When the Saints (16 page)

“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.

“It has happened before. Our blazonries are not unalike.” Wulf turned back to his companion to continue his conversation.

The man-at-arms reined in, and no doubt sat on his horse for a while, staring in confusion as the mysterious doppelgänger continued on his journey.

Lesson learned: to tweak people you must speak aloud. Wulf’s hands were shaking, much to his annoyance. Yet that had been a damnably near miss, for there were more than enough men-at-arms within hailing distance to rally to a hue and cry. He and Sybilla could have escaped into limbo, of course, but the resulting public outcry would have violated the first commandment and alerted the Pomeranians to his snooping. He was both relieved and ashamed to see that Sybilla looked shaken also. But she was also staring at him.

“Thanks for the help,” he said in what he meant to be a comforting tone of voice. “That was quite a close one.”

“Idiot!” she said. “Imbecile! Half-wit! Why didn’t you tweak him right away? The longer you give him to think, the firmer his thoughts set. Have you any idea of the trouble you might have caused? You expect the Saints to protect you when you run around like a drunken porter, creating scenes, performing miracles? Maybe they’ll overlook all those murders and things you did yesterday—although I wouldn’t count on that if I were you—but now that Justina’s told you the rules, you’ve got to obey them, or they’ll wash their hands of you and let the Church have you.”

“They will? Who’s ‘they’?”
Which saints? Helena and Victorinus?

“The Saints, of course! You realize they may even blame me if you create a disturbance, for not stopping you? You may have ruined my contract! Stupid cretin!”

“What contract?” Wulf asked. “Marriage contract?”
And which saints?

Sybilla had gone from pale to brick-red and was almost spitting her words. “
Marriage?
You think that’s all a woman’s good for, don’t you, you stupid, ignorant man! No, I do not mean a marriage contract! The dean of the College of Cardinals does not waste his time with trivia like marriage contracts. You are as dull as a workaday, really you are!”

She wheeled the astonished Balaam, kicking furiously. The old horse lumbered into a run and carried her off toward the river until they both vanished into the driving snow. Wulf made no effort to stop her. She could look after herself, and Justina was probably keeping an eye on her anyway. He hoped she would take ce wy bare of the courser. Otto would be furious if anything happened to his old battlefield comrade.

Meanwhile Wulf was now free to complete his spying mission. He wasn’t going to be able to take it much farther. The road had left the main valley and entered a smaller one, which was rapidly becoming even narrower. The river was close now, and this was undoubtedly the start of the gorge. Traffic had come to a complete stop and men—and some women—were milling about, shouting and complaining. Distant sounds of chopping and hammering indicated that the army was pitching camp not very far away, probably because there would not be enough room to do so in the gorge itself. Without doubt the Dragon would be somewhere in that mêlée, perhaps even beyond it.

To plunge into such congestion would be foolish, if it were even possible to get very far at the moment. There would be more men to recognize Count Szczecin’s heraldry, and if the duke had brought any Speakers at all with him, there would be at least one of them chaperoning the Dragon. The Wends must know as well as the Jorgarians did that the bombard was the queen on the chessboard. Wulf had achieved all he could hope to do here and now. Perhaps after dark, if the snow continued, he might return on foot.

Before turning back, he rose in his stirrups to study the view. What had especially caught his eye was a line of three wagons not very far ahead, coming to a halt at the near end of the traffic jam. There might even be more than three, for the flying snow was thick now. They were very heavily guarded, with a troop of ducal cavalry at their rear and a line of hussars along each side; certainly there would be another squad out in front. What cargo could be so valuable that it needed such an escort in the middle of the Pomeranian army? Whatever it was, the loads were heavily draped in canvas or leather, painted red. He thought he could make out the shapes of barrels underneath, but it would be impossible to get close enough to pry. The duke’s personal effects? His wine stock? Why were they red?

He had done all he could for now. It was time to turn Copper around and retrace his hoofprints to some unobserved spot, then to Castle Gallant.

