by Dave Duncan
The principals continued their chatter. Max was given most of the Duchess’s story. Told that Harald had tried to kill her and was almost certainly dead, Max just frowned and shook his head sadly. He did not ask what the resurrected Duchess intended to do about the wedding, although he must be wondering. Did Johanna herself know? And what could Ringwood do to stop her? He let the conversation trickle along in the background while he went back to worry and guilt.
It was late. Suddenly János yawned. With a clumsy attempt at subtlety, he inquired if he would find his bed warmed the way he liked it, and Max assured him he would.
“Sleep well, ladies,” the Count said and waddled out the door.
Johanna frowned, True smirked, and then everyone rose to follow him. The house was quiet and dark. Most of the servants had gone to bed; fires were banked. Ringwood escorted the Duchess to her room. He told Ranter to inspect it and then stand guard.
Now, at last, True could hunt down whatever had been bothering her all evening. Carrying a lantern, she wandered along the upstairs corridors, with Ringwood and the seneschal following. Max must have a vast capacity for liquor, because he showed no ill effects from the ale he had been quaffing all evening. He watched True curiously, but spoke of other things.
“I’ve heard of the Blades. Bound by enchantment?”
“Yes.”
“For life?” He was not as tall or broad as Harald had been, but he would have outweighed him. Ringwood felt like a child beside him.
“In our case, yes. The King can release his own Blades. And you? Radu said all his brothers had joined the Brotherhood.”
“Except a couple who died in childhood. You want to look in the attics, fraulein?”
True had reached one end of the house and was retracing her path. “No,” she said, smothering a yawn. “Servants sleep up there?”
“You finding anything?” Ringwood asked. That was what mattered.
“Only the usual good luck charms and what my former Fellowship politely calls ‘family-planning conjurations.’”
Max chuckled. “In there?” He pointed at the Count’s room.
“Yes.”
“I loaned her one. Don’t tell his lordship, because he still has ambitions to outdo my old man. Downstairs, then?”
They headed for the stairs.
“So how are the brethren bound?” Ringwood asked. “Or rather, how are the brethren unbound?”
Max took a moment to answer. Treads creaked under his weight. “You do not trust me, Sir Ringwood?”
“I’d like an answer.”
“The useless are kicked out. Those that want to give up—novices, mostly, and some of them quite old men—they go to their commanding officer and declare that they consider themselves unworthy to belong to the Order. They’re escorted to the gate and sent away.”
Following True through to the kitchen area, Ringwood said, “So you never are formally unbound?” Bellman had suggested this possibility, months ago. “Once a brother, always a brother? Does the Brotherhood ever come calling in after years, bidding you to start honoring your irrevocable vows again?”
“It has happened.” The seneschal smiled. “Never to me, though.”
“But the Count cannot rely on your allegiance absolutely?”
“Count János never trusts any man absolutely.”
That evasion was confirmation: Once a brother, always a brother.
“How are the brethren sworn? Is your oath backed up by conjuration as ours is?” That was another of Bellman’s suggestions.
“I will not answer that question, Sir Ringwood. Yes, fraulein?”
A few skivvies were still cleaning up in the kitchens, but True had gone by them, into an area of larders and pantries, a realm of bales, barrels, and boxes, bedecked with dangling hams and strings of onions. There she had come to a halt just short of what was obviously the back door of the house, heavily bolted and barred at this time of night, but her attention was on another door close to it, an imposing barrier of iron-strapped timber.
“Where does this lead?”
“To the cellars, fraulein.”
“I need to look down there.” Perhaps it was only a trick of the light from their lanterns, but she seemed so tense that Ringwood wrapped an arm around her. She was shivering.
“No, fraulein,” Max said. “That door is boarded up, as you can see.”
“You have shadowmen down there!”
The big man sighed. “Let us go to the hall and talk about it.”
