As the gypsy leader talked, Alaric calmed down and sat back, thinking hard. He had assumed Glouste was a tree-monkey—he had heard of them from the sailors when they had first docked in Ind, but what Zeo said made sense. Glouste was not built like any monkey he had seen before, and did resemble a fox more with her pointed face, dainty paws, and thick tail. Finally he nodded.
“You are right,” he admitted, deliberately avoiding Dietz’s triumphant smile. “She is no scimi.”
“Hah!” Zeo clapped him on the back and handed him a full goblet of wine. “You are wise, but admit mistakes. This is good! This is how to learn!” Alaric accepted the wine with a smile and raised the glass in a silent toast before drinking. The gypsy was right—accepting knowledge from others was the way to learn, and clearly the Roma knew a great deal. He found himself wishing they could stay with the gypsies, travel with them and learn from them, but Zeo had said “this night” and some instinct told Alaric not to push their hospitality. Besides, there was still the statue to consider.
Hours later, Dietz noticed his shoulders felt bare. It took a moment to realise why.
“Glouste?” He looked around, but saw no sign of his pet. The Roma had taken to her immediately and had spent the evening feeding her and playing with her, so it was no surprise she had wandered off. Most likely, she was playing with several of the gypsy children, or being brushed by one of the older girls. Still, he could feel the effects of a full belly and a great deal of wine, and decided to use the excuse to stretch his legs. Zeo and Alaric were talking about mountain travel and barely noticed when he stood and walked away.
“Glouste?” His other companions were scattered about the camp—Renke and Kleiber sitting together stiffly, Fastred chatting with one of the gypsy elders, Kristoff apparently haggling with a few young men, Holst and his men pretending they were not amused by several children’s antics, and Adelrich flirting with a pretty lass. None of them had seen his pet—he could stop thinking of her as a tree-monkey, at least, and liked Zeo’s description of a tree-fox much better—but promised to alert him if they did. He wandered on, through the camp, asking here and there after Glouste. Several had played with her or fed her, or petted her that night, of course, but none had her now.
“She was playing with Zisi last,” one little girl told him sleepily, “over there.” Her lazy gesture indicated a wagon near the edge of the gypsy’s camp. Dietz thanked her and her mother and followed her directions.
“Glouste?” A soft chittering caught his attention and he peeked into the wagon. Like the other gypsy wheeled homes the walls had many compartments and the floor was lined with heavy quilts. A little girl lay asleep there, Glouste still curled up in her arms. When she saw Dietz the tree-fox slithered free, nuzzled the sleeping girl one last time and hopped over to him.
“I’d wondered where you’d got to,” he whispered as she climbed up his arm and settled about his shoulders again, nudging him behind the ear. He scratched between her ears as he let the wagon’s flaps fall shut and turned to head back to the fire. A wisp of white caught his eye, however, and he turned away instead, looking out from the camp towards a small grove of trees just beyond. Was there someone there?
“Hello?” No one answered, but the image had piqued his curiosity. Still scratching Glouste he walked away from the wagons and into the night. The trees immediately swallowed the last vestiges of camp noise, bathing him in cool silence, and his feet on the grass and fallen leaves made a faint crunch that was all too loud amid the quiet.
The grove was not large, maybe fourteen trees in all, and had a natural clearing at its centre, perhaps ten feet across. In the middle, he saw as he slid between the trunks, was the white he had glimpsed from the wagon. Only up close it was less white than pale yellow, the colour of old bones, and it loomed above him, wings flared, tail jutting out, face leering down.
The statue.
“Damn and blast,” he muttered. Feasting with the Roma had all but driven their quest from his mind. Only now did he remember the tracks Adelrich had found and the story from the old fisherman the scout had met in Uxer—that the gypsies had brought something large and heavy back with them. Now he knew what that was.
Backing away quickly, Dietz all but ran as he stumbled out of the grove and back to the camp. He had to tell Alaric as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, his employer was still conversing with Zeo.
“Ah, you found her!” Alaric said as Dietz returned and crouched next to him. “What did you call her?” he asked Zeo. “‘Alpiri volbini’?”
“Alberi volpini,” the gypsy leader corrected gently.
