“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.