by Dave Duncan
“My lord! My lord! Count Szczecin!” someone was shouting behind them.
“You’ve been recognized,” Sybilla said shrilly.
Hooves made mushy noises in the mud.
“Do not look around!” Wulf said. “You are ravishingly gorgeous and I am utterly in your spell, oblivious to anything else. What the hell do we do now?” He could put on his helmet to help conceal his face, but it would be a very odd thing to do.
She gulped and nodded. “Wait until he gets close. He’s only a workaday, so we can tweak him. You lead and I’ll back you up.”
That would fine, if only he knew how to tweak. He had no time to ask for a lesson before the horseman came alongside him.
“My lord, you’re alive!” He was a man-at-arms of middle years with a weather-beaten, mustachioed face, and a surcoat displaying twin stags. “His Grace has been desolate since the … You’re not Count Szczecin!”
Wulf turned to stare at him. He thought, I am not the man you thought I was; you made a mistake, but the man’s suspicious frown only darkened.
“That’s Count Szczecin’s casque!”
Wulf wished he was close enough to reach out and touch him. Alojz had tweaked the bishop at a greater range than this, but the bishop had been happy to have his mind changed, as Justina had explained. This man had thought he had found his lord alive after he had been reported dead, and would be chagrined to learn that he was mistaken. Wulf might have been wiser to pretend to be Count Sneeze, whatever complications that might have produced.
Then Sybilla joined in. “Fool! You are blind as well as stupid! Ho
The man’s face fell. “My lord, I am deeply sorry! I mistook you for someone else!” He glanced at the bogus surcoat and his voice trailed away into bewildered silence.
“It has happened before. Our blazonries are not unalike.” Wulf turned back to his companion to continue his conversation.
The man-at-arms reined in, and no doubt sat on his horse for a while, staring in confusion as the mysterious doppelgänger continued on his journey.
Lesson learned: to tweak people you must speak aloud. Wulf’s hands were shaking, much to his annoyance. Yet that had been a damnably near miss, for there were more than enough men-at-arms within hailing distance to rally to a hue and cry. He and Sybilla could have escaped into limbo, of course, but the resulting public outcry would have violated the first commandment and alerted the Pomeranians to his snooping. He was both relieved and ashamed to see that Sybilla looked shaken also. But she was also staring at him.
“Thanks for the help,” he said in what he meant to be a comforting tone of voice. “That was quite a close one.”
“Idiot!” she said. “Imbecile! Half-wit! Why didn’t you tweak him right away? The longer you give him to think, the firmer his thoughts set. Have you any idea of the trouble you might have caused? You expect the Saints to protect you when you run around like a drunken porter, creating scenes, performing miracles? Maybe they’ll overlook all those murders and things you did yesterday—although I wouldn’t count on that if I were you—but now that Justina’s told you the rules, you’ve got to obey them, or they’ll wash their hands of you and let the Church have you.”
“They will? Who’s ‘they’?” Which saints? Helena and Victorinus?
“The Saints, of course! You realize they may even blame me if you create a disturbance, for not stopping you? You may have ruined my contract! Stupid cretin!”
“What contract?” Wulf asked. “Marriage contract?” And which saints?
Sybilla had gone from pale to brick-red and was almost spitting her words. “Marriage? You think that’s all a woman’s good for, don’t you, you stupid, ignorant man! No, I do not mean a marriage contract! The dean of the College of Cardinals does not waste his time with trivia like marriage contracts. You are as dull as a workaday, really you are!”
She wheeled the astonished Balaam, kicking furiously. The old horse lumbered into a run and carried her off toward the river until they both vanished into the driving snow. Wulf made no effort to stop her. She could look after herself, and Justina was probably keeping an eye on her anyway. He hoped she would take ce wy bare of the courser. Otto would be furious if anything happened to his old battlefield comrade.
