Speak to the Devil

by Dave Duncan

  Sir Karolis Kavarskas coughed down a laugh. “The man has a crooked eye, I agree, but does that frighten you? You seriously think he is a Speaker because of that?”

  The bishop spluttered. “I think he is a Speaker, yes, but not because of that. Those schismatics are in league with the Father of Evil. Havel was a professed Catholic until recently, when he sent his priest away. Now he is a puppet of the Wends.”

  “I think you should go and pray for peace, my lord bishop.”

  “You will not admit that heretic priest, Karolis, as you value your soul!” Now the Church’s threat was blatant and the soldier backed down.

  “As Your Reverence says.” Kavarskas beckoned over one of the archers and sent him down to the herald at the gate.

  “Thank you.” Bishop Ugne turned his back on the constable. “Come, Madlenka, we must go to the cathedral. Nobody can pester you while you are attending Mass. Giedre, you should run and warn your father to arrange a reception for Havel Vranov—but I think it should be a very small one.”

  “Wait!” Madlenka shouted. “Constable, when the count and his escort have been admitted, close the gate.”

  Kavarskas reddened. Before he could speak, Ekkehardt growled, “This seems a wise precaution.”

  “I am the one who makes such decisions!” the constable bellowed.

  “Well, I think I agree with the lady and the captain,” the bishop said.

  The constable gripped his sword hilt and glared at them all. It was a fine demonstration of how a castle without a keeper resembled a chicken without a head.

  “Do it!” Madlenka snapped and headed for the door. The bishop went with her, and Giedre followed.

  As they swept along the battlements with the wind at their backs, she said, “The constable has been bribed, hasn’t he?”

  “That is a very serious charge, Madlenka.”

  “I know. What do you think?”

  “Bought, like Judas?” He sighed. “It could be. Or he may just be frightened of the responsibility thrust upon him and hoping to lean on Count Vranov.”

  “And the landsknecht?”

  “Luitger Ekkehardt is a good Christian, for a soldier, and he obviously does not trust Karolis, but mercenaries usually serve the highest bidder. This fortress would be worth a great deal of money to the duke of Pomerania. We must pray that the Lord will have mercy on us and support his own.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Wulfgang Magnus had not fallen off a horse since he was six years old, and would not have done so now had he not been seized by a sudden wrenching pain in his gut. He had been unhorsed in jousting often enough—although mainly by Vlad or Otto, only very rarely by Anton—and armor was designed to protect its wearer from just that mishap. In this case it saved him from minor cuts or bruises, but was no help at all right after the jarring impact, because he immediately needed to vomit. For several minutes, he could do nothing but writhe on the turf and retch, racked by appalling belly cramps. It was fortunate that he had not eaten anything that morning.

  When he finally managed to lift his head and look, Morningstar was still cavorting around, bucking and kicking in every direction. Sparrow was behaving himself because Anton had refused to tolerate such nonsense. He was now trying to catch the stupid courser before he entangled his feet in the reins. More red hot coals in the stomach …

  Anton rode up, leading Morningstar. “What’s wrong?” He sounded more irritated than worried, because he thought a warrior must be wrought of steel. He never displayed weakness or sympathy, especially over other people’s suffering.

  “Belly cramps this time.” More heaving.

  “Why?”

  “Pain is the price we must pay.”

  “Who says that?”

  “St. Helena.”

  “Pay for what?”

  The conversation was going nowhere. Wulf wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to sit up. His gut twisted again, doubling him over. At about his third try, he succeeded and was able to inspect the scenery. The stone wall ahead, two stories high and windowless, without doubt belonged to a monastery. It was designed to shut out the lustful, sin-ridden world and protect the holy peace that must reign within. Five years poor Marek had spent in there already; there he would die and be buried.

  “Have you any idea where we are?” Anton demanded.

  “Koupel. I have to speak with Marek before I decide …” Wulf paused, bracing himself to deal with the pain that would come as soon as he tried to rise. “Before I decide.” He struggled to his knees at the second try, except that he doubled over again. It was several more minutes before he managed to clamber aboard his horse with Anton’s help; he certainly did not leap into the saddle as a good rider should. “I have to speak with Marek.”

