“It was deliberate?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“You knew that you might very well be killed?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“And what did you hope to gain?”
“I was afraid that the stag might follow the water and the dogs would lose the scent. The stream was not obvious, but I had been watching the birds and knew it was there. I had noted where it might be jumped. My horse was fresh, the hunt’s were not. I thought I might turn the stag or set the dogs on the right trail.”
“The stag was none of your business.”
“But I am new at court; I need to be noticed. I need money to help ransom my brother. Before the hunt I was a nothing. I had hope that a daring display of horsemanship might cause the crown prince to send for me later.”
“The crown prince watched his best friend break his back. His Highness wanted to hang you from the nearest oak.”
“So I heard, my lord.” Even so, by the end of the day they had all been talking about the tall young lancer. Now that the story had reached the ears of the king’s chief minister the true payoff might be at hand. Fortune favored the bold.
The cardinal made an impatient noise. “Had the baroness promised you a turn in her bed?”
“Not in words, Your Eminence. I had been told of several ladies at court who could advance a man’s career.”
“Or give him the clap. Some think that Lancer Anton Magnus is a Speaker.”
The old man’s glasses were shining again. So, very likely, was Anton’s forehead. Speakers were sinners who could talk to the devil. They could call on Satan for help.
“Dobkov has always been famous for both its horses and its horsemen, Your Eminence. One of the men following me managed to clear the stream as I did.”
“His horse broke a leg, though. Did you pray as you rode down the hill?”
Anton could be damned saying either yes or no, for a man could pray to Satan. “I commended my soul to my Maker and asked His forgiveness.” That happened to be the truth, but truth might not satisfy the tormentors.
“You have great confidence in your horsemanship, I see. Also ambition and fanatical courage.”
“It runs in the blood. No Magnus has ever run away from anything.” Most of them died young.
“They have also been noted for loyalty to the throne. If I sent you back to Dobkov with an urgent message, how soon could you get it there?”
Oh, this was a tricky one! What was emerging now? Was this it, at last? Anton sensed something moving in long grass.
“Urgent enough to kill horses?”
“Urgent enough to kill men.”
He let the silence grow, holding the old man’s gaze-his eyes were visible again. Yes, there was a challenge there, and no Magnus ever refused a challenge.
“My horsemanship is second to none, Your Eminence. If I cannot do what you need, then no man can.”
That was absolute rubbish. Anton Magnus was very, very good, but the cardinal could call on hundreds of superb riders in the Hussars.
Zdenek nodded. “What do you know of the northern marches?”
“Nothing.” Honesty had been called for.
“Do you recognize this?” The old man spread out a paper, an etching showing a fortress, a huge and dramatic fortress on a plateau. On three sides its curtain wall rimmed the edge of a sheer precipice dropping several hundred feet to a turbulent river. The back of the stronghold nestled against a high cliff face, and the only visible access was up a steep road clinging to the mountainside. Unless the artist had dreamt it, that was a castle to withstand almost anything.
“Recognize, no,” Anton said. “But if I had to guess, I would say it must be Castle Gallant.”
The cardinal’s smile was skull-like. “Correct. Brother Daniel, show our guest the way.”
Cued by a nod, Anton rose and walked over to the Franciscan, who stood up. He was tall, although not as tall as Anton, with a narrow, ascetic face and a black leather patch over his left eye. He was also young, with a dense hedge of red hair around his tonsure. He spread out a printed tract of about eight pages, right-way-round for Anton to read.
“An itinerary,” Anton said, as if any fool knew about those and he was uncertain why was he being bothered with this one.
“Correct,” the friar said in a scratchy voice. “From Mauvnik, east to Moravia. It lists towns, cities, villages, landmarks, noble houses where gentry may seek hospitality, monasteries for the rest of us, road quality, tollbooths, drinking water, fords, ferries, bridges for use in wet weather, and so on. Villages with inns and fairs are mentioned. Here is Dobkov and the ancestral home of the Magnuses. You probably followed an itinerary much like this one on your journey here
…?”
He waited for a reply. Was this a literacy test? Fortunately Anton’s eye picked out a name he knew. “Putovat? Had a very fine church.”
“St. Vaclav’s?”
“Didn’t get near enough to ask. I was shadowing a dangerous-looking bull. Is this relevant?”
The friar smiled bloodlessly. “Only inasmuch as Dobkov is shown as being ten days’ journey from Mauvnik. More or less, of course. Itineraries’ travel times are more faith than deed.” He laid it aside and produced another. “Now, this one shows the way north from Mauvnik and on through Pomerania via the Silver Road. The last entry in Jorgary is Castle Gallant, in the county of Cardice, which happens to be shown exactly ten days away, as was Dobkov. May the Lord have mercy on all who travel.”
“Bring that back here and sit down,” the cardinal said from the far side of the room.
Anton obeyed, calculating that he could, if really motivated-meaning offered a hundred florins or more-ride home to Dobkov in less than a week. Three days, using post horses on dry roads. But this was late in the year. Weather would be critical. Daylight and moonlight… Even before he sat down, Zdenek began speaking again.
“Lords of the northern marches are charged with keeping out Wend raiders. If they can’t keep them out, they are expected to retaliate-hunt them down on their own territory and make examples of them. It is a wild and bloody land.”
Anton nodded. He knew that much. Several historical Magnuses were buried up there, having failed to live long enough to be anybody’s ancestors.
“The northern marches comprise four counties. Pelrelm is by far the largest and Cardice the smallest. You may ignore Kipalban and Gistov, which are irrelevant in this instance. Pelrelm is so mountainous that it is good only for raising fighting men and cattle. The count of Pelrelm can muster about two thousand men-at-arms, and probably mount them after a fashion. Cardice is barely more than one fertile valley and a fortress, Castle Gallant. The only town of any size is Gallant itself.
“So Cardice is small, yes, but it owns a profitable lead mine and the fortress guards the Silver Road to the north. The keeper levies a toll on the traders passing through. He has few followers of his own, but he can hire mercenaries when necessary. Are you with me?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” Pelrelm’s hill men might assemble much faster than Cardice could find mercenaries for hire, but a good mercenary force, well trained and made up of pikemen and mounted archers in roughly equal numbers, would be far more effective, man for man.
“Now it gets complicated.” The cardinal spoke slowly, as if he found explaining things to hussars a painful exercise. “Castle Gallant belongs to the king, but the office of keeper has been held by members of the Bukovany family for so many generations that it has become virtually hereditary.” The snowy beard writhed in disapproval of such careless mismanagement of a royal resource. “Admittedly, they have always been loyal and usually efficient. Last summer, Count Stepan sent his son, Petr Bukovany, here to court to ask for recognition as his father’s heir. He made a good impression. The king knighted him and granted his petition.”
Meaning that Zdenek had approved of him. The old king was past caring, from all accounts. He would sign anything the cardinal put in front of him.