Chapter 50: THE SALT AND THE SEAL

The cellar stairs were a river of shadows, and Konrad climbed them with the ledger’s weight still pressing against his ribs. The address within—a house in Vienna, a name he did not recognize—burned in his pouch beside the letter that named him heir and the note that asked what Margarethe had done.

He emerged into a corridor thick with the smells of tallow and roasting meat. The feast had spilled into its final hours, and servants staggered past with empty platters and stained linens. Konrad moved against the current, his face a mask of weary courtesy, until he reached the great hall’s threshold.

Ottokar sat at the high table, his golden beard catching the firelight, his eyes tracking Konrad the moment he entered. The Bohemian king raised a cup in mock salute.

“There he is,” Ottokar called, loud enough for the nearest nobles to hear. “My guest of honor, who has spent the evening in my cellars. Tell me, Sir Konrad—did you find anything to your taste among my old wines?”

Konrad smiled, the expression costing him more than a sword stroke. “Your cellars are generous, Your Majesty. I was admiring the vintage—and the ledgers that keep such treasures account.”

A flicker crossed Ottokar’s face. The king set down his cup with careful deliberation.

“Ledgers,” Ottokar repeated. “A curious thing for a knight to admire.”

“I am a curious knight,” Konrad said. He stepped into the hall, feeling the eyes of a dozen Bohemian lords upon him. “I was taught that a man who knows the worth of what he guards is less likely to lose it.”

Ottokar laughed, but the sound was thinner than before. “Then you must advise my chamberlain. He complains that I spend more than I account for.” He gestured to a seat near the fire. “Come. Sit. Tell me what else you know of worth.”

Konrad crossed the hall, his boots silent on the rushes. He took the offered seat, close enough to the king that their conversation would be lost in the hall’s din, far enough that he could see the doors.

“Your Majesty wishes to know what my uncle truly wants in Prague,” Konrad said, keeping his voice low. “I have told you. Peace. Recognition. The marriage of our houses.”

“And yet you skulk in my cellars, reading my accounts, counting my gold.” Ottokar’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Forgive me if I find your assurances thin.”

Konrad met the king’s gaze. “I was looking for something else, Your Majesty. A name. A man who may have come to Prague in recent months—a man who claims kinship with my house.”

Ottokar’s expression did not change, but his fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. “Kinship. You Habsburgs are like spiders. Every thread leads back to your web.”

“Not every thread,” Konrad said. “Some lead to Vienna.”

The king was silent for a long moment. The fire crackled between them, and somewhere in the hall a lute began a mournful tune.

“I know of no such man,” Ottokar said finally. “But I know this, Sir Konrad: you ask questions that wander far from your uncle’s peace. A man who seeks answers in a king’s cellar often finds more than he wished—and pays more than he owed.”

Konrad inclined his head. “I have been paying for my questions since I arrived, Your Majesty. The cups of wine. The veiled threats. The doors that close when I approach.” He paused. “And the women who watch me from the galleries.”

Ottokar’s smile returned, sharp as a blade. “Ah. The women. I have heard you have made quite an impression. The Lady Kunigunde speaks of you with unusual warmth. And Eliska von Kuenring—she is a widow of some reputation. Take care, Sir Konrad. In Prague, a woman’s favor can be more dangerous than a man’s enmity.”

“I have found that to be true everywhere, Your Majesty.”

Ottokar leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Then let me give you counsel, as a king to a guest. You carry something in that pouch of yours. I have seen you touch it when you think no one watches. A letter, perhaps. A seal.” He paused. “A claim.”

Konrad’s blood went cold, but his face remained still. “I carry nothing but my uncle’s instructions and my own hopes.”

“Liar,” Ottokar said pleasantly. “But a skilled one. I will tell you what I know, and you may make of it what you will. There is a man in Vienna—a clerk, I believe, or a priest—who has been asking questions about the House of Habsburg. Questions about a death in 1268. Questions about a son who was never acknowledged.”

Konrad’s heart hammered against his ribs. “And what interest does Your Majesty have in such questions?”

“I have interest in anything that weakens Rudolf of Habsburg,” Ottokar said frankly. “If there is a bastard claim to his name, or a shadow on his honor, I would know it. I would use it.” He studied Konrad with cold, appraising eyes. “You are his instrument, or so you claim. But I wonder—whose instrument would you be, if you found that your uncle had wronged you? If you found that the name he carries is yours by right?”

Konrad forced himself to breathe. The letter in his tunic seemed to grow heavier, its wax seal burning against his skin.

“I am my uncle’s man,” he said. “That is all I have ever been.”

Ottokar laughed, and this time the sound was genuine. “You are a terrible liar, Sir Konrad. It is perhaps your only virtue.” He rose, signaling the end of the conversation. “The winter is long, and the spring will bring war. I will keep you here until the thaw, and we will see whose man you truly are.”

He turned to go, then paused. “One more thing. The clerk in Vienna—his name is Brother Anselm. I believe you know him.”

Konrad’s world tilted. Brother Anselm, his confessor, the Franciscan who had recorded his sins and absolved his doubts. The man who had heard his confessions in Augsburg, who had traveled with Rudolf’s train, who had warned him of the cost of loyalty.

“I know him,” Konrad said.

“Then you know that he writes letters,” Ottokar said. “Many letters. To Prague, to Vienna, to Rome. He is a man who keeps records of everything—including the confessions of a certain Habsburg knight.” The king smiled, and it was the smile of a man who had just played his final card. “I have copies, Sir Konrad. Copies of everything he has written about you.”

He walked away, leaving Konrad alone in the firelight, the lute still playing its mournful tune, and the weight of a brother he had never known settling onto his shoulders like snow.

But now there was something else.

The confessor’s knot had just drawn tight around his throat.