  “Wulf, they won’t let you! Vlad came by here two years ago, when he rode to the war. He tried to see Marek. He wasn’t allowed in.”

  Monks had renounced the world. They did not, like friars, wander through it, doing the Lord’s work, helping the poor and the lame. Monks lived segregated, communal lives devoted to praising God.

  Wulf forced a smile. “But you will be. Don your pretty ribbon, my lord. Tuck your baton behind your ear. You are Count Magnus of Cardice. You are rich. You can pay for prayers for your predecessor’s soul.”

  Anton chuckled at hearing his title. “At the moment I could afford to buy forgiveness for one lecherous wink, nothing more. But if you really must talk to him, it’s worth a try. You’re not scared that they’ll lock you up, too?”

  How stupid could a man be? Anton had told him a thousand times that courage wasn’t absence of fear, it was refusing to give in to it. Vlad had not been allowed in; Wulf’s trouble might be the exact opposite. Certainly some of his belly cramps came from sheer terror.

  “Of course not. You need my help, and my Voices told me to come here and ask Marek’s advice before I decide. Now start being a lord and act stupid. Should be easy.”

  Anton scowled, having no sense of humor where his own dignity was concerned. They set their horses walking along the dusty trail to the gate. This was Sunday. There would be no one working in the fields, and as few as possible tending livestock. The monks would be at prayer, denying the world, rejecting the flesh and the devil.

  Anton must be frightened too, if for different reasons. This situation could only be strange and discomfiting for him. Many times in past generations the family had produced Speakers, able to hear Voices and exercise strange supernatural powers. The curse had struck daughters more often than sons, and most of them had been hastily packed off into nunneries before they lost their immortal souls or the neighbors began to gossip. Others had run away and never been heard from again.

  Marek had insisted that his Voices were Heaven-sent, not Satanic, and had demanded a chance to keep his freedom, swearing he would never use his powers for evil. He had used them for good, but word had spread and he had been taken away when he was a month or two older than Wulf was now.

  By then young Wulfgang, the baby of the family, had been hearing Voices too. Terrified, he had promised never to use his gift—or give in to his curse, whichever was the correct description. Father had decided that he also deserved a chance and had made the rest of the family swear to keep his secret. They had all held to their side of the bargain, though it had been hard on Wulf. The Voices might speak to him at any time without warning. Marek, before being taken away, had told him that he should run as fast as possible to the church and kneel before the altar, holding a crucifix and repeating Hail Marys until the Voices stopped. That always worked eventually, but Wulf had grown thick calluses on his knees through many long nights and days. In time he had learned enough control that others rarely noticed his distraction.

  Father Czcibor must have suspected, but had turned a blind eye. Ottokar had asked about the problem once in a while, but Vladislav and Anton never mentioned it. Wulf had assumed that Anton had completely put it out of his mind until that whispered appeal at the hunt. Well,
today was providing a rude introduction to Speaking for Anton. He expected to be in control in any dealings with his younger brother and now he wasn’t. No doubt his jaw was very tightly clenched inside his bevor.

  A monastery gate always faced west, to the sinful world, just as a church faced east, to the direction of sunrise and hope and the coming of the Kingdom. Hooves clattered on stone as the visitors passed under the arch into a covered passage. A man emerged from a doorway and bowed to the noble visitors. He was a lay servant, not a tonsured monk.

  Wulf made a determined effort to control his nausea and do his duty as a squire would. Technically he wasn’t a squire, because Anton had not yet been knighted, but no one else would know that.

  “Count Magnus, companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, lord of the marches of Cardice, come in peace.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up like partridges. No doubt he was surprised by a count traveling with a retinue of less than a hundred. Nevertheless, he recognized gentlemen and bowed again. “His Lordship is welcome to Koupel. Does he come seeking hospitality, or healing, or a retreat from the turmoil of the world?” He spoke the common tongue with an accent even worse than Mauvnik’s.

