Speak to the Devil

CHAPTER 3

The brothers’ billet was an attic in the slum area, Lower Mauvnik. It was smelly and cramped and the roof leaked. It would be an icehouse in winter and an oven in summer, and Anton could not stand upright there, even without his hussar hat. The old couple who lived in the fourth-floor room below it feared and hated all soldiers, but the pittance the king paid them to billet two men in their loft was probably their only income. The open steps were almost as steep as a ladder and creaked monstrously, so Anton made no effort to be quiet when he entered, although the relics were still abed in the dark. He climbed through the trap at the top, closed it, and carefully set his hat on the solitary chair.

A bed too narrow for two, a rickety chest of drawers, and a small table completed the furnishings, and the plank floor was carpeted by the clothes and domestic litter of two young men unable to afford servants. Being a count in a great castle was going to be a big step up.

Wulf was standing in the dormer, having opened the shutter to let in the first rays of daylight. He was shirtless, but seemed unaware of the cold, and he was shaving, which he did every day, although he was too fair to show much in the way of stubble.

Anton flopped down on the bed. “Sorry I forgot your birthday last week, Wulf.”

“You are forgiven. I forgot it too. It’s not exactly a major festival.”

“You feeling better today?”

“I’m well.”

He had been tortured by a pounding headache yesterday morning. Possibly in the evening too; Anton had forgotten to ask. He still sounded upset. Commands from a lancer to his varlet would not work in the current situation. Careful negotiation was required.

“What’s gnawing your ass, then?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying. I’ve got important news and we’ve got to hurry, so spit it out, sonny.”

Wulf turned around, his face shining with the oil he used to lubricate the razor. “You don’t know? Really?”

“Really.”

“Just that the next time you try to commit suicide, don’t expect me to stop you, all right? It’s my soul you risk and my head you hurt. I hope your palace trollop was worth it, but from now on you can enlist your bawds by yourself.”

Despite the bitterness in the words, he spoke them softly. No matter how far he was provoked, Wulf never raised his voice. On the rare occasions when he was pushed too far, the first warning was the impact of his fist on the offender’s face.

“Your soul?” Anton protested. “I never asked you to Speak. I didn’t know you had Spoken until you told me yesterday. I thought Morningstar and I did that jump all by ourselves.”

“Truly?” Wulf’s yellow eyes glinted. “There I was, comfortably sitting on wet grass eating some noble leftovers in the company of six ignorant churls and a million horseflies, making eyes at a young nursemaid just on principle, when I see you waving for me to come running. The which I then do, anxious lest you need your nose wiped, and you say only, ‘Pray for me!’ Straightaway, you spur your horse down the side of a cliff and into an impossible double jump.”

“It wasn’t impossible!”

“Yes it was. And you knew what sort of prayer you were asking for.”

Anton sighed. “I suppose I did sort of hint. But I was going to try it anyway, and if my survival was your doing, or your saints’ doing, then I’m very grateful. What did you actually do, by the way? After I left?”

“I fell on my knees and begged St. Victorinus to preserve you.”

“Aloud?”

“It doesn’t work otherwise.”

Who else ever prayed to St. Victorinus? Who but Wulf had ever heard of St. Victorinus? Obviously Wulf’s odd behavior had been noted and reported, so Zdenek had known all along that it was Anton’s brother who was the Speaker. At the end, when the cardinal had tricked Anton into admitting that he would have to take Wulf along to Cardice, that had been mere confirmation.

“Perfectly natural behavior. You saw me careering downhill like that, so of course you appealed to Our Lady to save me. There was no one close enough to hear what you actually said.”

“I just hope you’re right,” Wulf said skeptically and went back to shaving.

Anton decided that a little more sincerity was required. “Wulf, I know it wasn’t fair of me. It was an impulse. I saw a chance to catch the eye of people who matter in this kingdom. It was for both our sakes. And for Vlad, too, remember! This town swarms with fine horsemen, but riding’s the only skill I have that could get me promoted.”

“You told me that swiving would,” Wulf said scornfully.

“It did.”

