by John M. Ford
The guard said "Who's there?" as he and his partner crossed their spears across the path. The men wore chest armor of lapped steel plates riveted over leather, that Dimi supposed might turn a glancing bullet. They had large bucket helmets with face shields blinkering their vision. Around the first guard's neck was a silver charm that Dimi at first thought was a Jeshite's Latin cross hung inverted; but it was only a hammer of Thor.
"It's Inver Drum, that's who," Colin shouted, "and you'd better let him in, 'cause he's cold an' wants his whisky."
"And you?" the man asked Dimi, with a remarkable lack of deference.
"My name is Hector. I am a captain of..." The guards were both staring at him.
"'E's no' English," Colin put in. "Can you wooden'eads no' fathom a man by his speech? The Captain's an Eetalian, late of th' money wars. More's not for two such oafs t'know. Let us through."
The guards seemed to take this as perfectly normal behavior. They cleared the path.
Colin and Dimitrios stabled their horses at the base of the slope. Dimi rode a chestnut gelding; he had left Olwen at Middleham. A white horse was too memorable, not to mention the risk that they might have to leave Edinburgh by any means to chance.
A covered stairway led up the hill. It was wide enough for two men to walk comfortably—or to defend against any number attacking from below. The door at its head was sheathed with iron, with the figure of a lion worked into the metal.
The halls were plain, dark, smoky, and loud. There were banners and racked weapons and plenty of black iron, but no gilt and little glass, and none of the manor-house pleasantries like clocks or mirrors or dwarves. The furniture was angular, hard.
The great hall they entered was familiar enough. There was a crowd, variously eating and drinking and talking and threatening each other's chastity. The air was very thick, because of the tiny windows, and the darkness in the upper corners hung like something waiting to pounce. There were dogs as always, little wiry terriers, and a pair of falcons struggling with their hoods and jesses.
"Inver Droo-m!" A red-bearded man pushed toward Colin. He was a head and a half taller than the small man, and twice as broad; a huge basket-hilted sword swung dangerously wide from his hip. He began a conversation with Colin, in Scots that Dimitrios could not understand a single word of.
He felt very odd, in his Italian gold velvet and slender Damascus blade, among all these people in wool with broadswords; odd, pretending to be... whatever. He recalled Colin's appearance at Middleham, supposed the spy was every bit as convincing a peasant as he was a laird right now.
Colin returned. "Good luck of sorts. Everyone wants to talk about Albany, an' King Jamie's awa' so they're makin' free to do so. And that gives us an excuse to leave any good time. Can you take care of yourself a while longer?"
"Yes," Dimitrios said, not irritated and wondering if he should have been.
"That's good then." Colin left Dimi in a corner and vanished among men and women all taller than himself.
Dimi stayed to the walls of the room. He had learned some words of Scots in his months on the border, and a number of people were speaking English. Someone handed him a pewter mug, which reduced the need to converse. The mug was full of whisky, burning raw stuff. Dimi sipped slowly and was glad he had made its acquaintance before: they did not have a day to spend on hangovers.
He was unique in the crowd, and could not go unnoticed—but Colin was that. The trick, of course, was not to keep anyone's notice. He thought about the dissemblers he had come to know lately: von Bayern hiding his disease, Peredur hiding his eye and his magic; even Doctor Ricci had the talent. While Dimitrios Ducas, when all the power of Byzantium might have borne down on him, had just gone soldiering and been unseen. Suddenly he felt rather secure. He took a swallow of the whisky, tasting smoke and fire.
"Hector!"
Dimitrios almost did not turn, but he remembered himself in time.
"Hector, frere lupin! How in death's name do you come here?"
"Georges. Well met," Dimi lied, thinking that it was not impossible, after all, just highly unlikely, and even more unfortunate.
Georges des Martz was an Alsatian mercenary Dimi had worked with some five years ago. Now he was wearing a steel-mesh vest over leather, a woolen cloak, a gold thunderbolt on a chain around his neck. Georges had always been one for death gods, Dimi recalled, though a good fellow in a fight; he would have taken well to Odin.
