Schwalstein nodded, solidly on the hook.
‘In return,’ Rodulf said, ‘there are three bridges on your property spanning the Rhenner River. The Markgraf would very much like you to pull them down. Two fords also. He’d like you to foul them with caltrops.’
Schwalstein smiled, and his eyes widened. ‘I see. I see.’ He sank back into his chair and licked his corpulent lips as he thought. ‘I do this, and you’ll get my son back to me?’
‘Home, healthy, and ready to continue the family line.’
‘You tell the Markgraf I’ll tear down the bridges and make the fords impassable.’ He gave Rodulf a knowing smile. ‘You tell him that the prissy little bitch in Brixen won’t be able to get her troops over the river in my demesne.’
‘I’ll be sure to convey your message precisely, my lord. Thank you for the tea.’
JAKOB
Jakob found his monthly meetings with Professor Kengil tiresome, but she was the university’s clinical director and they were a part of the job if he wanted to run his own clinic. His greatest resentment stemmed from not even being able to remember the last time Kengil had set foot in a clinic, let alone treated a patient. She was one of the physicians who saw the practise of medicine as an academic subject rather than a practical vocation. It rankled with him that such people could reach positions of prominence, but there was nothing he could do about it so he had to play along.
‘Good afternoon, Jakob,’ Kengil said.
He nodded in response and sat down.
‘How’s the clinic going?’ she said.
‘Same as always. Busy. Not enough resources.’
She smiled. ‘It was the same in my day.’
He wondered when that was, and if it might indeed have been only one day.
‘Some things never change,’ she said. ‘We must do as much good as we can with the limited resources we have. It’s the vocation and burden of our profession.’
Strellis couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable when she smiled. Although older than him by a number of years, she was an attractive woman who had something of a reputation and an eye for her younger colleagues. It made him feel like he was being watched by a beast of prey lining up its next kill each time she looked at him.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else? Like the other resources, my time is sadly all too limited.’
‘Nothing in particular,’ Kengil said, frowning as she thought. ‘Oh. The new girl. Steinsdottir. How’s she getting on?’
Jakob could feel his face flush slightly. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just fine.’
‘You haven’t had any problems with her?’
He wondered where she was going with this. He was not an examining lecturer, merely a clinical supervisor, so there was nothing prohibiting him from having a relationship with a student. Even so, they had only shared a momentary kiss. It was nothing he could be censured over.
‘None at all,’ he said. ‘Quite the contrary.’
‘She’s behaving in a… civilised fashion? You know what these Northlanders can be like.’
Jakob tried not to react. She was fishing, but it had nothing to do with him getting too close to Adalhaid. His stomach twisted. Her questions were so vague, he suspected she didn’t have anything to go on—but when it came to magic, rumours could be enough. He knew Kengil didn’t like Adalhaid. Perhaps she was simply hoping to stumble on something she could hold over Adalhaid. Nonetheless, there was danger here.
‘Perfectly civilised,’ Jakob said. ‘Far more so than some of our countrymen whom I’ve taught.’
Kengil’s face momentarily betrayed what looked like disappointment. ‘Excellent. Let me know if there are any issues. I won’t take up any more of your time.’
39
RODULF
Rodulf sat in the carriage as it rattled its way back to Elzburg. He held the Stone in his hand, but still wore his glove. The experience was akin to chewing food, then spitting it out rather than swallowing—something about it felt incomplete. He had realised that the red mark on his hand, a mild burn as best he could tell, had been caused by the Stone. He had no basis for this belief, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. He felt frustration well up within him at how little he knew about it. Had he put misplaced faith in it? Perhaps it was nothing more than his cunning and power of persuasion that had led him to achieve all he had, and only some underlying insecurity caused him to credit an odd-looking lump of metal ore rather than his own ability. Had he not just convinced a peer of the realm to commit treason with nothing more than a little blackmail? He knew there was more to it than that. The power it exuded was unmistakeable.
He had done his best to leave it untouched in his pocket since realising it had caused the burn, great though the temptation was. Like a beautiful woman’s breast, there was something about the object that begged to be caressed. It called to him. He needed to know more about it. To understand what it did to others and, more importantly, what it did to him. Where would he start? And how would he find the time? It was not something he could entrust to someone else. If it did have the power he suspected, even Grenville might be tempted from his service in order to take it.
Dangerous days lay ahead, and if he was to navigate them safely he had to gather every advantage he could. If the Stone did do something, even if only give him additional confidence, he would need it. The question of cost was now never far from his thoughts. What price would it exact from him?
WULFRIC
Wulfric could see why the Duke of Torona had wanted Kandamar. Even from his first, distant glimpse, it looked like paradise. It was a city of white stone surrounded by lush green vegetation.
‘Like the look of your new home?’ a Darvarosian said.
Wulfric shrugged.
‘Cause any trouble while you’re here, and you’re a dead man,’ he said.
Wulfric glared at him. ‘Are you planning to do it?’
The man looked away, and Wulfric smiled. They feared him, and fear was something any great warrior should inspire in his enemy.
