Speak to the Devil

by Dave Duncan

  His host raised his own glass. “To the king and your service.”

  He did not stand, as one should to toast the king, so neither did Anton.

  “God preserve His Majesty.” The wine was richly spiced Hippocras from Smyrna, caressing the mouth like a woman’s kiss. It had been a favorite of Anton’s father, but such luxuries had been missing in Dobkov for the last two years.

  So here he was, a penniless esquire owning a uniform, a suit of armor, and two horses—he had not even received the expected and hard-earned honorarium from the baroness—being treated as an honored guest by the most powerful man in the kingdom. The world had gone insane, or he had. Perhaps he had cracked his skull at the hunt and was imagining all this.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Zdenek murmured. His eyes were still hiding behind reflected lamplight.

  Insanity! “Your Eminence, I am the fourth son of the late Baron Patredor Magnus of Dobkov. My ancestors have held—”

  “Yourself, not your ancestors. The Magnuses of Dobkov are famous in the history of Jorgary; you are not. Not yet, anyway. Start with your brothers.”

  “As it please Your Eminence. Male Magnuses come in two sizes. The large ones become soldiers, the small ones take holy orders. My eldest brother, Ottokar, is one of the largest. He succeeded our father five years ago.” How much detail did Zdenek want? Why should he want any? Anton shivered, wondering if some family problem might lie behind this madness. “He is married and—”

  “And ought to make his wife sleep in another room before her fertility bankrupts him. Next?”

  “Sir Vladislav is even bigger, a knight banneret in His Majesty’s Heavy Hussars. For the last two years he has been a prisoner in Bavaria.”

  Vlad, like Baron Radovan, had been captured at the Battle of the Boundary Stone. Jorgary’s attempt to take advantage of a disputed succession in Bavaria had failed spectacularly. Court gossips disagreed on whether the cardinal had lost his touch at last or the featherbrained crown prince had talked his ailing grandfather into ordering the invasion against Zdenek’s advice. The boundary itself was now a day’s march closer to Mauvnik than it had been, and the kingdom was still bleeding gold to ransom its nobility. Two thousand commoners had bled to death on the field.

  “Third is Marek, now Brother Marek of the Benedictine house in Koupel. And then me. His Majesty most graciously accepted my petition to enlist in his Light Hussars, and I arrived in Mauvnik about ten days ago. Of course it was Vladislav’s reputation that won me this great privilege.”

  The cardinal was staring down at the paper again. It was completely covered in tiny, spidery writing, even along the margins. Anton could read, though he was badly out of practice, but not upside down. Was the friar behind him writing down everything he said?

  “How long did it take you to ride from Dobkov to Mauvnik?” Zdenek inquired in his raspy voice.

  Anton blinked. “Um — fifteen days, Your Eminence.” Why ask that, for God’s sake?

  “Why so long?”

  “It was a new experience for me, for I have never strayed far from—”

  The skull’s crystal eyes blazed. “Never lie to me, boy!”

  He flinched. “Your Eminence’s pardon … I had agreed to accompany a caravan of merchants who wanted protection on the road. Your Eminence must understand that my brother the baron is desperately trying to raise money to pay Vladislav’s ransom.” The nobility were all land rich and cash poor. “It was time that I sought my own way in the world, and I could not have afforded even to enlist in His Majesty’s service had Vladislav not written to insist that I must be equipaged before his ransom be paid.”

  In his grandfather’s day he would have become a knight errant, roaming Christendom in search of tourneys where he might win fame and fortune jousting. A knight unhorsed and captured in the tilting yard would forfeit his arms, armor, and horse, which the winner might then sell, often back to the original owner. A horseman as good as Anton could have made his fortune very rapidly. Nowadays chivalry was out of fashion and the miserable alternative was a career in the king’s cavalry—working for wages like a journeyman wheelwright.

  The cardinal sneered. “So you held your nose and became a trader’s hired guard for two weeks? You think I care a spit for your confounded petty honor? Or that I don’t know how Ottokar will likely have to sell land to ransom that big idiot who got captured in Bavaria? Stay with the truth from now on! You have another brother.”

