So I shouted a war cry and hurled myself forward, right past him, speed and surprise my only defenses. The keening sword slashed through the air behind me, then I tumbled through the wreckage of the canopy bed, grabbing a double handful of rotting sheet just before I rolled off the other side.
When Elric dove after me, I swept the covers over him and Stormbringer both, then kicked at his knee. The joint crunched, and man and weapon screamed. I wheeled and dashed for the door.
A second later, I heard him pursuing. His steps were uneven, but with his plundered stamina he could hobble as fast as I could run. So, gasping, my own strength beginning to fail, slipping in puddles of slime and tripping over corpses and rubble, I sprinted through the labyrinth of dark hallways, Stormbringer constantly baying at my back. Much of the time, I was certain I'd forgotten the way out.
But at last the gate yawned before me. Shrieking Ebony's name, I staggered into the starlight. The horse raced to me instantly, started running for the edge of the clearing the second I clambered onto his back.
Elric burst out of the keep, charged, nearly closed the gap between us. But then the destrier surged forward, running faster than he'd ever run before, leaving my nemesis--and its fleshy slave--behind.
Even when Stormbringer's wailing faded, I wanted to keep galloping, but I knew that if I did the horse would surely step in a hole. And so, despite my dread, we slowed to a walk, but we didn't stop to rest until we reached the other side of the standing stones.
I was still so frightened that I didn't think I could possibly sleep. But I was exhausted as well, and once I sat down, I soon fell into slumber.
I dreamed I was King Richard on Crusade. My most recent battle won, I sat enthroned, Kingsfire lying naked across my thighs and a sea of prisoners, men, women, children, and babes, cowering before me.
For a moment, I was inclined to grant them mercy. Then the red sword sang a lilting arpeggio, and I realized how richly the entire pack, filthy infidels with the temerity to defy a Christian sovereign, deserved to die. It would be weak to spare them, politic--even gratifying--to make them an example.
As my men-at-arms kindled the auto-da-fes, I awoke in a sweat. After I collected myself, I felt as if I'd come to my senses after a long delirium. How could I have contemplated gambling my reason and character? If something corrupted them, I wouldn't be the same person anymore. And even though times were hard, why had I so lusted after magic? I already possessed sharp wits, martial training, a staunch supporter in Geoff, and a splendid mount. Many a chap had founded a fortune on less.
Once I decided I was glad I hadn't gained Kingsfire, I began to doubt that Elric had truly desired to rape its power. It seemed more likely that he'd broken the sword to save me from myself.
Or perhaps because he couldn't break his own.
Shortly after I rode back into Augsburg, a lickerish abbot engaged me to repel vengeful cuckolds. Geoff and I spent a comfortable winter in his employ, and the following spring, war broke out from Cadiz to Constantinople.
Castle of Maidens
The hall was built of white, blue-veined marble. The ancient Athenians had raised it as a temple, and idols of Zeus, Hera, and their kindred, more lifelike than any sculptor carves today, still smiled enigmatically from niches in the walls. The conquering Turks warmed the pale, cold splendor of the place with a riot of color. Persian carpets lay strewn about the floor, banners, seized from the Bulgars and Servians, depended from the ceiling, and even the humblest slaves wore silk and cloth-of-gold. The janizaries were particularly magnificent, their cloak pins and the hilts of their scimitars glittering with jewels.
Feeling beggarly in my worn, travel-stained surcoat, my mail leggings clinking and my empty scabbard swinging at my side, I approached the dais and salaamed. Beside me, my commander did the same. A eunuch with a reedy voice announced us: "Bernardino Colleoni, Bishop of Padua, legate from His Holiness Urban VII, and Captain Martin Rivers, knight banneret."
It took an effort not to scowl. Captain of nothing, I thought.
The herald hadn't recited a tithe of Bernardino's titles. Not a promising sign. And he kept us bent over half a minute, which didn't augur any better. Finally, after my back had begun to ache and I'd had ample time to reflect on how undignified I must look with my arse hoisted in the air, he bade us, "Rise," and we straightened up to petition the man on the throne.
