Much Fall of Blood-ARC (34 page)

"And with good reason too," said one of the guards. "They were all thieves and rogues. And traitors too."

The man ignored him, and continued to address Vlad, as if they were the only two men there. "We were offered land and a charter. Now we find our charter ignored and destroyed, and our holdings, our families and our lives threatened—just for plying our trade. Where does your Highness stand on that?"

"I don't know," said Vlad smiling despite the man's effrontery. "Just what is your trade, good man?"

The two men looked at each other, smiling slightly. The stocky solid fellow slapped his own forehead. "Forgive me. I forget, your Highness. Everyone where come from knows us. We're gunsmiths, Prince Vlad. Gunsmiths from Lwów. We fled from Galicia when Prince Jagiellon killed our Prince. King Emeric's father gave us leave to settle, gave us a charter, in Harghita and Corona and the cousins in Várad. Józef Smerek is my name. This is my cousin Stanislaw. We are makers of fowling pieces, arquebuses, wheel-lock pistols. We settled here and we would continue our trade here, but now we are proscribed from doing so." There was no mistaking the fury in the man's voice at saying this.

"Smerek. They make good guns," said the guard, considerably more respectfully now.

"And there is the problem," said Stanislaw. "We make good guns. We sell them. The King's armies do not buy from us, but there are a other customers. Not too many, but others. We make good guns, and we make them not too expensive. Then someone shoots one of King Emeric's Magyar officers with one of our guns. Shoots him dead, through the armor. And they catch him, find the gun, and now we are proscribed from following the family's trade. So the family sent a delegation to King Emeric four months ago to appeal the decision."

The two looked at each other again. Vlad saw how their shoulders were set in anger, the big hands balling into fists. Eventually Stanislaw spoke. He spoke in a cold, unemotional tone, very carefully and very deliberately, as if he was controlling a volcano of rage, but barely. "He tore up our charter. Ripped it apart and threw it in the dirt. And he had Papa Stanislaw impaled for daring to question him. For our part in killing his officer we were flogged. A hundred lashes for Edward and Thaddeus. I had to watch. I was the youngest. I got only fifty lashes—he told them to leave me alive to carry the message." He lifted his shirt, and turned, revealing the keloid mass of a terrible beating. "My brother Edward died there. Cousin Thaddeus died a week later."

Vlad looked. And nodded, slowly. It might seem a ridiculous punishment for such a thing, but he too knew Emeric's reputation. On the wrong day, the wrong word could earn you that sort of treatment. And that would have been just after the King returned from his disastrous expedition to Corfu. His temper had been very, very savage just then. "Fetch us some Schnapps from Mirko," he said to the guard. Then to the two gunsmiths. "Come. Let us go and sit down and discuss the guns I wish to buy from you. And a new charter. One from me. I expect you sell your guns to me, but I will not blame the maker of the tool for the use it is put to."

Vlad noticed his men were nodding too.

The two looked at each other. "Yes, your Highness," they said warily.

"My people call me Drac. Or Sire."

Józef looked at him strangely. "Drac . . . that means demon. Or Dragon. My wife is from the mountains."

Vlad nodded. "King Emeric may find I am a demon. The Dragon guards his own treasure. This is my treasure." He waved his hand at the camp. "My land and my people. Give me your fealty and you and yours will be my treasure too. To be guarded. I will be both the demon and the dragon for you."

He was surprised to see the stocky, solid men that had looked him in the eye so firmly, suddenly kneeling in front of him. Tears were trickling down the faces of men who would not easily cry. "Drac." They said, almost in unison. Vlad found his hand being kissed.

"Józef can go back," said Stanislaw his voice cracking. "I have found my Prince. I want to be your gunsmith, Drac."

Józef patted Stanislaw gently on the shoulder. "He is the best, Drac. He has even made cannon, though we were not supposed to. That is all we want. Revenge and to be your people. To belong."

Stanislaw nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice still thick. "To belong. To have a place we can call our own again. To have a Prince who will be as loyal to us as we are to him."