  Anton glanced at Wulf’s face, which was probably as green as the hills, and took over the negotiations. “I can tarry only briefly, turning aside from my path for a brief visit with my brother, who is one of the monks here.”

  The gatekeeper’s face look on a wary expression. No commoner lightly refused a nobleman, especially one of Anton’s exalted rank. “The rule of St. Benedict does not allow personal visitations, my lord.”

  “We shall see if an exception cannot be made in exceptional circumstances. I will speak with the abbot.”

  The gatekeeper’s face indicated that he strongly doubted that, but he did not say so. The visitors were admitted to the court, which was the size of a smallish meadow, entirely enclosed by buildings, of which those nearest the gate were obviously stables. The skyline ahead was dominated by the church in the background, its two great towers and rose window looming over many lesser, lower buildings. Those nearest to it, or even attached to it, were housing for the monks, their hospital, library, scriptorium, and other study areas. Nearer the court would be workshops, storerooms, servants’ quarters, and certainly the hostelry, for monasteries offered almost the only safe refuges for travelers. This grassy area was thus a halfway house between the cloister and the world. Only very favored guests would be allowed to proceed farther in, and no inmate would be allowed to venture farther out without special permission, rarely granted. Early on a Sunday morning, there was no one else in sight.

  Anton and Wulf dismounted and turned in their weapons; a more senior layman was fetched. Wulf concentrated on controlling his belly spasms and left negotiations to his brother.

  The long lad put on quite a show. After years of watching Father and then Ottokar, plus many noble visitors to Dobkov, he knew exactly how to act the lord. He twirled his mustache, he flaunted his baldric and his baton; he used his height to overawe the senior gatekeeper, two successive novices, and three monks of steadily increasing age and rotundity. Best of all, his overwhelming youthful arrogance must seem so insufferable to these persnickety holy recluses that none of his victims would notice the nausea-racked boy behind him.

  It took time, though. They sat on a stone bench and watched servants crisscrossing the courtyard, attending to the minimal Sunday chores. Wulf’s innards gradually settled themselves. The bench faced east and the sun bothered him, so he pulled his sallet down, leaving only a narrow gap between its brim and the bevor that protected his chin and mouth.

  Anton said, “Why are you hiding?”

  Because he felt safer, somehow, not showing his face. But he said, “Sun is bright. Here comes someone.”

  A monk in a black Benedictine habit came pacing across the grass to tell them that they would not be allowed to speak with Brother Marek. Knowing that a monk would be able to read, Anton dug in his satchel for one of his imposing warrants and negotiations continued.

  Eventually, against all odds, instructions arrived to deliver the visitors for inspection by Abbot Bohdan. Clinking and clanking, they followed a disapproving, elderly monk through a cloister, whose pillars were fashioned of lovingly carved stone, then across an obsessively tended garden, until they reached the abbot’s residence abutting the north side of the church.

  The abbot was eating breakfast. The abbot did very well for himself. His board was liberally spread with dishes—two of fish, one of eggs, a bowl of frumenty, a basket of apples, a roast goose, and a boiled ox tongue. Apart from a servant who hovered behind him, ready to carve him another slice of goose, or refill his crystal wine cup, he was eating alone, seated at the far end of a table that would hold a dozen. It was furnished with gold candlesticks, the fireplace was carved marble, the walls hung with tapestries, and the mullioned windows shone with butterfly-bright images of saints and angels.

  He beckoned with a plump hand for the visitors to approach. The monk who had brought them remained by the door.

  As much as a man could swagger in armor, Anton advanced along the hall with his humble servant shuffling at his heels. Wulf’s mouth tasted of vomit and he feared that he would soon start retching again. He left his sallet down and his face hidden. That still felt right, though he didn’t know why.

  Abbot Bohdan was undoubtedly the fattest man he had ever seen, swathed in acres of black Benedictine wool. His face hung in folds below eyes like finger holes in dough. His cowl was set back to reveal an almost bald skull and hairless face, both of them beaded with jewels of sweat. He was tearing strips of flesh off a goose drumstick and apparently swallowing them whole. His piggy stare never left the visitors as they advanced.

