When the Saints

CHAPTER 12

Castle Gallant’s stables were far smaller than Dobkov’s and now they were almost deserted, for half the Gallant herd had been taken prisoner when the Wends captured the Long Valley outpost. Wulf stepped out of an empty stall. He had hoped that there would be no hands present, but two young boys were busily shoveling. They looked up in surprise as he approached.

“I’m Squire Wulfgang,” he said. “The count’s brother. Saddle up Copper and Balaam for me. Right away.”

They would never argue with a nobleman, and were too young to ask where he thought he was going when both gates were besieged. Happy to be useful while forced to miss out on the war, th ~

Copper was glad to see him, assuming that Wulf had come to rescue him from the noisome cell and take him out to run over the hills. Balaam, Otto’s old courser, had disliked Wulf ever since an afternoon seven years ago when Wulf had ridden him on a bet, much to Balaam’s disgust and Otto’s astonishment. That feat had won him the first florin he ever owned, and the years since had been kinder on the boy than the steed. Now Balaam was practically dog food and Wulf was… Wulfgang was whatever Wulfgang was now. Even yesterday he had worried about controlling more than one horse on a trip through limbo. Now he knew better. As Sybilla had implied, anything was possible to a Speaker.

– Calm, he told Balaam. Be happy! The old warrior raised his ears and put away his teeth. Wulf patted his neck and didn’t lose a finger. He had achieved his first tweak! He ought to take his own advice, though, because his heart was thumping much faster than a Magnus heart was supposed to thump. For the first time in his life he was going forth to meet a foe.

When all was ready, he vaulted onto Copper’s back and accepted Balaam’s reins. He dropped a coin into an eager hand. “That’s the only one I’ve got on me,” he said. “Share it, half each.”

He rode off with shrill thanks ringing in his ears. The bailey was almost deserted, but not quite, and it was overlooked by many windows. He rode across to the dark tunnel that led out to the street.

Except in his case. He made it lead out to Long Valley, emerging in an icy blast of wind in the pinewood where he had stood when Marek shot down Vilhelmas-was that only last night? It felt like weeks ago. The log wall of the barracks building was behind him, windowless on this side. The horses whinnied and he calmed them with a thought as he reined in. There was no one near to observe, no smoke emerging from the chimney. The air smelled less of pine sap than it had in the night, more of mud and animals. Peace had given way to the squeal of axles and familiar torrents of abuse from teamsters driving ornery beasts over rough ground.

The scenery beyond the pine grove had changed since last night, too. Tents and pavilions had gone. Now steady processions of oxcarts and horse-drawn wagons were creaking by on either side of the trees, heading north. About as many empties were going south, suggesting that the Wends were still ferrying in men and supplies over the lake. And they must be Wends. Count Pelrelm could never raise an army of this size. He might be in league with them, but they were not his own men. Wipe one theory off the slate.

Sybilla materialized alongside Balaam and pouted down in disgust at the needle-filled mud under her pretty shoes. The old horse barely flickered an ear. Before Wulf could dismount to help her, she slid a foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle in a flaming whirl of cloth of gold and a flash of her halo. She shot Wulf a smile of triumph and expertly adjusted the stirrup leathers. Suitably impressed by the cardinal’s daughter, he passed her the reins.

“Your brothers think you’re in league with the devil,” she said, smirking. ng. iv›

Of course they did. He had seen the fear in their eyes. Even Otto hadn’t been able to hide it. They thought they were putting their own souls in peril by accepting his aid and failing to denounce him. They were probably right.

“Am I?” he asked. “Are you?”

She laughed and tried a coquettish leer on him. “If you were, what would you do with me?”

“Chain you to a rock and send a sea monster for you.” He nudged Copper into motion and rode around the back of the building, just in case there were pickets guarding the door at the front. The barracks might be deserted now, for all he knew, but as the only permanent structure available, it might also be Duke Wartislaw’s temporary palace, if His Grace was leading his army in person.

The casque’s original owner must also have been able to see well enough in it, but Wulf could not, so he removed it and propped it against the upright burr-plate on the front of his saddle. That way he was still an obvious nobleman, but less easily recognized as an imposter. His greatest danger, after other Speakers, were Two Stags’s surviving followers.

