by Dave Duncan
Anton, had he been there, would have pointed out that Marek hadn’t needed to be ransomed.
Vlad snorted. “So what are you doing here with these devil spawn?” he asked Otto.
“Enjoying their company and admiring their astonishing success. They have generously offered to let me accompany them to Castle Gallant, so we can have a joyful family reunion and celebrate our brother’s advancement.”
“I have to go to Dobkov first. I can’t go anywhere in these rags and riding this spavined bone rack.” Vlad was probably right about the horse, which looked incapable of carrying his weight very far.
“We are not going to Dobkov,” Wulf said. “Marek and I are being hunted and that is the first place our enemies will look for us. They may track us down at Castle Gallant, but that risk we must take.”
“Dobkov first!” the big man insisted.
“Your choice-Cardice, or stay here and eat weeds?”
Vlad’s face flushed above his great beard. He looked to Otto. “You let this brat speak to you like that?”
Otto smiled. “He never needs to speak to me like that. Tell him which you choose.”
“Gallant, then.” Vlad’s glare at Wulf suggested that he might bring up the matter again in the future, in private. “Except that I don’t want to be accused of being in league with the devil. You left there only two days ago, you say, to deliver a report to the king and bring my ransom here, in Bavaria. Today you ride back with me? You’ll be denounced. We all will be! The Magnuses are Satanists!”
In fact, the miracle of Anton’s recovery might already be causing that sort of trouble, but all the fires of hell were not going to keep Wulf away from Cardice and Madlenka.
Otto said. “We’ve made up a story. We don’t have to deceive many people. Servants and the townsfolk don’t ask nobility impertinent questions. The daughter, Madlenka Bukovany… Wulf thinks she’s already guessed.”
Wulf said, “She’s a smart girl, smart enough not to tell anyone. Her mother was still hiding under bedclothes when I left. I can’t see the constable or the seneschal or any of the senior staff questioning the odd small miracle that helps save the castle from the Wends. The bishop is the problem. If he will overlook our little ways, we’ll be all right. If he doesn’t, nobody will.”
Vlad pouted. Bishops were unpredictable and often lacking in respect for secular nobility.
Otto said, “Now listen carefully! Tell him the story, Wulf.”
Wulf said, “Anton is the best liar in the family, so we built on the hints he’s been dropping. And we decided to stick as close to the truth as we could. Cardinal Zdenek was warned about the Wends months ago. He ordered Petr Bukovany to hire landsknechte. He didn’t trust Havel Vranov. All true so far! Now comes the invention-Zdenek set up a secret command post somewhere near the border, to keep an eye on all the northern marches.”
“In Gistov,” Otto said. “It’s the next county to the east. We have a distant cousin there, Sir Bedrich Magnus of Rovny. Met him once.”
“So did I,” said Vlad. “He can’t ever be distant enough.”
“But he fits nicely in the plan,” Otto continued. “Zdenek decided you were a good man to put in charge, Vlad, so he secretly loaned me the money to ransom you from Bavaria, and you chose Rovny as your headquarters. You got there not long before the count of Cardice died.”
“Why didn’t Anton know all this?” Otto said suspiciously.
“He did, but it’s a state secret. If we get caught lying, we say we were told to lie. At Rovny, you organized border patrols and one of them intercepted Gintaras, the boy carrying news of Bukovany’s death. Rovny pigeons took the news directly to Mauvnik. The murders were totally unexpected, but the Spider improvised and sent Anton north to take the count’s place.”
“Why not me?” Vlad demanded. “I was in the area, you said.”
“Because of Madlenka. You’re already married.”
“I didn’t know that.”
The others laughed, which was often unwise around Vlad.
“Well you do now,” Wulf said. “Congratulations. Be fruitful and multiply. Besides, you’re the overall commander, isn’t that enough? Anton’s title was signed by the king on the day of the old count’s funeral. Of course when I left yesterday, I went straight to you, at Rovny-remember? Once you read Anton’s report, you knew that Cardice was where the Wends would strike, so today you’ve come to take a personal look. Makes sense,” Wulf said, hoping that was the case.
“How many pigeons would you need to carry Vlad?” Marek murmured.