Meanwhile Wulf was now free to complete his spying mission. He wasn’t going to be able to take it much farther. The road had left the main valley and entered a smaller one, which was rapidly becoming even narrower. The river was close now, and this was undoubtedly the start of the gorge. Traffic had come to a complete stop and men—and some women—were milling about, shouting and complaining. Distant sounds of chopping and hammering indicated that the army was pitching camp not very far away, probably because there would not be enough room to do so in the gorge itself. Without doubt the Dragon would be somewhere in that mêlée, perhaps even beyond it.
To plunge into such congestion would be foolish, if it were even possible to get very far at the moment. There would be more men to recognize Count Szczecin’s heraldry, and if the duke had brought any Speakers at all with him, there would be at least one of them chaperoning the Dragon. The Wends must know as well as the Jorgarians did that the bombard was the queen on the chessboard. Wulf had achieved all he could hope to do here and now. Perhaps after dark, if the snow continued, he might return on foot.
Before turning back, he rose in his stirrups to study the view. What had especially caught his eye was a line of three wagons not very far ahead, coming to a halt at the near end of the traffic jam. There might even be more than three, for the flying snow was thick now. They were very heavily guarded, with a troop of ducal cavalry at their rear and a line of hussars along each side; certainly there would be another squad out in front. What cargo could be so valuable that it needed such an escort in the middle of the Pomeranian army? Whatever it was, the loads were heavily draped in canvas or leather, painted red. He thought he could make out the shapes of barrels underneath, but it would be impossible to get close enough to pry. The duke’s personal effects? His wine stock? Why were they red?
He had done all he could for now. It was time to turn Copper around and retrace his hoofprints to some unobserved spot, then to Castle Gallant.
CHAPTER 13
Justina had settled in her favorite place, the yard outside her cottage in Avlona. The situation was too dire for wine; she had brought out a bottle of genuine cognac, not bothering with a glass.
Her life had not been one long parade of triumphs, although she had chalked up enough of them to have gained a mythic reputation within the Saints. “Let Justina try” had been a popular motto twenty or thirty years ago. Failures had been rare, but this time everything had gone wrong.
She should never have let Lady Umbral talk her into this mad Castle Gallant venture. She was too old for fieldwork. She was too old even to offer advice, and when she had officially retired five years ago, she had sworn never to leave Avlona again, no matter how grave the shortage of reliable Speakers became. But she soon discovered that she was not yet old enough to sink into the prying dotage that claimed so many Speakers, who often wound up mummifying in cobwebby corners, alternately dozing and spying on everyone they knew.
Then Sybilla, Umbral’s daughter by d’Estouteville, had started hearing Voices, and Justina had let herself be talked into taking the girl on as a brancher. It had been a great compliment to her skills as a handler, honed on almost a dozen kids since the start of the century. Sybilla had turned out to be quite a handful, but good company for an ancient hermitess, and there was a cautious streak behind her wildness, which Justina had done all she could to encourage. A handler’s duties were not hard: a few lectures, a lot of language lessons, and firsthand experience of all the important cities of Europe. Now the job was done, and well done, for in a few days a new Speaker would be formally fledged and royally jessed.
Swallows and storks were long gone, and a honking V of geese was heading southward overhead. It must be about time for this falcon to go too
, to turn in her broomstick, as the Saints said. About time to learn if a Speaker could find salvation. Justina took a long swig from the bottle and gave herself a coughing fit. Her hacking angered her, for it ruined her mood of genteel melancholy.
Wulfgang and Sybilla had split up, each riding alone in the snowstorm. Judging by the way Sybilla kept peering around her, she was preparing to open a gate the moment she was sure of being unobserved. Wulfgang was still interested in the traffic, seeking people out, rather than trying to avoid them.
Tragedy! The boy had so much promise, and it was all to be wasted. Without the Saints’ help he was doomed, and Umbral was steadfast in her refusal to take up his cause. Why hadn’t Zdenek called for the Saints’ help just one day earlier, so this appalling mess could have been avoided?
