by Dave Duncan
“Or a monastery cell with a bolt on the door. Or a dungeon with ropes and pulleys. No. I will not make another exception. I hold you to your oath, Anton Magnus. You can jump off cliffs alone from now on.”
“You want to see those Wend bastards raping and pillaging across Jorgary?”
“Go and find your princess and your castle,” Wulf said, even more softly. He straightened up and turned away. “I’m not stopping you. I’ll give you all the help I can, except not the sort of help you want.”
“Get my boots,” Anton said, raising a leg. He needed time to think.
Wulf pulled his boots off for him. Anton stood up as straight as he could under the roof and set to work on his buttons. Inspiration was elusive.
“Well, I respect your decision,” he said.
“You’ll have to. I’m not changing it.”
“The cardinal will want to know why I’m reneging. Help me think up a good excuse without mentioning yourself, please? I obviously have no more need for this uniform, not after this. I won’t even get to keep the discharge, because they’ll cashier me. We’ll have to look for a mercenary company to sign with, I suppose. It’s tough on Vlad and Otto, and I hate to think what’s going to happen when I take that baton back to Cardinal Zdenek and tell him I can’t do what I promised. Where did you put my clean trunk hose?” He looked around the heaped litter of the room.
“You’re standing on it. Why don’t you just stuff your pretty baton where it will give you more backbone?”
Unfortunately, Wulf’s gentle manner hid an iron stubbornness, an obstinacy high even by Magnus standards. Once he’d made his mind up, it was a frosty July before he ever changed it. Even Father had learned not to issue threats to his youngest son, because he would invariably be called on them.
Anton sighed. “The Wends will be happy. Zdenek told me I was the only card he had to play. Not that the old Spider can’t lie, but he must be truly desperate to risk dabbling in Speaking. Or else he doesn’t think a Speaker speaks to devils. Who was St. Victorinus, anyway? A real saint?” No answer. “And all those Wends, raping, burning, laying waste …”
After a moment, Wulf spoke in a whisper, not looking around, “Damn you to the lowest kiln of hell. All right. I’ll do this much for you, just this once: I’ll ask my Voices if I should go. If they really are demons, as the Church says, then they’ll have a good chance to damn both of us.”
Hope stirred. “I’m sure they’re not demons, Wulf, or I wouldn’t ask you. Of course I wouldn’t. Zdenek wouldn’t, either.”
“The Church says they are. Now you’re standing on my jerkin. You want me to help you into your armor?”
Yes, they would have to wear their armor. The proper way to transport armor was in barrels with oil and sand, so that the movement of the horse would keep it clean and shiny, but Anton owned no packhorse. Besides, although Jorgary was a reasonably peaceful and law-abiding land, most of it was dense forest and “reasonably” did not guarantee that two well-outfitted but unaccompanied gentlemen would never run into a gang of outlaws.
Anton’s armor was custom-made and literally worth a fortune, being his younger-son inheritance. He was fanatically proud of it, from the toes of his sollerets to the crown of his barbutte—a newfangled Italian-style pot helmet with a T-shaped opening in the front. It was no trivial task for Wulf to clad him in so much steel. His gauntlets went into a saddlebag. There, too, went his hussar surcoat showing the royal emblem of a crowned bear, and Wulf tied on him the one it had replaced when they arrived in Mauvnik—the Magnus insignia of a mailed fist with the family motto, Omnia audere, and the mark of a martlet to designate a fourth son.
Wulf’s own armor was simpler: leather boots and breeches, plus a plate cuirass worn over a chain-mail shirt. On his head he wore a light helmet, a sallet. By the time Wulf was ready, Anton had replaced the cardinal’s treasures in the satchel, stuffed their unneeded clothes in a saddlebag, and was ready to go. They had arrived ten days ago with nothing more, and had acquired almost nothing since. He clumped forward to the hatch, then looked back expectantly at his mutinous brother, who was just standing there, hands on hips.
“You leave,” Wulf said. “This will be a private conversation.”
“I’ll leave if you’ll open this damned thing. You expect me to squat?”