  “Wulfgang, Your Eminence. He is only seventeen.” Anton Magnus risked a smile, which was not returned. “He’s a family freak, being medium-sized. Lacking the usual clue, he seems unable to decide between the sword and the cross. Ottokar told him that if he did not soon make up his mind, he would be too old for a career with either. I brought him with me as my varlet. He is very good with horses, and fine company, in a quiet sort of—”

  “Seventeen?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.” Oh, damnation! “Just turned eighteen, I mean—last week.”

  The cardinal twisted around to the writing stand to make a minute note on the paper, then turned it facedown. He leaned back in his chair, put his fingertips together, and let Anton Magnus study the glowing eyeglasses for a while. He had already known everything Anton had just told him and probably a lot more beside.

  He said, “Tell me exactly what happened at the hunt on Friday.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Anton Magnus took a swallow of wine and was relieved to note that his hand did not shake.

  “I made a fool of myself, Your Eminence.”

  No comment.

  “I was assigned to guard the ladies and other guests. It is not a desirable duty, because it is … I am sure Your Eminence understands.”

  During a court hunt, the crown prince and his guests chased deer. Or rather the hounds chased deer and they followed the hounds. The huntsmen did the real work, locating the available stags, seeing that the bloodhounds found the scent and the greyhounds stayed on the trail; eventually gutting and skinning the meat. Meanwhile the ladies, children, and elderly guests picnicked on the grass in the royal forest. The guards watched out for dangers, of which there were virtually none worse than wasps—perhaps a wild boar or a rabid wolf, once every ten years or so.

  So the hussars would spend a long day astride restive horses in the heat and the flies. They did get time off, alternating watches, but on their downtime they had to stay out of sight among the bushes with the horses and grooms. When mounted they must do nothing more than sit there and look romantic; flirting with the ladies was strictly forbidden. Regrettably, no one was assigned to guard the guards from the ladies. Some of the court jades, notably Baroness Nadezda, enjoyed taunting newcomers to make them blush.

  Worse, there were innumerable opportunities for a man to make a fool of himself. His horse might tread on a child’s foot. Or get bitten by a horsefly. Or scare away the deer. Or even take off after the quarry, because the hussars’ mounts were all hunters and knew what the horn calls meant as well as the men did.

  “We were gathered at Chestnut Hill, Your Eminence, the top of a steep meadow, with a beechwood at our backs. And the stag came right through the woods behind us. We could hear the horns and hounds growing closer and closer. The horses became very excited. Then the stag broke cover not fifty paces to our right and went racing down the hill towards the stream. To my shame, my horse ran away with me, Your Eminence. I was very lucky not to get killed. The hunt saw me in the vanguard and several men trying to follow took bad spills. By Our Lady’s mercy, the crown prince had more sense! I have already been severely reprimanded by Captain Walangoin, and warned that I am now on probation. Any further offense at all and I will be cashiered.”

  The cardinal nodded and took a tiny sip of wine. “Seven men injured, two of them crippled for life. Four horses destroyed. What exactly was this ditch that caused such carnage?”

  “It is a stream, Your Eminence, with tall hedges along either bank. The stag managed it, of course. The hou
nds went through the shrubbery, although it slowed them a lot. But my horse managed to jump the first hedge, find footing on the gravel, and gather himself enough to clear the second hedge also.”

  “So you were the first man on the spot to beat off the hounds and provide the mort.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.” Anton’s hand patted the hilt of his saber in fond memory.

  At last, Zdenek moved his head so that the fire died from his glasses and exposed his eyes. They were deep-set, shrouded in wrinkles, dark and unreadable.

  “Well, that is the official story. That is what you told everybody. Now tell me what really happened.”

  “I raked my horse’s flanks with my spurs.”

  “It was deliberate?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “You knew that you might very well be killed?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “And what did you hope to gain?”

