by Simon Morden
Nikoleta wondered if she should lie, but she’d had little practice in deceit since childhood. Mind, she’d been really very good then, even though it got her into as much trouble as it saved her from. Lying to a hexmaster, however, wasn’t such a smart thing to do.
“The prince is satisfied,” she repeated.
“Are you, Mistress?” He angled his head in an attitude of contemplation. “I do not know the complexities of your craft – no one does – but I have seen a Sicilian conjurer brought down by sheer weight of numbers and literally torn limb from limb. He was on his own, too.”
“I’m not on my own.”
“I think you are always on your own, no matter how many of you there are. But I phrase myself badly. German is neither of our first languages, yes?” Allegretti made a deprecating gesture with one of his hands. “You are our most valuable asset. So the prince must concentrate on protecting you, while you win the battle. Not on winning the battle itself.”
“The white robe.” She looked down at herself, at the way she glowed in the morning light; she was clearly distinguishable from all the others, even the earls in their battle colours.
“Now,” said Allegretti, “a group of figures in white robes, throwing elemental forces around as if they were a company of bandieratori, very impressive, very scary, very one-sided. One figure in a white robe, surrounded by nervous armed men? I may be the only man here who has ever experienced warfare in the flesh, so why not ask me where I would tell my archers to fire, where I would concentrate my strongest swordsmen?”
The sick feeling in her stomach didn’t go away. Neither did the Italian.
“You would concentrate on me. Even as I was killing your men.”
“No one expects you to sit passively while all these big, strong soldiers stand around you. They will hold their positions, even when they know that the further they stand from you, the less likely they will be to die. They are all brave, stout-hearted Carinthians, raised on the mountains and in the forests, and they have known nothing but peace for centuries. Who could possibly compare them with these blaggard Teutons, who are fed a continual diet of war and misery, and who have finally summoned enough sense to drag themselves out of the marshes of their birthlands and ride out to conquer more suitable lands?”
Allegretti finally shut up, and Nikoleta found herself mumbling, “I’ll find something else to wear.”
15
Büber came up behind the column as it approached the Simbach bridge. He’d snatched at some sleep, and managed to catch hold of it only fleetingly. When he’d been woken, everything that followed had felt rushed, including his ride back north.
At least there’d been no more distraught relatives looking for their lost children. He’d thought about that. A lot. He didn’t like where his mind had taken him.
He was known enough not to be challenged – which was stupid, really, as he was known enough, equally, for it to be worth someone’s while to pretend to be him – but he rode up the side of the via, past the marching soldiers to the first of the horsemen.
He looked again. The white-robed figure riding next to young Felix’s tutor was a woman. Then he looked again. Since when did hexmasters ride? All the stories had them floating ethereally above the battlefield, wheeled there on great pantechnicons. Guessing that the other magicians would be ahead in the wagon train, he wondered why this woman was isolated.
“Ah, Signore Büber,” said Allegretti. “A pleasant ride, I hope.”
“No one tried to kill me, if that’s what you mean,” said Büber. He felt tired. More than that, his back burnt from too many days in the saddle. He could walk forever, but riding used different muscles.
He and the woman stared at each other. She frowned at him, and he at her. Her frown deepened, and he could see her concentrate hard.
“It won’t work,” said Büber. He held up his hands to show her his lack of fingers. She didn’t appear to understand, so he explained. “No magic’s touched me, ever.”
She blinked. “You must have had some fall on you. Prayers? A naming?”
He shrugged. “If I had, it didn’t take.”
“Signore Büber is one of the prince’s huntmasters?” suggested Allegretti, but she was now more confused than before.
“Does that make them special?” she asked.
“No, not really,” said Büber. He spotted Gerhard at the head of the horsemen, and thought he really ought to tell someone he’d arrived. “Just … it’s so that magical creatures can’t use magic to find me and eat me. I get enough of that from the wolves, the boar and the bears.”
“You,” she said, “you were one of the men who rescued the barge.”
“No. We lost the barge. We got the two bargees off, though, before the Teutons got to it.”
“The other man. Was he a hunter too?”
“Nadel? Yes.”
She went as white as the clothes she was wearing, and kicked her heels into the flanks of her horse. She rode up the line towards Gerhard.
“What did I say?” Büber hoped that Allegretti would supply some sort of explanation, but the Italian merely took off his hat, gave it a shake, and repositioned it on his head.
“The ways of wizards. And of women. Who knows, signore?”
“And since when did they let women into the Order?”
“From what I understand, at least ten years ago, because that is how long she has been on Goat Mountain.” Allegretti watched her back recede. “They could all be women. When did you see one of their faces or hear them speak?”
Büber was about to answer, but closed his mouth on his words: it had been only a couple of months ago that he’d found the first unicorn horn, when they’d warned him not to tell anyone what he’d discovered. All the voices coming from under the white hoods had been male. He’d just assumed.
“The stories?”
“Stories have a way of filling the space that is required of them. They may start out true, but what do they end up as?” The Italian looked up at the sky. “Snow?”