Vlad glowered. “How long have I been skulking at Rovny?”
“A month?” Wulf suggested.
Otto said, “What sort of man is this bishop? Wouldn’t it be simplest just to confide in him? Count Vranov started the Satanism by murdering Count Stepan and his son. Cardinal Zdenek responded by sending Wulf. If the bishop’s at all reasonable, he’ll agree to turn a blind eye, surely?”
“It would make our next confessions easier,” remarked Vlad, who was not as stupid as he often seemed.
Marek smiled shyly. “He who speaks with the devil needs a glib tongue.”
“I haven’t met the bishop,” Wulf said. “But Madlenka says he owes his miter to being the son and brother of a duke. He’s pompous, she says, and not likely to approve of a mere baron’s brother being promoted to an earldom.”
“Then let’s hope he never suspects anything more,” Otto said. “It’s a good story, very good! But, Vlad, remember that we made it up. If you march into Castle Gallant and announce that the commander-in-chief has arrived, Anton will throw you in a dungeon.”
“Think I’m stupid?” Vlad growled. “I’ll grovel to the kid if I must. Now let’s move out before I freeze.”
Wulf still had to deal with the packhorse, and he could not ask Marek to help. Five horses, four riders, two Speakers? How could he keep them together? The sumpter would certainly panic when it found itself in limbo. He spoke to his Voices. “Can we take the packhorse with us to Cardice?”
The Light shone around him. — There are ways you could do that.
That was Victorinus dropping hints again. Marek was quietly talking to Saints Uriel and Methodius.
Wulf said, “Can you open a doorway, as you did when I went to speak with Vlad in the castle?”
— You are progressing, my son, Helena said. — We can.
“Marek, let’s do it this way. The saints will open a gate for us. I’ll ride through first, with Otto next. Then Vlad follows with the packhorse. You bring up the rear and ask your Voices to close the gate. You can do that?”
Marek asked someone on his left, “Will that work?” then added, “No pain, you promise?” He nodded. “All right.”
“Merciful Mother!” Otto said. “When they both do it, it makes my hair stand on end.”
“It shrinks my balls to acorns,” Vlad said. “I smell sulfur.”
Wulf said, “Saints, please open a door to the road below Castle Gallant. As long as there’s nobody there to see,” he added.
A gap like a church door appeared in front of him. It was a hole in the world, so that where his view of the trees should be he saw instead the road up from High Meadows to the south barbican. Wind hurled rain in his face, but he nudged Copper through, much against the courser’s will. He turned to see Otto making the sign of the cross as he followed, from dry forest glade to muddy mountain trail. Vlad was loudly praying to St. Stanislaus of Cracow, patron of soldiers in battle.
In a moment Marek brought up the rear and the hole in the sky disappeared behind him. He smiled at Wulf’s inquiring glance and made a thumbs-up sign to show that he had not been smitten by sudden agony.
Cowering against the weather, they urged their mounts up the trail. As they rounded a sharp bend, the long line of cliff came in sight, topped by its curtain wall of red stone. Vlad and Otto whooped in approval. They also liked the barbican, when that appeared.
The gate was closed. The riders huddled in th
e archway, but there was too little overhang to shelter them from the rain. Wulf banged on the postern shutter until the grille opened. An unfamiliar face peered out.
“Squire Wulfgang, the count’s brother, bringing three honored guests.”
“Got orders to admit no one.” His dialect sounded like rocks in a bucket.
“Bring me the captain of the watch.”
“I am the captain of the watch. Come back at nones.”
Nones was hours off. Wulf would freeze to death before then.
“I am Count Magnus’s brother. I left here two days ago. Don’t you recognize this horse?”
“No. Told you-no visitors before nones.”
Wulf felt a surge of anger and a nudge of warning from his conscience. His Voices could almost certainly change the man’s mind, but to call on their help just to escape from the discomfort of rain and the embarrassment of having Vlad laugh at him would be an abuse of power. He was convinced now that his gift came from God and must be used for worthy purposes. Denying other men their free will would be contrary to God’s plan.