“You’re pretty good at stooping,” Wulf said, but he came and lifted the hatch.
The old couple had not opened their shutter yet, and one of them was snoring. Anton started down the ladder; it creaked. When he reached the bottom, his brother tossed down the bags and then closed the trap on him. Anton was tempted to go back up again to listen, but he could not possibly do that without Wulf hearing him.
Not unexpectedly, the snoring had stopped. Without speaking, he moved himself and the bags out to the corridor. He decided to wait there, rather than go down and have to explain the delay to the palace hostlers. They would be wanting their breakfast. So did he.
After about ten minutes he heard the ladder creak again. In a moment Wulf opened the door. He pulled a face at Anton, then turned to shout into the darkness behind him. “My brother and I are going on a journey. If we’re not back by sunset, we won’t be coming back, ever. Whatever we’ve left behind you can have. And thank you.” He closed the door.
Anton took up the two smaller bags and led the way to the stairs. “Thank them for what?”
“Just for being, I suppose. And for not being as sorry for themselves as I am for them. That make sense?”
“Your Voices say you should help me?”
“No. But they didn’t say I shouldn’t, either. Now shut up, because talking with them has made my belly hurt already.”
He was going to cooperate! Anton allowed himself a smirk, because his face wasn’t visible. The bright side of Wulf’s stubbornness was that he could be counted on to give a job whatever it needed. Once he started, he wouldn’t stop until it was finished.
The palace hostlers had not enjoyed standing around in a cold and foul alley to please a very junior lancer, and wanted a slanging match to make up for it. Anton tried out his newly acquired hussar vocabulary on them, but lost badly. The foul-mouthed villains vaulted onto their mounts and rode off.
“You take Sparrow,” Wulf said.
“Why, for mercy’s sake?”
Sparrow was a rouncey, an ugly piebald. Morningstar was a courser, faster and larger, more fitting Anton’s height. He was also a handsome roan with far better lines.
“Because Sparrow is nimbler. St. Helena warned me that you must stay very close. If we get separated I won’t be able to find you again.”
St. Helena was the mother of the Roman Emperor Constantine. Despite having died over a thousand years ago, she still talked to Wulf, according to Wulf. And he was serious about the horses, so Anton bit back his annoyance at this suddenly assertive young brother. He could be put back in his place some other time.
Wulf vaulted onto Morningstar’s back and paused to raise the stirrups. “Remember to stay close,” he said, and urged his mount into a run.
Prime was being rung in the distance to announce the new day, but the alley was still deserted, so Anton had no trouble following. Sparrow could keep up that pace all day. How long to Cardice as the devil rides? Suddenly Morningstar made a very sharp right turn into another alley. Fortunately Sparrow always led with his right foot so Anton could turn him to follow. He must have rounded the corner in the nick of time because, for a startling moment, there was no sign of Morningstar and Wulf, but then they somehow flickered into view about two lengths ahead.
Going faster. Anton nudged his mount to speed up, but Sparrow had realized that he was supposed to follow close. Even so, the alleys were narrow and a few pedestrians were appearing already. There would be accidents. Wulf must be made to slow down.
“Wulf! Wulf!” But the clamor of horseshoes on cobbles was echoing off the walls and drowning out his shouts. Moreover, Wulf was deep in conversation with someone on his rig
ht, nodding his head, gesturing with his free hand. Anton could see no one there, but his crazy brother must.
Faster still! The two horses raced flat-out, weaving and winding through a labyrinth of alleys until the walls seemed to fly by in a blur. No seeming: they were a blur, and a fog had rolled in. Pedestrians, mainly somberly clad matrons on their way to Mass, were vague and indistinct, like reflections on water. Sparrow and Morningstar could see the illusion too, for their screams of terror added to the roar of hooves on stone. Anton’s job was easier, but Wulf was the best horseman in the family now and was keeping his terrified mount under perfect control, riding it full-out. A trio of brown-robed friars came into view, deep in holy discourse, and totally unaware as the nemesis rushed upon them.
