Speak to the Devil (32 page)

He reined in Copper at the front edge of the drawbridge. The moat was a dry trench, of course, up there on top of the crag, but it was deep, steep-sided, and floored with sharp rocks.

With the drawbridge down and the portcullis raised, he could have ridden all the way into the bailey if he wished, but dangers lurked there that he would rather avoid. The baron might want to know how his hostage had obtained that weighty bag of gold yesterday. Worse, Emilian might be hosting a squad of Dominicans, lying in wait for the Satanist. Wulf still did not trust Marek’s change of allegiance and protests of family loyalty; it would have been easy for him to step through limbo to Koupel in the middle of the night and report what his devil-worshiping brother was up to. This suspicion and gnawing dread would be the pattern of Wulf’s life from now on, aware always of the glowing nimbus that marked him as a Speaker and made him blatantly visible to any other Speaker, who might or might not be equally visible to him. He shivered as the wind sank claws through his cloak and tried to bluster him over the edge of the moat.

“Holy Saints, what is Vlad doing?”

—
Watching his sumpter being laden
, Victorinus said. —
His mount is saddled and ready to go.

“Thank you.” The Light faded.

He drew his dagger and inspected his blurred reflection in the shiny blade. The nimbus still shone around his head. Several times in the night he had dreamed that he was on a battlefield, all alone, facing the entire Pomeranian army. The army had charged and he had called on his Voices to aid him—and they had not been there. He had awakened shaking and sweating, and he must have called out in his sleep, because he had awakened Marek once.

If Vlad did not come soon he was going to find his youngest brother tragically frozen. Copper neighed in complaint and stamped a foot.

Last night had been a wonderful family reunion with Marek, all the better for not having Anton and Vlad there, although that was a shameful
thing to think of one’s brothers. Anton had very little humor and Vlad had far too much, of his own bruising kind. Otto had included Branka, who was entitled to be there as hostess and mother of the next generation of Magnuses. She had assured the family’s Speakers that she believed they remained in a state of grace, and had not only joined in the singing, but had supplied some bawdy verses that even Otto had not heard before.

Vlad appeared in the archway, astride one horse and leading another. He wore a sword but no armor, having forfeited his when he yielded to Emilian.

Wulf had not counted on an extra horse. He would have to ask his Voices if they could transport it, or if he would have to come back for it. He backed Copper out of the way and doffed his hat in salute. “God bless, Sir Vlad, and welcome to liberty.”

Vlad just scowled. His horses were nondescript nags, his hat and cloak a fair match for them. Baron Emilian had not quite thrown him out naked, but he had not been generous with parting gifts.

“I hope that you don’t expect me to ride far on this pig. Or be seen in these rags.”

“You won’t be riding far. Just down this trail a ways.”

“And then what?”

“Otto is waiting there.”

Vlad looked surprised at that and fell silent. As they rode, Wulf outlined the events of the last few days, from Anton’s craziness at the hunt to Otto’s meeting with Cardinal Zdenek. He was just short of explaining Marek’s defection before they turned off the trail and around a thicket, to a secluded dell where Otto and Marek were waiting. Vlad greeted Otto with a humility suitable to a shamed warrior who had put his family to considerable trouble and expense. He was always respectful to his older brother, even formal.

He had a personal name for the each of the others. “God’s blood! If it isn’t Midge! And a friar now? Koupel threw you out?”

Marek smiled with good humor. “They couldn’t afford to feed me.”

Anton, had he been there, would have pointed out that Marek hadn’t needed to be ransomed.

Vlad snorted. “So what are you doing here with these devil spawn?” he asked Otto.

“Enjoying their company and admiring their astonishing success. They have generously offered to let me accompany them to Castle Gallant, so we can have a joyful family reunion and celebrate our brother’s advancement.”

“I have to go to Dobkov first. I can’t go anywhere in these rags and riding this spavined bone rack.” Vlad was probably right about the horse, which looked incapable of carrying his weight very far.

“We are not going to Dobkov,” Wulf said. “Marek and I are being hunted and that is the first place our enemies will look for us. They may track us down at Castle Gallant, but that risk we must take.”

“Dobkov first!” the big man insisted.

“Your choice—Cardice, or stay here and eat weeds?”

Vlad’s face flushed above his great beard. He looked to Otto. “You let this brat speak to you like that?”

Otto smiled. “He never needs to speak to me like that. Tell him which you choose.”

