But Anton Magnus wasn’t a Speaker. He had called on neither saint or demon for aid in jumping the stream.
“Well?” Zdenek demanded. “I cannot promise much else: a few hundred hussars at most, and not for thirty or forty days, even if the weather holds. They have all gone home, you see-officers for the hunting and men for the grape harvest. You are the only card I have to play. Do you accept?”
“Certainly I accept.”
The old man truly smiled, for the first time. It looked very much like a smile of relief. “You are insane, young man, but I salute you.”
“Our family motto is Omnia audere, and I will not be unworthy of it.”
The cardinal chuckled. “A humanist hussar? My, what is the world coming to? And how do you construe that apothegm, scholar? ‘To risk everything’?”
“It means, ‘I dare any odds!’”
“Close enough. Well, I doubt if any of your ancestors has even faced odds like these-one man against the devil and the entire Pomeranian army. Put your trust in God, my son, not mottoes. Brother Daniel, is it dawn yet?”
The friar peered behind a drape. “Half light, Eminence.”
“Then you needs be on your way, Lord Magnus, to dare all. Any questions?”
“How old is my bride, Madlenka Bukovany?”
“Ah, how could I leave out the most important part? Seventeen. Petr called her both a hellion, which is a judgment not unexpected from a brother, but also a great beauty, which is.” The old man jingled a leather bag. “Gold for your journey.” He began repacking the satchel. “You may need this engraving. May Our Lord and all His angels preserve you. Your varlet can gather your possessions and return them to Dobkov.”
“I shall need my… I shall take my brother with me,” Anton said. He saw no reaction from the cardinal, but he realized at once that he had let his guard down too soon and stepped into a trap. He had betrayed Wulf’s dread secret. Yet he could not help thinking that it might turn out for the best, later.
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-”