Büber followed his gaze. The wind was at their backs, and the clouds were ragged and grey.
“It’s not cold enough for snow, not now. Rain, later on.” He was used to the elements, but he didn’t know about the castle guard, who didn’t really train if it was too hot, too cold, too snowy, too wet or too windy.
Allegretti’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. “Rain. The gods do indeed piss on all our endeavours.”
“Well, it’s not like this won’t be over quickly. We’ll be home by tomorrow night.”
“We have to catch the Teutons first, signore. They are a day ahead.”
“They rise late and stop early. We can take them during the night and be roasting horse-flesh by sun-up.” Büber’s blood sang with the twang of his bowstring and the whistle of bolts and arrows. He wanted to experience the same intensity again, the closeness of death and the cheating of it in the same breath.
“Have you ever fought at night, signore?” Allegretti stroked the stubble on his chin with his thumb. “It is not to be recommended.”
“And you have, I suppose?”
“I have seen and done a lot of things, signore. We foreigners within your borders all have our reasons for coming here and throwing ourselves on the mercy of Carinthia.”
Büber noticed that Allegretti wore a ring on his right hand, which he played with as he spoke.
“We have the hexmasters fighting for us. Day, night, rain, shine. It hardly matters.”
“You remind me of the boy,” said Allegretti. The boy in question was now in the care of one of the earls, as Gerhard had drawn aside with the sorcerer. They were talking, heads close, but their arms were making numerous short, sharp, chopping actions, with repeated pointing to all directions.
“What are they doing?” asked Büber. “What did I miss?”
“That witch is our only hexmaster, signore. No one else answered our lord’s summons. It adds an unwanted layer of complexity to our battle plan
s, most notably that we are both outnumbered and undermagicked.” Allegretti sighed. “Yet we still march north.”
Büber’s horse plodded on. “One?” he eventually managed.
“Her ability is not in question – at least, I would not presume to question it – but yes. Just her.”
“What happened to the others?”
“I am at a loss to know how to answer you, signore. Simply put, they did not come. It seems that everyone else is content that a quick victory over the Teutons is assured and that any Bavarians who might object to our marching through their lands will be swept away by our vast and powerful army.” He leant in. “I do not share their confidence.”
“So why did she suddenly ride off to talk to the prince? What did I say that made her do that?”
“You could always go and ask them. I am certain that they would be able to supply you with complete and satisfying answers, in a way that I am sadly unable to.” Allegretti dragged the corners of his mouth down with his fingertips. “I am only Felix’s tutor, not the Oracle herself. Apologies.”
Büber felt that his world was suddenly and unnecessarily confusing, and that people were the cause of it. What he wanted to do was turn around and disappear into the forest for a month. What he actually did was slowly ride up the column until he’d reached the wheels of the rearmost wagon.
He waited for the prince to finish his business with the woman, and come back into the line. Which he did, eventually.
Gerhard looked distracted and sombre. Framed by his helmet, his face looked curiously rigid, far from the roistering man who led his own wild hunts and never seemed afraid of anything.
“My lord,” said Büber quietly. He’d had little practice bowing in the saddle, but he made an attempt and didn’t fall off.
“What? Oh, it’s you. She” – and he flapped his hand in the direction of the only rider in white – “said you’d arrived.”
Büber kept his eyes down.
“Everything still standing when you left?”
He looked up again. “Yes, my lord.”
“At least something’s going right.” The prince grunted his annoyance. “Ride ahead. We’ll be at Simbach in the hour, and I need to know what they have there. The earl…”
“Fuchs, my lord.”
“Him. How many soldiers can he turn out, and will they stand against us? That sort of thing.”
“The toll collector was guarded by just three men, my lord. I think they’re as broke as I was told they were.”
“Good. But I still want you to go to Simbach and see if anything’s changed. Meet us on the Carinthian side.”
Büber bowed again. “My lord.” He encouraged his horse into a trot, and started to overtake the wagons. He looked in every one, but there were no more hexmasters.
So now he was a scout, a spy: weren’t the hexmasters supposed to use their crystal balls, or whatever, to view the enemies’ positions and report back? And since when had Bavaria been their enemy?
He rode on to the top of the next rise and looked ahead. The river curved around sharply, and the bridge was a black line across it. The town was hazy and brown beyond.
Then he looked behind, and saw things through Allegretti’s eyes. There was something clearly lacking. There weren’t enough troops to protect the wagons, let alone take the fight to the Teutons. Twenty horse against three hundred barbarian riders whose mothers were probably half-horse themselves. One hexmaster.
“Shit.”
He had a job to do, though. He was already known in Simbach, had identified himself as a prince’s man. There’d be no point in sneaking around, pretending. He wasn’t used to telling lies, either: trees couldn’t be fooled and the wild creatures he encountered appreciated only cunning and skill.
Büber passed through the farms on the Carinthian bank, and had got to the bridge when his horse refused.
There was nothing coming across the low arch at him, and nothing in the dark water beneath. Sometimes big birds circling overhead would spook a horse, but there were no shapes silhouetted against the low cloud.