I'd heard that Ibrahim, formerly Pasha of Attica, self-proclaimed Sultan since he'd rebelled against the Great Turk, was a notable archer and wrestler. But the gray-bearded fellow before us looked soft, with a double chin and a fat belly. The crooked scar on his forehead, relic of a fall from a horse three years before, shone white as lightning in his olive skin. To my surprise, he smelled of spirits, for all that the corpses of men and women gibbeted for defying their monarch's prohibition on strong drink hung in chains throughout the city. "You come with little pomp," he said petulantly, reminding me of a child whining that he doesn't like his dinner. "Does your master think me of little account?"
Bernardino's long-lashed eyes widened in mock surprise. "Of course not, Your Majesty! His Holiness considers you one of the most august sovereigns in the world. Rest assured, our retinue, laden with tokens of his esteem, will arrive directly." As always, he lied well. I almost believed him myself. "But we came ahead, because our mission is urgent. Is it true you hold"--his mellifluous voice dropped unctuously--"the Grail?"
Ibrahim smirked as if Bernardino had said something funny. "Yes, I believe I have it around here somewhere. A Jew, a finder and seller of antiquities, turned it up in Cyprus, then traded it to ransom his wife and daughter." He giggled, and I understood that he hadn't honored his part of the bargain. Then his eyes narrowed. "But how did you know?"
To the left of the throne stood an obese Nubian, the spray of dyed ostrich plumes rising from his turban and the gems flashing in his talismanic rings mute testimony that, in this court established in imitation of the Great Turk's, the chief black eunuch was not only butler of the harem and royal sorcerer but the third-ranking officer in the state. Making sure I didn't so much as glance at him, hoping I was a convincing liar myself, I said, "His Holiness keeps spies in Avignon."
Bernardino spread his arms. It was the gesture of a polished rhetorician, and I was unpleasantly reminded of his final oration to his troops. Still, I was glad of the facility with which he changed the subject. "I beg Your Majesty," he said. "Since you don't follow our faith, the Grail can mean little to you. But to us, there's no more sacred object on earth, and thus it belongs in the custody of the Pontiff. Please, let us take it to Rome. Every Christian in the world will praise your name."
Ibrahim tittered. "Even the ones who follow Clement?" Bernardino's wide mouth tightened. "Clement is the Anti-Pope," he said. "It would be a travesty--"
The sultan snapped his fingers. A servant scurried forward, knelt, and proffered a golden goblet. As he took it, Ibrahim said, "Clement's emissaries came in great state. They gave me coffers of jewels and tuns of wine."
"So will we," I said, "but we also offer something more: alliance. Neither Orhan nor the Sicilians recognize your claim to this kingdom." Ibrahim pouted. Courtiers stiffened. Suddenly I regretted taking this tack, but having begun, there was naught to do but press on. "Soon, one or both will invade, and Attica can't muster enough men-at-arms to repel either by itself. But with the Papal States--"
Ibrahim threw his cup at me. I could have dodged, but it seemed more politic to let it bring against my breastplate. Throughout the chamber, people cowered. Only the janizaries remained unperturbed.
"Liar!" the sultan screamed, spittle spraying from his lips. “I am the greatest warrior who ever lived! The shades of Alexander and Saladin anointed me! I don't need anyone's help! Let every host on earth come against me! I'll build cities with their bones!"
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," I faltered. "Obviously, I expressed myself badly. I know you're a superb knight, and I didn't mean to imply that you require anyone's a
id. But you might find it advantageous--"
Ibrahim turned to the functionary who'd conducted us into his presence. "Get these pigs away from me!" he cried. "And keep them away till I send for them again."
Bernardino's nostrils flared. He was the son of a count, and I daresay that no one, even the irascible and unreasonable Urban, had ever used him with such discourtesy. Still, whatever he wanted to say, he was prudent enough to swallow it. We bowed and withdrew.