  “I was afraid that the stag might follow the water and the dogs would lose the scent. The stream was not obvious, but I had been watching the birds and knew it was there. I had noted where it might be jumped. My horse was fresh, the hunt’s were not. I thought I might turn the stag or set the dogs on the right trail.”

  “The stag was none of your business.”

  “But I am new at court; I need to be noticed. I need money to help ransom my brother. Before the hunt I was a nothing. I had hope that a daring display of horsemanship might cause the crown prince to send for me later.”

  “The crown prince watched his best friend break his back. His Highness wanted to hang you from the nearest oak.”

  “So I heard, my lord.” Even so, by the end of the day they had all been talking about the tall young lancer. Now that the story had reached the ears of the king’s chief minister the true payoff might be at hand. Fortune favored the bold.

  The cardinal made an impatient noise. “Had the baroness promised you a turn in her bed?”

  “Not in words, Your Eminence. I had been told of several ladies at court who could advance a man’s career.”

  “Or give him the clap. Some think that Lancer Anton Magnus is a Speaker.”

  The old man’s glasses were shining again. So, very likely, was Anton’s forehead. Speakers were sinners who could talk to the devil. They could call on Satan for help.

  “Dobkov has always been famous for both its horses and its horsemen, Your Eminence. One of the men following me managed to clear the stream as I did.”

  “His horse broke a leg, though. Did you pray as you rode down the hill?”

  Anton could be damned saying either yes or no, for a man could pray to Satan. “I commended my soul to my Maker and asked His forgiveness.” That happened to be the truth, but truth might not satisfy the tormentors.

  “You have great confidence in your horsemanship, I see. Also ambition and fanatical courage.”

  “It runs in the blood. No Magnus has ever run away from anything.” Most of them died young.

  “They have also been noted for loyalty to the throne. If I sent you back to Dobkov with an urgent message, how soon could you get it there?”

  Oh, this was a tricky one! What was emerging now? Was this it, at last? Anton sensed something moving in long grass.

  “Urgent enough to kill horses?”

  “Urgent enough to kill men.”

  He let the silence grow, holding the old man’s gaze—his eyes were visible again. Yes, there was a challenge there, and no Magnus ever refused a challenge.

  “My horsemanship is second to none, Your Eminence. If I cannot do what you need, then no man can.”

  That was absolute rubbish. Anton Magnus was very, very good, but the cardinal could call on hundreds of superb riders in the Hussars.

  Zdenek nodded. “What do you know of the northern marches?”

  “Nothing.” Honesty had been called for.

  “Do you recognize this?” The old man spread out a paper, an etching showing a fortress, a huge and dramatic fortress on a plateau. On three sides its curtain wall rimmed the edge of a sheer precipice dropping several hundred feet to a turbulent river. The back of the stronghold nestled against a high cliff face, and the only visible access was up a steep road clinging to the mountainside. Unless the artist had dreamt it, that was a castle to withstand almost anything.

  “Recognize, no,” Anton said. “But if I had to guess, I would say it must be Castle Gallant.”

  The cardinal’s smile was skull-like. “Correct. Brother Daniel, show our guest the way.”

  Cued by a nod, Anton rose and walked over to the Franciscan, who stood up. He was tall, although not as tall as Anton, with a narrow, ascetic face and a black leather patch over his left eye. He was also young, with a dense hedge of red hair around his tonsure. He spread out a printed tract of about eight pages, right-way-round for Anton to read.

  “An itinerary,” Anton said, as if any fool knew about those and he was uncertain why was he being bothered with this one.

  “Correct,” the friar said in a scratchy voice. “From Mauvnik, east to Moravia. It lists towns, cities, villages, landmarks, noble houses where gentry may seek hospitality, monasteries for the rest of us, road quality, tollbooths, drinking water, fords, ferries, bridges for use in wet weather, and so on. Villages with inns and fairs are mentioned. Here is Dobkov and the ancestral home of the Magnuses. You probably followed an itinerary much like this one on your journey here …?”