Another group of horsemen appeared on the horizon behind them, also moving toward the city. It took an hour to reach them, at which point the leaders of both groups conferred for a time before continuing together. The new horsemen were dressed for travel, in light robes, rather than for battle, and Wulfric wondered where they had come from. Perhaps they were simply travellers caught up in the outbreak of war, or curious nobles who had gone to watch the battle. One of them stared at Wulfric, and though the face was obscured by a swath of cloth wrapped around the head, there was something familiar about the eyes. She removed the cloth and gave Wulfric a cold smile before covering her face again. It was the beautiful woman from the palace. Her lip was swollen and split, surrounded by a dark purple bruise.
He wondered briefly how it had happened, then tapped Jagovere on the arm. ‘It’s her.’
Jagovere looked over. ‘Who?’
‘The woman from the palace.’
‘The one with the knife?’
Wulfric nodded.
‘You’re sure?’
‘She’s taken a beating, but it’s definitely her.’
‘So, dal Valeriano and the Darvarosians were working together,’ Jagovere said.
Wulfric screwed up his face at the perfidy of it all as he realised the meaning of the connection. ‘Do you think he meant to lose the battle all along?’
Jagovere shrugged. ‘Who knows? I don’t see how he’d gain from it. I think it most likely he hoped there would never be a battle. I expect that’s why the duke’s army was treating the campaign like a vacation when we got here.’
Wulfric nodded, having wondered the same thing himself when they had arrived.
‘Whatever deal he had with the Darvarosians probably called for no hostility while dal Valeriano tried to politic his way into power,’ Jagovere said. ‘When we crossed the border and had that skirmish, I expect we smashed their deal to pieces, and our new friend discovered the har
d way that her former ally was now her enemy. Doesn’t matter either way. This war won’t last much longer. Either dal Valeriano’s plan—whatever it was—has worked and he’s overthrown his brother, or it hasn’t, in which case he hasn’t got much longer to live. I can only hope I’m able to get to him before someone else does.’
RODULF
Rodulf followed his nose back to the palace kitchen. He had just returned from another one of the Markgraf’s missions, and was starving.
‘You’re not supposed to be back here, my lord,’ a cook said.
He looked over at the cook who had spoken and smiled. She was a young woman, not much more than twenty. In a fifty-crown silk dress, she would have put every woman at court to shame. Even in linen and an apron covered in flour and splatters of various colours, she stood out like a rose among weeds.
‘Come now,’ he said. ‘I’m just back from a long journey on his lordship’s behalf. I missed dinner. I’m not doing any harm, am I?’ He looked at her in a way that said it wasn’t only food that he hungered for.
‘I suppose not,’ she said. ‘I can give you some bread and broth. That should tide you over.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ he said. He nodded to the array of fruit pastries out on the worktop to cool. ‘Is there any chance of one of those too?’
‘Oh no, my lord. The pastry chef would kill me.’
She looked genuinely concerned.
‘Ah, but I’m the Markgraf’s emissary, back from a dangerous mission. I don’t think anyone’s going to stop me from taking one, do you?’
She thought for a moment. ‘No, my lord.’
He walked over and picked one up. The smell alone was enough to send his taste buds into a frenzy. He walked back toward the girl. It was always handy to have friends in low places.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, splitting the pastry in two. ‘You can have this half if you promise not to tell on me. Agreed?’
She laughed, then looked around to be sure no one was watching. She smiled and nodded. He handed her the piece, and looking into her eyes, smiled back. On this occasion, it didn’t look like the pastry was the dessert.
WULFRIC
Their escort led them through the streets of Kandamar until they reached a large walled compound in the centre of the city. They were led inside the walls, and then away from the largest building, toward a complex of smaller barrack houses and stables.
Wulfric frowned when he saw where they were being taken.
‘What were you expecting? The palace?’ Jagovere said, as they were shown into a bunk house in the palace barracks.
Wulfric shrugged. ‘That man said we’d be his guests. That’s where we stayed in Torona.’
‘That man,’ Jagovere said, ‘is Prince Peruman of Kandamar. As polite as he was, don’t forget that we’re his prisoners. If we want to get out of here alive, we should behave ourselves.’ They dismounted, and their horses were taken from them.
‘You’ll remain in here at all times. Meals will be brought to you, and an escort will be required whenever you wish to go outside. Do you understand?’
Jagovere nodded, and they all went inside. Enderlain and the others ignored the conversation and moved into the room, and laid claim to their beds.
Wulfric sat on a free bed and looked around. ‘What do we do now?’
RODULF
Rodulf was starting to become familiar with the inside of the Markgraf’s private office. After each errand he ran, the Markgraf called him in and interrogated him on every detail. Although he always conveyed a sense of calm control, Rodulf could tell it was an act. The strain of what he was planning told on him like it did everyone else. The risks were great, but so too was the reward.
‘Tell me,’ the Markgraf said. ‘How did it go?’
‘There were no problems, my lord,’ Rodulf said. ‘Her Highness seems to have little support. In this part of the country, at any rate.’