Anton wailed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the shadowy friars were just ambling away into the fog behind him, seemingly quite unaware of what had hurtled through them. “Ride like the devil,” he had said, and he had been taken literally. The mouth of hell would open before him at any minute. He had never been so scared in his life.
Now the noise had faded to a terrifying, unearthly silence and the light had almost gone. Whatever had happened to the city wall, the gate? The horses’ feet pounded on grass or mud, but the impacts were barely audible. They were running through a mirage of trees, a forest of beech and chestnuts, which should have been impenetrable but in practice put up no more resistance than trails of smoke. When Anton managed to bring Sparrow close enough, he caught fragments of Wulf’s conversation. “…put him in danger?” “…how long can you …?” “…but will the cardinal play fair later, if he …?” Anton could hear no replies, but Wulf certainly seemed to. A couple of times he laughed as he would if his ghostly companions were making jokes.
Then reality returned with a rush; Anton felt he had wakened from a dream by falling out of bed. The horses whinnied in fright as they found their hooves thumping on hard brown pasture. The countryside had opened up to fields and vineyards, very fertile, all gilded by fall and deserted on a Sunday morning. Low sun shone on gentle hills, wreathed with distant smoke plumes from burning stubble. This did not look like the countryside around Mauvnik, nor could it be Cardice, for there were no mountains. Straight ahead of them stood a massive masonry wall with a high arched gateway.
And Wulf—who, according to family legend, would be capable of riding a horse up a tree if he wanted—flew out of the saddle, turned a somersault in midair, and crashed to the ground.
CHAPTER 4
“Mother! Mother! You must get up now! You must! Havel Vranov is at the gates. I need you!”
Lady Madlenka Bukovany was addressing Dowager Countess Edita. The poor lady had retreated to the far side of the mattress and, had it not been hard against the wall, would very likely have fallen out already. She had pulled a pillow over her head. For over a week now, ever since her husband was stricken, she would not eat or speak. She had taken to bed and refused even to attend his funeral three days later. She did take fluids, so the doctors had forbidden her water and prescribed goats’ milk, just to keep her alive.
“Mother, please, as you love me?”
Nothing.
“Mother, I absolutely swear that I will never argue with you again!”
Madlenka felt very guilty. The two of them had been constantly at loggerheads for months now. Not about anything in particular, more about everything in particular. Petr had laughed at their battles and said it was time his sister was married off. Which was true—still not betrothed at seventeen, Madlenka was practically an old maid. Father had agreed, but had done no more about arranging a match for her than he had about buying guns for the castle, as Petr had wanted. Now both Father and Petr were gone, she and Mother should be supporting each other. This torpor was so incredibly unlike Countess Edita! She had always been a strong, active woman. Opinionated, too.
With a sigh, Madlenka closed the bed curtain and turned around to meet Giedre’s sympathetic gaze. Giedre was the daughter of Sir Ramunas Jurbarkas, the castle seneschal. She was officially Madlenka’s lady-in-waiting, but was in fact her best and lifelong friend, less than a day younger. Father had referred to Giedre as Madlenka’s shadow, but if so she was a midday shadow, being plump and short, where Madlenka herself was tall and skinny, with a face all bone. Giedre was dark, Madlenka fair.
“Do not think harshly of her, my lady. Whatever evil witchcraft smote your father and brother has taken her wits also.”
Bishop Ugne said the same—that the fault must lie not with the countess but with the Speaker who had cursed her. His own efforts to remove the curse had failed utterly. Madlenka was convinced that the Satanist had been either Count Havel Vranov, the Hound of the Hills, or someone in his employ. Now he was at the gates with an army, and the constable, Karolis Kavarskas, was going to let him in. Vranov just might recognize that the countess retained some vestige of her late husband’s authority, but he would spurn any attempt by Madlenka to assert her rights. An underage female orphan had precious few rights anyway.
