by Dave Duncan
“Rome is the biggest problem, my lady. Is that why His Holiness has invited you? Has he heard this yet, do you know?”
“I’m fairly sure he wants to talk about Azuolas’s death. Even if he’s still thinking of bonfires at the moment, he may change his mind when he hears this news.”
Justina felt an enormous sense of reprieve. Wulfgang was not going to burn! On the other hand, he might not be totally enamored of the alternative.
“The girl, Madlenka Bukovany, who was supposed to marry Anton—she and Wulfgang go fish-eyed every time they look at each other. I don’t think they’ve had a chance to make the two-backed monster yet, but I give them two days at the most before they crack.”
“He won’t want to take an oath of celibacy, you mean?” Umbral said impatiently. “Nobody takes that seriously anymore.”
Wulfgang would.
“No, the Church might let him marry and remain a layman, as long as he was jessed by a cleric. The trouble is that Count Anton guessed which way the tide was turning and bullied the girl into a handfasting, which he consummated with dispatch. The pope can annul that and you cannot. They’re both the type to want Church blessing.”
Lady Umbral muttered, “’Sblood!” under her breath.
“And if Zdenek gets his pitch in, he can play on the boy’s loyalty. The Magnuses pride themselves on having served the kings of Jorgary for centuries, with never a waver.”
“No offense to your homeland, but he would be wasted serving such a pipsqueak kingdom.”
Justina did not fancy telling the boy that. “And we must fend off the Agioi. Wulfgang and Marek assassinated their Father Vilhelmas, so they may start calling for justice.”
“From what you told me earlier, he got justice. Our first priority must be to jess your Wulfgang wonder before anyone else gets him.” The lady was starting to sound curt, impatient to return to her supper with the Vicar of Christ. “Offer him protection and we’ll settle the deaths somehow. It won’t be the first time I’ve bought a pope, or even the patriarch.”
“There’s more, I’m afraid.”
Lady Umbral sighed. “I should ha1C; Chve known there would be. You’ve never panicked before. Go on, then.”
Justina did not consider that she’d panicked now. She had recognized a crisis that required more than her own authority, that was all.
“A woman in the town may have died of plague a few days ago.”
“Ignore that,” Lady Umbral said firmly. “The Good Lord never asks my permission before He visits pestilence on people, and we can heal our own, as long as we’re discreet. Anything more?”
Wasn’t that enough? Justina was feeling too old for so much excitement. “I think I’ve covered the main points.”
“Then go back there and enlist Wulfgang Magnus. Do anything at all, but get him jessed by someone in the Saints! I’ll happily jess him myself, if he agrees. I’ll be available right after this snack with Sixtus. Bring him here, if you can, to Elysium.”
“Thank you, my lady. Bon appétit!”
She heard a low growl from behind the curtain and then silence. Justina opened her eyes to glimpse a few stars and one single, lonely light somewhere down on the plain.
Time to go. Wulfgang was still not in bed. In fact, he was talking to …
Oh, no!
CHAPTER 20
Arturas Synovec was twenty-three years old, the count’s herald, a native of Gallant, betrothed to the most beautiful girl he had ever met, and a bastard. His mother had been housekeeper to the bishop-two-back, and such things happened. He and his brothers had received an education out of the situation, and in their cases not much else. Arturas, though, having displayed some talent with pen and brush, and lacking the brawn for physical work or warfare, had become a clerk in the count’s service, then apprentice to Klement, the old herald, and eventually his successor. Life had been simple but penurious, with little hope that he could ever earn enough money to take on family responsibilities. Then Count Bukovany and his son had died suddenly and Count Magnus had appeared even more suddenly. Arturas felt as if he had barely slept since.
If the castle survived the Wends and the Pelrelmians, he could realistically hope to receive a bonus from the victorious count, perhaps even a raise, and thus the means to afford marriage. If the castle fell … He tried not to think about that. Gallant sat between two armies like a nut in a nutcracker, and the people prayed as they had not prayed in a century.
