by Dave Duncan
“I wish … I need to see Cardinal Zdenek.”
The chancellor frowned and consulted a list. “You have an appointment?”
“No, but—”
He smiled wearily. “I can add your name to Thursday’s provisional list.”
“Pray tell His Eminence that Countess Madlenka of Cardice is here. I believe he will be anxious to see me much sooner than Thursday.”
The friar’s frown deepened, but he reached for a pen and dipped it in his inkpot. “On what matter?”
“Wulfgang Magnus.”
That brought a reaction. He looked up sharply. “Magnus, you said?”
“Count Magnus’s brother.”
He replaced the pen. “If it would please you to take a seat, my lady, I will advise his secretary that you are here.”
Madlenka withdrew to one of the couches, placing herself as far from the other petitioners as possible. Silence returned. Once in a while one of the boys’ slates would squeak. No one was paying her any heed, so she was free to gawk around as well as she could in the gloom. Now she understood why Petr had raved about Mauvnik when he returned from his visit in the summer. It was all very impressive, and grander than anything she knew in Cardice, although even thinking so made her feel disloyal. Yet even this hall could not stand up against the one room she had seen a little while ago in the Louvre. This decor tried too hard. It was crude. The bedroom in Paris had taste. This tried to overawe you. The room in Paris just was, and left you to draw your own humiliated conclusions.
She wondered how many hours or days the other people had been waiting there. She wondered what she would do if she was sent away unheard. And supposing that flibbertigibbet Sybilla forgot to come looking for her? She would be stranded alone in a city she did not know, without money or friends and no admissible explanation for hanation ow she got there.
Suddenly delayed shock struck her as if she’d been dropped into icy water. She was alone in a strange city. In a city! The little country girl who had dreamed of visiting Paris or Rome was suddenly alone in the first real city she had ever seen. In her dreams she had traveled with her handsome-prince husband. She had no husband here. She might have no husband at all, if Anton followed through on his offer to have their handfasting annulled. No Anton, no Wulf.… Thoughts of Wulf calmed her. Wulf was probably safe, if Sybilla had not lied about that, and she was doing this for Wulf. Marry Louis of Rouen to Princess Laima.… Madlenka Bukovany, matchmaker to the House of Jorgar! She felt an urge to giggle and beat it down.
Then came despair. This expedition was absurd. Zdenek had already spoken to Otto and Anton that evening, and would refuse to waste any more of his time seeing their juvenile sister-in-law. Even if she was granted a hearing, she had as much chance of winning a bargaining match with the Scarlet Spider as she had of throwing and pinning an ox.
After twenty interminable minutes or so, a very grandly dressed man with ostrich plumes in his hat strolled along the hall and spoke to the friar. The words exchanged were inaudible, but he was clearly refused. He walked all the way back out again, his feathers seeming to droop lower than they had on the way in.
Another fifteen or twenty minutes and the door opened a crack. The friar rose and went to speak with whoever was on the other side. Then he turned and tried to beckon the dozing woman. When she ignored him, he gestured to one of the novices, who hurried over on bare white feet and spoke to her. She jumped up and went inside, then the door closed and everyone else went back to doing what they had been doing before.
Madlenka Bukovany was being given a lesson in humility.
The woman’s interview was apparently very brief, for soon the door opened again, and this time the friar looked to Madlenka. She nodded her thanks as she went by him. Beyond that first door lay a very short corridor to a second, which was being held open for her by yet another friar, a fussy little man with an eye patch.
Beyond the second door was Cardinal Zdenek’s study, brilliantly lit by four great crystal chandeliers. There was gilt everywhere—on paneling, furniture, picture frames. What wasn’t gold seemed to be scarlet—cushions, brocade draperies, and, not least, the cardinal’s rich robes and broad hat. His chair was almost a throne, flanked by a table and a writing stand. Unusually for the times, he wore a beard, a long white one, and when he looked at Madlenka, the light caught his eyeglasses, so all she could see through them was fire. He held out a hand bearing his ring.
She knelt to kiss it.