In a few minutes the intruders came to the edge of the pine knoll, where the land sloped gently down into marshy ground, which Dali Notivova had described in graphic terms. Scabby patches of snow did little to improve its appearance, while the passage of an army had churned the rest of it into ponds and black mud. Although the many small groves of trees had not yet shed their leaves, being aspens, they were managing to shake off most of the snow. Their spindly but densely packed trunks blocked sight lines so well that it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty yards in any direction, a blessing for a man trying to avoid attention while wearing a nimbus. Having the choice of a dozen new trails, Wulf chose one at random.

Dali had mentioned snowy peaks, but now a leaden lid of cloud lay low on the valley. The wind tugged at Wulf’s tattered red cloak and drove flurries of snow in his face. He saw two troops of archers plodding along, a disorganized rabble of women and children with handcarts, many wagons piled high with hay, others laden with more women and children. Although the mob as a whole was heading north, its parts veered this way and that between the little lakes and the aspen groves, with disputes over precedence breaking out wherever two streams joined or tried to cross. Those on foot made way for the mounted nobleman and his lady, but they in turn had to find their own path around the cumbersome wagons. The fighting part of the army was presumably farther ahead, setting up a long-term camp.

“You should be paying attention to me,” Sybilla announced, riding at his side. “Not gawking around like a village idiot.”

He glanced at her incredulously. “You ought to be gawking, too. If a Wendish Speaker spots our halos, he’s going to load up his crossbow and pull the trigger faster than you can flutter an eyelash. And he won’t miss.” That was one experiment in Satanism that Wulf had allowed himself years ago-directing an arrow. Blessing it, he would call it now.

“Well, he can only fire one bolt at a time, and you’ll get the first one.”

“That’s why I’m gawking.”

Sybilla sniggered nervously, and he reminded himself that she was only a kid who liked to play at being a seductress. Since Speakers were both rare and reclusive, he might well be the first one close to her own age she had ever met, and he must seem more intriguing than an elderly Roman cardinal or his friends. Perhaps his lack of real interest in her was just encouraging her to taunt him.

Progress was slow, and he would probably have to go all the way to the front before he would have much chance of finding the Dragon. Meanwhile, there was plenty to look at, but nothing especially useful or meaningful. Likewise, Sybilla’s taunting and teasing was even less interesting than her prattling about Rome and Paris. Snow began to fall in earnest. He wondered how much daylight remained in this weather and these mountains.

He wondered who had seen him kissing Madlenka and tattled about it to Anton. Probably nobody he had even heard of, but the juicy gossip would have spread like wildfire through the castle and town.

Vlad had made it safely back to the south barbican and was standing outside the sally port, gazing back down the trail as the Pelrelmians dismantled the breastwork at the bend. So far they were not daring to come any closer. Otto’s thoughts were full of nonsensical shapes and colors, which meant he was asleep; that seemed surprising at first, but made sense on second thoughts because he had not been to bed last night and would be a logical choice to take the night watch tonight. Anton, even more surprisingly, was visiting the wounded in the infirmary in the company of Dowager Countess Edita. Who had put him up to that little demonstration of concern and gratitude? If he could concentrate on ceremonial duties, he might be recovering from his obsessive jealousy.

Sybilla said, “What’s that?”

Wulf returned his attention to Long Valley. She was pointing to her left, indicating a dray that had become thoroughly lodged in the mire, despite having a team of sixteen oxen to haul it. Men were standing around, arguing and cursing. Other wagons were detouring around it, churning up weeds, turning the snow into great puddles. The division of the road into a tangle of many braids was an advantage for a spy, in that no one could keep track of anyone else in all the confusion. It was also a hindrance, in that Wulf was quite likely to miss his objective: Dragon, the bombard. But the dray Sybilla had noticed might be it.

“Let’s go and see.” Wulf directed Copper in that direction. “Mayhap we grand folks can tender some unhelpful suggestions.”

It did occur to him that he might be growing overconfident.

Drays were low-set, flatbed wagons used for especially heavy or awkward loads, and the giant bombard would certainly qualify as that. He soon saw that the dray ahat Sheead was not the one he sought. Its deck had been divided by balks of timber into a dozen compartments, each of which held a stone ball about a cubit across. This shot was so huge it could only belong to the Dragon itself. Unlike other loads, this one had been left uncovered, for snow would not hurt stone. He tried not to imagine the Dragon’s fiery roar hurling those cannonballs half a mile into the north barbican, shattering the ashlar walls to rubble.

