When the Saints (21 page)

“Not much, we decided. It’s a big lake, the men tell me. But the low point is where the river drains out, so the area just beyond the snow pile is going to fill up. The gorge will become a smaller lake, until the snow melts next summer. If the Dragon isn’t under the snow, or gone over the cliff, it’s going to be underwater, and when the dam breaks it may even get swept away. Don’t make no difference now.”

“We won?” Wulf said, unable to comprehend the scale of this disaster.

Vlad gave him a buffet on the shoulder that almost knocked him over. Luckily the giant was wearing leather gloves, not gauntlets.

“It was you who won, sonny! Duke Wartislaw is either dead or beaten. Wulfgang Magnus, you are the greatest of us all. I couldn’t believe you were going to do what you said you would do with that bed warmer. You’ve got more stomach than a herd of cows. Maybe you were just ignorant and lucky, but that’s true of lots of heroes. You single-handedly stopped thirty thousand men and lifted the siege of Castle Gallant. I’m so proud of you I want to scream your fame to the skies, and I know I mustn’t do that. I tell you, Father would have wept with pride.”

Just a few days ago, Wulf would have burst his heart to earn such words from Vlad. Now they made him feel ill. He was doing the devil’s work.

CHAPTER
19

How many Speakers eavesdropped on that exchange could never be known. As Justina had said, Speakers could not spend all day and night Looking, no matter how interesting the subject, and they were limited to exploiting the points of view of people they knew. Very few had ever met Wulfgang, and although Vlad’s reputation as a warrior had spread all over Christendom, Speakers had little interest in soldiers. Duke Wartislaw undoubtedly had some Speakers with his army, and one or more might have survived the disaster. Cardinal Zdenek’s hirelings were certdom, ainly watching events, and the Church’s huge workforce of Speakers would be keeping watch on Wulf, amassing evidence of his Satanism for future action. Justina was well known among the Saints, and news that the old bird had taken on another hire would have aroused their curiosity. However the news got out, it spread across the continent faster than fire in a powder wagon.

Justina herself was drunk, drunker than she had been in thirty years, still slumped on the bench outside her cottage, trying to get up enough energy to put herself to bed. What a disaster! Those astonishing Magnus brothers, her great-nephews.
Ottokar and Anton were still shivering on the roof of the north barbican. Vladislav was apparently interrogating a prisoner in a collapsed forest … and Wulfgang was there with him! Twenty minutes ago the kid had been chalky white and ready to fall over, but he must have found some more energy from somewhere.
Ah, youth!

But then her curiosity was aroused by the devastation. In a life of nigh on a hundred years, she had never seen anything quite like that. She watched as the two brothers went off to inspect something. In a few moments she sobered herself with a flash of talent and sat up straight. She heard every word of Vlad’s lecture.

God be praised!

She hurried indoors and changed into a finer cloak and bonnet. She opened a gate through limbo, emerging on a small balcony that seemed to be suspended directly below the stars. Blind until her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she fumbled her way to the solitary high-backed oak chair. She stretched out a hand to find the bell rope and tug it to announce her arrival.

Despite what she had told Wulfgang, Elysium was a real place, the former monastery of St. Pantaleimon, at Meteora, in Thessaly. Although this was not generally known, the original monks had been wiped out by pestilence more than a hundred years earlier, and the Saints had moved in. Like many other religious houses in the area, St. Pantaleimon’s was perched on a sheer rock pillar hundreds of feet high, completely inaccessible to workadays. Food and other supplies had to be hauled up on ropes. Speakers, of course, could enter and leave by way of limbo, bringing most of their food with them.

Vlad was still making his way back to the castle. Wulf was already on the barbican tower with Otto and Anton, reporting what he had seen.

Justina leaned back in the chair, keeping her eyes closed. Darkness or closed eyes made it much harder, although not totally impossible, for would-be eavesdroppers to locate her. Besides, there was nothing out there to see except sky. By daylight, this balcony looked out on the great Thessaly Plain, and some rooms had views of other monasteries on other pillars, but no nosy neighbors were close enough to realize that any dark-clad figure glimpsed at a window or on a terrace might be a woman.