“A seat for the lady, Brother Daniel.”
She rose and held her polite smile, hoping it had not frozen into a grimace, and fighting down a desire to babble like a baby. After a delay that seemed too long not to be deliberate, the chair was clattered down on thed down o marble behind her. She sat and folded her hands on her lap. That was the signal to begin.
“Why you?” the Spider snapped. “Where is he?”
“Sleeping. He hasn’t slept for days. Er, nights.”
“Well, why not send one of his bovine brothers? Or the chief witch herself? Why you?”
“Because I am now his cadger.”
“Ha!” The cardinal’s guffaw startled her, as it was meant to. “An unfledged falcon and an unhatched cadger? Did you come here to back me into a corner with your vicious negotiating tactics?”
He sounded just like her mother, and Madlenka had long ago learned that the best defense against browbeating was defiance.
“I am reliably informed that you are in a corner already, Your Eminence.”
“You are insolent!”
“You are very ungrateful. I think that what Squire Wulfgang achieved this day hardly justifies describing him as unfledged. You do not wish to negotiate for his future services?”
He leaned back, fiery eyes studying her. “So?” he murmured at last. “State your terms, my lady.” As a surrender, that rang as false as a stone bell.
“I offer my falcon’s exclusive services for the next year, with extensions thereafter by mutual consent.”
“Or until the Inquisition burns him, or his brother has to hang him for murder?”
“No criminal charge could be proved in court, and I have been assured that a papal pardon and absolution can be obtained for any suspicion of past sins.”
The old man chuckled. “I see. Provided I marry off Princess Laima to Louis of Rouen, of course? That Umbral strumpet never gives up.”
Madlenka felt as if her horse had just balked at a jump and she was about to land in a ditch. The old scoundrel was so far ahead of her at this sort of wrangle that he was almost certainly just playing with her. He probably meant her to think that.
“I have never met nor spoken with Lady Umbral.”
“How about Cardinal d’Estouteville?”
“No. Is he Sieur Louis’s uncle?”
Zdenek shook his head mockingly, as one might at a child showing off. “That is wh1C;That at he calls himself. Twenty years ago, just after he was appointed bishop of Rouen, Guillaume seduced the governor’s wife. The sweet little product of their happiness was the cause of much merriment in the town, but the ancient marquis was so flattered at being thought capable of siring a child that he made no complaint. So, while young Louis claims to be related to the king of France, he is in fact naught but a priest’s bastard. His true father is anxious to advance him, of course. Had Louis shown any talent for the church, he would be at least a bishop by now, probably holding several benefices. He isn’t a warrior, either; just a bit of a scholar, apparently, and a good musician, but there’s no money in those. Now d’Estouteville sees a way to catapult his by-blow into royalty at no cost to himself. But why should he pick a faraway and insignificant country like Jorgary to bless with his offspring? Have you worked that out yet, Countess?”
“There aren’t many marriageable princesses around?”
“There are many. So many, in fact, that you have the question reversed. Ask rather why d’Estouteville should bother pursuing our dear Laima for his bastard?” Zdenek shrugged his
scarlet shoulders and abruptly changed the subject.
“I agree that your falcon achieved an outstanding success today, but I have absolutely no interest in being his client. Not for a year, nor for life. His cadger, yes. Then I would be interested. If he—and you also—would agree to transfer his jessing to me, then I would be willing to discuss the matter further. I insist on negotiating with him, though, not you. Now I have work to do. Have you means of returning to Castle Gallant, Countess?”
“No.” There was nothing left to say. She didn’t understand why her offer had been declined so emphatically, only that there must be deeper currents that she had not seen and perhaps never would or could. Her first attempt to help Wulf as his cadger had failed totally, and tomorrow might bring even worse disaster.
She rose, knelt to kiss the cardinal’s ring without meeting his eye, and then turned to Brother Daniel.
He, surprisingly, smiled at her, as if to compensate for his client’s rudeness. A narrow darkness appeared beside him.
“The only part of Castle Gallant I know,” he said.
She hesitated until she realized that she was looking into the solar, lit only by the embers in the hearth.