The loud dispute faded as the participants noted his approach. Now he could not ride by without intervening. His remark about offering unhelpful suggestions had been made in jest, but he must stay in character.

Be Anton!

Worse, be Vlad.

“Make way there!” he bellowed, bulling Copper forward into the crowd. “What’re you lazy slobs doing standing there picking lice out of your asses when you’ve got work to do?”

A gnarled bear of a man saluted. “She’s sunk axle deep, my lord!”

“I can see that, cretin! There’s an army moving past you! Commandeer another team and add it on. Two more teams! And move smartly or the duke’ll have your hide for bowstrings!”

He urged Copper forward again, scattering more men and confident that Sybilla was capable of keeping up with him. He listened with amusement to a wake of obscene suggestions following her. Once he was through the mob and she pulled level with him again, he was pleased to see that her face was flushed crimson.

“A little different from Cardinal Whatshisname’s friends?”

“Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville,” she said. “No. Just cruder. And smellier. Same intentions. Was that an unhelpful idea?”

“As unhelpful as I could come up with on the spur of the moment. They’ll be jamming up the traffic on that part of the road until dark. With luck, they’ll pull the wagon to bits.”

“And a helpful one would be…?”

“Unload half the cargo and come back for it tomorrow. The Dragon will need days to shoot all those balls, if it ever does.” Of course, unloaded balls might have sunk out of sight in the swamp, so perhaps that would have been a better suggestion for him to make. But even half the load might be enough to demolish the barbican.

A moment later he saw another dray creeping along ahead, with the same cargo. When one had made it through the bad spot, the second driver had thought he could follow, not allowing for the damage the first vehicle had caused. Or he might be less skilled. And there was yet another team farther ahead. If Wartislaw thought he needed three dozen cannonballs, then either he distrusted the Dragon’s efficacy, or he expected to besiege more castles during his conquest of Jorgary.

Those ammunition drays had been easy to identify, but most of the other loads were anonymous. Many wagons were painted in their owners’ colors and escorted by men-at-arms in matching livery, now mostly obscured by mud. Wulf could guess that those would be bringing in the silken tents, fine rugs, silver dishes, and other luxuries that great lords required and took along on campaign. And of course the army would include valets, tailors, surgeons, farriers, armorers, bowyers, cooks, paymasters, chaplains, harlots, clerks, heralds, carpenters, coopers, and at least one astrologer. Small wonder that the snow swirling in the air seemed infected by a sense of urgency. Duke Wartislaw could not keep this multitude packed into a mountain valley for very long.

Traffic was becoming thicker as the river on the left drew closer to the mountain face on the right. There were fewer tracks now, and soon they would all merge into one and become the road through the gorge. The snow was growing heavier and the light fainter as the invisible sun lost its battle with the coming storm.

“My lord! My lord! Count Szczecin!” someone was shouting behind them.

“You’ve been recognized,” Sybilla said shrilly.

Hooves made mushy noises in the mud.

“ Do not look around!” Wulf said. “You are ravishingly gorgeous and I am utterly in your spell, oblivious to anything else. What the hell do we do now?” He could put on his helmet to help conceal his face, but it would be a very odd thing to do.

She gulped and nodded. “Wait until he gets close. He’s only a workaday, so we can tweak him. You lead and I’ll back you up.”

That would fine, if only he knew how to tweak. He had no time to ask for a lesson before the horseman came alongside him.

“My lord, you’re alive!” He was a man-at-arms of middle years with a weather-beaten, mustachioed face, and a surcoat displaying twin stags. “His Grace has been desolate since the… You’re not Count Szczecin!”

Wulf turned to stare at him. He thought, I am not the man you thought I was; you made a mistake, but the man’s suspicious frown only darkened.

“That’s Count Szczecin’s casque!”

Wulf wished he was close enough to reach out and touch him. Alojz had tweaked the bishop at a greater range than this, but the bishop had been happy to have his mind changed, as Justina had explained. This man had thought he had found his lord alive after he had been reported dead, and would be chagrined to learn that he was mistaken. Wulf might have been wiser to pretend to be Count Sneeze, whatever complications that might have produced.

