Dragon Castle (23 page)

Nails and bones! I forgot. They're shut outside. I curse under my breath.

They sense me looking for them

The door behind which they wait is on the far left side of the hall. The bulk of the tightly packed crowd is between them and me. There's no way for them to reach me soon enough if those soldiers do more than just threaten our dancers near the back of the hall.

My hand moves up to my left side, but finds no weapon. I left the dagger Baba Anya gave me on top of that pile of coins. If only I'd thought to visit the armory. I could have retrieved my sword. But would it do any good against so many of the baron's men?

Ah! Do I see? Yes. There's a familiar figure at the back of the room. He's just entered the hall, so quietly that he's gone unnoticed by everyone but me. A hood is pulled over his head, but it doesn't conceal the small, elegant white beard. Black Yanosh. At last! He feels my eyes upon him, subtly raises a hand. I touch my chin with my right index finger, a sign of readiness that he taught me.

He repeats his signal, this time looking toward Paulek. To my surprise Paulek also touches his chin. No, wait, he's just scratching himself. It was too much to hope.

But at least Black Yanosh is here. I'll trust his signal and bide my time. At least I'll have one competent ally by my side if things should go from bad to worse.

Unfortunately, Yanosh and I are not the only ones considering whether or not to take action. The bagpiper is fingering the ceremonial dagger at his waist. The drummer is starting to unsling the stout walking stick hung over his back. They're readying themselves to try to protect the women . . . and end up badly hurt or killed by Temny's soldiers.

“
Zastav!
Stop!” The baron's loud command rings through the room.

He lifts his silver-mailed right hand.

His soldiers release the women dancers. Nearly all of them turn as one to look toward their master. As the dancers and musicians seize this chance to quickly leave the hall, an old hooded man hobbles forward, then stumbles clumsily between them and the two soldiers who've ignored Temny's command and are attempting to follow the women. The two soldiers stumble over him.

“Take pity on a small, helpless old man,” Black Yanosh begs in a high, weak voice. He lifts a trembling hand in supplication toward the nearest soldier, who's rising to his feet and pulling out a cudgel.

“Nie!”
The baron's voice, hard and cold as deep winter ice, freezes his soldier in mid-strike. The mercenary cringes like a cur. Black Yanosh slides back into the shadows.

The baron shakes his head—a patient father whose overeager child has reached for the sweets before the end of dinner. A cruel smile crosses his lips. Then he nods.

He extends his bare left hand toward the other large entryway that leads into the great hall.

“More entertainment,” he shouts.

In through that doorway enter six figures. The first two come cartwheeling, doing the fancy flips of professional acrobats. The other four, similarly masked and appareled in Gypsy garb, follow. They're playing tambourines and drums and carrying jugglers' bags. Filled, no doubt, with the items soon to be brought into play by the duo of main performers who each do a final spinning backflip to land and bow deeply before us.

“
Vyborne!
Excellent!” Paulek says, clapping his hands together. “It's them! Remember how much we liked them, Rashko? Isn't this nice?”

Strange as the circumstances are, I have to agree with my brother. There below us, looking up into our eyes over the masks that cover the lower halves of their faces are the graceful jugglers Zatchni and Teraz.

One good thing about the arrival of the twin jugglers is that for the moment my befuddled brother is not staring in adoration at Princess Poteshenie's overly rouged face. His attention is riveted on the two slender performers as they reach into their sleeves in readiness. Even a subtle sorceress's charms are no match for Paulek's lifelong love of action.

“Begin!” Teraz cries, pulling out a handful of bright-colored balls and hurling them.

“Now,” Zatchni answers, instantly producing and tossing back an equal number of rainbow-hued orbs.

Soon they have a dozen in play. Every ball is expertly caught and arced back. Not only are they nonchalantly juggling, the two supple entertainers are now performing spins and flips with nearboneless ease. It's being done so spectacularly that the tambourines and drums of the musicians accompanying them are almost drowned out by applause and shouts.

