by Dave Duncan
“Of course.” Triumph flamed in the prince’s mangled features. “Have a nice chat. Supper tonight, Sir Wulfgang. And bring your wife.” He snatched the Rouen file, spun around in a swirl of his short riding cloak, and headed for the anteroom door.
Zdenek had let the cat out of the bag.
CHAPTER 42
The moment the door closed, Wulf sat down unbidden on the chair the prince had vacated. He glared at the cardinal. “Now he knows that you and I are in cahoots.”
Zdenek bristled at his insolence. “What matter? The boy is a fool. You handle him as well as you handle your horse.”
“No longer.” Without turning, Wulf said, “Brother Daniel, I am a haggard and need your wisdom. Tweaking the prince will be much harder if he has reason to believe I am conspiring against him, will it not?”
“Very much so, Sir Wulfgang,” said a quiet voice behind him. “And also dangerous. You may drive him crazy.”
“He’s insane already,” the cardinal said.
“I don’t think he is,” Wulf countered. “Darina, come here a moment.”
The marquessa stepped out of nothing and bobbed a mocking curtsey to the outraged cardinal.
Wulf stood up, noting that Brother Daniel had disappeared: two’s company, three’s dangerous. “Do you consider the prince a fool, my lady?”
She tilted her head and put a finger to her lips in an affected gesture. “Not really. He is limited in many ways, but his lechery is a pose. I’d call him sly. He’s a fox that no one has bothered to housebreak.”
Wulf said, “Thank you,” politely.
“You’re welcome.”
“There’s something you could do to help the prince: give Princess Olga lessons in, um, her duties.”
The marquessa drew a breath. “Olga? Olga is in a nunnery! You expect me to just walk in there? Taking along a male accomplice for demonstration purposes, I suppose?”
“I am sure you’ll find a way.”
“No, I won’t! I told you: she’s hotter than an alley cat. He’s the one who needs lessons, and that’s your job. The moment this gig ends I’ll be out of here. I’ve got my eye on a little port in Sicily. Oh, those Sicilian fishermen!” Darina rolled her eyes and disappeared.
Brother Daniel returned.
Zdenek was livid with fury at such incriminating antics being performed in his office. They could put him in peril of investigation by the Inquisition, and were a reminder of how vulnerable a workaday like him was to Speakers in general. His hireling guardian Daniel had abandoned him the moment he felt outnumbered.
“Trollop!”
“She’s no saint,” Wulf said, “but I think she’s actually quite fond of the prince.” And possibly more loyal than certain other people.
“Forget the idiot for the moment, Wulfgang. Explain to me why the Pomeranian flag is flying over Castle Gallant.”
“The what?” Wulf opened a gate to the battlements and shut it after one glimpse of the standards flying above the keep. An eagle had replaced Jorgary’s bear, and a Vranov hound the Magnus mailed fist. Appalled, he slumped back down on the chair. Otto and Vlad were sitting on the bed in the Unicorn Room, playing chess. Anton … He could not find Anton. He could not find Anton! Yesterday Anton had been asleep in the middle of the afternoon. But Otto had said nothing about … Otto had said, “Wait!” as Wulf was about to leave, and then, “It doesn’t matter now.” Vlad and Otto were prisoners—on parole maybe, but prisoners. And where was Anton?
“I can’t find my brother,” he whispered.
“I am truly sorry,” Brother Daniel said, sounding sincere. “We thought you would know. Count Magnus died of wounds in the night. He is at peace with the Lord.”
But when had this disaster happened? Obviously the night before last. Wulf had been asleep in Rome, and yesterday he had been denied the use of his talent until Cardinal d’Estouteville sent him off on his quest. Ever since the jump at Chestnut Hill, he had not had a moment alone. Before that he had gone to consult Otto, and Otto had kept the news from him, seeing that he had major troubles of his own. He had thought Anton was asleep then, but he must have been either unconscious or drugged. Wulf could have healed him! Why had Otto not told him?
Marek dead. Anton dead. Wulf himself in the shadow of the Inquisition. Vlad and Otto both hostages.