He tried again, clicking his heels and making encouraging noises with his tongue, but the stupid animal wouldn’t take another step.
Yesterday, it had been him who was reluctant to cross. Today, it was his mount. He slipped his foot from the stirrup and slid down to the ground, groaning at the burning in his back. He stretched and grimaced, then took the reins and tugged.
No.
He tried again, but nothing would induce the horse off the road and onto the stone bridge. He didn’t hold with beating the thing, so he led it to the nearest house.
As he tied it to the fence that enclosed a well-tended garden, he was aware of being watched from the door. A child, blonde hair in coiled plaits, peeked through the gap at him.
“They won’t cross,” she called.
“Why not?”
“Don’t know.”
Büber tapped his purse, then opened it and pulled out a couple of copper pennies. “I need to go to Simbach all the same. Keep an eye on the nag for me?”
She nodded, opening the door a little wider, and he put the coins on the gate-post.
“Prince’s business, mind,” he said. “You’d better do a good job.”
“I always do a good job,” she objected.
“Then I’ll expect to find my horse when I get back.”
Büber took his sword from his saddlepack and strapped it on. He wondered about taking his crossbow, but that seemed unnecessarily provocative. He wasn’t hunting anything except information.
He started walking, and he found himself hesitating at the threshold of the bridge. It hadn’t changed. It was the same as it had been, as it had always been, since it was conjured out of thin air hundreds of years ago.
He consciously raised his right foot and pressed it against the black flagstone. Normal. Perfectly normal. He hurried across, slowing a little once he could see the far end of the bridge from the middle.
There were two horse-and-cart teams, driven by black-hatted Jews, and behind them, Bavarian carters with magical wagons. The Jews’ horses were, like his, refusing to cross the bridge, and the jam was raising both voices and tempers. The Jews couldn’t turn around with the Bavarians at their backs, and the Bavarians didn’t seem inclined to allow them space, preferring to hem them in and shout at them, shaking their steering poles threateningly.
There were soldiers, too, spears waving above the mass in a futile attempt to separate them all.
Büber stopped and stared.
So it wasn’t just his horse. It was every horse. Which meant there was a problem with this impossible, magical bridge that leapt across the river in a single span, against all common sense.
It was clear to him that the Carinthian forces wouldn’t be going this way unless that woman could fix whatever was the matter with it. He didn’t know how likely that was.
He hesitated there, on the highest point of the arch. Gerhard’s orders had been quite clear: go to Simbach, find out how many troops the earl could raise and what their disposition was. But shouldn’t he know about this first?
He turned and faced the other way. The prince would be along soon enough, coming down the same road he’d just used.
“Fuck,” he said, and walked down the northern side of the bridge, towards Simbach.
The noise of horses and men grew louder as he got closer.
16
Gerhard leant forward onto his saddle’s pommel, bringing his ear closer to Büber’s mouth.
“Explain to me again, huntmaster. And this time, make it clearer than the insane babbling nonsense you gave me before.”
Büber knew it sounded mad. But telling the truth was all that was left to him.
“My lord, animals won’t cross the bridge. Horses, dogs, cats. I’ve tried all three.” He had scratches on his face and a circular bruise on his leg where some mutt he’d borrowed had turned on him and bitten into his calf.
“That’s
not an explanation, man.”
“I can’t explain it! Something’s wrong with the bridge and I don’t know what. My lord.” His cheeks stung with parallel cuts that beaded bright blood every time he changed expression. “I’m not a … I’m not like her.”
“I’m surrounded by idiots.” Gerhard straightened up. This expedition wasn’t going the way he wanted. “Get back on your horse, huntmaster, and try and stay out of my sight for the rest of the day.”
Büber slunk off to where his mount was being held by a tiny blonde girl, and the prince looked around for the next person to shout at. His gaze alighted on Allegretti, and his mouth tightened into a humourless smile.
“Allegretti. Ride to the middle of the bridge and then stop.”
“My lord? Signore Büber says that it is impossible.” The Italian made no sign that he would comply with the order. Instead, he lifted down his hat and inspected it for debris, brushing at the felt with his long fingers.
“Büber is an old woman.”
“That is entirely possible, my lord, but he may also be correct regarding the bridge. I would advise we pay attention to his hard-won knowledge.” He picked off some imagined speck of dirt and replaced the hat on his head. “The man who ignores it risks being made to look the fool.”
“Which is why you’re going to ride across the bridge. You, not me.”
“As you wish, my lord, although trying every horse we have seems both imprudent and unnecessary. Either we all cross, or none of us cross, unless you wish to dilute your forces further.”
“Signore Allegretti,” started Gerhard, but to forestall any further conversation, Allegretti spurred his horse’s flanks and set off at a canter. By the time he reached the bridge, he was at a gallop.
It was almost as if he’d ridden into a wall, the horse stopped that suddenly. Digging all four feet into the dirt, it slid to a halt, while Allegretti did not. He flew, having slipped his feet from the stirrups moments before. He almost had time to wave at Felix, before curling into a ball and bouncing on his shoulder and back.