Although Umbral and Justina were distantly related, the relationship was by marriage, so Sybilla’s talent had not come from the Magnus line. The Magnus line was in serious trouble now.
Sybilla stepped out of limbo, shedding snow and her damp cloak. “Oo, that nephew of yours!” she said. “If the devil came for Wulf, he would kick him in the balls. Yummy! Will I find men like him in Paris?”
Justina pulled herself together enough to smile. “If you search a very long time you may, but don’t count on it.”
“Did you talk with Mother?”
“I mostly listened.”
Justina’s brancher gave her a long, hard look. “What’s wrong?”
Why did good news and bad news so often come hand in hand? Why must joy tarnish like silver? Sybilla’s triumph was totally ruined for Justina by Wulfgang’s disaster.
“Nothing’s wrong, dear. Umbral said to tell you that it’s all signed and sealed. Your cadger will receive instruction tomorrow, and you will probably be jessed next Sunday. Congratulations, my dear!”
Sybilla clapped her hands, just once. Her face wore the sort of expression that goes with tasting a delicious mouthful of some favorite treat. Only a few months ago she would have shrieked with joy and behaved like a child. The jessing negotiations had dragged on for nerve-racking weeks, so almost any display of pleasure would be justified. But now she came around the table to sit beside Justina and give her a fond hug. “It is all your doing, my lady! I am more grateful than I can possibly tell you.”
“It was a pleasure, and you did all the work.”
“Nonsense. Now, what’s wrong, grandmother?”
“I am not your grandmother.”
“You’re a great grandmother!”
That little exchange was a joke from their first days together, but they had not used it for years. It was a sign that Sybilla looked forward to their parting with regret as well as joy, and that she was a lot more mature and perceptive than she usually pretended. Now she put a firm young hand over the old one on the table.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“Wulfgang.”
“Oh!” She understood instantly. “Mother’s being difficult?”
That was hardly the word for Lady Umbral when she refused something.
“She has no choice, my dear. Wulfgang killed a Dominican priest and helped kill an Orthodox one. Vilhelmas’s death might be excused because he was leading an armed invasion and he’s a schismatic anyway. But not Azuolas’s. Neither pope nor Inquisition will forgive that. The Inquisition will come for Wulfgang in its own good time, but come for him it will. There’s nowhere he can hide.”
Sybilla pulled a face. She reached her other hand through limbo and brought it back holding a glass, which she set on the table. Justina poured brandy into it.
“Should I talk to Mother?”
“No. She can’t defy the Church when it has really set its mind on something. That would put the whole of the Saints at risk.”
Sybilla used a vulgar expression she must have picked up from a workaday. She sniffed at the brandy and tried a cautious sip, then laid the glass down hastily. “I’d better not. I have to get ready for the ball. Wulf is not a murderer!”
“Yes he is. In the eyes of the Church he is. He saw his brother being assaulted and broke into the fight to help him. He was outnumbered, because Marek had obviously been overpowered already, so he shot the bolt first to even the odds. A secular judge would acquit him. If the dead man th anhadn’t been a priest, the Church would absolve him with a massive penance and be willing to accept a big bag of gold in lieu of it. But facts is facts.”
“Father, then? Could he help?”
“Why should he?” Justina said sadly. “Quid pro quo? How can the Magnuses ever scratch his back enough for him to scratch Wulfgang off the Inquisition’s most-wanted list? What is really damnable is that I was five years too late in finding the boy, and if I’d been even one day sooner I could have prevented all this!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll think of something!” Sybilla rose and bent to kiss Justina’s ancient cheek. Then she stepped into limbo and was gone.
Justina took up the glass of brandy and drained it.
After all these years of success, her career was ending in total disaster. She had failed … and failed her own flesh and blood, too!