Georges said "Last I heard of you, you were going to Milan. But that's over now, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's over." Dimi tried to tell if their French conversation was attracting unwelcome notice.
"And now you're up here. Don't have to hear a raven tell what that means. How soon, Hector?"
"What?" He looked for Colin.
"War with England. It's what I came here for... but of course you'd know that, you heard enough of my papa's old grudge with Hawkwood. Stupid, yes, but family tradition. And when I go through damnation, not to mention England, to get here, what happens but these people deny there is any war to be. I tell you: they do it to drive the price down. Seigneur le Mort, these people are cheap. Do you know there is not one palatable wine in this privy of a castle? Cheaper than Swiss."
Someone touched Dimi's sleeve. He turned his head much too quickly. "Come along then, Captain," Colin said, "I've a much better offer than this man."
"You see?" Georges called as Dimi let himself be led away. "They've got the money, but you've got to scare them into spending it."
Dimitrios followed Colin through a series of dark, empty corridors, a not great but confusing distance, to the threshold of a room lit only by its fireplace. Two armored men were playing chess before the fire; a third sat, possibly dozing, in a straight-backed chair next to an ironbound door. Light spilled from beneath the door. Colin gestured, and he and Dimi moved silently away, back through the halls; avoiding the main hall, they were shortly outside without attracting any more notice.
It was nearly dark, without moon or stars. Colin pointed at the castle's high central tower, a slender square column pierced by windows at six storeys. The lowest window was lit, as was the highest. "That's David's Tower," he said. "I've shown you one end of it. Albany's at the other."
"The door is only opened from within that lighted room."
"That's so."
Dimi stared at the tower for whole minutes, ignoring Colin's impatience. Suddenly there was a bit of brick-red light on the stones, as the clouds moved up from the western horizon. And in the light, there was a flash like crimson lightning up the tower.
"What in death's name..." Dimi said softly, half conscious he was swearing in French.
"Well," Colin said, "it is a possibility."
"It's more than a possibility," Dimitrios said, "it's practically a law of siege warfare: later architects are always adding things to fortresses that compromise their defense. Big windows, drainpipes, privies, permanent bridges to replace the draws..."
They were in Colin's small house in Edinburgh town. Its upstairs bedroom had a plain view of the castle, and they had spent the whole night there, alternately arguing plans, pacing, and looking out the window. On a table lay the equipment that Gregory von Bayern had prepared for them on extremely short notice.
"Are you certain that the Frenchman is no danger?" Colin said, for the first time in at least an hour.
"What does he know that no one else knows? He even had the right name for me."
"I don't know what's inside other men's heads. I'm a spy, not a wizard. And spies know that anything in a man's head can be gotten out."
Dimi thought about disagreeing, thinking of the Nottingham poacher, but he said "Georges is nothing to do with this."
"As you say." Colin looked outside. "It's nearly daylight. Time we slept." He pulled a cloth across the window.
Dimitrios packed von Bayern's equipment into a rucksack, putting it far away from the fireplace. He snuffed the lamp and went to sleep, and dreamt of raiding castles, and
woke up twice during the dream. At least he did not wake crying out in French, for Colin would surely have misunderstood.
Colin said "I think it's going to snow."
"I hope you're saying that for luck," Dimi said, but he could smell the weather changing too. "You're not suggesting we wait—if there's a storm, it'll cover the whole place with ice."
"I wasn't suggesting a thing. Snow on our track could be lucky. Never turn away from luck, that's a Danish faith. When you see Albany, ask him if he brought any Dane luck with him."
Dimitrios was silent for a moment. "Do you know... if the Duke knows French?"
Colin looked up. "It's a minor court disgrace that he doesn't. Why?"
"I thought... I might avoid speaking English to him, until we're well away. So if we don't get that far, he can suppose I was from... well, you know. Would he know Greek?"
"Alexander's not the learned brother. Sorry. Not a bad idea, though, Captain."
Dimi was not certain he agreed. He was starting to dissemble again, or pretend he was a dissembler.
