Free Arcanum by Simon Morden

slope sufficiently shallow for the rise to be barely perceptible. Wide, too: traffic could cross north and south and still have room to stop along the way and admire the view.
    It was, of course, physically impossible. No stone arch could support its weight shaped like that. But the bridge didn’t depend on architecture for its existence, even if it was cast as a single block of black rock. There were engravings on each buttress bearing testament to that.
    The bridge had been there a long time. The Romans had thrown a pontoon across on their way to conquer the known world, replacing it afterwards, during the time of peace they established, with a concrete and brick construction similar to their viaducts. That, despite the empire’s engineering skills, had been swept away again and again. The hexmasters had come once and conjured a marvel, then left it for mortals to use.
    Büber used his elevation to scout out the land. Simbach wasn’t walled, and the compact centre gave way to farms and gardens. Everything seemed normal there: hazy air over the town, the sense of people moving in the streets, pack animals crossing the bridge.
    Over to the west, however, was another, more concentrated source of smoke. That would be the Teutons, then, waiting for their leader to return.
    The sun was setting, and had already started to slip behind the ragged mountain peaks to the south. Büber leant forward and patted his horse on the neck.
    “Good boy,” he said. The horse, sensing the day was almost over, looked around, sniffing at the saddlebags.

7
    Thaler made his way through the town, his gown flapping around him. Nothing had happened in quite the right order that day, from Büber’s early message to Kelner’s late arrival.
    The woodsman’s story had left him confused and concerned. Missing unicorns, missing children, and Büber’s almost child-like trust in the power of books which he himself couldn’t read. Some force – an arcane force for sure – was at work, and it was becoming clear that the hexmasters couldn’t or wouldn’t confront it.
    Which was deeply disturbing in itself. There was nothing that was collectively beyond them.
    And now it was dark, and he was late.
    He hurried up the side of the library to Franks’ Alley, and then into the open space at the heart of the town, with its carefully kept ring of ash trees. They were in leaf again after a bare winter, their branches meshing with their neighbours’ and providing a continuous circle of protection for the central pillar, whose top was lost at night in shadow and sky.
    Tall, high-roofed houses, rich with money and servants, lined the square, and it was their uncovered lights that shone down and illuminated his way. Gold Alley on the far side was just as bright, even though the assayers and coiners had long since closed for the night.
    Thaler trailed down the narrow passage, and came to another crossway in the labyrinth of streets. This alley was in shadow. No magical lights here: just a line of seven flickering candles in a window. It was a sign that a Jew lived there, and that he was at the entrance of Jews’ Alley.
    He found the right door and knocked on it. Old Aaron was getting a little deaf, so Thaler gave the small brass knocker some extra taps, loudly enough for faces to appear at other windows in the surrounding buildings. Maybe they recognised the shape of Thaler, or were just satisfied that there was only one man out in the street. Their faces receded, and eventually there was a shuffling behind the door.
    “I’m coming, I’m coming,” came the voice raised in complaint. “Who is it?”
    “It’s Under-librarian Thaler, Mr Morgenstern.”
    The door had bolts top and bottom, and they thwacked back like axe-blows. A chink of light appeared and, halfway up, a glistening-wet eye. “Sophia said you might call. I suppose this is about the Maimonides?”
    “Partly,” said Thaler.
    “Partly?” Morgenstern shuffled aside and Thaler stepped into