Then Sybilla joined in. “Fool! You are blind as well as stupid! Ho

The man’s face fell. “My lord, I am deeply sorry! I mistook you for someone else!” He glanced at the bogus surcoat and his voice trailed away into bewildered silence.

“It has happened before. Our blazonries are not unalike.” Wulf turned back to his companion to continue his conversation.

The man-at-arms reined in, and no doubt sat on his horse for a while, staring in confusion as the mysterious doppelganger continued on his journey.

Lesson learned: to tweak people you must speak aloud. Wulf’s hands were shaking, much to his annoyance. Yet that had been a damnably near miss, for there were more than enough men-at-arms within hailing distance to rally to a hue and cry. He and Sybilla could have escaped into limbo, of course, but the resulting public outcry would have violated the first commandment and alerted the Pomeranians to his snooping. He was both relieved and ashamed to see that Sybilla looked shaken also. But she was also staring at him.

“Thanks for the help,” he said in what he meant to be a comforting tone of voice. “That was quite a close one.”

“Idiot!” she said. “Imbecile! Half-wit! Why didn’t you tweak him right away? The longer you give him to think, the firmer his thoughts set. Have you any idea of the trouble you might have caused? You expect the Saints to protect you when you run around like a drunken porter, creating scenes, performing miracles? Maybe they’ll overlook all those murders and things you did yesterday-although I wouldn’t count on that if I were you-but now that Justina’s told you the rules, you’ve got to obey them, or they’ll wash their hands of you and let the Church have you.”

“They will? Who’s ‘they’?” Which saints? Helena and Victorinus?

“The Saints, of course! You realize they may even blame me if you create a disturbance, for not stopping you? You may have ruined my contract! Stupid cretin!”

“What contract?” Wulf asked. “Marriage contract?” And which saints?

Sybilla had gone from pale to brick-red and was almost spitting her words. “ Marriage? You think that’s all a woman’s good for, don’t you, you stupid, ignorant man! No, I do not mean a marriage contract! The dean of the College of Cardinals does not waste his time with trivia like marriage contracts. You are as dull as a workaday, really you are!”

She wheeled the astonished Balaam, kicking furiously. The old horse lumbered into a run and carried her off toward the river until they both vanished into the driving snow. Wulf made no effort to stop her. She could look after herself, and Justina was probably keeping an eye on her anyway. He hoped she would take ce wy bare of the courser. Otto would be furious if anything happened to his old battlefield comrade.

Meanwhile Wulf was now free to complete his spying mission. He wasn’t going to be able to take it much farther. The road had left the main valley and entered a smaller one, which was rapidly becoming even narrower. The river was close now, and this was undoubtedly the start of the gorge. Traffic had come to a complete stop and men-and some women-were milling about, shouting and complaining. Distant sounds of chopping and hammering indicated that the army was pitching camp not very far away, probably because there would not be enough room to do so in the gorge itself. Without doubt the Dragon would be somewhere in that melee, perhaps even beyond it.

To plunge into such congestion would be foolish, if it were even possible to get very far at the moment. There would be more men to recognize Count Szczecin’s heraldry, and if the duke had brought any Speakers at all with him, there would be at least one of them chaperoning the Dragon. The Wends must know as well as the Jorgarians did that the bombard was the queen on the chessboard. Wulf had achieved all he could hope to do here and now. Perhaps after dark, if the snow continued, he might return on foot.

Before turning back, he rose in his stirrups to study the view. What had especially caught his eye was a line of three wagons not very far ahead, coming to a halt at the near end of the traffic jam. There might even be more than three, for the flying snow was thick now. They were very heavily guarded, with a troop of ducal cavalry at their rear and a line of hussars along each side; certainly t here would be another squad out in front. What cargo could be so valuable that it needed such an escort in the middle of the Pomeranian army? Whatever it was, the loads were heavily draped in canvas or leather, painted red. He thought he could make out the shapes of barrels underneath, but it would be impossible to get close enough to pry. The duke’s personal effects? His wine stock? Why were they red?

He had done all he could for now. It was time to turn Copper around and retrace his hoofprints to some unobserved spot, then to Castle Gallant.