“My thanks, Brother,” she said, and stepped through.
The room grew even darker as the gateway closed behind her. She waited until her eyes had adjusted, then found a candle and lit it.
She opened a window a crack and heard partying still continuing. What did she do now? Where did she go? The door to her rooms would still be bolted on the inside.
The solar was a mess of uneaten food uneaten, empty bottles, and dirty dishes. It reeked of wine. The candles and firewood had all gone, and the fire itself was burned down to embers. She huddled close to it and fought with problems as uncountable as a plague of roaches. Sybilla had promised to look in on her later, so if Sybilla could be trusted, she would eventually be rescued and returned to her room. If Sybilla could be trusted.
Could Lady Umbral be trusted? If Cardinal d’Estouteville was father to both Sybilla and Louis, then Louis was nothing to Lady Umbral, and Sybilla was acting on her own in offering to rescue Wulf.
And what about Great-aunt Justina-Kristina? Whose side was she on? Was even Anton loyal to Wulf now? Love had driven a wedge between brothers. She needed Wulf! It was his life in peril, and he knew much more about his strange talent than she did.
Why had Zdenek rejected her offer so contemptuously? Was that just bargaining? Or had he obtained another falcon from somewhere to help him through his crisis, so he no longer needed Wulf? If Sybilla forgot her promise or decided that Wulf’s services were no longer available to buy the princess for her brother, then Madlenka might find herself still locked out of her room in the morning, when the castle awoke.
The celebration sounded louder than ever: much shouting and less singing, perhaps, but the clamor had spread even to this, the private area of the keep. Her father would not have allowed that. She could even hear gunshots, and he would certainly have disapproved of wasting ammunition like that.
She needed to speak with Wulf, but they—whichever they had him—would never allow that. Half a dozen words from her and Samson would have his hair back. Idiot! Moron! Why had she not given Wulf permission to use his talent any way he saw fit? Half a dozen words. Probably Sybilla had spied on her conference with the cardinal. If she knew the Wulf gambit wasn’t going to win the princess’s hand for Louis, she would wash her hands of Wulf and Madlenka.
“How did it go?” Sybilla asked.
Madlenka jumped a yard in the air and choked back a scream. “You startled me!”
“You get used to it.” Sybilla sounded slightly slurred. “People appearing and disappearing, I mean. I think you’re in danger.”
“Me?”
“You told the Spider you’re Wulf’s cadger. Other people spy on him and may have heard you. Come with me.…” A hole appeared in midair, showing a narrow corridor lit by a flickering sconce: walls of bare plaster, flagstone floor.
Madlenka rose and eyed the prospect uneasily.
“Go on!” Sybilla said impatiently.
Madlenka stepped though and then stopped. The air smelled old and dank.
k.
“No! Where is this?” She spun around, but the gate had vanished, and she was facing another bare plaster wall.
CHAPTER 33
Wulf became aware that he was studying a paneled ceiling that had been badly stained and warped by leakage. He must, therefore, be alive and awake. He had never seen that ceiling before. He had never slept in this bed before. He must find a commode very soon. He surged upright.
He saw a small, sparse room with a very large crucifix on the wall, a compromise between a private bedroom and a monk’s cell. Some light and—he now registered—raised voices drifted in through chinks in an ill-fitting shutter, and he had certainly slept well into Saturday. He had vague memories that he had been kissing Madlenka when that little priest arrived with the men-at-arms, and then he was moved, and saw a bed right in front of him. He must have been told he could sleep there, because he had started dropping his clothes where he stood. He certainly wasn’t wearing them now. He didn’t see them lying on the floor, either, but what appeared to be neatly folded clothes lay on a little chest near the door. That other box was almost certainly the commode.
Neither luxurious nor squalid, this accommodation did not match what he would expect of the Inquisition.
He padded over bare boards in bare feet and found the relief he needed. He Looked for Madlenka and saw nothing. Anton? Otto? Nobody. Gallant, Dobkov … nothing. He was a workaday again. However much he despised his inhuman powers, to be deprived of them was to be struck blind and impotent. A small mirror on the wall told him he still had a nimbus, which could only make things worse. He was defenseless, yet any other Speaker would see him as a threat.