The two suddenly swing to face the bald, mustached man who declared himself their father that day in the market. He's not at all showy like his children—but was probably their teacher. With his right hand he plucks the balls that fly toward him out of midair, depositing them into the open basket grasped loosely in his left. He drops the basket, lifts his hands.

“Nozhe!”
he cries. “Knives!”

The tambourine players and drummers put aside their instruments and begin to remove double daggers from their bags, placing them in the mustached man's hands. One, two, three, four. As each knife is slapped into his right or left palm, he hurls it spinning, to be caught effortlessly by either Teraz or Zatchni. In no time at all the sharp, singing edges cut the air between the two of them as they hurl the lethal blades back and forth. Why only four knives this time? They did far more in the market.

Deadly as those double dirks might be if mishandled, my own juggler's eye notes that Teraz and Zatchni are dividing their attention. Their focus is not just on the whirling blades that they handle as if they were no more dangerous than eggs. They're edging closer in our direction, watching our podium out of the corner of their eyes. I recognize that look. It is not that of performers seeking approval. They're gauging distance. Are they actually assassins? Hired by the baron to kill a meddling younger sibling?

Paulek elbows me. For once, it is neither heedless nor accidental.

There's a serious look on my brother's face. Though he may be painfully unable to grasp when he is being manipulated by glamour, one thing that he does understand is a direct threat. He's also seen the way Teraz and Zatchni have been eyeing the podium.

“Look out!” Paulek shouts.

Four double-edged blades fly toward our podium.

My brother's reaction is no less quick than my own. As one, we leap over the table, land on our feet with our hands raised.

Catching a knife lobbed to you by a partner whose plan is that you catch it is one thing. It's quite another when whistling weapons wing toward you, hurled by adversaries who hope their blades will find beating hearts as sheaths.

But Paulek and I were trained to catch arrows. Our reflexes serve us well. Though the force of the throws make us spin halfway around, when we turn and straighten we're both unharmed and armed. Paulek and I hold up all four blades, one in each of our hands.

Zatchni and Teraz stare in disbelief at us. The masks that covered the lower parts of their faces have fallen down. It's clear now to everyone that these two, far from being the sons of anyone, are pretty girls.

It's also clear to me now, too late, that those daggers were not aimed at me or my brother. That's why we had to reach to the side to catch them! Their intended targets still sit in shocked silence behind us on the podium. Our ill-considered intervention has just saved the baron and the princess.

The heads of most of those in the crowd are going back and forth. First at the jugglers, then at us, then back at them again. There's no longer any music. The other Gypsies are gone. The drummer, the tambourine player, and the mustached man ran for the doors as soon as Teraz and Zatchni made their move. The silence in the room is like that between a distant flash of lightning and the eventual rumble of thunder.

A few people, locals who know the heirs of Hladka Hvorka love to juggle, begin to applaud. They think this was planned. My brother and I are just part of the act. My mind is moving faster than those blades that flew through the air.

Can I get Paulek to see it this way? With a little effort I can usually lead Paulek to believe almost anything—such as when we were children and I convinced him that if he planted an egg he could grow a chicken tree.

Yes, it might be possible. Then I might manage somehow to get these two young women out of the hall before the baron does something to them.

I've not taken into account the passionate feelings unleashed in those whose plans go awry.

Teraz points a trembling finger at me.
“Blbec!”
she says, her voice indignant. “Idiot!”

Zatchni is making an even more insulting hand gesture at my brother.
“Nepotrebny blbec!”
she snarls. “Useless idiot.”

Their gazes turn from us to Temny. They step forward, hands clenched.

“Beast,” Zatchni hisses, staring up into the baron's snaky eyes. “You murdered our parents.”

“Impostor,” Teraz says, her voice cold as steel on a December day. “You are no more noble than the pig sty that gave you birth.”

“Our vengeful blades should have pierced your heart.”

“Your soul and that”—Zatchni's ringing voice rises as she shakes her fists at Poteshenie—“of your bony misbegotten wife there, should now be shrieking on their way to the Pit.”

