Burning Twilight by Kenneth Wishnia Read Free Book Online

forward to examine the knife, providing that we touched nothing ourselves and that our examination was performed in full view of all those present. That was to be expected. But I didn’t expect those burly peasants to clear the benches and crowd in close around us, every one of them puffing hot, stinking breath down our necks.
    We asked them to step back a bit, but their desire to see a genuine murder weapon was a lot stronger than their interest in careful observation and analysis.
    When I finally got someone to bring over a torch and we got a good look at the blade, there didn’t seem to be much blood on it at all. Perhaps the knife had belonged to Sir Tadeusz? No, it was too crude to be a nobleman’s dagger. His sword had been made of damask steel inlaid with gold filigree.
    “Your eyes are better than mine, Rabbi Benyamin,” said Rabbi Loew, straightening up with an old man’s groan. “Take a close look and tell me what you see.”
    I crouched on one knee and studied the scarred blade by the flickering light.
    “Hold that steady, will you?” I asked. A pair of bondsmen obliged by supporting the torch with both hands.
    A couple of faint streaks of reddish brown matter caught the light, thinner than the finest thread.
    “It looks like someone tried to wipe the blood off this blade.”
    Sir Mateusz ordered the servants to yank the burlap aside, then he pawed and pulled at his brother’s clothing until a flap of cloth fell open, revealing two wide streaks of rusty brown that could only have been made by someone wiping the blood from both sides of a knife.
    “Ah!” he cried. “Just like you said. It’s been wiped clean.”
    “Not completely.”
    The handle glimmered dully with traces of another substance, but the peasants kept blocking the light.
    “Bring us a pot of water,” said Rabbi Loew.
    “Fresh, clean water,” I stipulated.
    “And enough wood to bring it to a boil.”
    In no time the servants had a cauldron of water bubbling away in the fireplace. Rabbi Loew instructed them to remove it from the fire and set it on the flagstones in front of the hearth.
    When the water stopped sloshing around, Rabbi Loew asked Lord Strekov to wrap the knife carefully in a clean napkin and drop it in the pot.
    The servants had some trouble finding a clean napkin, and when they finally found one and placed it in their master’s hands, Lord Strekov stood there with his arm outstretched, the napkin stirring in the drafty air.
    “Father,” he said, calling the priest.
    “Yes, my son?”
    “Is this sort of Jewish magic permitted?”
    “My lord, I have yet to see any magic performed before my eyes this evening, Jewish or otherwise.”
    But Lord Strekov was still unsure of himself, which must have been a new feeling for him.
    “There is a new kind of magical art,” I said. “A natural magic that opens the doors to new knowledge and new worlds. And it involves nothing unholy, because like all learning, it ultimately comes from the five Books of Moses, which the Christians call the Pentateuch.”
    “Explain,” said Lord Strekov.
    “What we seek comes to us through nothing more than precise observation of the workings of God’s world.”
    Lord Strekov’s eyes flitted to the right, then back at me. I followed his gaze to his son, Mateusz.
    From what I know of the laws of succession among the nobility, if we couldn’t name the true murderer, Lord Strekov would always have to wonder if his younger son had a hand in his elder son’s death. What was it like to live that way? To spend your days worrying if your own flesh and blood might yield to the urge to take sole possession of your property and treasure, whatever the cost?
    Lord Strekov broke from his rigid stance and picked up the knife with the napkin, marched toward us and dropped the knife into the steaming cauldron.
    The knife sank to the bottom and landed with a muffled clunk, leaving a trail of tiny bubbles in the steaming water. The surface rippled from the