The building housing Ibrahim's hall was only one of a complex of ancient temples. After the dukes of Athens claimed the place for their citadel, each modified, extended, and connected the existing structures in accordance with his own idiosyncratic architectural vision. Thus, as the varlet led us to our quarters, we traversed a mazelike warren of corridors, courtyards, and covered walkways, our path rendered even more circuitous by the necessity of circumventing the harem. As we walked, I noticed how many of Ibrahim's household labored under marks of his displeasure. A gardener burdened with an iron collar and deadweight. A groom with a St. Elmo's belt scraping his waist. A little boy in a mute's bridle scrubbing floors. I shivered. Clearly, the sultan was no respecter of embassies, and it was sheer luck that he hadn't ordered me fitted with some similar device.
When we reached our suite, Bernardino beckoned and led me onto the balcony. Below us, down the mountainside, lay vineyards and olive orchards, then the city, then the dazzling blue harbor, full of fishing boats, where our sole surviving galley waited. But I knew he hadn't summoned me out to admire the view. If we talked in the open air, Ibrahim's spies were unlikely to overhear us.
Bernardino glared at me. "What in God's name possessed you in there?" he demanded. "You told me you'd done this kind of thing before." I experienced an almost overwhelming desire to hurl him over the balustrade.
I wish I could report that I loathed him because he was a pitiful excuse for a priest who'd never set foot in most of his benefices and was ignorant of every sacrament but simony. Or because I’d watched him sack convents, rape nuns, and butcher folk who'd surrendered after he'd pledged them safe conduct. But although I deplored his transgressions, as I'd casually regretted the excesses of many a companion and commander, I see now that my animus was almost entirely personal.
Ever since I was knighted, I'd fancied myself another Knollys. I'd spent years as a rutter, making a name and hoarding plunder, hoping to found a mercenary company of my own. And finally I managed it, though it took every penny I had. Now, less than a year later, my force was gone, and, I feared, my martial reputation with it. Unwilling to blame myself, though I could have left the Pope's employ at any time, I blamed the lackluster soldier Urban had set above me.
Still, he remained my master, and my comrade in a desperate charade, so I did my best to mask my ire. "We agreed we'd offer him an alliance."
"We didn't agree to insult him."
I struggled to keep my voice low. "What I said wasn't insulting, he just took it that way. In case you didn't notice, he's off his head."
"Clearly, you lack the acuity for this, so from now on, keep your mouth shut. I'll handle everything myself."
My fists clenched. "The way you handled the defenses at Brindisi?"
For a second I thought he was going to throw himself at me. Then a footfall sounded behind us.
We whirled. In the doorway stood Ahmed, the Nubian I'd striven not to incriminate during our audience with the sultan, his smooth face black as ink in the afternoon sunlight. He was puffing from his trek across the palace, and I smelled sweat through the reek of his perfume.
“My lords," he squealed, "compose yourselves! What will people think of you and your holy master if they look up here and see you grappling like baboons?"
Bernardino sucked in a deep breath. "You're right, of course," he growled. "I spoke unfairly, Martin. Pray forgive me." I nodded curtly. At that moment, it was the most gracious response I could manage. He turned back to Ahmed. "Though I doubt it matters how we conduct ourselves. The sultan would deny us the Grail in any case."
Ahmed nodded. His ostrich feathers bobbed and the fat under his jaw jiggled. "I fear you're right. For some reason, he doted on Cardinal de Foix. He told me he means to give him the Grail as soon as he returns with more French gold. And once Ibrahim makes a decision, no matter how feckless, it's virtually impossible to change his mind."
I said, "Clement's bounty can't possibly compare with Urban's. When our train arrives--"
The eunuch grimaced. “Have done. There are no treasure ships following you, because the Pope knows nothing of your mission. If he did, he would have sent someone other than men who forfeited his trust when they lost his army. Which is why I dispatched my messenger to that wretched little garrison where Urban banished you instead of Rome."
Bernardino goggled. I said, "I don't understand. When you penned your letter, the army was intact."
Ahmed's fleshy lips quirked into a smile. "But its annihilation was written in the stars."
Somewhat recovered from his astonishment, Bernardino asked, "But why did you want false embassies instead of legitimate ones?"
"Because I was sure that even the most eloquent legate would prove incapable of persuading Ibrahim to send the Grail to Rome. But I hoped that bold men-at-arms, desperate to regain their master's favor, might dare to steal it. But if I'd proposed something so seemingly harebrained in a letter, I doubt you would have come. So I lured you by writing that even though the sultan had commenced secret negotiations with Clement, I thought he might still treat with Urban's embassies if they materialized on his doorstep, for which deception I apologize."