Near sunset, rumors of a miracle began to circulate. The count’s brother, Sir Vladislav, was reported to be leading a sortie out the north gate, which ought to be suicide. The snow showed signs of ending, but darkness was falling, so perhaps he could still hope to escape detection long enough to damag#x201 the e whatever the enemy had been doing up at the mouth of the gorge.
Then word was passed for Arturas Synovec to attend His Lordship on the roof of the north barbican. Raise or bonus would depend on diligence, so he ran the whole way, arriving almost too breathless to speak. The bitter wind was still howling up there, and the three men standing by the battlements were all muffled like hibernating bears. He could recognize the count by his height, and he was fairly certain that the one in armor was Constable Dali Notivova.
His footsteps were muffled, but they heard him puffing and turned to face him.
“Herald,” the count said, “have you heard about the river?”
That was about the most unexpected question he had ever been asked.
“No, my”—gasp—“lord.”
“Constable, tell him.”
“It’s stopped flowing,” Notivova said. “Just a trickle here and there. Never seen anything like it.”
And what did they expect Arturas Synovec to do about it? He said nothing, which was usually a wise choice for a herald, or so Klement had taught him.
“We heard thunder a while ago,” the count said, “and the ground shook. We think a landslide must have blocked the gorge. Nothing else could plug up the river. If the Ruzena can’t flow, the gorge will flood. The Wends won’t be able to get at us. They’ll have to go home. They may all be buried under the slide—my brother’s gone to see. The Lord has spoken.”
Arturas found breath enough to shout, “God be praised!”
“Amen. But Havel and his Pelrelmians may not know this. I want you to go down there—”
The third man coughed, thereby revealing that he was Baron Magnus, the eldest brother.
“Um, yes,” said the count. “I’m asking you if you are willing to go down there with a flag of truce to tell them that the war may be over. We don’t want any nasty accidents or unnecessary assaults. But you’re not a man-at-arms, and this could be dangerous, so I’m asking, not ordering.”
“It’s my job, my lord. Of course I’ll go.” There! He was quite proud to hear himself say it. Surprised, too.
“Then the sooner the better,” the count said. “Try to get to see Count Pelrelm himself, or at least Sir Marijus, his son. Tell him we want a truce until noon. By then we should know exactly what’s happened, and if necessary we’ll let him send observers to confirm our reports. You may ortce also tell him that, if they abandon their aggression and go home now, we shan’t report this morning’s skirmish to the king. That was just a case of misunderstood orders.”
“Tell him that last bit only if you are pressed,” the baron added. “Don’t sound as if we’re afraid of a fight. They’re the ones sleeping in the snow, not us. The constable will see you out the postern. You’ll need a flag, of course, and a clean-burning torch.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“And a clean rag,” the baron said. “They may want to blindfold you, so take a clean rag with you.”
CHAPTER 21
Wulf narrowly avoided losing his left eye on a branch. Away from the avalanche area, where trees still stood, the gorge was almost totally dark.
“You go ahead,” he said to Vlad. “I have snow in my shoes and pine needles down my neck. I am going to strip naked and fa
ll into bed.”
“You’ve earned it.” Vlad heaved half a cedar out of their way. “Don’t suppose anyone will miss you here.”
No. By the time Vlad caught up with his cavalrymen, they would have reached their horses and mingled with Sir Teodor’s men coming in. In the darkness and confusion, the squire’s absence would not be noticed.
Wulf opened a gate to the roof of the north barbican and stepped through it. “All is well,” he said. His brothers jumped like frogs.
Otto crossed himself. “I wish you’d warn me when you’re going to do that!”
“Vlad’s all right?” Anton demanded. “What happened to the river? Why’s it stopped running? A landslide?”
“Just an avalanche, they think; ought to melt in the summer. The war is over. We won. I helped, but it was a genuine miracle. You’d better tell the bishop to organize a Te Deum.” Wulf would attend and give thanks. The full import of what had happened was just starting to sink in.
“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” Otto said. “It’s a pity you can’t get the public credit.”
“No matter.” Wulf yawned as if he would never stop. He had been running on excitement for too long, and was almost asleep on his feet.
“Anton’s planning to knight you tomorrow.”
