Speak to the Devil bm-1 Read online

  Anton could remember Ottokar and Vladislav discussing political and military messes like this one. He wished that he had paid more attention, but he doubted that any of their examples had ever been quite this bad.

  “So the nearest ally may not be much better than the enemy?”

  “You may indeed find yourself between the dogs and the wolves. This cannot be described as an easy mission, Lancer Magnus. If you arrive to find the Wends already in possession of Castle Gallant, then you will very likely die. If you arrive before that, you may still be overwhelmed despite the best that you or anyone could do.”

  And still no price had been mentioned. What would his father have said? That salty old campaigner had said many things that might be pertinent in this instance. Anton chose the most polite. “Then the prize must balance the risk.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “Five florins and Your Eminence’s favor.”

  The fiery eyes flashed. “Insolent young devil! If you won’t haggle, then neither will I.” The cardinal beckoned to Brother Daniel, who brought over a black leather satchel. Zdenek began to fish out its contents, laying them on the table for Anton to see. First came a sash of cloth-of-gold, as wide as a man’s hand, bearing emblems of a crown and a cross embroidered in pearls. “The baldric of a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav-it gives you precedence immediately after the royal family.” Next was a baton, decorated with bands of gold and jewels in colors like butterflies. “From recruit to marshal of the army in less than two weeks? You will be the talk of all Christendom.”

  Parchment scrolls followed, with royal seals dangling. “Your honorable discharge from the hussars… letters patent creating you Count Magnus of Cardice and lord of the marches… your commission, promoting you to marshal, and appointing you keeper of the fortress… and the king’s warrant requiring all his subjects to aid you in your present mission.” The cardinal chuckled dryly. “You should, of course, be dubbed knight in proper form, but a humble man of the cloth like me must not wield a sword. I shall send the crown prince to Cardice to do it next summer, after you have secured the border.

  “And this edict says that you may, and will, marry Madlenka Bukovany, who is now an orphan child of one of His Majesty’s tenants-in-chief, and thus a royal ward in chancery. Marriage will let you get your hands into the Bukovany money chests and that will make your brother’s ransom seem like small change.”

  The cardinal raised his eyebrow horns. He was probably amused by Anton’s state of shock. The lancer’s mouth felt drier than mummy dust. An earldom? No Magnus had ever reached such heights; he was barely twenty years old and had never seen a battle. After a moment he looked across at the shining eyeglasses and found his voice. “You do know how to inspire a man, Your Eminence.”

  The old man sneered. “It is cheap trash to His Majesty-paper and wax, a ribbon, and a piece of wood? If you die, Anton Magnus, you will have lost what is most precious of all, life itself, while the king will have lost very little. If you succeed, you may become founder of one of the great families of the realm, the Magnuses of Cardice, and that will be a worthy reward. I am relying on you to maintain your family’s long and splendid reputation for loyalty and service.”

  No, he wasn’t. Anton wished that were the case, but he was sure that Zdenek was actually relying on the family’s long and shameful record of producing Speakers. He did not want a courier, or even a warrior. Alexander the Great himself would not suffice. He wanted a Speaker. He wanted witchcraft. He thought Anton could call on the devil to help him reach Castle Gallant in record time and counter the Wendish Satanist who had cursed the Bukovanys.

  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 ra
re 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-”

  “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 sig
n 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.