They passed through the castle gate without trouble. The challenge and response were the same as the previous day, except that a guard asked why Inver Drum had not brought some Italian women along as well. Dimi smiled: garrison troopers, believing in the mysteries of women from far away. Mercenaries learned differently. Dimi's smile faded.
They put their horses up, examining the stalls for another saddled mount; there was a fine-looking dun, and a bay with a sidesaddle. "He'll ride what's to ride," Colin muttered, and they started up the way to the castle; but Dimi slipped out a door in the side.
He sidled along the slope, toward the base of the tower. A fresh breeze made his cloak snap; he took it off and spread it on the ground, ramming the brooch pin into the hard earth to hold it. Beneath the cloak he wore a black leather vest, black woolen shirt and trousers, soft-soled boots, and the rucksack. He opened the pack, took out a pair of heavy leather gloves with metal-scaled palms, the kind a swordsman wore to grasp the enemy's point. He tugged them on, pulled the wrist laces tight with his teeth.
He looked up: on the towertop nearly thirty yards above was a bright reflection. It was a metal Thor's hammer almost as high as a man, of iron covered with silver, mounted there to draw lightning according to a physickal theory. A braid of copper wires led from the silver hammer down the wall, held every few feet by an iron spike driven into the masonry; the cable was anchored in the earth just at Dimi's feet.
He thought about water barrels on roofs and unsecured exits for fire, and determined that, in the unlikely event he ever built a house, he would not let a natural philosopher within sight of the plans.
He grasped the copper cable in a metal-palmed glove and pulled, lifting himself from the ground; there was a little slack, as he had hoped, but only a little, also as hoped. He put a knee and bootsole against the stone and reached up with his other hand.
The iron cable anchors were not thick, and showed rust. The cable itself was fused together in spots; Dimi thought at first that it was ice, but realized the metal had been melted. There must be something to the drawing down of lightning.
He began to breathe hard, and his hands hurt. He had supposed the cable would be like a wire-wrapped sword hilt, but it was the wrong shape for a comfortable grip. He looked only up, not down at all, saw four more storeys above him. Three dark windows, then the bright one. Thirty feet to fall. It was no less painful to rest on the wire than to climb it. He reached, grasped, pulled.
His lungs hurt, and his throat. The air was very cold, though the tower blocked the wind. He thought he heard a human shout, but it was only blood complaining in his ears. Two dark windows, one light.
Hand over hand, watch the slip of the boot, knees entirely in the way. Ball of the foot on a wire anchor, cutting like a caltrop even as it gave leverage. No possibility of resting now. Shift of balance, the rucksack trying to tug him off the wall (it felt like an actual tug, a hand pulling him). One dark window.
Let the glove scales do the work, don't worry if a wire strand breaks (and now one does), ease down a handsbreadth as the copper tries to snag a pack strap, push the wire back, step up again.
Bright window just a step away.
As he turned, the wind shifted, and snow blew into his face, a light snow but driven and stinging.
There was a flutter of darkness at the bright window.
Dimi reached faster than he thought, grabbing for a bar of the window before the drape should darken it.
And he lost the wire.
Elbow, chin, chest struck cold wall; his left fingers, not the whole hand, curled around the iron bar. Other hand up—loose, its fingers nearly insensible—bring up the arm and lock the hand on the bar and pull—
It was not a large window, but the tower walls were very thick, and there was plenty of room for half a man's backside to rest outside the black iron bars, while his left arm hooked through them and his head dropped onto his heaving chest, and the snow spattered down.
The drape fluttered aside. "Who in Hel's name are you?" said the Duke—but he did not say it loudly.
Dimitrios turned, still trying to decide what to say. Then he saw the brand on Albany's forehead, and in an instant he knew. Taking a deep breath, he said in good classical Latin, "A fiery chariot shall bear you to Olympus, tossing in a whirlwind; you shall be free."
And he showed the brand on his wrist.
Alexander Stuart stared, then nodded. Dimi nodded back, reached over his shoulder, and produced the end of a thin woven rope from his pack. He handed it through the window, pointed at the ceiling beams. Albany smiled, took the rope, climbed a chair, and began anchoring it.