“Holy St. Christopher!” Marek proclaimed loudly, “St. Joseph, St. Melchior, St. Anthony of Padua, and all other blessed saints who protect travelers, St. Methodius and St. Uriel, I pray you to soften this man’s heart so that he will admit us poor wayfarers.”
Marek was completely hidden inside his hooded Franciscan habit, but for a moment as he named his Voices, Wulf saw a nimbus glow around him.
“Hellfire!” the guard said. “You look harmless enough, and it’s a pig of a day. Herkus, open the sally port.”
“Harmless?” Vlad repeated incredulously. “Me?”
Marek flashed Wulf a triumphant wink. Either he saw nothing wrong in Speaking for minor personal advantage, or he was just eager to help and prove his loyalty. Inside the barbican, the guards stared in surprise at seeing a friar on a horse. Otto and Vlad continued to enthuse about the defenses.
Wulf could hear a band playing in the distance.
“What’s the occasion?” he demanded. “Why no visitors?”
“Holiday,” the captain of the guard explained. “New count declared a one-day break in the mourning. Festival to celebrate his taking over.”
Taking over what? Or whom?
“This way!” Wulf shouted. “Move!”
He urged Copper forward, through the inner gate. That put him on the road that wound between the curtain wall and the cliffs to the west, and he had to pass through a third gate to enter the city. The festival was in full romp already, with flags and colored cloths hung from windows, bands competing, young men showing off their juggling and acrobatic skills, boys on stilts. People dancing in the streets hastily cleared out of the horsemen’s way, cheering them good-naturedly as they went by. An odor of free beer hung over the town.
Had Anton thought this up all by himself? A party to cheer everyone up after all the bad news was probably a good idea, admittedly, yet it seemed a little out of character for Anton to be so perceptive. What was in it for him, personally?
The horses clattered into the palace yard. Fortunately, not all of the stable hands had been given the day off, and one of them knew Wulf.
“Have the bags sent to the Orchard Room,” he ordered, and took off at a near run. Three other Magnuses followed, Vlad demanding to know what all the hurry was.
Again Wulf’s luck held, for the porter on the door remembered him. He said he thought they would find the count in the hall, supervising the arrangements for the banquet.
Otto’s heavy hand descended on Wulf’s shoulder. “Take your time,” he whispered. “What are you afraid of?”
Wulf pulled free of the hand, but forced himself to walk calmly to the ramp. “Nothing.” But he had thought of a reason why Anton might want to hold a party.
Otto stayed close. “Perhaps you should be. Don’t do anything rash.”
“Me? Rash? What do you think I am, a Magnus?”
“You’re very much a Magnus, and I don’t want any of my brothers turned into a toad.”
What if that brother was a toad already?
The hall was a turmoil of harassed servants. Tables and benches stood around three sides of the long room, and Anton towered in the middle, resplendent in scarlet robe and golden coronet. Around him fussed a group including old Seneschal Jurbarkas, Arturas the herald, Secretary Radim, and four or five unknowns. No doubt they were arguing problems of precedence. Whether one was seated above or below one’s favorite enemy would be a matter of scandal and gossip in the town for months. Anton looked up and caught sight of the newcomers.
“ Vlad! ” he roared, startling his companions. “Vladislav Magnus!” He pushed out of the group and came striding forward to greet Vlad with an embrace and much back-slapping. “I have never been so glad to see you, Brother!”
“Were you ever glad to see me at all?”
“Of course not, but I certainly am now!” Laughing, they hugged again.
“And Marek! Brother-Brother Marek!” Again brother embraced brother, although Marek’s head did not reach Anton’s shoulder. “I did not expect you to rally to the cause, too. Wonderful to see you after all these years. And… oh, no!”
He stared at Otto in inexplicable dismay. “I did not expect you.”
“All the greater your pleasure, I hope?” Otto opened his arms for a hug.
“Well, yes… of course!” Anton made a fast recovery and they embraced. “You didn’t bring Branka, did you?”
“No,” Otto said, frowning at Anton’s peculiar reaction to him.
“And Wulf.” This time, Anton offered a mere smile-a very thin smile. “You waste no time on your missions, squire. But then, neither do I. Madlenka and I are handfasted, so confine your attentions to the kitchen sluts from now on.”