“Ah yes.” Alaric’s loose nod indicated just how much he had drunk. “Alberi volpini.” Still, Dietz knew he had to reveal what he had found.
“I’ve seen it,” he hissed in Alaric’s ear, causing the younger man to lean away and look up at him blearily.
“Found what?” he asked far too loudly.
“The statue,” Dietz replied, and Alaric’s face drained of colour. Zeo, sitting right beside them, overheard their whispered conversation.
“Statue?” He nodded. “Ah, you mean our deo statua, our icon.” Rather than being offended or wary he seemed proud. “In the grove, yes?” he asked when Dietz did not respond.
“Yes,” Dietz admitted. He was surprised the gypsy would tell them about it so openly.
“Ah, it is a great thing,” Zeo said happily, sipping his wine again. “We find it in town, yes? Near two rivers?” He had to mean Merxheim, where the Reik and the Hundleir met. “No one there, so we take.” He shrugged. “And we bring back here.”
“Why would you want it?” Fastred had heard them speaking and approached, sitting down heavily across from them. Dietz saw Renke and Kleiber coming closer as well, and Holst gathering his men. He was not sure where Kristoff and Adelrich were, but suspected they would notice their companions grouping and would join them shortly. Something in him found comfort in that.
Zeo seemed surprised by the question. “Why, it is Strygoi, of course! Perhaps Ushoran himself!” Dietz felt his blood turn cold at the name and the shock must have shown on his face, since the gypsy leader turned to him and nodded. “You understand, yes?”
“Yes.” Dietz forced himself to nod. “You are Strigany.”
“What is that?” Alaric asked, leaning forward, as Zeo nodded in turn. “What does that mean?”
“We are kings,” Zeo told him proudly, gesturing towards the ragged wagons as if they were palaces. “Our people ruled long ago, the Strygoi. We scattered when the orcs came,” here he paused to spit upon the ground, and the other gypsies did the same, the practiced motion suggesting a ritual, “and wander ever since, but still our blood is that of kings.”
“And Ushoran?” Dietz wished he could shut Alaric up, but he knew better. The young man was a Reiklander, and as insatiable for knowledge as his kind was said to be for drink. Fortunately, the gypsies had not taken offence yet. In fact Zeo seemed happy to tell of their proud past.
“He was our king,” Zeo said reverently. “Our deo, our god. He ruled many lifetimes and protected Strygos from harm.”
“He was a vampire!” All heads turned as Kristoff staggered into the circle, his wobbling gait showing he was far-gone in drink. Dietz felt his stomach lurch—he had hoped the trader would provide a voice of reason, but clearly Kristoff was too drunk to mind his words or guard his thoughts. “I’ve heard the tales,” the trader continued loudly. “Ushoran, Lord of Masks! He preyed upon the weak and turned his followers into bloodsuckers as well!”
“No, no,” Zeo protested, though he had begun to scowl. “Not Vorkudlak, as you say. Not a vampire. Ushoran drew his strength from the land!” More Strigany were listening, and moving closer, and Dietz wondered where the genial atmosphere had gone. Why had the air gone so still and cold? And where had all the gypsies found blades?
“Daemon worshippers,” Kleiber stated coldly, drawing himself up to his full height, his hat casting daggers of s
hadow upon the ground. “You are praying to that abomination of a statue and offering it the blood of the children you have stolen!”
Now Zeo was on his feet as well, and Dietz and Alaric rose beside him as the Strigany’s scowl turned to a glare. “You insult us! You demean us! You taint our hospitality!” Zeo’s hand had closed upon his dagger hilt, and Dietz knew if he drew the blade it spelled their death. Alaric apparently knew it as well and hurled himself between the two men, facing Zeo, his own hands raised and empty.
“Zeo, no!” Alaric pleaded, calling up the words he had learned earlier tonight. “The vini speaks, not the man! He is not accustomed to such strong spirits. He is,” he paused, hoping Kleiber would never understand, “gracili de vini, uni fanciulli.” If the witch hunter ever learned he had just been called a child and a weakling Alaric’s own life would be over as well, but the statement made the gypsies pause.
