bismarck was rebuilding the Germanies instead of leading them into a blast furnace, and they had a grim Teutonic solidity about them. They were also about twice as large as they needed to be, but I didn’t mind that. At least none of us would have to stoop. The smell, though? It snuck in, even past the camphor potions Francesco and I had choked down before entering the place. It’s entirely possible that we both retained our suppers simply because neither of us wished to be the first to vomit in front of the other.

Gefikst accordingly took the lead, being immune to vapors and miasmas. It also obligingly stomped into oblivion several of the giant spiders that lurked down here, no doubt eager to supplement their diet with something, ah, fresher. It is a measure of the awfulness of the place that the combined reeks of ichor and venom actually refreshed the air slightly.

Still, all bad things come to an end, and we had to endure the ordure of the public sewers for only few eternities before we found the access tunnel we were looking for. The gate was secured with an alchemical lock so cheap, I don’t know why they bothered. Because gates are supposed to have locks, I suppose. At any rate, a spare key was left in the same ‘hidden’ compartment that every bloody gate in the Third Werk had, so I didn’t have to bother with picking it myself. Or knocking it open with a kick in just the right place. The fewer disturbances we left, the happier I’d be.

Golems!

Safe in those lodgings, I contemplated my companion. Gefikst was bulky, with heavy steel plates on everything that wasn’t a joint. That, coupled with an old, faded France-over-Sea sigil on its left shoulder, suggested to me that it had fought in the War, twenty years back. Or possibly the sigil was disinformation, or just a suggestion that it liked the Bonaparte dynasty – ah, sorry: the ‘de Gaulle’ dynasty. Old habit. Still, the first and third possibilities weren’t really contradictory. After all, the French were allies with the re-forged Khazaria, these days.  For that matter, so were we.

“We don’t actually need him,” Gefikst reminded me. “That safe might have been uncrackable during the war, but it has hinges. If it has hinges, I can pop them off.”

“No doubt.” I gave it a smile. “And if I can disarm the traps in time, we could even get the treasure before it melts, or ignites. But there’ll be alarms without a doubt, and then everything gets messy. Ideally, we want to be in, out, and over the border before anyone notices we’re even there. A quick heist, even if it’s not a simple one.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Weld. How do you know that the cellars won’t be alarms, too? Surely they must have considered that people might try to dig their way in from the sewers.”

I shrugged. “If they did, they would assume the digging would be done by humans. When it comes to little jobs like these, your people don’t come cheap.”

Putting myself back to work.

“Money is good,” grumbled Buonoparte. “Revenge is better. Even the golem knows more of this than any Briton would. And we of Corse? This, we learn this at our mothers’ breasts!”

It’s for certain you didn’t learn how to dress there, I thought while ignoring yet another insult about my people. Unless your mother was a circus clown. Francesco di Buonaparte liked to affect elements of dress that he fondly believed derived from Corsican banditti: big hat with a turned-up brim, and a waist sash around his ample middle. Even for that, the striped pantaloons were a bit much. As to the attitude – well, I’ve fought Corscians. I’ve fought alongside them, too. All of them would have laughed themselves sick at Buonaparte’s pretensions, shortly before washing them out with blood.

I forbore from saying anything along these lines as he poured down more wine. I was beginning to have doubts about employing him in my plan, but he had the (old) name and, most importantly, even the blood of the first Napoleon. With any luck, he’d even know what to do with it. “Then it is fortunate that I have such a formidable to set a good example for me?” I told him, trusting in his imperfect knowledge of English to keep him from noticing my sarcasm. “After all, milord, this entire enterprise depends on you.”

That, unfortunately, was not sarcasm at all.

One of the aforementioned need-to-finish-this pieces. Lemme see if I can make this, you know, not glum.

It takes real skill to get drunk on a Rhenish white, but Francesco di Buonaparte was managing, somehow. He’d drunk two bottles to my barely sipped glass — and Gefikst’s untouched one. Then again, I’d only poured our third companion (or conspirator) a glass for toasts, and the smell. Golems can appreciate a good bouquet, and a just-opened Riesling’s these days typically reeks like an alchemical processing plant. It’s a bit of an acquired taste, in other words, and one I had never seriously considered picking up.

They say that alcohol is excellent at extracting a substance’s essence; alas, in Buonaparte’s case, his inner nature was that of the jackass. I almost expected him to grow ears and a tail as he sourly contemplated me. Certainly he brayed like one. “I know why you are desperate to have me for this enterprise, Briton,” he slurred, making the word sound like a curse. “Why should I need to burden myself with your presence?”

Because you have no choice, I thought, and half-debated saying aloud. “Money, milord,” I told him instead. “Everyone needs it, everyone wants it, and I’m giving you a chance to get some of your birthright back.” I sipped more of the horrible wine. “Surely that’s worth a little burden, what-what?”