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.