Speak to the Devil (2 page)

Boots clumped on the miry cobbles. The air was warm; bats squeaked and swirled overhead. It was going to be another fine day, although perhaps not a fine day for Anton Magnus, the most junior recruit in the Light Hussars.

At the great gate, a bell was rung, a hatch opened, a password exchanged, and then the postern door swung open. Six boots marched across a yard reeking with a familiar smell of horses, and entered a dimly lit guard room.

As he stepped inside, Anton Magnus’s anger and frustration turned to freezing terror, just for a moment. Then he relaxed, seeing that he had been mistaken. The man waiting for him in the gloom was innocent enough. Indeed, he was not even a man, for his face was smooth, and his head, though close-cropped, was not yet tonsured. His brown robe was that of a novice Franciscan. Franciscans were usually harmless. In his momentary, dazzled confusion, Anton had thought he was seeing a Dominican.

Dominicans were friars of a different color, and could represent the ultimate terror: suspicion of heresy or Satanism, interrogation, the Question, the stake. That was absurd in this case, of course! Anton Magnus never dabbled in such crimes, and had he not still been half asleep he would never have confused the two orders.

Yet suddenly his conscience no longer shone like a well-honed blade. On the royal hunt two days ago, he had pulled off an insanely reckless feat of horsemanship that had been witnessed by at least a hundred people. It had made him the talk of the court. It might have started suspicious tongues wagging, arousing whispers of Speaking. But it had certainly not been remarkable enough to expose him to a formal investigation by the Holy Office. A watch might be set on him in future; no more than that.

“Lancer Anton Magnus of Company D of the Royal Light Hussars?” The boy looked bored and sleepy, not frightened or malicious.

His throat too dry for speech, Anton just nodded.

The novice lifted a lantern and adjusted the wick. “If you would be so good as to follow me, lancer?” He led the way, sandals slapping softly on the flagstones.

For the next few minutes, Anton Magnus continued to reassure himself with positive thoughts. He still hadn’t been relieved of his saber. Wherever he was being taken was no dungeon. The lantern’s faint glow and that of the occasional sconce shone on mosaic floors, frescoes, and wide mirrors, then a staircase wide enough to admit a coach-and-four.

“May I ask who has summoned me here at this ungodly hour?”

The boy glanced around briefly and flashed an amused smile, but did not reply.

At the top of the stairs, he led the way across a wide hall, dark as a starlit night, with only twinkles reflected from mirrors, chandeliers, cornices, and gilt picture frames, hinting at its great size. Beyond that lay another chamber, even larger, and then a third, vaster still. By then Anton Magnus had guessed the answer to his question. Very few men in the kingdom would merit such splendor, and only one of them would still be active at this hour of the night. The third doorway had been guarded by four sergeants-at-arms, who evidently knew the boy, for they had let him lead Anton Magnus past them without a word, saber and all.

Although by day the third antechamber must teem with anxious petitioners, tonight it was almost deserted. Three lamps gleamed near the far-side door, their light faintly reflected in the polished marble floor. At a desk there sat a single elderly friar, reading, guarding a door, and probably also keeping an eye on two boys nearby, who were writing on slates. He was clearly a doorman, and Anton presumed that the novices were messengers, being kept properly busy at their studies during the quiet hours when their nimble feet were not required. His guess was confirmed as his guide went to join them.

The friar looked up and nodded at the sight of the visitor. He rose and glided to the door he guarded, which must certainly lead to the inner sanctum of the most powerful man in Jorgary, the king’s first minister, Cardinal Zdenek.

Anton detoured to a convenient mirror for a hasty inspection. He straightened his plume and frowned at creases in his britches and scuff marks on his riding boots. Wulf had spent an hour polishing them last night, before Anton went off to the ball, but much had happened since then. No matter; they would have to do. Whatever had caused the cardinal to summon him in the middle of the night, it had not been to inspect
smears of rouge on his collar. He twirled up his mustaches and turned back to his guide, who was waiting with the door open.

Zdenek’s audience chamber was ablaze with light from four huge chandeliers, reflected in the high crystal mirrors and gilded paneling. Rich brocade drapes covered the windows. Just one of those chairs of velvet and gilt would cost as much as Anton would be paid in the next five years. He felt suitably humbled.