The little hatch behind her slid open. Someone coughed.

“Kristina,” she said. “Greenwood. Nor angels nor principalities.” Her original name, the code word assigned by Cardinal Zdenek, and a Saints password that would fetch Lady Umbral instantly,ralod. N even if she were dancing with her current beau, King Edward of England.

The hatch closed.

Justina made her old bones as comfortable as possible against the oaken back and contemplated her astonishing day. She could not recall one like it in the eighty years since she was jessed.

Now she had a chance to analyze what she had just heard from Vladislav. Perhaps young Wulfgang had worked his miracle with the help of a lot of luck, but the Saints appreciated luck. Some people knew how to use luck and some did not. Luck rubbed off. He had completely changed the game.

Eventually she began to worry. She had used the “angels and principalities” code only twice before in her long service to the Saints, and Lady Umbral had always responded much faster than this. Was Justina being put in her place as a stupid, dithering, sentimental old woman? Worse, was that what she had become? Today was the first time she had ever returned to the prelate to ask for a decision to be reversed, and here she was back yet again. Voices had been raised at their meeting earlier. Had she slid into senility without realizing?

Then she was addressed from the small grille in the wall to her left. “I hope you realize,” said the familiar, faintly mocking voice, “that I was on my way to sup with the pope?”

“I hope I won’t spoil your appetite, my lady. The situation has changed.”

“I made my views quite clear, I think.”

“You did, but I do think you will change them now.”

“I doubt that,” Lady Umbral said impatiently.

Justina wished she could watch the lady’s expression, but a drape hung over the grille on the far side, and Lady Umbral would be sitting in darkness. Elysium had been made as snoop-proof as possible.

“Wulfgang has done what was needed. He went into the Wends’ camp and blew up their powder wagons with hot coals from a bed warmer. We don’t know yet what damage that did directly, but it brought down an avalanche that plugged the pass. He’s dammed the Ruzena River and closed the Silver Road for months or years. The Pomeranian invasion is over.”

“Mother of God!”

In the reigns of three prelates, Justina had never before heard an Umbral blaspheme.

“Wartislaw is totally defeated and may be dead. He must have lost thousands of men, plus his camp and complete artillery train. It’s a rout.”

Umbral laughed. “I grovel! I abase myself! I genuflect to your paramount wisdom. Enlist him! Grab that Magnus boy before Zdenek hears of this. Or the Church.”

The game had changed. The fact was that too many Speakers were half mad, like Leonas, or twisters like Vilhelmas. Honest, effective Speakers were rare and very precious. Justina had been one in her day, and Wulfgang was clearly another. Even the Church might prefer to turn him than burn him now. Negotiation might be possible.

“Rome is the biggest problem, my lady. Is that why His Holiness has invited you? Has he heard this yet, do you know?”

“I’m fairly sure he wants to talk about Azuolas’s death. Even if he’s still thinking of bonfires at the moment, he may change his mind when he hears this news.”

Justina felt an enormous sense of reprieve. Wulfgang was not going to burn! On the other hand, he might not be totally enamored of the alternative.

“The girl, Madlenka Bukovany, who was supposed to marry Anton—she and Wulfgang go fish-eyed every time they look at each other. I don’t think they’ve had a chance to make the two-backed monster yet, but I give them two days at the most before they crack.”

“He won’t want to take an oath of celibacy, you mean?” Umbral said impatiently. “Nobody takes that seriously anymore.”

Wulfgang would.

“No, the Church might let him marry and remain a layman, as long as he was jessed by a cleric. The trouble is that Count Anton guessed which way the tide was turning and bullied the girl into a handfasting, which he consummated with dispatch. The pope can annul that and you cannot. They’re both the type to want Church blessing.”