Hand in hand, Ringwood and True followed him to the great hall that had greeted them when they first entered Donehof. Max led them to benches alongside a fireplace and settled wearily on one. They sat opposite him. Ringwood had one arm tight around True, but his other hand kept taking hold of Bad News’s hilt all by itself, no matter how often he told it to let go. His binding was screaming at him to get his ward out of there as fast as possible. Shadowmen!
“When you arrived, did you see the keep?” the seneschal said.
“The old tower?”
“Yes. It is very ancient, pre-Imperial. Private fortresses are forbidden in Krupina, so it has been blocked up for centuries. To occupy it would be an act of rebellion.”
“So why was this house built so close?” Ringwood asked.
Max chuckled. “It makes a good windbreak, maybe?” He was an infuriatingly likable man. “You’re thinking that a tunnel through to the castle cellars would be a good escape hatch, son? That if the Grand Duke ever plays him foul, János could take refuge in the keep and wait until his mountaineers come to his rescue? That is the way he thinks, certainly, and his brother before him was worse. It was his brother, Luitgard, who bought the land and started building the house. János completed it.”
“Where do the shadowmen come into this?” True asked, still shivering.
“The point is that they don’t come in, fraulein. Luitgard did tunnel into the crypt under the keep, and shadowmen were what he found. Or they found him. Only one of the miners with him escaped, and he later died of his wounds. Luitgard and the rest are still in there.”
“Who were they?” Ringwood asked. “These shadowmen?”
The big man shrugged. “Who knows? The last garrison of the keep, possibly. There are also stories of barons who kept schattenherren in their dungeons as unpaid executioners. They are reputedly not dangerous as long as you are forewarned and have a good light. Since there is no light down there, they cannot pass through the door to attack us. And if the Count of Brikov is ever seriously threatened here, he could still seek refuge down there and dare his foes to follow him.”
“That’s crazy!” True said.
Max gave her a fatherly smile. “No. Anyone as rich as János cannot be crazy, just eccentric.”
“If shadowmen aren’t dangerous, what killed Count Luitgard and his men?” Ringwood asked.
Max Priboi shrugged. “I do not know, Sir Ringwood. I never met a shadowman. I hope I never will. Fraulein, I was afraid you would discover our schattenherren. I did know about them, I swear. I have lived here almost ten years with my wife and children, and I assure you that they are not a danger. It is late. Please, can we go to bed and forget about gibbering wraiths in the basement?”
“One last question, Seneschal,” Ringwood said. “Have you told me any lies this evening?”
Max’s face darkened. “Not that I recall. No. Why?”
“No offense intended. It’s just that we Blades always double-knot our laces.” Once a brother always a brother, but True wasn’t shouting foul. Apparently Max Priboi could be trusted.
It was an insane venture Bellman had embarked on, and only its very insanity gave it a chance of succeeding. Mosquitoes might bite where wolves could not, and it was possible—just barely possible—that Vamky had failed to take adequate precautions against a two-man suicide mission. Also, Bellman reminded himself for the millionth time, the raiders were not up against the entire Brotherhood. If worst came to worst and they were apprehended, the
y could always cry treason and hope that their captors were not in on the conspiracy. Radu had not been pursued to Brikov, which suggested that the traitors’ power might be limited within the Order.
By now many senior masters would have left to attend the ducal wedding, and anyone of rank would be abed and asleep. That might help, too.
Good shadowman weather indeed! Radu was a superb horseman, even by Blade standards. Bellman had given up wondering how he found the road and was relying on his mare’s ability to follow. The hill grew steeper and rougher, where rain had eroded it. It went on forever. Once in a while he jerked awake just as he began to slide out of the saddle. At such times his mind threw up strange fancies.
“None I know of.”
None what? Who had said that? He worried through his memories until he remembered Radu’s question to the doomed Wolfgang: “How many other spies are there in Brikov?”
“None I know of.”
