When the Saints

CHAPTER 31

When he was eight years old, Herkus had lied about his age and won a job as a stableboy for the bishop. At fourteen he had been doubling as waiter and bouncer in a tavern. One night he broke up a four-way fight single-handed-wielding, it must be admitted, a stout ax handle-and thus caught the eye of Sir Karolis Kavarskas, who was then the constable. Kavarskas promptly enrolled him in the palace guard.

Since there was already one Herkus in the guard, the two were at first distinguished as Young Herkus and Old Herkus. But Old Herkus was the smallest man in the company, while Young Herkus was already one of the largest and still growing almost visibly, so they rapidly became Big Herkus and Little Herkus, respectively. Any man who mixed them up had to buy the drinks.

Now Little Herkus was twenty-two and had been enjoying life heartily until the previous day. He had a wife, a child, and another on the way, plus a very cuddlesome mistress, a woman of boundless bounce and enthusiasm. The war had provided even more excitement, with Herkus managing to kill a Pelrelmian brute during the south gate skirmish this afternoon. Sir Vladislav had congratulated him personally. Herkus really ought to be in there celebrating that victory tonight. Everyone else was celebrating. But Herkus was on sentry duty at the upper door.

The upper door, on the third floor of the keep, was connected by a drawbridge to the walkway atop the city wall. In peacetime the bridge stayed down and the door was locked at night, guarded by day. After the new count put the castle on war footing, the drawbridge had been raised every night. No need to do that tonight, Master Sergeant Jachym had declared, but the gate should be guarded, and man-at-arms Little Herkus was just the two men to do it. All alone, and apparently all night. Jachym promised he would come around, personally and very often, to make sure he was still there. If he wasn’t, then it would be fifty lashes and a dishonorable discharge. Or possibly the new count would hang him, like he’d hanged Kavarskas.

By midnight, Jachym was still coming around, still sober, and the penalty had gone up to a hundred lashes and discharge. Unfortunately, yesterday Jachym had somehow learned the identity of his wife’s lover. Herkus, he said, was going to stay there until his rammer froze and fell off.

That began to seem quite likely. Herkus was frozen through to the core. Snow came and went, but the wind never stopped, and the porch where he had to stand was steadily drifting in. He had no gloves, and his boots were thin. Meanwhile, the town roared: bel ls, trumpets, drunken singing. There was a huge party going on inside the keep itself, tantalizingly audible to Herkus even through the six-inch oaken door. Every now and again men would come out to relieve themselves over the edge of the bridge in the hope of scoring on someone walking on the road below, but no one was out in the streets tonight. They all laughed at the snowman sentry.

Fortunately, a couple of the other men-at-arms took pity on him when he showed them how his fingers had turned white, threatening frostbite. They went and brought out a brazier, so at least he could warm his hands. Jachym was sure to remove it on his next visit, so Herkus leaned his pike against the wall and held both hands close above the coals. He could barely feel the heat.

Thus he had his back to the drawbridge and was bent over when a steel-clad arm across his face dragged his head up. The knife at his throat was cold as ice and burned like fire. He had barely time to realize what was happening, or why the brazier was suddenly spluttering and steaming, before sentry and brazier toppled over together, into the scarlet snow.