Speak to the Devil (38 page)

Marek nodded, and then suddenly gripped Wulf’s arm as he was turning away.

“Look there!” he whispered. “Is that him? Beside that wagon on the right?”

The pickets were too far away to make out any details, not even whether they were wearing armor, but Marek was indicating a group of three men standing in apparent conversation. One of them had a nimbus. Could it be Father Vilhelmas?

“Not enough time,” Wulf said. “He couldn’t have got there since …” Of course he could, because he was a Speaker.

He looked through Vilhelmas’s eyes and was instantly back in the party inside the log building: lamplight, wood smoke, strident laughter. So Vilhelmas was Count Vranov’s Speaker and the Wends had at least one of their own. A Speaker to guard the Dragon was hardly unexpected, but even one must make Wulf’s task of destroying it very much harder. Any more than one would make it impossible.

“No, he’s still inside.” Wulf handed Marek a quarrel. “Tell me when to open the gate. Don’t give them time to react.”

“Ready.”

—
Open a gate just behind Vilhelmas and at the same level.

The gate opened. Firelight blazed out with a sound of music, someone strumming a lute out of the assassins’ view. It stopped abruptly as men cried out in alarm. Just on the far side of the hole in the world sat the Speaker priest, with his back turned to it, and a glow around his head. For a moment that seemed to last forever, nothing happened—or at least nothing that was supposed to happen.
Marek! Shoot!
The Wends started leaping to their feet. Father Vilhelmas turned his head, one eye glaring just above his massive beard.
Do it now!

At long last, Marek’s crossbow loosed with a crack like a cannon. As the Speaker fell off his stool with the bolt half-buried in his skull, Wulf closed the gate.

Then the two of them were alone in the dark, with only the wind and the rush of steadily increasing rain overhead. Wulf caught Marek in his arms for a congratulatory hug. The little man dragged a couple of hard sobs, then twisted out of Wulf’s grasp, leaned against a tree trunk, and threw up.

“Well done, Brother!” Wulf said. “You have avenged two foul murders and probably won the war.”

Marek heaved again.

“He deserved to die.”

The second Speaker was still among the guards around the Dragon.

Firelight poured out of the cabin as the door flew open. Wulf grabbed his brother and dragged him back to their room in Castle Gallant.

Vlad was leaning over the bed, examining the drying blood. He straightened up with an oath and reached for his sword. Then he recognized the newcomers and scowled. Vlad always scowled.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you two. What happened here?”

“I killed a priest,” Wulf said callously. He would not pretend to mourn Father Azuolas. No doubt the man had been sincere in his beliefs, but kidnapping boys and locking them up for being Speakers when he was a Speaker himself had been contemptible hypocrisy.

“That’s a relief. If this were a wedding bed, I would fear for the bride’s health. What happened to the door?”

“Woodpeckers.”

“So where have you been?” The big man took a hard look at Marek. “And what’s wrong with Midge?”

Marek was still leaning on Wulf. Their boots had splattered mud and water on the tiles, and a reek of forest filled the little room.

“Buck fever,” Marek muttered. He pulled free and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I just killed another.
Another priest, I mean. It’s a family weakness.” He attempted a smile. “But we did it, didn’t we, Wulfie?”

“We did. And what’s wrong with you?” Wulf asked Vlad.

“Well, I’m happy to report that the bishop has finished exorcising the hall and gone home to write a long, gossipy letter to Archbishop Svaty. I’m unhappy to report that Anton has just spilled some very bad news. Otto’s in the solar, drinking up the castle’s wine supply.”

“Anton and Madlenka?”

“They’re both with Otto. I don’t think Anton trusts his lady out of his sight.”

Wulf sighed. The events of the evening had left him emotionally numb, which was a sort of blessing. “Let’s go and join them.”

Castle Gallant’s solar was of modest size, hard-put to hold even five chairs, and the Magnus family filled it tighter than a meal sack. No one had thought to order a fire in the dreary little hearth, so Wulf perched on the hob, leaning his forearms on his knees and staring glumly at the tiled floor. Once in a while he would glance at Anton and Madlenka holding hands, just to make his wounds bleed more. He also drank. He had decided that what he needed was the world’s worst hangover. A dozen or so spare flagons of wine stood ready on a table beside Vlad’s chair. It beat the insipid beer that had been served at the meal.