  He waited for a reply. Was this a literacy test? Fortunately Anton’s eye picked out a name he knew. “Putovat? Had a very fine church.”

  “St. Vaclav’s?”

  “Didn’t get near enough to ask. I was shadowing a dangerous-looking bull. Is this relevant?”

  The friar smiled bloodlessly. “Only inasmuch as Dobkov is shown as being ten days’ journey from Mauvnik. More or less, of course. Itineraries’ travel times are more faith than deed.” He laid it aside and produced another. “Now, this one shows the way north from Mauvnik and on through Pomerania via the Silver Road. The last entry in Jorgary is Castle Gallant, in the county of Cardice, which happens to be shown exactly ten days away, as was Dobkov. May the Lord have mercy on all who travel.”

  “Bring that back here and sit down,” the cardinal said from the far side of the room.

  Anton obeyed, calculating that he could, if really motivated—meaning offered a hundred florins or more—ride home to Dobkov in less than a week. Three days, using post horses on dry roads. But this was late in the year. Weather would be critical. Daylight and moonlight … Even before he sat down, Zdenek began speaking again.

  “Lords of the northern marches are charged with keeping out Wend raiders. If they can’t keep them out, they are expected to retaliate—hunt them down on their own territory and make examples of them. It is a wild and bloody land.”

  Anton nodded. He knew that much. Several historical Magnuses were buried up there, having failed to live long enough to be anybody’s ancestors.

  “The northern marches comprise four counties. Pelrelm is by far the largest and Cardice the smallest. You may ignore Kipalban and Gistov, which are irrelevant in this instance. Pelrelm is so mountainous that it is good only for raising fighting men and cattle. The count of Pelrelm can muster about two thousand men-at-arms, and probably mount them after a fashion. Cardice is barely more than one fertile valley and a fortress, Castle Gallant. The only town of any size is Gallant itself.

  “So Cardice is small, yes, but it owns a profitable lead mine and the fortress guards the Silver Road to the north. The keeper levies a toll on the traders passing through. He has few followers of his own, but he can hire mercenaries when necessary. Are you with me?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.” Pelrelm’s hill men might assemble much faster than Cardice could find mercenaries for hire, but a good mercenary force, well trained and made up of pikemen and mounted archers in roughly equal numbers, would be far more effective, man for man.

  “Now it gets complicated.” The cardinal sp
oke slowly, as if he found explaining things to hussars a painful exercise. “Castle Gallant belongs to the king, but the office of keeper has been held by members of the Bukovany family for so many generations that it has become virtually hereditary.” The snowy beard writhed in disapproval of such careless mismanagement of a royal resource. “Admittedly, they have always been loyal and usually efficient. Last summer, Count Stepan sent his son, Petr Bukovany, here to court to ask for recognition as his father’s heir. He made a good impression. The king knighted him and granted his petition.”

  Meaning that Zdenek had approved of him. The old king was past caring, from all accounts. He would sign anything the cardinal put in front of him.

  “While he was here, we were able to advise him of some disquieting intelligence His Majesty has received concerning Pomerania. Duke Wartislaw, who claims the title of Lord of the Wends, has been buying ordnance from Sweden, heavy guns especially. He has been building up his army and we suspect that he has his eye on Jorgary. His Majesty directed Count Bukovany, via his son, to increase Cardice’s garrison.” He added with a hint of admiration, “Sir Petr negotiated a remittance of certain taxes to help allay the cost.

  “I should not presume to instruct a soldier such as yourself, lancer, but if Duke Wartislaw wants to invade Jorgary, he will have to take Castle Gallant first. Driving herds or flocks over mountain passes is one thing, but a modern army needs tents, rations, fodder, cannon, powder, shot, women, and much else. At this time of year he must come by the Silver Road, and he must come before winter. Now, late September, would be about right. By the time His Majesty’s forces can muster and march north, Wartislaw may have laid waste half the kingdom. Even if he does not, once he has taken Gallant itself, he will never give it up, and our border will never be secure again.”