The great man sat on a chair that was very nearly a throne, head bent to study a single sheet of paper. He was flanked on one side by a writing stand with inkwells and shelves to hold papers and on the other by a small table bearing four leather-bound folios and a goblet containing about two mouthfuls of dark ruby wine. He did not look up as his visitor came to a halt before him. Having no choice, Anton Magnus waited to be acknowledged. The door closed softly behind him.

Behold a portrait of the king’s faithful servant, laboring at all hours: Zdenek himself was elderly, shrunken inside his scarlet robes. The hand steadying the paper was skeletal and the color of lichen-spotted bone. His eyes were hidden by an uncomfortable-looking set of eyeglasses clamped to a beak nose; his beard and hair were silver, in stark contrast to the brilliant hue of his robes and broad-brimmed, tasseled hat, below which his eyebrows stuck out like two pale horns. He was a study in snowy white and the deep scarlet of clotted blood, like a winter battlefield.

No true churchman, Zdenek had probably never baptized a babe or buried a corpse in his life. Few laymen could read, so most clerks were clerics of some sort. Ability and diligence had raised him in the king’s service, and some political favor for the pope had bought him a cardinal’s hat. He ran the kingdom now as he had run it for a generation. He was reputed to need almost no sleep. His many enemies called him the Scarlet Spider.

So the mystery of how Anton Magnus had been located was solved. The Spider knew everything—everyone knew that. Whichever young man escorted the baroness to the ball would escort her to bed later; this was understood but did not explain why the king’s chief minister had summoned the most junior recruit in the Light Hussars. They inhabited different worlds. Cardinal Zdenek should not even know that Lancer Anton Magnus existed.

And apparently he didn’t, for Zdenek continued to read. Lancer Anton Magnus continued to stand at attention. He dearly wished that he had stopped at some doorway in the town to empty his bladder. After what seemed an age, the old man acknowledged his visitor by laying the paper on the writing stand and looking up. Lamplight blazed on his eyeglasses, masking his eyes so that his face was a skull lantern, a macabre decoration for All Hallows’ Eve.

The hussar saluted. “Anton Magnus, Your Eminence.” His uniform said everything else necessary.

The cardinal studied him without any expression whatever, as if he were a piece of statuary.

The hussar felt a welcome shiver of anger replacing his apprehension. This was a test of nerve. Captain Walangoin had tried the same sort of tricks on him when he was sworn in ten days ago, but the Magnuses of Dobkov had been famed for centuries for their suicidal courage. Zdenek must have better things to do with his time than Captain Walangoin ever could. So Anton Magnus must keep his own face immobile, staring unblinking at those glowing fiery disks until the bloodless lips below them indicated a smile.

They didn’t. “I see now,” the cardinal said in a dry whisper, “why the fair baroness enlisted you with a speed extraordinary even for her.”

Anton felt a red tide flood his face.
I did not realize Your Eminence had summoned me to hear my confession
. But he did not say that. Silence was the best defense.

The cardinal held out his right hand. Anton knelt to kiss his ring.

As he rose, he caught a glimpse of a fading smile, worthy of the amusement with which a man might regard a cavorting puppy. “Welcome, lancer. Pour yourself a glass of wine over there.”

Anton turned in the direction indicated and went to where a bottle and crystal goblets stood on a small sideboard. He was surprised to see that there was another man present, a friar at a desk; he was behind the door, which was why Anton had not seen him earlier. He was writing something and did not look up.

Anton poured a very small amount of wine into a glass, well aware that dawn must be close and he could not have slept more than an hour. He returned to the cardinal.

“A glass, I said; not a sip. You insult His Majesty’s hospitality.”

Anton Magnus went back to the sideboard and topped up the goblet. If this was an attempt to make him drunk, it would not work. He had stayed very sober at the ball, having been forewarned by his messmates of the exertions the dear baroness would require of him later.

As he straightened, glass in hand, the cardinal spoke again.

“And bring that chair.”

The chair was solid oak, with arms and a high back. Was this a test of strength or good judgment? Make two trips so he could use both hands, or risk taking chair and glass both? Angry at this continuing childishness, Anton decided to risk one trip. He managed to lift the monster with his left hand alone and carry it back across the room without cracking his shins or spilling his wine. He set the chair on the floor and himself on the chair.

