Speak to the Devil

by Dave Duncan

  Wulf pushed him back down, not gently. “Invalid, remember! Now, what did you want your secretary for?”

  “To tell the king the Wends have invaded, of course.” He glared up angrily. Half naked and bloodstained, yet he still resented being babied by his kid brother.

  “That’s an excellent excuse for me to leave. I’ll deliver your letter to the Spider.”

  It was time for Squire Wulfgang and Cardinal Zdenek to discuss the division of spoils. Not fair that one brother should do all the work and get none of the rewards! This could be explained to Anton later.

  “Wulf! I need you, I tell you!” Anton looked unusually sincere, and extraordinarily worried. “I need someone here I can trust. I have no real experience, just what I’ve picked up listening to Father and Otto and Vlad. I’m not qualified to be a marshal, leading the country’s defense against odds of a hundred to one. I can’t handle this by myself.” His eyes brightened. “The man I really need is Vladislav! He’s doing no good rotting in captivity in Bavaria. I told the seneschal I needed to pay a ransom for my brother. He wasn’t very happy, but he admitted that it could be done. He mumbled something about letters to a bank. I didn’t understand, but it can be done!” He twirled up his mustache in delight.

  Wulf shook his head. “At this time of year, with a new moon coming, I’d allow ten days for the ride to Mauvnik and probably another ten to reach wherever Vlad is in Bavaria. Then twenty for him to ride back here. Forty days. Your war will be all over in less than forty days.”

  “But you could do it in less than an hour.”

  “No. No! No! The Voices are warning me that every time they help me, they increase my danger.” Hinting that, anyway.

  “Danger of what?”

  “Of the Church catching me, I think. It may be something worse. Less than a week ago you asked me to pray for you as you tried to break your neck, and now you have me dragging you out of the grave. I’ll carry your report to Mauvnik and I’ll take Vlad’s ransom along if you like—at least you can trust me not to steal it. But this latest miracle or magic is too obvious. I have to get out of here, Long One, before I end up like Marek with a life sentence of pulling weeds all day long.” Or playing the torch in a torchlight parade, like Joan of Arc.

  Anton scowled, but then he nodded. “That’s fair. I can’t thank you enough, and I mustn’t endanger you any more. See how Radim is doing, will you? And see the seneschal about the ransom. I am the count and the money is mine to spend.”

  Wulf gathered the bloodstained clothes and armor into a heap, then arranged the bed curtains so that Anton was in deep shadow, visible only through a narrow slit. “Remember that you’re at death’s door,” he said, as he tugged the bell rope to summon some servants.

  CHAPTER 20

  He found Madlenka and Giedre in the solar, counting their rosaries—praying for Anton’s recovery, Wulf assumed, although Madlenka must have considered what might happen if Anton died, just as he had.

  “He’s going to be all right.”

  They looked up disbelievingly.

  “Really. He lost a lot of blood, but the bleeding has stopped and he’s resting.”

  “Our Lady be praised!” Madlenka said. She closed her eyes for another silent prayer. Was she asking forgiveness for certain evil thoughts? “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

  “I’m on my way to the stable … Mistress Giedre, I have something to tell Madlenka. Would you please give us a moment alone? Leave the door open if you wish.”

  The women exchanged glances. Madlenka nodded. “Just for a minute.”

  Disapproving, Giedre left. Wulf did not sit.

  Madlenka rose and faced him warily. “She won’t eavesdrop. What is this dark secret, Squire Wulfgang?” She was pale. She had guessed.

  “I am leaving Castle Gallant, my lady. Within the hour.”

  She flinched. “You are recovered enough to ride a horse?”

  “I bruise easily, but we Magnuses are very fast healers.”

  Anton or Vlad would have accepted the statement as either plain fact or macho bragging, but Madlenka did not miss the other possibilities. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Tough as boiled leather, I was told.”

  “Tougher. But please make sure that my brother rests for the next day or two. Lock him in, or tie him down, if you can. Madlenka …”

  Now what to say? He must not implicate her in his Satanism, if that was what it was, and he must not raise her hopes in vain.