Vlad reflected that he would have to go very far to find a better recruiting sergeant than King Emeric. "You will both go back," he said, raising them up. "There are patrols, and you may fall foul of them. You may need each other for support. My men will see you on your way as far as possible. I want those guns. And then, Stanislaw Smerek, you can return to be my gunsmith. I am going to need you. And you and yours are mine. I will guard you to the best of my ability. I will have your loyalty and you will have mine."

They nodded. "Drac." It was a commitment. Heart and soul.

"They will not take us alive, or cheaply," said Józef with a slight smile. "Stanislaw carries more pistols about his person than most regiments."

The knights found Bortai's cart easily enough. The bullock had pulled its stake and it took Kari a while to find it. He was a better-than-average tracker, Erik noted. He was as useful out here as he had been difficult in more civilized parts. The knights were glad that he had found it. So was Bortai, Erik noticed. It was probably all she had in the world besides a couple of ponies. Good horseflesh, but not on a par with that owned by the Ilkhan's escort. That was to be expected, naturally. Erik did not have Svanhild's eye for horse-flesh, or utter passion for it. But he did like horses, and felt that he could tell a great deal about a man and his culture, from his horse. The Illyrians were not great riding people and generally the quality of the mounts of the scouts that accompanied them had not been of the best. Not that they didn't look after their horses, or were not proud of their steeds . . . but they came across as a people who fought on foot and fled on horses. The Ilkhan's men used and loved their horses . . . but the Golden Horde came across to Erik as men who lived in the saddle, fought in the saddle, and would probably mount a horse in order to cross the street in a town.

With three rather unexceptional ponies to her name, no wonder a cart and a bullock had seemed so important to the girl. Well, his own family were not rich—the lands at Bakkaflói had always been more beautiful and wild than really productive, although they grew good sheep and tough Icelandic ponies, and the sea saw that no-one ever starved, but there were only little patches that were arable for rye and oats—so he knew what it was to be careful. And she smiled about it. She had an infectious smile, as well as a happy laugh—frequently, it seemed, when he was there. Erik was glad for her, although it gave him a pang of guilt. He'd never really thought he would enjoy listening to any woman's laughter again, after Svanhild. Svan had been quite a serious girl, most of the time. Except—he blushed, remembering—when he tickled her.

* * *

Finding the cart intact—and the bullock too, was a relief to Bortai. It meant that she could implement the second phase of her plan. With Kildai safely hidden in the cart, there was a chance that she could fool—or at least insert doubts into the minds of some of the Raven clan, that the boy who looked like Kildai, was in fact him, and up and about. There was of course one problem. He looked like Kildai. He ran like Kildai. But he did not ride like him.

She had to come up with an answer for that. But finding the cart, bullock and the things they had had to abandon was something to smile about to the tall blonde Knight. Her betrothed. She had to laugh a little. If that story got among the clan! And it was rather appealing and amusing the way he looked puzzled when she laughed at him. She felt slightly guilty. He had blushed so today. She chuckled to herself, a gurgle of welcome laughter. It had been rather pleasant to play such games after the life and death survival on the run for the last while.

She looked up from the cart to discover that he had just ridden up. And she was laughing again. He probably thought she was laughing at him. Well, at least he did not appear to be offended. She smiled and greeted him in his own manner. Perhaps his mother really was a tortoise.

He frowned, looking most comically puzzled. "I thought that was the wrong greeting."

Some demon from the lands of Erleg Khan made her reply, demurely looking down. "It is. But a man might greet his betrothed so. "

He put his hands to his face. Shook his head. "I am sorry. That horseboy! He told me it was the right way to greet people politely. I wanted to learn your tongue. He taught me much rubbish." He blushed yet again. "I am glad Benito didn't know it was that sort of greeting. He would have killed me, let alone David."

"What?"

So in broken Mongol, assisted by Tulkun who had just ridden up, he told the story of how he had got the Darughachi to thus greet the tarkhan. By the time he had got to the part where his friend the Darughachi had the boy in jail she had to wave her hand at him—the one that wasn't clutching her pommel—to stop. She couldn't breathe and was in danger of falling out of the saddle. The plump Ilkhan warrior was in no better case.