The count’s bedchamber at Cardice was a large room by Cardice standards, and a luxurious one for Jorgary. It had glass in its windows, rugs from Syria, and chests made from the cedars of Lebanon. The wall tapestries were of Flemish weave, depicting mythical scenes, faded now. Here her father had slept and here he had died, ending his line. Women could not inherit titles. No woman could be lord of the marches.
So now Sir Karolis Kavarskas, that most hateful constable, claimed to rule in Count Bukovany’s place, “until His Majesty appoints his successor.”
Or until Havel Vranov decided to appoint himself. Why else was he riding up the Silver Road with hundreds of men at his back?
“How long now before they open the gate?” Madlenka demanded.
Giedre peered through a clear spot in the lozenge-paned window to see how far sunlight had descended Mount Naproti. “Very soon, I think.”
Knuckles rapped on the door. “Madlenka, my child?”
Madlenka knew that sonorous and melodious voice. “Please enter, my lord bishop.”
Both women curtseyed as Bishop Ugne strode … um … waddled into the room. His voice was the best part of him, and his appearance never failed to disappoint. Even when swathed in many layers of ecclesiastical vestments of blue and cloth-of-gold, he was too short and dumpy to impress, and his towering miter made him look top-heavy. His face was ruddy and chinless, so dominated by a massive curved nose that Madlenka was invariably reminded of a parrot she had once seen for sale in the spring fair. It had clung to the side of its cage very much the way the bishop’s soft white hand clutched his tall crozier.
The castle women distrusted the bishop and the numerous female servants he had brought with him. There were whispers that his housekeeper was his mistress, her sister was another, and his two young nieces were actually his daughters. Ugne was of noble blood—son, brother, and uncle of dukes—and had no doubt paid a high price to purchase his office, and that was another grievous sin. Everyone knew that the Church was corrupt; the Jorgarian clergy were probably no better or worse than any others.
Surprisingly, Father had rather approved of Ugne, on the grounds that most of his predecessors had refused to reside in this bleak mountainous diocese and had preferred to delegate their duties to vicars. Petr had approved too, for the very different reason that he ranked Ugne as the third best horseman in the county. He was also an enthusiastic hunter and had, by God’s mercy, been present to administer the last rites on the day Petr was gored.
He glanced meaningfully at the bed curtains.
Madlenka shook her head. “No better.”
“As the Lord wills. Now, daughter, why do you summon me with such frantic claims of urgency on a Sunday morning? It is everyone else’s day of rest, but to those of us who do the Lord’s work, it is a busy one.”
Her note had explained the problem. If he did not consider it important, what was he doing here in the castle in his full vestments?
“Count Vra
nov, that’s why! He crossed the border with a small army last night. One of Father’s vassals … one of the tenants from up near the forks of the Hlucny rode in after curfew last night to report that a sizable troop of Pelrelmians had ridden by his fief. He saddled up and trailed them, and watched them pitching camp at High Meadows, then came up to the gate to report. Father would have rewarded him handsomely! You could see their campfires from the wall. This morning the lookouts heard their bugles sounding reveille.”
The bishop frowned. “And what size do you consider a small army?”
“About two hundred fighting men, he said, and that’s not counting servants.”
“Who said? I hope you were not out on the wall cavorting with sentinels in the dark, unchaperoned?”
“My lord bishop! Of course not!”
“Then how do you know all this?”
“Dali told me.” Dali was Dalibor Notivova, Constable Karolis’s deputy. “He came to see me, but I was certainly never alone with him. Later I sent for Sir Karolis, too. He condescended to come eventually, although he kept me waiting long enough. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he would open the gate and let them in!”
Father had neither liked him nor trusted Count Vranov, the Hound of the Hills. Now Madlenka suspected that he had been behind the sorcery that had killed both Father and Petr, and she was convinced that the constable was in the Hound’s pay.
Bishop Ugne was looking thunderous. “Was Dalibor also the one who told you that Sir Karolis had not reported your father’s stroke to the king?”
“I promised that person I would not reveal his identity.”
The bishop took that refusal as confirmation, which it was. “My daughter, has it occurred to you that Dalibor Notivova may be after Sir Karolis’s job?”