‘They know what I have planned?’
Rodulf shrugged. ‘They all suspect. I’ve heard talk from other parts of the country too. You’re not the first lord to see that power is there for the taking. Few think Princess Alys is strong enough to rebuild the Principality alone, as she seems insistent on doing. Once she’s refused their offers of marriage, their thoughts turn to rebellion.’
‘Perhaps I should have offered first,’ the Markgraf said with a forced chuckle.
Rodulf shrugged. ‘Then you’d have depended on her goodwill for the rest of your days. Better to take the power than rely on someone else for it.’ He stopped himself, worried that he had been too forthright with his thoughts.
The Markgraf gave him a penetrating look, then relaxed. ‘Good. Well done. Everything is on track. I’ll have another errand for you in a day or two.’
‘I’m capable of far more than running errands,’ Rodulf said. He was seeing much of the inside of the private office, but not so much of the council chamber. Rodulf did not want to remain an errand boy on the periphery. If the Markgraf was to become a king, there was no reason Leondorf could not become a duchy. ‘I can be far more useful to you.’
‘You’re filling the need I have right now perfectly,’ the Markgraf said with an edge to his voice. ‘This phase will be done with soon enough. Once it is, there’ll be more for you. Don’t worry. I won’t forget you when the rewards are being handed out. Keep up the good work, and you’ll get yours.’
Rodulf nodded, but he was not convinced. He had no intention of sharing all the risk only to receive a small portion of the reward.
There was a commotion at the door, and the Markgraf’s steward burst in.
‘You must come at once, my lord,’ the steward said. ‘There’s been a terrible accident. Petr’s fallen from his horse. He’s badly hurt.’
‘Call for my physicians,’ the Markgraf said as he stood.
He was out the door before Rodulf had reacted.
40
WULFRIC
The privy was a short walk across a back courtyard from the barrack block Wulfric and the others were being hosted in. Even for those few paces, a Darvarosian guard watched him. The privy, three walls and a roof, with a hole in the ground leading to a ditch on the other side, didn’t allow for much in the way of privacy, even less so when there was a pair of suspicious eyes burning a hole in his back. He finished, did up his britches, and gave the guard a salute as he returned to the barrack block. Wulfric could remember when the fair had come to Leondorf when he was a child. One year a man had brought a small bear in a cage. He had trained it to do tricks for morsels of food. Wulfric had been fascinated at the time, but he now understood how the bear must have felt.
They were never watched quite so closely as when they trained. True to his word, the prince had allowed them to keep their weapons and there was little to do other than practice in the courtyard outside the barracks. Each day, a large crowd gathered to watch. Wulfric did not know whether to be flattered or intimidated. He was unsure if reputation of their ferocious last stand had spread, or if, like the caged bear, they were simply a curiosity to be ogled and laughed about.
At first, Wulfric had thought it folly for the prince to allow a group of armed and dangerous enemies into his city and palace, but as well as the gathered crowd, crossbowmen lining the compound walls watched their every move. The prince watched from time to time, surrounded by advisors who seemed to be making notes. Wulfric was certain he saw the woman too, always lingering in the shade and swathed in fine cloth that seemed to allow her to blend into the shadows.
Wulfric took the chance to learn how to use the long rapier favoured by Jagovere and the others. Jagovere was an excellent teacher, being one of the elite band who could call themselves a banneret, and the only one remaining of those who had survived the battle. Wulfric took to it quickly, and enjoyed the extra reach it gave, not to mention the pleasure of acquiring the new skills that went with it. After a few days, he had adopted the subtle differences in technique to the weapons he was more acc
ustomed to, and was able to hold his own against Jagovere and even score touches against him in their practice duels. Jagovere told him it was a sport in Ruripathia, and the other countries around the Middle Sea.
When they were not training, Jagovere scribbled in his notebooks, and Wulfric practised his reading. The others lounged in the sun, their fair skin starting to take on a golden complexion.
They spent the morning of the fourth day in sword practice, then relaxed for the afternoon. Wulfric studied the elaborately curved hilt of the rapier he had been using. Northland weapons were usually viewed as little more than tools. Quality and reliability were prized, but usually only the sabre was decorated. The Ruripathians took more pride in their weapons, seeing them as fashion accessories, not just as tools of battle. The hilt was beautiful with its flowing curves, but functional in the added protection they gave the hand. He resolved to have one made for himself when he returned. It would help him fit in better in the south, to move without attracting so much notice.
‘What are you going to do with all your scribblings?’ Wulfric said.
‘What am I doing, you mean,’ Jagovere said. ‘There’s a fellow sending them back to Ruripathia for me.’
‘From here?’
Jagovere nodded. ‘Only cost a few silver shillings. I want everyone at home to know how bravely the Graf died.’
‘He was popular in his city?’ Wulfric said.
‘He was loved,’ Jagovere said. ‘What do you think of “Dal Rhenning’s Last Stand”, as a title?’
Wulfric shrugged. ‘It’s as good as any other.’ He continued to study the rapier. ‘Am I in it?’ he said, after a moment.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 28