“Gallant, then.” Vlad’s glare at Wulf suggested that he might bring up the matter again in the future, in private. “Except that I don’t want to be accused of being in league with the devil. You left there only two days ago, you say, to deliver a report to the king and bring my ransom here, in Bavaria. Today you ride back with me? You’ll be denounced. We all will be! The Magnuses are Satanists!”

In fact, the miracle of Anton’s recovery might already be causing that sort of trouble, but all the fires of hell were not going to keep Wulf away from Cardice and Madlenka.

Otto said. “We’ve made up a story. We don’t have to deceive many people. Servants and the townsfolk don’t ask nobility impertinent questions. The daughter, Madlenka Bukovany … Wulf thinks she’s already guessed.”

Wulf said, “She’s a smart girl, smart enough not to tell anyone. Her mother was still hiding under bedclothes when I left. I can’t see the constable or the seneschal or any of the senior staff questioning the odd small miracle that helps save the castle from the Wends. The bishop is the problem. If he will overlook our little ways, we’ll be all right. If he doesn’t, nobody will.”

Vlad pouted. Bishops were unpredictable and often lacking in respect for secular nobility.

Otto said, “Now listen carefully! Tell him the story, Wulf.”

Wulf said, “Anton is the best liar in the family, so we built on the hints he’s been dropping. And we decided to stick as close to the truth as we could. Cardinal Zdenek was warned about the Wends months ago. He ordered Petr Bukovany to hire
landsknechte
. He didn’t trust Havel Vranov. All true so far! Now comes the invention—Zdenek set up a secret command post somewhere near the border, to keep an eye on all the northern marches.”

“In Gistov,” Otto said. “It’s the next county to the east. We have a distant cousin there, Sir Bedrich Magnus of Rovny. Met him once.”

“So did I,” said Vlad. “He can’t ever be distant enough.”

“But he fits nicely in the plan,” Otto continued. “Zdenek decided you were a good man to put in charge, Vlad, so he secretly loaned me the money to ransom you from Bavaria, and you chose Rovny as your headquarters. You got there not long before the count of Cardice died.”

“Why didn’t Anton know all this?” Otto said suspiciously.

“He did, but it’s a state secret. If we get caught lying, we say we were told to lie. At Rovny, you organized border patrols and one of them intercepted Gintaras, the boy carrying news of Bukovany’s death. Rovny pigeons took the news directly to Mauvnik. The murders were totally unexpected, but the Spider improvised and sent Anton north to take the count’s place.”

“Why not me?” Vlad demanded. “I was in the area, you said.”

“Because of Madlenka. You’re already married.”

“I didn’t know that.”

The others laughed, which was often unwise around Vlad.

“Well you do now,” Wulf said. “Congratulations. Be fruitful and multiply. Besides, you’re the overall commander, isn’t that enough? Anton’s title was signed by the king on the day of the old count’s funeral. Of course when I left yesterday, I went straight to you, at Rovny—remember? Once you read Anton’s report, you knew that Cardice was where the Wends would strike, so today you’ve come to take a personal look. Makes sense,” Wulf said, hoping that was the case.

“How many pigeons would you need to carry Vlad?” Marek murmured.

Vlad glowered. “How long have I been skulking at Rovny?”

“A month?” Wulf suggested.

Otto said, “What sort of man is this bishop? Wouldn’t it be simplest just to confide in him? Count Vranov started the Satanism by murdering Count Stepan and his son. Cardinal Zdenek responded by sending Wulf. If the bishop’s at all reasonable, he’ll agree to turn a blind eye, surely?”

“It would make our next confessions easier,” remarked Vlad, who was not as stupid as he often seemed.

Marek smiled shyly. “He who speaks with the devil needs a glib tongue.”

“I haven’t met the bishop,” Wulf said. “But Madlenka says he owes his miter to being the son and brother of a duke. He’s pompous, she says, and not likely to approve of a mere baron’s brother being promoted to an earldom.”

“Then let’s hope he never suspects anything more,” Otto said. “It’s a good story, very good! But, Vlad, remember that we made it up. If you march into Castle Gallant and announce that the commander-in-chief has arrived, Anton will throw you in a dungeon.”

“Think I’m stupid?” Vlad growled. “I’ll grovel to the kid if I must. Now let’s move out before I freeze.”