  Anton halted and saluted. “My lord abbot.”

  The abbot reached for a gold chalice and took a drink. “What d’ju want with Brother Marek?”

  “Oh, largely just a fraternal visit. It has been many years since we saw our good brother.”

  “Magnus has renounced the world. To remind him of his former life of sin would not help him in his devotions and dedication. It would be a distraction and an unkindness.”

  “There is more. May I speak in complete confidence?” Anton asked airily.

  “Why is your companion hiding his face?”

  “Because I told him to. He went on a disgusting debauch last night and is currently suffering the penalty. The sight of him is more than the rest of us should have to bear. About Brother Marek?”

  Curtains of flesh seemed to sink even lower over the nasty little eyes. “I give you two minutes to explain why I should listen to you for a third.”

  “There was an incident back before Brother Marek entered the cloister. I am charged to find out if he remembers anything of it.” Anton was making it up as he went along—Wulf recognized the tone. “I regret that I am forbidden to go into details, but …”

  “Forbidden by whom?”

  “By the man who gave me this baton.”

  The abbot shrugged his great shoulders and took a lengthy draft of wine. “Who is your companion? What is the real reason he refuses to show his face?”

  “His name is Wulfgang Magnus. He is my squire and brother to both me and Marek. I told you why he is being disciplined. Father Abbot,” Anton said sharply. “I am on a mission of great moment and did not come all this way out of my road to discuss family trivia. I have the honor to be a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, which numbers among its members many distinguished men, including Cardinal Zdenek and Archbishop Svaty, Primate of Jorgary. I have a royal warrant I could show you, but to brandish that at you would seem like a threat. Come, surely a few minutes’ talk with one of your holy flock cannot imperil his soul irredeemably? Is his faith so delicate? Must I report to my superiors that you were contumacious?”

  “Show me your warrant, lad!”

  “As you wish, monk, although were you a layman of rank I should call you out on your implications
of distrust. Don’t put your greasy fingers on it.”

  Anton spread out the scroll and held it up so that Bohdan could read it. He pouted, then licked his thick lips. “This house is dedicated to God. King Konrad’s writ does not run here.”

  Anton bowed and tucked the scroll back in his satchel. “I shall so inform His Majesty. He was of a contrary opinion.” He turned on his heel to go.

  “Wait.” The abbot belched.

  “Good one,” Anton remarked. “Anything else?”

  “Have you broken your fast yet?”

  “Now that you ask, no, my squire and I have not. Our business is too urgent for delays.”

  “Brother Cenek!”

  The monk waiting by the door said, “Father Abbot?”

  “Conduct Count Magnus and his squire to the guests’ refectory and tell the hosteler to feed them. I shall send in Brother Marek as soon as prime is over.”

  “Your Reverence is most gracious,” Anton murmured.

  Wulf coughed admiringly as they headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 6

  The guests’ refectory was a dank, cool room, so long and narrow as to seem more like a corridor than a hall, yet Wulf found it beautiful in a hard, austere way. The tall stained-glass windows were set high enough that no one could see out or in; ribbed arches supported the stone ceiling. Fixed benches stretched the length of each side, with freestanding tables fronting them. It was a fair bet that male and female guests were seated on opposing sides and that a monk stood at the ornate lectern in the center and read Scripture to them during meals.

  Lay servants poured water for the visitors to wash their hands, laid trenchers of hard bread before them, and then brought a breakfast of lamprey pie, pike in a thick sauce, eggs, fresh grapes, crusty bread, a mountain of butter, four cheeses, and flagons of Tokay. The sight of food churned Wulf’s stomach, and eating with his sallet down, almost touching his bevor, would be impossible. He raised the helmet briefly to take a swig of the wine, which was surprisingly sweet and seemed to soothe him, confirming that he was suffering from no ordinary colic. He tried not to watch as Anton heaped his trencher and set to work with knife and fingers like a ravening, um, abbot.