Closing the commode lid, he stalked across to the window and opened the shutter, confident that the sill was high enough to defend him against charges of indecent exposure. He was three stories up, looking out at a gray, drizzly day and what had once been a garden but was now a building site, a wasteland of rubble, stone blocks, and timbers. At least a hundred laborers were hard at work on a scaffolded monster that looked as if it might grow up to become a church. Beyond that … Just as he had recognized Castle Gallant when Anton showed him a lithograph of it, so he knew Castello San Angelo looming over the rooftops. And the very long building with the pointed bell tower out front looked much like drawings of St. Peter’s. So he was in Rome, and it was raining.
Chilled, he went to inspect the clothes. The only item that he recognized was the Magnus dagger, neatly laid on top. The undergarments were linen, but as soft as silk, clean and almost certainly brand new, finer than any he had ever worn. Those he could manage, but the trunk hose had one blue leg and one mulberry. Worries about being in the grip of the Inquisition faded even more, unless it had taken to torturing its victims by ridicule—he could not begin to imagine what Vlad would say if he ever saw a Magnus wearing anything like this. Still, it was a perfect fit and of much better quality than any garment he had ever owned. Never look a gift hose in the mouth. The shirt was at least white, and of equal fineness. He had barely started lacing the two together when there came a tap on the door. Whoever was spying on him didn’t mind his knowing it.
When in Rome … “Intraˉ!”
An elderly manservant entered, carrying a steaming ewer, which he laid on the chest beside the empty washbasin. He smiled politely and turned on his heel.
Wulf said, “Wait!” unable to find the Latin equivalent soon enough.
He got another smile but that was all. The door closed. Although no bolt clicked, Wulf would bet there was a troop of pikemen out there.
Hot water, razor, soap, oil, comb. A steaming hot bath would have been better, but one can’t have everything. Feeling much refreshed and readier to face the world, he returned to dealing with the appalling apparel. The next garment was
a thigh-length doublet of forest green with the forearms slit to show the shirt underneath, and over that went a heavier, fur-lined, pleated coat of mulberry to match his left leg. Its sleeves were slit to the elbow, so the lower halves just dangled. Saints preserve!
The floppy liripipe hat was blue and hung down to his shoulder. The left shoulder, he decided, trying to adjust it in the tiny mirror. This was not Jorgarian wilderness; this was Rome, the center of the world, but if Madlenka saw him dolled up as a clown like this, her love would be greatly tested.
He was still adjusting his liripipe when the same servant brought in a tray, whose mingled odors caught Wulf’s attention like honey caught ants. He pulled over the stool and set to work on fish, pasta, eggs, and fresh figs. Meanwhile the man attended to the wash water and the commode, even making the bed. And then he departed, having spoken not a word.
People suspected of heresy could be shut up in dark stone boxes on dry straw for thirty years before the Inquisition even thought to interrogate them, and might never hear the charges against them. So this was not the Inquisition, not yet anyway. If Wulf had to guess the name of his host, he would bet on Sybilla’s father, the shadowy Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville. Whoever he was, he would want to cajole Wulf into accepting a new cadger. And if being nice didn’t work, he would have other methods to try.
He ate, and the empty dishes remained uncollected. The next hour or so felt like a good part of that thirty year sentence. Bells clanged from a score of campaniles, but he had no idea which canonical hour they were calling, for the clouds hid the sun. He addressed a few appropriate prayers to the crucifix. Eventually he did try the door, but merely confirmed that it was locked.
He had been a total fool last night! He could remember Father’s frequent warnings of the need for adequate sleep. Fatigue was not restricted to sissies, he would insist. One of his favorite stories had been of a commander who had led his army on four ten-hour days of forced march, and marched every pace with them to prove how tough he was. When the enemy sprang the ambush, the men were still alert enough to fight, but their leader was too exhausted to exhaustethink.