Wife? Oh my!

I wonder if Paulek heard that?

Others have taken note of Zatchni's words. A collective gasp goes up from the local tradesman and merchants who'd maneuvered themselves closest to the front of the crowded hall.

“She's his wife, not his daughter?” a cloth seller just below me says to his nervous-looking wife, who is trying to shush him.

“Not really a nobleman?” asks one fat merchant, looking toward the door.

“Vile monsters!” Zatchni screams.

“Dung heaps!” Teraz shouts.

So much for any hope of making it all seem part of the act.

The baron stares at the two young ladies confronting him. His heavy-lidded eyes are as unblinking as those of an adder. There is a tight-lipped smile on his face as he scans the disquieted crowd. He tilts his head toward Poteshenie.

Who is not his offspring but his spouse?

She nods and some of the bloom vanishes from her cheeks. Little lines appear at the edge of her eyes, and the luster of her hair lessens. She's still glamorous, but her beauty is no longer that of a seeming innocent. She's aged at least twenty years in less than a heartbeat by letting go of whatever enchantment she was using. There's no longer any need to hide her true self.

There's also been enough of hiding the sword in its sheath. Temny gives his men the signal—a stab of two steel-clad fingers toward the defiant sisters. A dozen of his burly mercenaries immediately begin to shove roughly through the still-stunned throng of confused celebrants. The soldiers' naked swords and drawn dirks indicate that their design is bloodthirsty rather than taking the two girls captive. By the head of the dragon!

Though armed only with the knives I caught, I'm not about to stand for a slaughter in my family's hall. There's not enough time for me to untie the pouch and reach into it. Slipping the left-hand blade under my belt, I leap from the podium, grasp Teraz by her arm, and turn so that I'm between her and the onrushing troopers.

“Good idea, brother,” says a voice to my right.

It's Paulek, who leaped at the same moment I did. His right hand brandishes the blades, his left is holding Zatchni just as I am holding Teraz.

“Even when I didn't realize she was old enough to be our great-grandmother I knew she was too old for me.”

His expression is clear-eyed. The moony look returns for a moment to his face. Then he crosses his eyes, grins, and elbows me so hard in the ribs it will probably leave a bruise.

The old Paulek is back.

But was he ever gone? Is my brother cagier than I thought? Was he merely pretending to be entranced? Just playing along with the baron until our parents returned or it reached the point where our only choice was to fight? Tactics?

Was that why he invited them into our castle after seeing how much greater their force was than ours—just to stall for time and avoid any of our people being injured in a siege? Has he been counting on me to find a way to save the day all along?

One thing is certain. No matter what, I can count on my brother to stand firmly by me in any time of obvious peril. Even though a well-armed phalanx of grim-eyed guards is plowing toward us, I feel strangely happy.

Part of the reason for my feeling of well-being is that Teraz is so pretty and so close to me. How could I ever have mistaken her for a boy?

“Je mi luto,”
I say to her. “I am sorry.”

Her response is to elbow me in the stomach with almost as much strength as one of my brother's bonebruising blows.

“Blbec,”
she says again, “Idiot!” But this time her voice is almost comradely. “Don't be sorry.
Bojus!
Fight!”

Then she turns so her back is against mine and she can see what is coming from behind.

Right. I bend my knees slightly, roll my shoulders to loosen the muscles. Out of the corner of my eye I see Paulek do the same. As has happened during times of mock combat, my mind is racing ahead so quickly that the attackers, who've now broken through the throng, seem to be moving slowly. The first cut will come from that mercenary at the front of their phalanx. Heavily armored like the rest, he's broad-shouldered, sure of himself. He's missing an upper front tooth, his nose appears to have been broken more than once, and there's a large mole with two black hairs protruding from it on his right cheek. Shorter than me by a head, he plans to remove mine with his cocked sword. The look of anticipation in Gaptooth's eyes tells me he's done this sort of thing before and enjoyed it.