  “I have … a favor … I want your promise … It is possible that I will not be …” He was stammering. He stopped and started again. “But, in case I do … if I do …”

  She smiled. “You are not making a great deal of sense, squire.”

  “How can I make sense when I am crazed by love? I just want you to promise not to marry him until you are sure I am not coming back!”

  Now she stared at him as if he was a foaming maniac—and who could blame her? “You are going to ride down to Mauvnik and ask King Konrad to change his edict? To order me to marry you instead of Anton?”

  “More or less.”

  “You truly are insane!”

  “Almost, but not quite. It is not impossible! Listen … no, don’t. There are things I cannot tell you. It is a slim hope, but I just may return with such a document.”

  “So the sash does not lie? You really are personal friends of the king?”

  “My lady, it is no secret in Mauvnik that the king barely knows day from night anymore. Please, trust me. Wait for me!”

  “Wait how long?” She was bewildered, naturally.

  “Forty days,” he said, because that was what he had told Anton. “Just don’t go and marry him before then!”

  “Marry? Now? With an enemy at the gates, my father and brother hardly cold in their graves, my mother blighted? There can be no wedding for me, squire, not for a year or more.”

  “Your mother?” Someone had mentioned a mother. “What is her ailment?”

  “She was seized by melancholy when my father was stricken, and has refused to leave her bed since.”

  “Smitten by the same curse, you think? This is evil incarnate.”

  She said, “Yes,” but her eyes were questioning. She was a clever girl, dangerously clever.

  “I must go. I love you.” He hadn’t been aware of moving, but they were very close.

  “And I you.” She smiled sadly. “You were so badly hurt, and so brave.”

  “You were so kind.” He had always dreamed that the mother he had never known had been like her—tall and gentle and caring. There were no pictures of her. He had always assumed that she had been blond like him, not dark like Anton, but he had never dared ask. He had killed her, being born.

  Madlenka’s smiles would raise the dead. She said, “A little flirting seemed harmless when there could be no future in it. Knowing we had nothing to gain, we thought we had nothing to lose.”

  “How wrong we were!” He put his arms around her and drew her close, but she turned away from his attempt to kiss her.

  “You haven’t told me everything, have you?”

  “No, my lady. I dare not. Whatever you suspect, I beg you not to share your thoughts with anyone.”

  “Is it possible that Cardinal Zdenek was fighting fire with fire?”

  Clever! “I have never met that eminent gentleman, and he would never admit to such unchristian behavior.”

  Then he tried again to kiss her and this time she did not refuse. He thought she would break it off very quickly, but she didn’t and he had no desire to have it end—not ever.

  “Father!” Giedre said, in a voice somewhat louder than normal. “What brings you here?”

  The kiss ended. Madlenka strode over to the door and out into the corridor. Her voice drifted back. “No, it isn’t there. I must have left it … Seneschal?”

  “My lady, I am looking for Squire Wulfgang. The count told me to see him.”

  “He looked in here a few minutes ago, to tell us that Lo
rd Magnus was much recovered. It was kind of him. Did he say where he was going, Giedre?”

  “To the stable, I think, my lady.”

  The voices died away and Wulf started breathing again.

  He must go. The sooner he went, the sooner he could come back and try to do something about the Wends. They would need some time to muster their forces. So Anton would be all right. Madlenka would survive. He wished he could leave her a present, a token of how he felt, or just a reminder of him until he returned. Or something to ease her burdens? Then the answer was obvious. If his voices could cure Anton, they could surely help her mother’s despair. But how? A countess beset by melancholy would not be left unattended. An unknown young man would never be allowed into her quarters anyway.

  “Most holy saints, how can I cure … I mean, how can I Speak for the countess without anyone knowing?”

  The Light came.

  —There is a way, my son, Helena said. —Go.

  He stepped out into the corridor. Corridors in Castle Gallant were on the outside and dim, lit only by the loopholes in the outer wall. The rooms were on the bailey side, so they could have windows.

  —Left, Victorinus said. —Upstairs. Right.