Dimi reached into the pack again and produced a metal cylinder, a few inches thick and a span long, and a longer, thinner steel bar. He closed the drape partway, leaving him some light but masking his silhouette. Then he put the cylinder between two of the window bars, inserted the thin bar into a socket in its side, and began a twirling motion. The cylinder lengthened. Shortly it was wedged firmly between the window bars. Then the bars began to bend outward. After a few minutes, they slipped from their sockets with a small grating sound.
Dimitrios handed the rest of the rope coil to Albany. He began to make gestures, but Alexander just nodded once, wrapped the rope around his upper body. Dimi nodded, slid into the tower room.
He took a glance around, noting only that he had seen worse prisons. Albany boosted himself to the window and went out backside first. Dimitrios watched him descend, swaying in the wind but graceful, and better still swift. He touched ground and unwound the rope from himself.
Dimitrios wound it on and went out the window. He kicked off from the wall, feeling the heat of the rope through his hands and around his body. In a single motion he glided by the windows he had crawled past earlier; dark, dark, dark, dark—
Light with a man standing in it.
Dimi fell flat, eye on the window. There was a knife in his boot, weighted for throwing, but he would have to make the one throw final, and it was an upward throw against a man in armor. Better chance was to wait, hope he had not been seen.
The shadow moved away from the window. Drapes blocked the light. Dimi got up, drew the boot knife, and cut the rope away from his shoulder. They were still safe; men on their way to give the alarm didn't bother drawing curtains.
Albany stood in a shadow. Dimi wondered if the Scotsman had raided a castle in his time, if the sons of Scots warriors played knights-and-wizards in the castle halls. He picked his black cloak from the ground, shook snowflakes from it, and handed it to the Duke, who put it on with a slight courtly bow. They moved off together.
The stableboy was playing with a puzzle of twisted horseshoe nails. He looked up, looked down. Then he stared up again at the two men who had come in. "My lard—"
As Dimitrios reached into his saddlebags, Albany tossed back bis hood and looked the boy in the eyes. "Aye, lad, its masel'," he said, and then spoke briefly in
Scots. The stable lad nodded very solemnly, bowed his head, and folded his hands.
Dimi struck him just behind the ear with his knife hilt, hating himself, praying to the Raven he had not hit too hard.
"Was that necessary?" Albany said angrily. Dimi ignored him, opened the cloth bag he had taken from the saddlebag. The Duke repeated himself in Latin. Dimi took a wooden box from the bag. All sides of the box were drilled with holes. On one side was a small brass mechanism, with a mainspring and a friction wheel: a gunlock, without a trigger but with a length of thin cord attached.
"Machina infemalis," he said flatly.
Albany looked around at the stables, the horses calm in their stalls, the lad unconscious on the straw-littered floor; he looked deadly grim, and he nodded.
They carried the boy out to the covered stairway, just as Colin came down the steps. Albany started, but Dimi touched his arm. Then Dimitrios saw the blood on Colin's cuff.
Colin glanced at himself. "It's the other fellow's; he won't be following," he said casually. "Evenin', Your Grace."
When they returned to the stable, Dimi put the box on the floor and piled straw around it. He stretched the string from the lock to the exit door; then he wound the spring.
Albany mounted the dun horse. It stamped a little, jangled the bit, but the Duke stroked it and it was calm. He draped the black cloak around himself, put up his hood. The three men rode out.
"Leavin' so early again?" the guard said, shouting to be heard above the wind. The men at the gate seemed more concerned with the snow than the people passing.
"Other work tonight," Colin said, and spoke some words of Scots that Dimitrios knew, and any soldier would have understood anyway.
And then they were past the gate, and the glittering muzzles of the guns, and cantering lightly down the hill, wind rushing like a full sea casting icy spray.
The orange flare was extraordinarily brilliant; Dimi imagined he felt its heat three hundred yards away. Gregory had spoken of Greek fire compounds when he made the device, but Tertullian had never shown Dimi anything so potent and compact.