Bernardino's mouth hung open. Perhaps mine did too. "Surely the Grail's well guarded," he said at last.
"It would be if a pious sovereign held it," Ahmed said bitterly. "Devout Musselmen respect Jesus as a teacher, even if they don't revere Him as the Savior. But it amuses Ibrahim to employ the vessel in his debauches. And most nights, after he casts it aside, it simply lies on the harem floor till morning."
"That means it is well guarded," I said. Once past my initial amazement, I'd begun, reflexively, almost despite myself, to consider the theft as a tactical problem. "Since no one's allowed in that part of the palace save the sultan, the odalisques, and the black eunuchs. Are you planning to sneak it out?"
Ahmed shook his head. "Ibrahim is likely to call for me at any hour of the day or night. And, in truth, I simply lack the courage. But I can slip you in and out, then out the postern. You can flee down the mountain, board your ship, and sail before anyone realizes aught's amiss."
Frowning suspiciously, Bernardino asked the question I was about to pose myself. "I understand why a minister might summon foreign embassies against his master's wishes, if he thought the act would benefit the kingdom. But why would you help us steal Ibrahim's treasure?"
"Because I was born and baptized a Christian," Ahmed answered, "and I still worship Jesus in my heart. It galls me to see the Grail in a Mussulman's hands! It belongs in Rome, and if it doesn't go now, before Orhan invades, it'll never get there. It'll rot in a Turkish fortress till the end of time."
"But you risk death," Bernardino said. "Are you truly so devout?"
"Devout and a little vengeful," Ahmed said. "Ibrahim had me cut. And when he discovered I possessed the Sight, he compelled me to study sorcery. How would you feel toward a master who forced you to spend your life urinating through a quill? To traffic with demons and so jeopardize your salvation? Nor was that the end of his abuses. Only a month ago he ordered me bastinadoed, simply because I warned him that his extravagances were draining the treasury. Trust me, my lords, I have ample reason to do him ill. The question is, will you help me?"
Bernardino and I exchanged glances, and I saw we were in accord. "How would you slip us into the harem?" I asked. Ahmed smiled. "With magic. You'll see tonight."
"Can you get word to my squire Geoffrey, so he'll know to be ready to sail?"
"Certainly."
"Then we'll do it,
Bernardino said. "What does the Grail look like?”
I sneered. I’d never attended a seminary or university, but simply because I was curious, and read books and listened to scholars when I could, I knew more about sacred matters than he did. “It’s made of snow-white metal,” I said, "with pearls set about the rim."
Ahmed nodded. "Precisely. Now I must go, before Ibrahim misses me. Look for me after midnight. Fix your couches to look like you're under the covers." He turned and bustled out of the suite.
Bernardino arched an eyebrow. "Well," he said, "an unexpected turn of events. I never dreamed we'd win the Grail so fast."
"We haven't won it yet."
"I know. Still"--he looked out to sea--"what do you suppose it's like?"
Surprised at the wistful note in his voice, I said, "Surely Urban's shown you the Tables of the Law and the skulls of Peter and Paul. What are they like?"
"Dirty stone and moldering bone," he said. "Lifeless things that could only move the simple. But do you think the Grail could be different? There are so many stories--"
For some reason, I felt a pang of anger. "And this is exactly like the stories, isn't it? Ibrahim's saintly, just like the Fisher King. And look at us, perfect paladins, kissing his arse, pledging him aid against the rightful Christian sovereign of Attica, dissembling, and plotting robbery with a sorcerer. It's a wonder no one's mistaken us for Galahad and Percival."
Bernardino sighed. "You're right, of course. It's just--well, you understand that I didn't enter the Church because I had a calling. Still, I thought that when I celebrated mass, I'd feel something. But--never mind. I'm going to try to get some sleep." He went inside.
I tried to rest too, but neither of us was particularly successful. As the night wore on, our nerves frayed. When Ahmed scuttled into the suite, he found me drumming my fingers and Bernardino pacing.
The Plague Knight and Other Stories Page 6