No one spoke as Marek recounted the Speakers’ adventures since the end of the banquet. No one suggested that Madlenka should be excluded and she must have been warned what to expect, for she seemed unsurprised by a discussion of Satanism. She was carefully displaying no emotion at all.

At the end, Vlad said, “Well, now you’re both blooded! A Magnus isn’t a real man until he’s killed someone. That just leaves Anton.”

“I hanged a man on Monday,” Anton said coldly. “Does that count?”

“Not unless you whipped the horse yourself. Count us four bull’s-eyes and a blue, then.” The big man took a drink.

Madlenka’s lip curled slightly.

“Vladislav,” Otto said, “you have the grace of a hog and should not be allowed indoors. Marek, Wulfgang, I approve of the way you went after
Vilhelmas. Priest or not, he was leading troops and doing nonclerical things. A combatant cannot claim benefit of clergy. Well done, both of you!” He raised a glass in approval. The others joined in the toast.

Wulf smiled across at Marek and raised his own glass to him. He cared nothing for Vlad’s opinions, but approval from Otto was welcome.

Marek smiled and responded, raising his glass.
“Omnia audere!”

They all shouted approval and drank again. Jollity reigned: it was five years since the brothers had last been united. Wulf might not be the only one heading for a Magnus-sized hangover.

It was Otto who brought them back into the shadows. “But, Brothers—and new Sister—the Dominican’s death is going to bring real trouble. You said they were using Voices to force you to put on that iron bit, Marek. But a bystander wouldn’t have seen that, would he? It would look like you were doing it voluntarily.”

“Not ‘Voices,’” Marek said. “Lodnicka doesn’t need to Speak aloud. Nor does Wulf, now. They’re both top-rank, um, Speakers. But I know what you mean.”

Otto nodded. “A court of law would say that Wulf was the aggressor. I don’t think that, but the law will. He heard the priest speak behind the door and shot him through it in cold blood.”

“They’ll have trouble making a case at all,” Marek protested. “How can they explain these events without revealing the Church’s own use of Satanism? I expect they’ll think up something, but it’ll take time.”

“Yesterday Cardinal Zdenek told me he could protect Wulf from the Church, but it was a very conditional offer. Wulf must defend Castle Gallant against the Wends without Speaking so anybody can notice. Killing friars was not discussed. The Church will now be howling for Wulf’s blood.”

“It was an accident,” Wulf said innocently. “I didn’t mean to shoot the quarrel at the door.”

“My lords?” Madlenka murmured and five pairs of eyes swung toward her.

“Yes, my dear?” Anton frowned, as if he hadn’t known she was capable of speech.

“Havel Vranov has been a Wend-killer all his life; he hunted them down like vermin. Then a few months ago he started consorting with
this Orthodox priest who’s supposed to be a distant cousin, but is certainly on the Wends’ side. Do you suppose that Vilhelmas was an evil genius, bewitching him? Now that he’s dead, will Vranov come back to his senses and repent?”

They all looked to Marek, the expert on Speaking, but he looked blank. “I can’t tell you. But let’s hope so!”

After a moment Otto said, “Day before yesterday, Wulf, you told me that you had to Speak aloud to your Voices. Now Marek says you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.” Wulf did not want to admit that his Voices would not answer him now. “So what I can do is not Speaking, strictly speaking. I don’t know what it is. It’s not witchcraft!”

“Can you prove that?” Vlad demanded. Incredibly, he still sounded almost sober.

“God hears if we pray to him in silence.”

Even Otto was looking doubtful now. “Joan of Arc always insisted that her Voices came from God.”

“So will I, if the Church ever puts me on trial. I’m telling you all this because you’re my brothers and sister-in-law and I trust you. If you don’t want me here, just say so and I’ll be gone in a flash.” He did not look at Madlenka.

“Have you worked out why Joan could lift a siege of a city and yet couldn’t rescue herself from a jail?”

“No,” Wulf said unhappily. “Maybe it’s like all the fairy tales, and we only get so many wishes.” Last night again he had dreamt of fighting the Pomeranian army single-handed and his powers disappearing in the middle of the battle.

“So you can work miracles?” Vlad said. “Show us.”

A wine flagon rose from the table beside his chair and floated across to Wulf. He refilled his goblet from it and sent it back. There was a long silence while the others stared at one another. Finally the big warrior laughed and raised his wine in a toast. “To St. Wolfcub!”