  The corridor ended in darkness where discarded furniture had been left to molder. Wulf proceeded cautiously through the clutter of broken chairs, dismantled bedframes, and other litter until he reached a blank wall, whose stonework had been left rough and unfinished, a later addition to the original structure.

  —Stand in the right-hand corner. The lady’s bed is on the other side of the wall. Now ask.

  “Holy saints, is there a curse upon Countess Edita?”

  —Yes.

  “I beg you to remove that curse and restore her wits.”

  The Light faded. Wulf headed back the way he came, wiping off dust and cobwebs. What next? Miracle or witchcraft, he refused to believe that healing people was evil.

  He went looking for the seneschal, but the keep must be buzzing with more hunters than hunted, for he was cornered by young Radim. He had shed the wax tablet, but still bore his cane and his worried expression. Perhaps he always did.

  “Squire, may I ask a question? I was talking with Dali—Constable Notivova, I mean—as you suggested, and he said that the Wend soldiers seemed to be led by a priest. A schismatic priest, of the Orthodox Rite.”

  Not sure what reaction was expected of him, Wulf said only, “Shocking!”

  “The constable says he knows him,” Radim added eagerly. “It was Father Vilhelmas, squire! He accompanied Count Vranov when he visited here last month, and he was with Vranov at the gate on Sunday, when the bishop insisted he not be admitted.”

  “Yes. If you could lead me to wherever I might find the seneschal, we could talk on the way.”

  “Oh. He wanders around a lot. He will most likely be in the counting room, squire. Down here.”

  Matching his pace to Radim’s awkward hobble, Wulf said, “So what about Father Vilhelmas?”

  “He was at Long Valley this morning! How did he do that?”

  “I don’t know the country. How could he do that?”

  “Well, he could have doubled back through Castle Gallant, but he wasn’t supposed to be admitted. Or he could ride west to the Hlucny and over Hlucny Pass, but all that rain we had here would be snow up there, and it’s rarely open this late in the year, and it would take him at least three days anyway. At least three days!”

  Secretary Radim was a sharp lad, clearly.

  “Sunday? This is Tuesday. So it would just be humanly possible if the pass is still open?”

  “I meant three days in summer,” Radim said stubbornly. “The constable doesn’t think it’s possible.”

  “You’re suggesting that Father Vilhelmas Speaks to the devil?”

  They were going downstairs again, Radim moving even more awkwardly. He looked abashed at having his conclusions put into words. “It could be, couldn’t it? Dali thinks so. Would the count want me to put that in his report, squire?”

  “I don’t think he would like you talking about it in Gallant. We don’t want people to think there are Speakers around, do we?”

  Radim shivered. “Oh, no, squire! The whole town would panic.”

  “Exactly! But I do think my brother will want to tell the king this news, so I’m glad you mentioned it. With other enemies, His Majesty would complain to the pope and ask him to excommunicate them for having dealings with the devil; he can’t do that against Duke Wartislaw, because the Wends are already Orthodox heretics. Yes, the king should be told. How long until you’ll have a draft ready for the count to approve?”

  “Just a few minutes to write that bit in, squire. The counting room is along there.”

  “Excellent,” Wulf said.

  The counting room was a cramped and dim little office on the ground floor. Stout bars protected the windows, the door was sturdy, and there was probably a secret fireproof money vault carved into the rock under the rug. The fussy-looking man seated behind a well-littered desk agreed that he was Seneschal Jurbarkas, although he seemed more suited to being Giedre’s grandfather than father. He marked his place in a ledger with one finger and regarded his visitor with distaste, conspicuously not inviting him to be seated.

  “Squire! At last! I was looking all over for you to give you … where did I put them? Yes, those … three documents, and a purse of coins for your journey. On the count’s instructions. Make your mark on this paper to attest that you have received them.”

  Wulf sat down, took up a pen, and signed Wulfgang Magnus, Esquire in a fair hand, adding the date. He unfolded the thickest of the papers.

  “That’s written in Latin,” the old man said impatiently.

