The Wine of Dreams Read Online Free PDF

echo. The whole process lasted nearly two hours,
but at the end of it the visitors seemed satisfied.
    “Your stores seem to be running low,” von Spurzheim commented, as Reinmar led
the way back up the stairs, “and yet your casks and jars are clustered together.
There is a deal of empty space.”
    “That is true, sir,” Reinmar agreed. “We have made space to take in new
stock. Godrich and I will be setting out on a buying trip in nine days time. We
will take the wagon south into the hills, visiting a dozen vineyards, and we
shall return fully laden.”
    “Who is Godrich?” the witch hunter wanted to know.
    “My father’s steward. One of the manservants will come with us to tend the
horses and mount guard on our money and stock.”
    “Will one be enough?” Vaedecker inquired solicitously. “Are there not gypsies
in the hills, and brigands?”
    “My father has made at least a hundred expeditions of this sort,” Reinmar
told him, “and never lost a cargo. There has been petty pilfering by
sneak-thieves, for which the gypsies may or may not have been responsible, but
they tend to get the blame for every misfortune hereabouts whether it is theirs
or not. There are always tales of brigands, and sometimes of monsters too, but
my father says that it is all nonsense.”
    “If only it were,” von Spurzheim said gloomily. “These are bad times, and
there is evil abroad in every corner of the Empire. Everyone to whom I speak
hereabouts assures me that Eilhart is as good and safe a place as could ever be
imagined, but my experience is that one of evil’s favourite tricks is to lull
potential victims into a false sense of security.”
    By the time this speech had been delivered the party was back in the shop,
and the sergeant had already unlatched the door. The night air that gusted in
when he opened it was not unduly chilly, but it cleared away the lingering
fustiness of the day in a matter of seconds.
    “Thank you, Master Wieland,” von Spurzheim said. “You have calmed our fears.”
    “When shall I see my father again?” Reinmar asked.
    “Soon,” the witch hunter assured him. “I have a few more questions to ask,
but he will be back by daybreak. We understand how anxious he is to resume his
everyday routine.”
    As soon as the door was closed behind them, Reinmar went down to the cellars
to extinguish the lanterns, then put out the lights in the shop. He was now so
impatient to consult his grandfather that he ran up the steps to the topmost
floor of the house, where Luther Wieland had one of the rooms under the eaves.
    The room was lit by a single candle, which one of the maidservants had
brought with the old man’s supper. The hour was so late that Luther should have
blown it out and settled down to sleep, but he had heard too much commotion and
had doubtless been informed that soldiers had been in and out of the shop
earlier in the day.
    “What’s going on?” he said, as soon as Reinmar appeared. “Why does no one
bother to tell me what’s happening in my own house?” The fact that Luther’s
supper-tray was on the table by his bed suggested that he must have received
some news, but whatever the kitchen maid had told him had only increased his
curiosity.
    “We’ve all been busy,” Reinmar told him. “Godrich is down at the warehouse on
the quay and my father is at the Burgomaster’s house. I was in the cellars,
watching soldiers and a witch hunter while they searched.”
    “What was the witch hunter searching for?” Luther wanted to know—but the
guarded tone of his voice suggested that he probably knew very well.
    “Dark wine,” Reinmar answered, watching closely to see how Luther would react
to the phrase. He was disappointed. The old man’s wrinkled features seemed quite
impassive, and his eyes grew no narrower. His white hair was neatly tucked away
within a black woollen cap, and his nightshirt had been freshly laundered that
day, so his whole appearance was