Wulf wiped his mouth. The wine was not as good as Dobkov’s. “So, Brother,” he told Otto, “if you’ve enjoyed your visit to Castle Gallant and would like to return to the arms of your loving wife, I’d be happy to arrange the journey for you.”

“Ha!”
Vlad roared. “He can’t go! Tell them the news, Brother Baron.”

Otto scowled at him in disgust. “Vladislav, you’re a blabbering bone-skull.” From him, that was a stinging rebuke.

“It’s long past bedtime,” Anton said, rising to his full height. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, as Father Czcibor always says.” He held out a hand to Madlenka.

Evidently she could be trusted with Satanism but not with whatever the other news was. The rest of the men rose also.

“Don’t run away yet, Beanpole,” Vlad said. “You still have some explaining to do.”

“You go ahead, my love. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Just for a moment, Wulf saw a flicker in Madlenka’s eyes, but then she accepted the dismissal with a humility that he was certain must be costing her dearly. Anton’s Madlenka might be a kitten, but the one Wulf knew was not. She curtseyed to the company and departed.

Anton closed the door he had held for her, then leaned back against it.

“You great blabbering ox!” he snapped. “I do not want panic in the town!” He was being Count Magnus of Cardice, lord of the marches, clad in awesome authority.

Unimpressed, Vlad just chuckled. “But our miracle workers have a right to know. Listen, little brothers. Here’s the worst news yet. Before our noble count could carry his bride off to the conjugal chamber, Otto and I backed him into a corner and threatened to break his legs if he didn’t tell us the real reason the
landsknechte
left town.”

“Plague,” Marek said softly. He smiled his wan little smile at them.

Appalled, Wulf flopped down on the hob again. Lord have mercy!
Pestilence?
Then no one was safe. Even Madlenka.

“Midge is calling you a liar, Beanpole,” Vlad said angrily. “You told us you hadn’t told anyone at all before we got it out of you!”

“Knowing Marek,” Otto said, “I expect he worked it out with Aristotelean logic. Father always warned us that he was the smart one.”

Marek smiled at the compliment. “Why else would a mercenary band run away from certain money? The
landsknechte
wouldn’t even have been in serious danger in a siege, because Gallant’s a unique stronghold in that it always has an escape hatch on the other side. A threat of plague was the only possible explanation.”

“Bribery would be another,” Vlad grumbled.

“But the way Wulf described it, they made no attempt to bargain and play one side off against another. And when we arrived this morning, Anton was pleased to see all of us except Otto. He has a family. The rest of us can take our chances, but if he takes pestilence back to Dobkov the whole Magnus line could be wiped out.”

“Why?” Wulf snapped. “Why did you keep this news quiet?”

Anton shrugged. “I was told of one woman with a lump in her armpit. She died. That doesn’t make an epidemic. I don’t want my people fleeing out into the moors with winter coming on.”

“Was she by any chance in the infirmary while I was there?”

“I don’t know. We must pray to Our Lady that it was a false alarm and we shall be spared that horror.”

“Amen to that,” Otto said, “but meanwhile I can’t go home. I don’t even dare write a letter and ask Wulf to deliver it. Anything a pestilence victim has touched or breathed on can spread the disease.”

“I don’t believe it!” Vlad proclaimed. “If the trollop really died of plague, half the town would be sick by now. Half the town might be
dead
by now!”

“Possible,” Marek said, still quietly—he had learned long ago not to contradict his biggest brother directly. “But they say a town can’t be certain the pestilence has ended until forty days have passed without a new case. We have thirty-seven days to wait. After that you can go home, Otto.”

“A lot of people have left town already,” Anton said. “Scared away by Count Bukovany’s death, the threat of war, the
landsknechte
’s flight. If even one of them is carrying the pestilence, it’ll be all over Jorgary by spring.”

“Don’t forget that stupid curse tonight!” Vlad boomed. He was showing the effects of the wine at last.

“Right. On Vlad’s advice,” Anton said. “I’ve ordered the gates locked. Nobody’s leaving now.”

Heads nodded in approval.

Vlad explained. “I don’t believe for a moment that Havel Vranov came here to play with puppies. He came here to frighten everyone. He brought the silk and the puppy along as gifts in case he was made welcome, but his real reason was to make that spectacular exit. It was simple terrorism.”