That, he saw now, had been an evasion. Trudy had not cried foul, but the word pattern was wrong. Speaking at all had been an effort for the poor kid, and all his other answers had been more direct. None I know of, but I suspect… Suspect whom? Many factions within the Brotherhood might have spies in Brikov. Wolfgang had failed to report that the Grand Duchess was back from her travels, but the unknown other might have done so.
Bellman wished he had thought of that in time to warn Ringwood.
A faint clinking from one of his saddlebags was a constant reminder of the lock picks that János’s blacksmith had reluctantly contributed to the cause. John Eastswine of Camford would have spurned them as clumsy junk, and it would be nice to think that all Krupinese locks were as primitive as those Bellman had seen so far, but the wealthy, distrustful Vamky Brotherhood might have higher standards than backwoods Brikov. Radu’s descriptions of keys he had seen had been vague, for he knew nothing about the mechanics of locks. Back in Quamast House, the keys had been burglars’ nightmares, with cuts for seven or eight intricately shaped wards. Bellman would need hours of uninterrupted concentration to open such brutes, even if the picks he had with him would fit, which he doubted. Tonight he would be lucky to have a few minutes without a knife at his throat. He was also four years out of practice.
It felt as if four more years went by before he saw two misty lights in the distance and Radu outlined against them, turning to wave him forward. He urged the exhausted mare alongside.
Radu said, “Last chance to change your mind, Spinning Wheel.”
“Last one in’s a big fat hen, Westering Song.”
“Then we ride together, talking of nothing important.”
“Unless you say, ‘Scarper!’”
“Don’t even think it,” Radu muttered, staring at the archway looming ahead.
“Scarper” was their signal to run. They had planned everything they could think of, everything except sheer terror like icy hands in the belly. Bellman’s teeth were chattering, but they had done that all day. The wonder was that he had any teeth left. His hands were so numb that if he tried to fight, he would probably drop his sword and cut off his own toes.
The lights were two great lanterns flanking a high arch. Beyond it stretched the barbican, a tunnel lit by smaller lights. Hooves rang on paving. It was a great miracle to be out of the rain at last, into sudden peace. Instinctively glancing up, Bellman saw a dark gap spanning the barrel roof from side to side and knew that the slightest suspicion of anything wrong would bring a portcullis slamming down. He noted loopholes high in the walls, where bowmen might lurk. Run by the finest soldiers in Eurania, Vamky was probably the best-held castle on the continent. And he was hoping to crack it!
Straight ahead, a seeming very long way into the trap, the road ended at a massive timber gate. It looked about a furlong thick. Radu reined in just before it, where a faint light showed through a lancet window, tall and narrow.
“Gate!” he bellowed. “No, brother, black olives and green olives come off the same tree.”
Bellman tried to keep his voice from quavering. “Is it the pickling that changes their color, then?”
“Password?” The voice came from far away, beyond an immense thickness of wall. A head obscured the slit of light.
“Westering Song,” Radu said. “Yours, brother?”
“Spinning Wheel. And we’re frozen. Be quick or I’ll file a complaint.”
The face disappeared. Radu continued to babble. “Wine is quite different. Red grapes make red wine and black…”
This was the moment of life or death. More than a moment…several minutes. The highest demonstration of courage, Grand Master had once remarked, must be to die of fright. Curiously, that remark now began to make sense.
“Gate!” Radu bellowed again. “Are you all dead in there?”
Were they dead out here? When it was his turn to babble, Bellman found his mind blank on wine. “What do they do with the ordure?”
“Novices take it out in wheelbarrows and put it in wagons to be sold to farmers. Why?”
“Just wondered.” He had wondered whether he had overlooked a way to pass in and out of the monastery unseen, but evidently the Brotherhood had thought of that one, too. All supply wagons were unloaded into hand barrows outside, Radu had told him. “Why such precautions in a land at peace? Who do they fear?”
“It is training for other places. Talk of lesser matters.”
More agony. Surely it should not take so long to find two cards in a drawer?