“Really? She does have influence at court?”

“Well, let me show you!” Anton dug in the satchel. “The baldric of a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav… a marshal’s baton… letters patent making me a count.”

His brother hooted. “By the blood, you must be almost as good as you say you are! Better than good-you must be stupendous! So you humped your way into a singing role in the next court masque?” Still laughing, the kid turned his back to continue his ordeal with the razor. Now that he had blown off his anger, the incident was closed. He had never carried grudges, fortunately, despite innumerable excuses provided by four older brothers.

So far so good, except that Anton would now have to reopen the wound.

He said, “Listen. We must be quick. I’ve got Morningstar and Sparrow downstairs, all ready to go.”

“Go where?”

Anton spread out the engraving. “Do you know where this is?”

Wulf glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Castle Gallant. I’ve seen a print of it before.”

“It’s mine now,” Anton said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. The antiquities below were both deaf and the floor was surprisingly solid and soundproof, but he was going to be revealing state secrets. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the Scarlet Spider himself. He’s given me a job. Given us a job, I mean. There’s bad trouble brewing in the north. The Wends are massing to invade and they’ve blindsided him, although he didn’t admit that. He thinks Pomerania is about to attack Castle Gallant, which holds the Silver Road. Now the keeper is dead, murdered by witchcraft, and his son also. He’s survived by-”

“You mean the army’s mustering?” Wulf spun around, eyes bright. “We’re riding north?”

“Not the army, just us. Stop leering, you idiot! I’m serious. These things are all genuine: baldric, marshal’s baton… letters patent creating His Majesty’s ‘dear and right trusty’ Anton Magnus-that’s me, believe it! — Count Magnus of Cardice… Here’s His Majesty’s permission and requirement that I marry the daughter, Madlenka. So what do you think of that?”

Wulf snapped the razor closed and laid it down. He wiped his face with his rag. All the while his golden, lupine eyes stared hard at Anton. He stepped over some dirty dishes so that he was standing close, looking down.

“Just like the fairy tales? ‘…gave him the princess’s hand in marriage and half the kingdom and they all lived happily ever after’? But nobody heard me Speak to my Voices? Pure coincidence. Happens all the time.”

“All right!” Anton roared. “So I cheated a little. What matters is that it worked! The king needs us! Zdenek needs us!”

“You say ‘us’? What exactly do we have to do?”

“We have to ride like the devil to Castle Gallant. I marry the girl, take command of the troops, clean out the traitors, and hold the fort in the king’s name.”

“Ride like the devil?” Wulf repeated in a soft whisper. He took up his shirt from the bed. “Why us? You swore an oath, Brother. The day the Dominicans took Marek away, Father made all of you swear on the hand of St. Ulric never to tell anyone that I could Speak too. You all swore not to reveal that secret by word or deed, by omission or commission. You pledged your immortal soul, Anton Magnus, Count Nothing.”

“I have not revealed it, nor told anyone.” Anton realized that Wulf might well be building up to a fight. It was almost a year since they’d last had a roughhouse, and Wulf had won that one.

The golden eyes did not blink and the voice stayed low, but that meant nothing. “So why did the Spider decide to send you, only you, of all the king’s men? He asked you because of what happened at the hunt on Friday. Did he tell you to take me along?”

“No.”

“Did you say you would?” Wulf said, tipping his head sideways.

Anton squirmed. He rarely won arguments with his young brother, and it would be useless to threaten him. Straight orders had been working since they signed up in the hussars, and a sharp cuff to the ear used to, but none of those would serve this time.

“Wulfgang, I am asking you very humbly to make an exception, just this once.”

“No. You think I want to be locked up for the rest of my life? Or tortured? Burned at the-”

Grovel time. “But this is the most incredible chance for all of us, Wulf! I get a wife rich enough to ransom Vlad. Otto won’t have to sell off any of the family lands. And you can have anything you have ever wanted, anything my wealth can buy. I swear! You can be my constable, or master of horse, or go to Vienna to study medicine, as you talked of last year. Or Padua, or Rome.”

“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 right, 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.