CHAPTER 14
Snow was falling just as hard in Castle Gallant as it was on the other side of the Hogback. Wulf had planned to return from Long Valley to the same bailey entrance tunnel that he had used to leave, but he materialized in the alley outside, about two house lengths away. His arrival was unobserved, because there was no one close, and the snow was thick enough to hide him from anyone watching through windows, yet the deviation startled him, a reminder that he was still very ignorant of the workings of talent. As he rode along to the arch, a troop of men-at-arms came marching out, proving that his intended destination would have been a very poor choice at that time. He had certainly not known this beforehand, so he must assume that Saints Helena and Victorinus were still looking after him, even if they did not speak to him anymore.
He found Balaam standing in the bailey with his reins looped around the burr-plate. He looked abandoned and bewildered, but was happy to follow Copper into the stable, where the same two boys as before came running to give both horses rubdowns. Fortunately, horses could not gossip about where they had been, or explain the mud on their legs.
Vlad and Anton were in the solar.
Wulf went next to the armory to turn in Count Szczecin’s armor as a contribution to the stores. To the victor go the spoils. He detoured to the kitchens to borrow a bed warmer, which he carried on his shoulder like a pike as he went on up to the solar. The few people he passed gave him puzzled looks, but did not question.
The shabby little room felt hot as an oven after the wintery day outside. Vlad was slumped on a chair with a wine bottle, yawning. Anton was pacing to and fro, and jumped like a frog when Wulf walked in.
Wulf lifted the bottle from Vlad’s hand and took a long swig. “How’s the war going?”
He laid down the contraption he had brought from the kitchen, and took another long swig. Dutch courage, they called that.
“All quiet at the moment,” Vlad said. “We can’t see the end of our noses out there. I think both sides are bringing up guns. They’ll start work on our gates as soon as the snow stops. Gallant will fall on Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“You planning some hay time?” Anton demanded, looking at the bed warmer. He sat down also, but he was as taut as a bowstring.
“No.” It would be a very good idea, though. Lack of sleep was making Wulf’s eyes gritty and his head droop. “How do you transport gunpowder, Sir Vladislav?” He stretched across to return the wine bottle.
The big man reached a very long arm to take it. “In the best barrels. You keep it dry and away from fires.”
“Do you mark it as dangerous?”
“Sometimes,” the big man said cautiously. “I’ve seen barrels painted red.”
“I’ve just seen whole wagons painted red. The covers, I mean, but they were over barrels, I’m certain.”
All three men looked at the object o
n the hearth, the usual flat brass pan with a flat lid and a wooden handle about four feet long. Servants used such pans to warm the sheets on milady’s bed, or even milord’s bed, if milady wasn’t already warming it for him.
“Would it work?” Wulf asked, hoping that the answer was no.
“No,” Vlad said. “If you mean, would it blow everything sky high, no. At least … I don’t think it would. Powder’s funny stuff, unpredictable. You have to shut powder up tight to make it go bang. Loose powder just burns.”
“A whole wagonload just burns?”
“Yes. Christmas, would it burn, though! Whoosh!”
After a thoughtful silence, Vlad added, “I don’t think it would blow everything sky high. Might if you fired a gun at it. Or made a bomb. We got some powder downstairs, so if we packed it tight in a metal shell with a long fuse … but we don’t have one of those, that I know of.” He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which was almost as hairy. “We do got a couple of arquebuses.”
Too dangerous. Wulf glanced at the snow-packed casement. “If I was close enough to be sure of hitting it in this, I might go flying with the eagles.”
“Very like.”
“My way’s worth trying, then?” Wulf said unhappily. He could make fire with talent, he was sure, but again he wouldn’t get away fast enough.
“If you’ve got the balls for it.”
Did he? He thought about it. Justina had told him his talent couldn’t damage the Dragon itself. This felt like a good chance at the next best thing. It must be done now, while the snow would hide what he was doing, so he did not break the first commandment. Set one powder wagon on fire and men would flee in terror rather than try to save the others. A bombard without powder was useless junk, and it might take weeks to bring in fresh supplies, time that Duke Wartislaw did not have. The pass would close soon. Even if Wulf did not save Castle Gallant, he might cripple the subsequent invasion of lowland Jorgary.