He was wide open. A fist like a mallet rammed into his solar plexus, doubling him over; then its partner struck his jaw hard enough to straighten him out again. He landed full length, and his coronet rolled off across the floor. A very satisfying start!
The spectators all screamed.
Wulf planted a boot on Anton’s outstretched hand. “You will apologize from down there,” he said loudly. “Do it now, because if you get up first I will knock you down again. And again. And- arrgh!”
Vlad’s great arms wrapped around him and lifted him clear off the prostrate count. “You’re even faster than you used to be, lad. Nice one-two, but not the best of manners.”
Anton surged to his feet and found himself nose-to-nose with Otto.
“You offended first,” Otto said quietly. “So you apologize first.”
Anton snarled wordlessly and tried to dodge around him.
Otto grabbed a handful of fur-trimmed robe. “You first!” he insisted.
“Or what?”
“Or we all go home and leave you.”
The coin spun… There was honor involved. There was a new count’s dignity before his servants and vassals. Anton was lord of justice and could certainly order his brother jailed or flogged. But that raised the problem of how Wulf’s saints or demons might react, and there was the need for their help against a Wend army practically on the doorstep.
The coin came down showing peace.
Anton whispered, “Sorry. Wulfgang. I ought. Not. To have. Said. That.”
Wulf, with his arms clamped to his sides by Vlad’s great hands, said, “Your apology should not be addressed to me.”
“I certainly did not mean my joke to refer to anyone else.”
Wulf considered that, then nodded. “My mistake, then… Sorry.”
Vlad released him. Otto told them to shake hands, which they did.
“My little brother a count!” Vlad boomed, bringing the audience into the conversation. “A lord of the marches must certainly be a knight, and the traditional start of a dubbing is the collee. That’s a light blow delivered by a priest, and since we don’t have a priest handy, we asked Squire Wulfgang to do the honors. He was perhaps a little too enthusiastic, b
ut the lad is excited and got carried away by the solemnity of the occasion.” He turned to Otto. “Draw your sword, Brother, and do the honors.”
Otto smiled to acknowledge this nimble effort to divert the audience’s bewilderment and drew his sword. Anton knelt. Otto touched the blade to his shoulder and dubbed him a member of the international brotherhood of knights. Vlad removed his own spurs and attached them to Anton’s heels. Then Otto belted the sword on him and the deed was done. The audience cheered.
“Well, you’re obviously busy here, my lord count,” Otto said. “Why don’t we go off and change? I assume we are invited to the banquet?”
“You are more than welcome,” Anton said. With a sidelong glance at Wulf he added, “All of you.”
Wulf said, “Thank you,” very clearly, but as the visitors headed for the door, he muttered, “Knighthood? Toadhood would be too good for him.”
CHAPTER 29
“Do try to smile!” snapped Dowager Countess Edita. “You look as if you’re dressing for a funeral, not a banquet.”
“I wonder why?” Madlenka murmured. With her father and brother not ten days in the family vault, a funeral face would be much more appropriate.
Yet here she was, robed in virginal white, being primped and tugged and adjusted by her mother and Ivana, Mother’s crony and personal seamstress. Ivana was all bone and angles, with ears sharper than razors and a tongue to match. Today she was a-tut-tut at this unexpected festivity, shocked by its timing, so soon after the late count’s death. It was officially a recognition of the new count’s accession and a chance for the town dignitaries to meet him, but no one within the castle doubted that it was a wedding feast.
“Mm,” Edita remarked, surveying their masterpiece. “You really are quite beautiful, my dear. In a sylphlike way.”
“Scrawny, you mean.” The hat wasn’t helping. They had insisted she wear a hennin, a steeple hat about two feet high, trailing white lace-the latest fashion from France, they said. She would tower over even Anton. It was totally wrong for her, making her feel like a lance.
“Well, most men do prefer their partners plump, but fortunately the count seems content with the match. Now it is up to you to accept it as equitably as he does and make the best of it. It is the king’s decision and we all owe our duty to His Majesty. By Our Lady, you’re shivering! It isn’t cold in here. You’re not catching a fever, are you?”