“Gracili?” Zeo repeated, still glaring at Kleiber, who stared back.
“Si,” Alaric insisted. He gestured towards Kristoff and Renke as well. “Them also.” He nodded towards Dietz and Fastred and Adelrich, the ones who had not insulted their hosts. “These are uomini, benportanti.”
Zeo relaxed and flexed his hand, releasing the hilt. “Si,” he grunted, giving Kleiber one last look before turning his attention to Alaric. “Yes, you are right. I see.” He nodded. “We have shared wine, broken bread. Tonight you are Roma.” He glanced around and saw how close his people had gathered. “Tonight they are Roma,” he said again, the steel of command in his voice, and they backed away, the weapons vanishing from their hands. “But do not stay,” he warned Alaric softly as he settled onto the ground again and reached for his cup.
Heeding his advice, Alaric waited less than an hour before rising again to his feet.
“We must depart,” he told the gypsy leader, doing his best to sound regretful. “Thank you for your hospitality, your amicizi.” He bowed low, though he kept his eyes upon Zeo’s face as he had seen several gypsies do that evening. “May your people run free and proud always.”
Zeo rose to his feet as well, with the boneless grace of a much younger man. “May the wind be at your back and the ground smooth beneath your feet,” he replied, favouring Alaric with a slightly smaller bow as befitted a noble guest. He inclined his head to Alaric, Dietz, Fastred, and Adelrich. “You are welcome among our wagons.” He pointedly ignored Kleiber, Renke, and Kristoff, who had the wisdom not to object to the slight. Dietz made his goodbyes as well, as did the others, and several gypsies brought their horses. Then they mounted and rode out.
“That was too close,” Dietz muttered when they were safely over the hill beyond the camp, and Alaric nodded.
“Was what he said about his people true?”
Dietz nodded warily. “Aye, but so was what Kristoff blurted out. The Strigany were the gypsy rulers, long ago when they lived in Strygos, but Ushoran, their king, was a vampire right enough. Many of his chieftains were as well. They all died when the kingdom fell, but the Strigany are still feared by the other gypsies. They have dark powers, some say.”
Kleiber stirred, and Alaric glared at him, expecting the witch hunter to denounce their recent hosts. Instead the fanatic surprised him. “I saw no sign of heresy,” he admitted, “only generosity and warmth.” He actually looked embarrassed, which Alaric was sure was a first. “Perhaps their worship of the statue, wrong though it is, is merely misguided and not truly evil.”
“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Kristoff agreed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I must have had too much to drink, and all I could think about was the last time I encountered gypsies—I traded with them and they robbed me blind.” He chuckled. “It was my own fault, too. I was careless and cocky and got what I deserved.” He grimaced. “I let old grudges get the better of me back there, and nearly got us killed.”
“Nearly I can live with,” Dietz replied, and Alaric laughed. His laugh died away, however, as they crested another hill—and found a score of spears jutting up at them, grim-faced soldiers behind the shafts.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Off those horses, gypsy scum!” one of the soldiers shouted, poking his spear towards Alaric, the lead rider. The soldier wore mail with a tabard depicting a black ram, the von Drasche arms, and the gold slashes on his sleeves. His helmet marked him as a sergeant.
Alaric straightened in his saddle, suddenly every inch the noble. “How dare you?” he demanded with such vehemence the soldiers backed away a pace, their spears dipping. “I, a gypsy? Are you blind as well as daft? Move aside at once, sergeant!”
The soldier squinted at him in the dim starlight, taking in Alaric’s fine but dusty clothing and lingering on the rapier at his side. He eyed the rest of the group as well, not missing Kleiber’s distinctive garb or Holst’s military bearing. Finally he stepped back another pace and raised the spear so that its butt rested on the ground.
“Apologies, m’lord,” he said, inclining his head. “Orders are to stop anyone seen near those bandits’ camp. No exceptions.”
“What do you mean to do with us, then?” Alaric demanded, leaning back in his saddle as if the answer barely mattered. Even Dietz, who had worked for the young man for more than a year, was impressed. He had seen traces of Alaric’s noble upbringing all along, but had never seen him play the bored, arrogant, useless lord so fully and so convincingly.