Rescue them? But he couldn’t. The fact that they were ut they wnder room arrest and not chained in a dungeon showed that they must have given their paroles, so they would refuse to leave.
“This is sorcery! No workaday could take Castle Gallant away from my brothers! What happened? Pomeranians? Revenge for what I did to their powder wagons?”
“Havel Vranov,” the cardinal said. “As you say, he must have used sorcery to bypass the defenses.”
Vranov! Wulf stood up. “Excuse me for a few moments, Your Eminence. I have a traitor’s head to bring…”
“Wait!” shouted the friar. “Vranov’s fate is not for you to decide. His case will be considered this evening.”
“By whom?” Wulf demanded furiously. “A man must avenge a brother’s murder!”
The friar hesitated, glancing uneasily at the workaday Zdenek. “The Saints are deeply concerned about the Agioi’s meddling in Catholic territory, and the Agioi have brought countercharges regarding the death of Duke Wartislaw. There is to be a conference this evening. Lady Umbral hopes you will be able to attend, but the invitation does not include a safe conduct.”
Of course not. Obviously Castle Gallant would have to wait.
Wulf turned again to face the cardinal’s glittering eyeglasses. “First I must satisfy Cardinal d’Estouteville, or by this evening I may be tied to a ladder in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Will you please attach the royal seal to the contract and let me complete that business?”
The cardinal stood up. “For me, as for anyone else, to forge our sovereign’s signature would be high treason. You may accompany me, so that you can testify that you watched His Majesty sign. Brother Daniel?”
The friar placed the betrothal contract in a bulky document bag, tied it securely, and then ushered his client through the two successive doors to the anteroom. Wulf followed. Konrad and his cronies had gone, but dozens of waiting blue bloods raised their heads hopefully, then sprang to their feet in surprise as the great man himself emerged. Hands tucked in sleeves, he trod a dignified pace toward the distant doorway, passing through their midst like a scarlet swan among mallards, acknowledging their exaggerated bows and curtseys with the merest twitch of spiky white eyebrows.
Whatever they might be making at that moment of the flaxen-haired young man in the bizarre foreign outfit who followed him so humbly, Wulf knew that they would not rest until they had identified him. The prince’s coterie would supply both his name and his lofty new rank as the prince’s master of horse. They would also report that the bonny lad gained his title by horsing around in the royal bed. Already the court must be agog at the news that Konrad had paid a visit to the Scarlet Spider and seemed to be reconciled with him—and now here was the prince’s new favorite in close attendance on His Eminence! These momen! These tous events would be debated for days.
Wulf regarded his new fame with dread, feeling the teeth of doom closing around him. A second untried Magnus being raised to high office in less than a week would drag the family history out into full sunlight. Historians, archivists, and genealogists would recall that the Magnuses of Dobkov had for centuries been famous for their swordsmen and infamous for their sorcerers. Miracle promotions, wondrous-fast journeys, and military catastrophes of biblical proportions would combine in a witches’ brew of suspicion that the Church could not possibly overlook, no matter how much the eminent Cardinal d’Estouteville might want it to. And perhaps that reverend gentleman wouldn’t care, once he had squeezed everything he needed from the youthful Satanist.
So Sir Wulfgang Magnus left the hall in the company of the king’s first minister. Brother Daniel might as well have been invisible, and
so might the three young novices dispatched by the chancellor to scamper along the sides of the hall and vanish out the door before His Eminence was halfway there. They would be carrying word of his coming and summoning helpers he might need. Zdenek had his staff well trained.
Once out into the corridor, he gestured for Wulf to come forward and walk at his side.
“Assuming the Eminent Cardinal d’Estouteville does not consign you to the flames, what will you do about Castle Gallant?”
The audacity of the man! Was Wulf now expected to solve every single problem in the kingdom? Single-handed? Of course Zdenek’s predicament was obvious and totally beyond his workaday control. He certainly did not want King Krystof II marching his army north to lay siege to Gallant. Within days the news would be out, and instead of the stunning triumph of the Wends’ defeat, he would be announcing that a traitor had seized the king’s strongest fortress. Zdenek was at the mercy of the Saints, and Lady Umbral might set a price beyond nightmares of avarice.