Wulf still had to deal with the packhorse, and he could not ask Marek to help. Five horses, four riders, two Speakers? How could he keep them together? The sumpter would certainly panic when it found itself in limbo. He spoke to his Voices. “Can we take the packhorse with us to Cardice?”

The Light shone around him. —
There are ways you could do that.

That was Victorinus dropping hints again. Marek was quietly talking to Saints Uriel and Methodius.

Wulf said, “Can you open a doorway, as you did when I went to speak with Vlad in the castle?”

—
You are progressing, my son
, Helena said. —
We can.

“Marek, let’s do it this way. The saints will open a gate for us. I’ll ride through first, with Otto next. Then Vlad follows with the packhorse. You bring up the rear and ask your Voices to close the gate. You can do that?”

Marek asked someone on his left, “Will that work?,” then added, “No pain, you promise?” He nodded. “All right.”

“Merciful Mother!” Otto said. “When they both do it, it makes my hair stand on end.”

“It shrinks my balls to acorns,” Vlad said. “I smell sulfur.”

Wulf said, “Saints, please open a door to the road below Castle Gallant. As long as there’s nobody there to see,” he added.

A gap like a church door appeared in front of him. It was a hole in the world, so that where his view of the trees should be he saw instead the road up from High Meadows to the south barbican. Wind hurled rain in his face, but he nudged Copper through, much against the courser’s will. He turned to see Otto making the sign of the cross as he followed, from dry forest glade to muddy mountain trail. Vlad was loudly praying to St. Stanislaus of Cracow, patron of soldiers in battle.

In a moment Marek brought up the rear and the hole in the sky disappeared behind him. He smiled at Wulf’s inquiring glance and made a thumbs-up sign to show that he had not been smitten by sudden agony.

Cowering against the weather, they urged their mounts up the trail. As they rounded a sharp bend, the long line of cliff came in sight, topped by its curtain wall of red stone. Vlad and Otto whooped in approval. They also liked the barbican, when that appeared.

The gate was closed. The riders huddled in the archway, but there was too little overhang to shelter them from the rain. Wulf banged on the postern shutter until the grille opened. An unfamiliar face peered out.

“Squire Wulfgang, the count’s brother, bringing three honored guests.”

“Got orders to admit no one.” His dialect sounded like rocks in a bucket.

“Bring me the captain of the watch.”

“I am the captain of the watch. Come back at nones.”

Nones was hours off. Wulf would freeze to death before then.

“I am Count Magnus’s brother. I left here two days ago. Don’t you recognize this horse?”

“No. Told you—no visitors before nones.”

Wulf felt a surge of anger and a nudge of warning from his conscience. His Voices could almost certainly change the man’s mind, but to call on their help just to escape from the discomfort of rain and the
embarrassment of having Vlad laugh at him would be an abuse of power. He was convinced now that his gift came from God and must be used for worthy purposes. Denying other men their free will would be contrary to God’s plan.

“Holy St. Christopher!” Marek proclaimed loudly, “St. Joseph, St. Melchior, St. Anthony of Padua, and all other blessed saints who protect travelers,
St. Methodius
and
St. Uriel
, I pray you to soften this man’s heart so that he will admit us poor wayfarers.”

Marek was completely hidden inside his hooded Franciscan habit, but for a moment as he named his Voices, Wulf saw a nimbus glow around him.

“Hellfire!” the guard said. “You look harmless enough, and it’s a pig of a day. Herkus, open the sally port.”

“Harmless?”
Vlad repeated incredulously. “Me?”

Marek flashed Wulf a triumphant wink. Either he saw nothing wrong in Speaking for minor personal advantage, or he was just eager to help and prove his loyalty. Inside the barbican, the guards stared in surprise at seeing a friar on a horse. Otto and Vlad continued to enthuse about the defenses.

Wulf could hear a band playing in the distance.

“What’s the occasion?” he demanded. “Why no visitors?”

“Holiday,” the captain of the guard explained. “New count declared a one-day break in the mourning. Festival to celebrate his taking over.”

Taking over what? Or
whom
?

“This way!” Wulf shouted. “Move!”

He urged Copper forward, through the inner gate. That put him on the road that wound between the curtain wall and the cliffs to the west, and he had to pass through a third gate to enter the city. The festival was in full romp already, with flags and colored cloths hung from windows, bands competing, young men showing off their juggling and acrobatic skills, boys on stilts. People dancing in the streets hastily cleared out of the horsemen’s way, cheering them good-naturedly as they went by. An odor of free beer hung over the town.