Wulf nodded. “Thanks.” He would try and talk them out of that, though. It was not a good idea—knight him for what? K stopped rnighthood should be recognition of prowess at arms, not Satanism. “I’m going off watch, my lords. If you need me, sit on it till morning.”
Otto thumped him on the shoulder. “Come to the solar and let us drink a toast to Wulfgang the Great.”
Anton said, “Yes, please. Let’s do that.”
However weary, Wulf could not refuse such a plea. “Just a quick nightcap, then.” The solar was in the castle, on the far side of town. He opened a gate to it and led the way through. After a couple of muttered oaths, or possibly prayers, his brothers followed.
Tonight someone had thought to order a fire and candles, so the little room was cozy and bright after the snowy fall night. The furniture had been shifted around; Wulf slumped into a chair. Anton played host, fussing with a decanter and goblets of fine Venetian glass. He and Otto drank their toast to the boy wonder, although they were too polite to call him that to his face.
“Thanks,” Wulf murmured as they sat down. He raised his own glass without summoning the effort needed to stand. “Omnia audere!”
They chorused the motto back at him and all three drank.
“And to the Magnuses of Cardice,” Wulf added, directing a smile to Anton, but thinking sadly of Madlenka, matriarch of the future line. Tomorrow he was leaving Castle Gallant forever, pestilence or no pestilence. Perhaps in time the pain would end. “May they prosper for a hundred generations!”
Then it was Otto’s turn. One more toast ought to dispose of the rest of the wine, so Wulf could go to bed. But Otto said nothing, just watched Anton, who was leaning his forearms on his knees and staring down into his goblet, studying the wine as he swilled it around. Eventually: “Um, Wulf?”
“Yes, Anton?”
“You love Madlenka?”
“Yes. I told you and I wouldn’t lie about—”
“And she loves you?”
Wulf drew a deep breath. His heart began to thump insanely. “Yes.”
“Then … Oh, I like her. She’d be a good, honorable wife, but … I want her to be happy, not miserable. And you too. You’ve earned … I know she doesn’t love me. To be honest, given the choice, Giedre’s the one I would go for.”
Wulf glanced at Otto, who was now staring innocently at the fire. So that long talk on the barbican roof had not been just about what could be keeping Vlad occupied.
“That’s incredibly kind of you, Brother. I’d leap at the chance and I’m sure she would if … Well, it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re handfasted.”
The Church was the problem. Cardinal Zdenek wouldn’t care who married the countess now that his frontier was safe again, but the Church would not part a couple whom God had joined together.
Anton drained his glass. “Bishop Ugne keeps dropping hints that his palace is too small.”
Annulment? Choirs of angels! He was offering to have the handfasting annulled? Of course a count might manage that. Ugne would take a bribe if it was big enough, and Anton was a hugely wealthy man now. He might need a couple of years’ work to repair the Silver Road before he could collect any tolls on it, but he wouldn’t have thought of that yet, being Anton, and Otto could not have mentioned it to him.
“You’re serious? You think he’ll give you an annulment?”
“Of course he will,” Otto said. “And if he balks, we’ll get Zdenek to beat on him. He knows who saved his bacon, or soon will know, and it won’t cost him anything to reward you this way.” He grinned. “She may be all you get, of course.”
“She is all I could possibly want. How soon…?”
“I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.” Anton spoke more firmly than before, now that he was committed. “Starting tonight, I suppose.”
He meant it, bless him, but it was still too late. Wulf sighed. “I love you, Brother, and even more for this, but I have no future. The Church will never forgive me. You may buy a bishop, but you can’t buy the—”
A newcomer entered the room through a wall and the men leaped to their feet with cries of alarm. She was lovely, as blond as Madlenka and certainly no older, but shorter and … Buxom. Bosomy. Voluptuous. Her dress was a miracle of spreading azure satin, and the lace bodice advertised gorgeous things such as Wulf had not seen since he was weaned. She glittered all over with gems, but her nimbus was brighter than sunlight. She dropped a full curtsey—to Wulf. Of course she could see his nimbus as well as he could see hers.
“Lord Wulfgang! I am honored to meet the hero of Jorgary’s deliverance.”