* * *

Erik hadn't seen quite how funny it could be before. But he had to admit, telling the story himself, in his broken Mongolian, that it was more than just a little ridiculous. He found himself hard put not to laugh too at their delight in the story. It would appear that the Mongols shared the same sense of humor as the Plains Tribes in Vinland. The Plains Tribes could be serious and earnest people. But they were also hugely fond of practical jokes, preferably very embarrassing and fairly direct ones. It was not a terribly subtle humor perhaps, but it was enjoyed enormously. Erik had liked the Plains Tribes. He found he liked the Mongols too, so far. Well. He had not bound to the tarkhan Borshar. But perhaps he was more likely to get on with the rustic ordinary Mongol, than someone who was plainly more at home in the great cities of the Ilkhan empire, places like Jerusalem, Dishmaq and even the fortress-city of Alamut. Borshar seemed to spend a great deal of time in a trance-like state, paying little attention to the rest of them.

Erik rode back up the column to Manfred. "You seem to be getting along very well with your Mongol girlfriend," said Manfred.

Erik knew better than to rise to Manfred's obvious bait. "I was explaining how come I used the wrong greeting. Fortunately, they seemed to find it quite funny. And there's no need for you to mock me about it."

"I wouldn't have dreamed of it," said Manfred with a totally unsuitable saintlike expression on his face. "I was just wondering if I should be learning the language. Or if she has any sisters."

"Learning the language is always good idea. Philandering in a strange culture probably isn't," said Erik.

"You never know," said Manfred. "There must be a culture out there somewhere that thinks it's a good idea. I mean, I've never met any other girls who think that your face is something to laugh over. They normally go all starry eyed and moon over you." Eric cuffed him. "Ouch. You are supposed to be protecting me. Not inflicting me with injuries."

"I am protecting you. Your comments will get you killed elsewhere. I'm trying to teach you not to make them. Just you wait for rapier practice. Too much of you is covered by armor."

"Not another word, I swear," said Manfred, his grin belying the solemn words. "It is age, I am sure. Your face didn't used to be funny, now it is. We're all just used to it. Or afraid of you. That's why we don't laugh."

Erik threw up his hands in disgust. "Just you wait. You and that horseboy, David. I will choose my time and place."

Manfred laughed. "That hell-born brat. He's even more trouble than Benito was. Falkenberg and Von Gherens have both told me that he was born to be hung. At least Benito had the common sense to shut up and learn. This one keeps his mouth shut only when he's eating. And he's not even too good at that. Kari has had a rough time just teaching him to chew with his mouth closed."

Erik nodded. "Mind you, I've had less trouble from Kari since he's had to run after the boy."

"So now, instead of one source of trouble, you have two. I am not sure if you have gained ground, Erik. But no doubt this is some obscure Icelandic battle strategy."

"I think I'll ride up and check on the van," said Erik, shaking his head.

* * *

Manfred watched him ride forward. He smiled quietly to himself. There had been a time, after Svanhild's death, that he had seriously feared for Erik's sanity and survival. He would never tell Erik: but he hoped that this Mongol girl seduced him, stole his heart, or at the very least make him laugh a lot. It had done Manfred's own heart good to see Erik smiling again. He would have to find excuses to send the Icelander to keep the lass company. Preferably on a cold, lonely night. Erik was no philanderer, but perhaps the girl could make up for it. In Manfred's experience, all but a few of them were willing to do just that, given the right opportunities. Erik was several years his senior, but in this, Manfred felt very much like an older brother. It would do the boy the world of good. And besides, she really was quite a looker. Maybe she did have a sister.

* * *

David was beginning to wonder whether dying of heat was any better than being murdered. The knights in their armor were complaining. And he, in this hooded cloak, felt as if he was going to melt entirely. Worst of all, it appeared that both Kari and Erik had noticed. "What are you wearing that thing for?" asked Kari. "It's hot enough to make a bear shed its pelt. Are you hiding something under there?"

"I'm just not smart enough to be seen among these noble Mongols," said David.

"These are nobles?"

David nodded. "Yes. Of course. They are Mongols. Like the knights, they are nobles. Well, not just commoners like me."

"In Vinland a man's as good as he can prove himself to be," said Kari. "I've never understood how just being born makes you something special. Maybe all nobles have tough births . . . but you never showed any worry with the knights. If these Mongols are what you call nobles, the knights should have troubled you just as much, eh?"