Wulf would have terms of his own, which he need not mention now.
“Assuming I can satisfy Cardinal d’Estouteville and escape the Inquisition, Your Eminence, then my duty to His Highness will certainly include seeing that Cardice is returned to its loyalty. Disposing of the traitor Vranov will also be a personal pleasure, of course.”
The heralds would have an interesting problem of succession to settle. As Anton’s younger brother, Wulf would normally inherit his title, but he had taken on other duties. Otto would want to retain his barony. Vlad, currently unemployed, could supply the military skill to modernize Castle Gallant’s defenses: guns, redoubts, and so on. Yes, Vlad it would have to be.
Zdenek waited for more and then shot him a suspicious glance. Neither spoke. Theirs was going to be an interesting partnership.
The decor began to look familiar; soon Wulf heard a familiar flute-like voice spouting forth the wisdom of the ages regarding the natural superiority of man over woman. Once around the corner, he saw that Crown Prince Konrad had brougrad had ht only three male companions and two of his pretty boys-at-arms. Princess Laima was there with a pair of her dragon-slayer nuns. The crown prince could have chosen a more tactful subject on which to harangue his sister.
He broke off with a leer of ill-sorted teeth. “Ah, Your Eminence! My sister is delighted with your … I mean, she wishes to thank our grandsire for choosing such a fitting husband for her.” The leer became a smirk. “And I thought that, under the circumstances, it might be appropriate for me to be one of the witnesses.”
“Indeed it will be, Your Highness,” the cardinal said smoothly. “I cannot imagine why I did not think to suggest it.” He glanced at the others. “Lord Pavel … Sir Augustin … Sir Lubos … You brought your seals, I trust? And I asked a couple of other noble lords to attend. I am sure they will be along expeditiously. Do you wish to present your new master of horse to Her Highness?”
For a moment Konrad hesitated, regarding the cardinal as if wondering what lay behind the question. That pause was more confirmation that, while he was certainly stupid, he might not be as stupid as he pretended.
“Sir Wulfgang Magnus, my dear.”
Seeing Laima in daylight for the first time, Wulf decided that their mother must have saved up all the beauty she could bestow until she gave birth to a daughter. Her brother was a gargoyle. She was a nymph, with eyes of jet, matching curls showing decorously under the edge of her bonnet, and a skin as smooth as new snow.
Wulf bowed. “An honor to cherish always.”
Black as jet, Laima’s eyes assessed the unfamiliar Italian style of his clothes and finally his face. And then, as if the three of them had practiced for weeks, she and the two nuns simultaneously crossed themselves. Had the tocsin sounded a great warning clang right overhead, the message could not have been clearer: the Magnus reputation for sorcery had emerged.
Had Zdenek planned this? Had Konrad planted the necessary seed? His cronies were looking startled, so probably not. And if the cardinal had expected that response, what was he playing at?
He, of course, showed no reaction. “Shall we wait upon His Majesty?”
The grouping parted to let him lead the way. The guards on the royal sickroom presented arms and Wulf opened the door. The chamber was much larger than he had realized from his previous glimpse of it. The bed itself was big enough that the dozen or so visitors could line up around it to view the dying occupant. The prince and his cronies went to the king’s left, the princess and her companions to his right, and Wulf found himself at the foot, beside the cardinal.
For a long moment there was silence. Another friar with a nimbus had been in attendance on the patient, so now there were three Speakers present, but Wulf was confident that one of the other two must be fully occupied keeping the king alive.
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If he was alive. The bedcover had changed from blue to red, but otherwise the old man lay exactly as Wulf had seen him two days ago, a shrunken image of the great warrior-king of times now half forgotten: eyes closed, death-mask face carved from white candle wax, wisps of hair spread on the pillow like combed gossamer. His hands still seemed too large—indeed, they seemed unreal, just models resting on the coverlet at the end of white silk sleeves too flat to contain a warrior’s arms. His colorless lips were slightly parted, but the straggly mustache hairs overlapping them did not move to indicate that he still breathed.