The sergeant was also at a loss. “We’ll need to report to the baron for orders,” he decided finally, and Dietz noticed the soldier glancing towards Uxer behind him.
“Is the baron in residence?” Alaric asked, not missing the look. “Fine then,” he continued when the sergeant nodded. “You will inform him that Alaric von Jungfreud sends his compliments and is passing through on urgent business.” When the soldier, who had gaped at Alaric’s name, didn’t move, Alaric tapped the man’s spear with his foot. “At once, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant snapped out of his shock and turned away, whispering to several of the soldiers as he did. Ten of them stayed behind, arrayed before the travellers, but standing relaxed and leaning on their spears. The other ten, with the sergeant, marched quickly towards the town, disappearing into the night.
“Now what?” Dietz muttered, and Alaric shook his head.
“I doubt he’ll let us pass unmolested, but he won’t dare harm us, either.” He sighed. “I’ll probably be forced to speak with him.” He turned to include the others in their conversation. “Just stay close and let me handle this. The baron and I are old acquaintances, and though he may not like finding me here he’ll be hard-pressed to interfere.”
Less than an hour later the sergeant returned. “The baron extends his greetings,” he informed Alaric, still breathing heavily, “and asks you and your companions to grace him with your presence.” The soldiers who had returned with him surrounded the travellers, indicating this was not really a request.
Alaric simply inclined his head, ignoring the soldiers completely. “We would be delighted to accept,” he told the sergeant, and urged his horse forward, moving into the lead as if visiting the baron had been his idea all along. The sergeant jogged to catch up and the rest of the party followed along, the soldiers marching on either side and several behind.
Uxer had only one small inn, an unimpressive two-storey wooden structure across from the tavern that Fastred had stared at so longingly. There were, however, three handsome stone houses, set well back from the riverbank, and it was to the largest of these that the sergeant led them. Evidently, the baron had displaced one of the town’s leading citizens to satisfy his own comforts. The sergeant’s men held their horses while the travellers were escorted inside and into a handsome sitting room. Their host was waiting for them.
“Alaric von Jungfreud! Welcome, welcome!” Gernot, the Baron von Drasche, was a short, stout man with long, greasy blond hair, watery blue eyes and a sparse beard. His gilt mail and tunic were handsome but ill-fitting, and an ornate rapier banged
against his leg as he strode forward. Alaric, by contrast, looked every inch the nobleman as he bowed to the baron, tall and slender and good-looking even in his travel-stained jacket and breeches.
“Baron, it has been far too long.” Alaric indicated the others. “Allow me to introduce my companions.” When the baron nodded, he continued. “Dietrich Froebel, my assistant.” Dietz did his best to bow. The others bowed as well when they were introduced, and Dietz saw the baron’s eyes narrow as he registered each traveller’s affiliation.
“Quite an assortment, Alaric,” he said finally, stroking his beard in what was certainly meant to be an impressive gesture, but which came across as desperate vanity. “What are you all doing here in my lands?”
“Business for the crown,” Alaric replied smoothly. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it, I’m afraid.” It wasn’t a complete lie, Dietz mused—Todbringer, who was an elector count and therefore a servant of the Emperor, had sent them.
The baron tugged at his beard angrily, but Alaric had guessed correctly—the minor noble did not dare interfere with a plan of the Emperor’s.
“And you,” Alaric asked, idly smoothing his jacket front. “What brings you to this corner of your lands?” He glanced about them at the wide stone room with its fine woven rugs and polished wooden furniture. “Surely your manor is more comfortable?”
Watching the two men, Dietz was reminded of a sword fight he’d once seen. The combatants had both been skilled men, and it had been a nasty fight, but they had remained civil the entire time—even when one had gutted the other. This felt much the same. Despite the smooth voices and relaxed postures he could tell these men despised one another.
“I am dealing with a disturbance,” the baron replied as casually as he could through clenched jaws. Then he smiled. “Perhaps you can help. I understand Sergeant Vilne found you riding just beyond town?” Alaric nodded. “I wonder, then, if you have seen a gypsy camp anywhere nearby?”
[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon Page 11