  “So I see. I’ve known beehives with less wax, too. Hmm … The two gentlemen with the Italian names, on behalf of the Medici Bank of Florence, witness that the aforesaid bank will tender to the gentleman with the German name or his heirs and successors the sum of twelve hundred florins on the return of this document. Signed and sealed. Then he, the first party of the second part, instructs the parties of the first part to tender instead to a gentleman with a French name, and they add two more seals. He’s from Bruges, so I suppose this went north with the spice trade and came back with wool? Then four others. And lastly my dear brother’s seal and signature, witnessed by the bishop, no less, tells the bank to tender the loot to Baron Ottokar Magnus of Dobkov. It gets around, doesn’t it? A harlot of a document!”

  He folded it up. “It should have been made out to Baron Emilian of Castle Orel, in Bavaria.”

  “The count could not recall that name.”

  Typical! Wulf reached for the other two and glanced at them. “This one is for six hundred florins and this one for two hundred. The total must be very close to two thousand florins, mustn’t it?”

  Jurbarkas was watching him with some effort to seem amused. “My apologies, squire! I underestimated your talents.”

  Wulf grinned. “You were judging me by my brother, perhaps?”

  “Certainly not!” But the seneschal turned noticeably pink. “Just by a lifetime of dealing with squires. Is there anything else I can do to assist? Anything you want?”

  “There’s one thing you can do,” Wulf said, rising, “but it won’t be easy.”

  “Anything!” The seneschal stood up also.

  “Find a suitor worthy of that beautiful and charming daughter of yours.” He bowed his farewell. One of Anton’s first jobs should be to find and train a replacement seneschal.

  Since he was already down at ground level, he went next to the stable, where he chose a fine chestnut courser named Copper and ordered that he be saddled for a journey. He had no luggage to pack. He browbeat the armorers into giving him a sword, donating the remains of his armor to the Castle Gallant militia in exchange. Realizing then that he was starving, he tracked a scent to the kitchen and told a couple of pretty girls to pack a roast ox for him to take on his journey.

  He ran back u
pstairs to say his farewells.

  CHAPTER 21

  Count Magnus of Cardice was aware that he did have some shortcomings and that sitting still was one of them. He could sit a horse as well as any man alive—even keep up with Wulfgang, four times out of nine—but sitting in bed leaning against a pile of pillows and listening to Madlenka Bukovany reading from Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival was sheer torture. He tried to look interested, struggling with the antique high German and taking his cue on when to smile or seem sad from the inevitably present Giedre.

  He had work to do, organizing the defense of Castle Gallant, and he couldn’t do it in bed while pretending to be recovering from a major loss of blood. The bedroom setting was making him increasingly aware that it was two days since he parted from the overwhelming, oversexed, overripe Baroness Nadezda. Another night of abstinence would make concentration utterly impossible. Even now he was hard put not to ogle his future wife too openly.

  Madlenka had spurned his suggestion that they get on with the meaningful part of the marriage and take their time to plan the ceremonial part for next year. For the life of him he could not see the objection to this. By the king’s command they must marry and kings’ commands should be obeyed promptly. A sheltered damsel like Madlenka could not understand the severe suffering that celibacy imposed on a healthy young man. He must get rid of her busybody chaperone and explain that if she did not consent to handfasting, the alternative was that he take a mistress.

  Or should he get rid of Madlenka and explain this to Giedre?

  Madlenka was not the type he would have chosen for his countess. She was striking enough in a classical way, but she had the coloring of a corpse and even her shapeless mourning garments could not hide her skinniness. What sort of midget babies could she push through those hips? What sort of pathetic tits would she offer her husband to play with? Giedre, now, was plump and blessed with the sultry Mediterranean look that could square a man’s shoulders, puff out his chest, and so on.

  A tap on the door announced the arrival of Radim with ink, wax, and the fair copy of the report. The boy had done a fine job with the drafting. Anton had ordered only enough changes to make his own actions sound more like a breathtaking feat of rescuing a wounded subordinate and less like attempted suicide while of unsound mind.