Lady Umbral muttered,
“’Sblood!”
under her breath.

“And if Zdenek gets his pitch in, he can play on the boy’s loyalty. The Magnuses pride themselves on having served the kings of Jorgary for centuries, with never a waver.”

“No offense to your homeland, but he would be wasted serving such a pipsqueak kingdom.”

Justina did not fancy telling the boy that. “And we must fend off the Agioi. Wulfgang and Marek assassinated their Father Vilhelmas, so they may start calling for justice.”

“From what you told me earlier, he got justice. Our first priority must be to jess your Wulfgang wonder before anyone else gets him.” The lady was starting to sound curt, impatient to return to her supper with the Vicar of Christ. “Offer him protection and we’ll settle the deaths somehow. It won’t be the first time I’ve bought a pope, or even the patriarch.”

“There’s more, I’m afraid.”

Lady Umbral sighed. “I should ha1C; Chve known there would be. You’ve never panicked before. Go on, then.”

Justina did not consider that she’d panicked now. She had recognized a crisis that required more than her own authority, that was all.

“A woman in the town may have died of plague a few days ago.”

“Ignore that,” Lady Umbral said firmly. “The Good Lord never asks my permission before He visits pestilence on people, and we can heal our own, as long as we’re discreet. Anything more?”

Wasn’t that enough? Justina was feeling too old for so much excitement. “I think I’ve covered the main points.”

“Then go back there and enlist Wulfgang Magnus. Do anything at all, but get him jessed by someone in the Saints! I’ll happily jess him myself, if he agrees. I’ll be available right after this snack with Sixtus. Bring him here, if you can, to Elysium.”

“Thank you, my lady. Bon appétit!”

She heard a low growl from behind the curtain and then silence. Justina opened her eyes to glimpse a few stars and one single, lonely light somewhere down on the plain.

Time to go. Wulfgang was still not in bed. In fact, he was talking to …

Oh, no!

CHAPTER
20

Arturas Synovec was twenty-three years old, the count’s herald, a native of Gallant, betrothed to the most beautiful girl he had ever met, and a bastard. His mother had been housekeeper to the bishop-two-back, and such things happened. He and his brothers had received an education out of the situation, and in their cases not much else. Arturas, though, having displayed some talent with pen and brush, and lacking the brawn for physical work or warfare, had become a clerk in the count’s service, then apprentice to Klement, the old herald, and eventually his successor. Life had been simple but penurious, with little hope that he could ever earn enough money to take on family responsibilities. Then Count Bukovany and his son had died suddenly and Count Magnus had appeared even more suddenly. Arturas felt as if he had barely slept since.

If the castle survived the Wends and the Pelrelmians, he could realistically hope to receive a bonus from the victorious count, perhaps even a raise, and thus the means to afford marriage. If the castle fell … He tried not to think about that. Gallant sat between two armies like a nut in a nutcracker, and the people prayed as they had not prayed in a century.

Near sunset, rumors of a miracle began to circulate. The count’s brother, Sir Vladislav, was reported to be leading a sortie out the north gate, which ought to be suicide. The snow showed signs of ending, but darkness was falling, so perhaps he could still hope to escape detection long enough to damag#x201 the e whatever the enemy had been doing up at the mouth of the gorge.

Then word was passed for Arturas Synovec to attend His Lordship on the roof of the north barbican. Raise or bonus would depend on diligence, so he ran the whole way, arriving almost too breathless to speak. The bitter wind was still howling up there, and the three men standing by the battlements were all muffled like hibernating bears. He could recognize the count by his height, and he was fairly certain that the one in armor was Constable Dali Notivova.

His footsteps were muffled, but they heard him puffing and turned to face him.

“Herald,” the count said, “have you heard about the river?”

That was about the most unexpected question he had ever been asked.

“No, my”—gasp—“lord.”

“Constable, tell him.”

“It’s stopped flowing,” Notivova said. “Just a trickle here and there. Never seen anything like it.”