“Well?” young Konrad inquired. “Do we start the necromancy now or wait until midnight?”
“Your Majesty,” Zdenek announced. “His Highness is here.”
Very slowly, the ancient head on the pillow tilted in the prince’s direction. In a moment it returned to its previous position. The eyes had not opened.
“And Her Highness also.”
The same thing happened, except that this time the king’s lips shaped a faint smile.
“Don’t get him too excited,” the prince muttered, surprised and disappointed by even that small response. He had not come to witness a betrothal contract, but a death certificate.
Princess Laima’s eyes glistened with tears. Her nuns were glowering at Wulf, as if he were responsible for desecrating a corpse, but it was the nimbus on the friar who had been attending the king that was glowing brighter than before.
“Your Majesty,” the princess said. It was the first time Wulf had heard her voice. It was tuneful and pitched much lower than her brother’s. “Dear Grandsire, I am very happy to hear of the wonderful husband you have chosen for me.”
The smile might have widened a fraction. The king certainly nodded. The movement was slight, but it was a nod. He returned to his previous cadaver pose.
Two well-dressed men of middle years came hurrying in. The witnesses were all present and business could proceed.
“We have brought the contract for your royal consent,” the cardinal announced.
Brother Daniel was already at the king’s right hand, with writing equipment laid out on a bedside table. He uncapped his ink bottle, dipped a quill, and reached across to offer it to the king, whose fingers closed around it.
The other friar’s nimbus brightened even more. The king’s hand rose. His eyelids might have lifted an eyelash width—it was hard to tell. The friar held out the vellum sheet, resting on a writing board, and positioned it so the pen hung over the appropriate space. The king signed. The princess and the nuns crossed them crossedselves. So did Pavel and Augustin, but Lubos and the prince just stared in disbelief.
Displaying no sign that anything untoward had happened, Brother Daniel sprinkled sand on the ink and repeated the process with a second vellum. Then came the rigmarole of wax and candle and attaching the king’s seal. The witnesses signed and attached their smaller seals. Peering over shoulders, Wulf could see that the king’s signature was firm, Konradus Rex. Indeed, it looked steadier than the prince’s Konradus Princeps. His Highness was definitely shaken. He must be wondering how long Jorgary would be r
uled by a corpse.
Nobody asked Wulf to be a witness, which was just as well, because he did not possess as much as a signet ring. He was entitled to wear one now, though. An emblem of a wolf and a sword had been his childhood dream. Now something Satanic might be more appropriate: a wolf howling at a crescent moon, perhaps. A wolf, definitely. He would ask Madlenka.
Their business completed, the visitors bowed their respects and took their leave. The prince stomped out the door in obvious fury. He had come to expose the cardinal’s trickery and succeeded only in putting his own seal of approval on it, quite literally. His guards and sycophants hurried after him.
“And what happens now, Your Eminence?” the princess asked eagerly.
The cardinal beamed down at her like a doting grandfather—a doting but triumphant grandfather. “Now we send the agreement off to Rouen by the fastest courier service in Europe. You do understand that the terms are not binding until both parties have signed? I anticipate no last-minute difficulties, but we must not count our dragons until they are hatched, as I once heard your dear mother say. To be honest, I do not foresee that your wedding can be celebrated anytime in the next two years. Not in Jorgary.”
She nodded sadly. No one must mention official mourning, but everyone knew it was looming like a thundercloud.
“If your brother permits, Your Highness,” the old man continued, benevolent as a bishop addressing a class of postulant nuns, “and if a winter journey would not distress you, you might think on being married in Rouen, or perhaps Paris? Paris in the spring is said to be very fair.”
Wulf could only admire the devious gyrations of the old rascal’s mind. Now that he had granted the second in line to the throne a fiancé who might someday be seen as a potential king, she must be evicted from her homeland as fast as possible, to somewhere beyond the reach of perfidy. If Krystof II did prove unmanageable, then the Assembly of Nobles must see no option except to leave the government in the hands of the true and trusty Cardinal Zdenek.