His host raised his own glass. “To the king and your service.”

He did not stand, as one should to toast the king, so neither did Anton.

“God preserve His Majesty.” The wine was richly spiced Hippocras from Smyrna, caressing the mouth like a woman’s kiss. It had been a favorite of Anton’s father, but such luxuries had been missing in Dobkov for the last two years.

So here he was, a penniless esquire owning a uniform, a suit of armor, and two horses—he had not even received the expected and hard-earned honorarium from the baroness—being treated as an honored guest by the most powerful man in the kingdom. The world had gone insane, or he had. Perhaps he had cracked his skull at the hunt and was imagining all this.

“Tell me about yourself,” Zdenek murmured. His eyes were still hiding behind reflected lamplight.

Insanity! “Your Eminence, I am the fourth son of the late Baron Patredor Magnus of Dobkov. My ancestors have held—”

“Yourself, not your ancestors. The Magnuses of Dobkov are famous in the history of Jorgary; you are not. Not yet, anyway. Start with your brothers.”

“As it please Your Eminence. Male Magnuses come in two sizes. The large ones become soldiers, the small ones take holy orders. My eldest brother, Ottokar, is one of the largest. He succeeded our father five years
ago.” How much detail did Zdenek want? Why should he want any? Anton shivered, wondering if some family problem might lie behind this madness. “He is married and—”

“And ought to make his wife sleep in another room before her fertility bankrupts him. Next?”

“Sir Vladislav is even bigger, a knight banneret in His Majesty’s Heavy Hussars. For the last two years he has been a prisoner in Bavaria.”

Vlad, like Baron Radovan, had been captured at the Battle of the Boundary Stone. Jorgary’s attempt to take advantage of a disputed succession in Bavaria had failed spectacularly. Court gossips disagreed on whether the cardinal had lost his touch at last or the featherbrained crown prince had talked his ailing grandfather into ordering the invasion against Zdenek’s advice. The boundary itself was now a day’s march closer to Mauvnik than it had been, and the kingdom was still bleeding gold to ransom its nobility. Two thousand commoners had bled to death on the field.

“Third is Marek, now Brother Marek of the Benedictine house in Koupel. And then me. His Majesty most graciously accepted my petition to enlist in his Light Hussars, and I arrived in Mauvnik about ten days ago. Of course it was Vladislav’s reputation that won me this great privilege.”

The cardinal was staring down at the paper again. It was completely covered in tiny, spidery writing, even along the margins. Anton could read, though he was badly out of practice, but not upside down. Was the friar behind him writing down everything he said?

“How long did it take you to ride from Dobkov to Mauvnik?” Zdenek inquired in his raspy voice.

Anton blinked. “Um — fifteen days, Your Eminence.” Why ask that, for God’s sake?

“Why so long?”

“It was a new experience for me, for I have never strayed far from—”

The skull’s crystal eyes blazed.
“Never lie to me, boy!”

He flinched. “Your Eminence’s pardon … I had agreed to accompany a caravan of merchants who wanted protection on the road. Your Eminence must understand that my brother the baron is desperately trying to raise money to pay Vladislav’s ransom.” The nobility were all land rich and cash poor. “It was time that I sought my own way in the
world, and I could not have afforded even to enlist in His Majesty’s service had Vladislav not written to insist that I must be equipaged before his ransom be paid.”

In his grandfather’s day he would have become a knight errant, roaming Christendom in search of tourneys where he might win fame and fortune jousting. A knight unhorsed and captured in the tilting yard would forfeit his arms, armor, and horse, which the winner might then sell, often back to the original owner. A horseman as good as Anton could have made his fortune very rapidly. Nowadays chivalry was out of fashion and the miserable alternative was a career in the king’s cavalry—working for
wages
like a journeyman wheelwright.

The cardinal sneered. “So you held your nose and became a trader’s hired guard for two weeks? You think I care a spit for your confounded petty honor? Or that I don’t know how Ottokar will likely have to sell land to ransom that big idiot who got captured in Bavaria? Stay with the truth from now on! You have another brother.”