He tore his eyes away from the lace long enough to manage a courtly bow. “Lady Umbral, I presume?” Who else could she be? “M-m-may I present my brothers. Count Anton…”
“Marquessa!” Anton said, stepping forward to bow with more grace than Wulf would ever achieve. “It is indeed a joy and an honor to welcome such beauty to Castle Gallant.”
The newcomer’s smile faded a tone or two. “Count Magnus? The lancer who bollixed the crown prince’s hunt last week!”
“Marquessa Darina.” He kissed her fingers. “You were pointed out to me at the St. Matous’s Day ball. May I present my brother Ottokar, Baron Magnus of Dobkov? Marquessa Darina is a friend of His Highness Crown Prince Konrad.” As she and Otto exchanged bow and curtsey, Anton twirled up his mustache and shot Wulf a pregnant look of warning—so pregnant that it ought to drop triplets instantly, but Wulf had no idea what species they would belong to.
What could the man be hinting at? That the crown prince was friends with a Speaker? Was he the marquessa’s cadger or her client? Anton could know nothing of that, and Wulf was still not certain what the difference was anyway. No, more likely Anton was just reminding him that the old king was likely to die any day now. His son would succeed and all bets would be off: the crown prince was known to be no friend of Cardinal Zdenek. The stench of court politics had come to Cardice.
The marquessa declined both a chair and a glass of wine.
“I cannot stay. I came to fetch Lord Wulfgang. His Highness is waiting.”
“My lady…” Was that how one addressed a marquessa? “I fear you are misinformed. I am merely an esquire, no lord.”
Her smile could have melted snow all the way to Pomerania. “But that is why I came! His Highness is very anxious to meet the man who saved his, er … future, of course … his future kingdom from a disastrous invasion. Public recognition must wait until the public announcement, but he wants to discuss suitable rewards.”
Anton was goggle-eyed, Otto frowning. And Marquessa Darina … lace.… Oh, angels give me strength.… Wulf did not feel as tired as he had a few moments ago. He could no m
ore refuse such a lady than he could refuse the crown prince.
“I am hardly dressed to meet my future king, ma’am.” He had mud on his shoes and pine needles all over him. He badly needed a bath and a shave. And he was a lot more scared of her and what she might represent than he had been of the Wends.
Her steel-blue eyes scanned him in leisurely fashion from top to toe and back again. “Dress is very superficial. The man inside is what counts, and you look quite perfect the way you are, my lord, fresh from the battlefield. Come!” She held out a hand as a gateway opened beside her.
Wulf shot a terrified glance at his brothers, inserted his forearm under the marquessa’s delicate white fingers, and accompanied her through to a dim corridor, which became even dimmer as the opening closed behind them. The air was warm, muggy, and heavily scented. The carpets swallowed his feet.
“This is the royal palace in Mauvnik,” she said, not moving.
They were facing a wide door, gilt-trimmed and paneled, and Wulf had missed his cue. He reached out with his free arm and turned the handle for her.
CHAPTER 22
A thousand miles to the south, in Elysium, Justina dithered. Her first instinct was to break in on that charade in the Castle Gallant solar and boot the “Darina” trollop right back where she came from, or at least scare her away with the three’s dangerous situation. Then she realized that Wulfgang, not knowing the stakes, would probably stay out if it came to a brawl. Also, if Justina was too old for fieldwork, she was certainly too old for roughhousing. The years were taking their toll and it must be three decades since she had used raw power to settle an argument. That “Darina” hussy might very well make pike bait out of her single-handedly, even if she did not have a backup Speaker watching over her, ready to join in if she ran into trouble.
Fires of hell!
How in Heaven’s name had the crown prince learned about Wulfgang’s victory over the Wends already? The news could not officially arrive for at least a week, or longer. The old king, a very devout man, had probably never heard a whisper about Satanism or Speaking in his realm; and if he had, he had always been happy to leave such shady proceedings to the Scarlet Spider. His grandson was a first-rate dolt, not one of the Wise. Zdenek would never even tell him what day of the week it was, let alone entrust him with the secrets of talent and Speakers.