“In Isilond they have a delicacy called ‘truffles,’” Bellman said. “Dug up by hogs—”
Radu’s nerve broke. “Too long! Scarper!” He wheeled his horse, but he took the exhausted beast by surprise and it almost stumbled.
At that point Bellman had to decide whether to go with him or stay and try alone. They had agreed on that—the decision whether to run or stay and play a lone hand would be his to make at the time. But he was so startled that he reacted like a Blade and whipped out his sword. That committed him. “What’s wrong?” he yelled. He turned the mare, but held her back from trying to follow. “Where are you going? Come back here!”
Radu had his mount moving and was raking it with his spurs, but it could not rise above a trot, which was not fast enough. With a thunder that shook the monastery and the mountain, a wall of timber crashed down across his path, sealing off the exit.
• 3 •
It was a bad night, full of rain and wind and worry. Ringwood kissed Trudy good night and told Ranter about the danger downstairs. Then he left his deputy on guard outside the bedchamber and took himself back downstairs to keep watch there. Max had assured him that even in this weather a night watch was patrolling the grounds with dogs, so no intruders could sneak in undetected. Fine, but a Blade took nobody else’s word for anything where his ward’s security was concerned.
The drudges had finished their labors in the kitchen and disappeared, so he had the house to himself. He walked through the great hall a few times, but mostly he stayed close to the back door and the cellar of horrors. The thought of what lurked behind that door oppressed him. It was hinged to open into the corridor and barricaded by balks of timber bracketed to the frame. It seemed secure enough, yet why would anyone keep such a danger in his house instead of bricking it over? The slim chance that the Count would ever be desperate enough to use the haunted cellar as an escape route seemed trivial by comparison with the risk that some busybody would decide to go treasure-hunting.
The next door in, a few paces along the corridor and on the opposite side, led to a large pantry holding barrels and large crates, heavy items stored near the entrance. There Ringwood laid in a supply of candles and lanterns, preparing to make a night of it. There he could keep watch on both cellar and back door, which was a more likely target for an intruder than the front. He realized after a while that a would-be assassin could break into the keep instead, come through the tunnel, and just shine a light on the far side of the door. Then the shadowmen would do the rest. All Blades are slight
ly mad—that was one of Master of Rituals’ homilies.
Nights were bad, all nights except the great ones when he and True could have time alone. Otherwise he had no company except Ranter. At least tonight he was spared that. He explored the various pantries, but could not force himself to stay away from that ominous door very long. He did have an unlimited supply of snacks available—seven different types of cheese, to start with. He had tomorrow to worry about, which must be today already. He and Ranter would have to keep their ward chained up, which would need careful planning and cooperation from Count János.
János? János, who was totally unpredictable, who had completed this magnificent house but preferred to live in a barren mountain valley? János, who had barred the way to the cellar where his brother died and yet not gone so far as to brick it up. János, who could torture a man and appreciate music. János who had inherited his lands and title from his brother, Luitgard.
Oh, cesspits!
Ringwood resisted a temptation to charge a stone wall with his head. Why hadn’t he seen that right away? The Duchess herself had told him that nobility put younger sons into the Brotherhood. Once a brother, always a brother. János was the last person he should be trusting! János was one of them! Now Ringwood had trapped his ward here in Donehof, with dogs patrolling the grounds, with no money for an escape; with no way, even, to reach the stables. Failure, failure, failure! Why had he been such a stupid, arrogant imbecile as to volunteer for this mission? And then allow his ward to appoint him Leader? Ranter could have done no worse than this. Ranter had been right when he said Johanna should stay in Chivial.
His torment was interrupted by a crash of breaking glass and an impact that shook the house. Before the echoes died, he was on his way to the great hall, lantern in hand.
The hall was dim, but there was enough glow from a few candles and the banked fires to see that one high leaded window lay in ruins. Wind wailed through the gap, stirring tapestries, bringing rain. The rock that had shattered it was the size of a bushel basket, far beyond the means of any man to lift. It had smashed furniture as it rolled.