CHAPTER
13

Justina had settled in her favorite place, the yard outside her cottage in Avlona. The situation was too dire for wine; she had brought out a bottle of genuine cognac, not bothering with a glass.

Her life had not been one long parade of triumphs, although she had chalked up enough of them to have gained a mythic reputation within the Saints. “Let Justina try” had been a popular motto twenty or thirty years ago. Failures had been rare, but this time everything had gone wrong.

She should never have let Lady Umbral talk her into this mad Castle Gallant venture. She was too old for fieldwork. She was too old even to offer advice, and when she had officially retired five years ago, she had sworn never to leave Avlona again, no matter how grave the shortage of reliable Speakers became. But she soon discovered that she was not yet old enough to sink into the prying dotage that claimed so many Speakers, who often wound up mummifying in cobwebby corners, alternately dozing and spying on everyone they knew.

Then Sybilla, Umbral’s daughter by d’Estouteville, had started hearing Voices, and Justina had let herself be talked into taking the girl on as a brancher. It had been a great compliment to her skills as a handler, honed on almost a dozen kids since the start of the century. Sybilla had turned out to be quite a handful, but good company for an ancient hermitess, and there was a cautious streak behind her wildness, which Justina had done all she could to encourage. A handler’s duties were not hard: a few lectures, a lot of language lessons, and firsthand experience of all the important cities of Europe. Now the job was done, and well done, for in a few days a new Speaker would be formally fledged and royally jessed.

Swallows and storks were long gone, and a honking V of geese was heading southward overhead. It must be about time for this falcon to go too, to turn in her broomstick, as the Saints said. About time to learn if a Speaker could find salvation. Justina took a long swig from the bottle and gave herself a coughing fit. Her hacking angered her, for it ruined her mood of genteel melancholy.

Wulfgang and Sybilla had split up, each riding alone in the snowstorm. Judging by the way Sybilla kept peering around her, she was preparing to open a gate the moment she was sure of being unobserved. Wulfgang was still interested in the traffic, seeking people out, rather than trying to avoid them.

Tragedy! The boy had so much promise, and it was all to be wasted. Without the Saints’ help he was doomed, and Umbral was steadfast in her refusal to take up his cause. Why hadn’t Zdenek called for the Saints’ help just one day earlier, so this appalling mess could have been avoided?

Although Umbral and Justina were distantly related, the relationship was by marriage, so Sybilla’s talent had not come from the Magnus line. The Magnus line was in serious trouble now.

Sybilla stepped out of limbo, shedding snow and her damp cloak. “Oo, that nephew of yours!” she said. “If the devil came for Wulf, he would kick him in the balls. Yummy! Will I find men like him in Paris?”

Justina pulled herself together enough to smile. “If you search a very long time you may, but don’t count on it.”

“Did you talk with Mother?”

“I mostly listened.”

Justina’s brancher gave her a long, hard look. “What’s wrong?”

Why did good news and bad news so often come hand in hand? Why must joy tarnish like silver? Sybilla’s triumph was totally ruined for Justina by Wulfgang’s disaster.

“Nothing’s wrong, dear. Umbral said to tell you that it’s all signed and sealed. Your cadger will receive instruction tomorrow, and you will probably be jessed next Sunday. Congratulations, my dear!”

Sybilla clapped her hands, just once. Her face wore the sort of expression that goes with tasting a delicious mouthful of some favorite treat. Only a few months ago she would have shrieked with joy and behaved like a child. The jessing negotiations had dragged on for nerve-racking weeks, so almost any display of pleasure would be justified. But now she came around the table to sit beside Justina and give her a fond hug. “It is all your doing, my lady! I am more grateful than I can possibly tell you.”

“It was a pleasure, and you did all the work.”

“Nonsense. Now, what’s wrong, grandmother?”

“I am not your grandmother.”

“You’re a
great
grandmother!”

That little exchange was a joke from their first days together, but they had not used it for years. It was a sign that Sybilla looked forward to their parting with regret as well as joy, and that she was a lot more mature and perceptive than she usually pretended. Now she put a firm young hand over the old one on the table.

“So, what’s wrong?”