When the Saints (8 page)

“Not ‘journeyman’ and not ‘apprentice.’ We talk about ‘fledged’ Speakers and ‘branchers’ instead of ‘apprentices.’ ‘Handlers’ instead of ‘teachers’ or ‘masters.’”

“Why?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Half of all Speakers are women. You ever heard of a female apprentice?”

“No,” Wulf admitted. A brancher wa CA b>

“I know not. He was given no chance to say, as you told me.”

“To kill me?”

Marek had suggested that, but Justina shook her head vigorously. “Speakers do
not
go around killing Speakers! Likely he just wanted to speak with your brother, the new count, and he expected there to be a guardian Speaker present, so he brought his own to make sure the discussion was fair.”

Like having a lawyer present. Speakers could detect the use of talent. Wulf realized that he was nodding. At last things were starting to make sense. Above all, he no longer felt all alone. “How much do Speakers earn?”

Justina frowned as if he had asked a stupid question. “Their lives.”

“Oh.”

“Work it out. I think you had better get to work, warrior. I’ll stay here. War is not a woman’s place. It is not a place for Speakers at all. Come with me.” She heaved herself to her feet, leaning on the table, and walked stiffly to the corner. Wulf took up his cloak and sword and followed, listening as she continued her lecture.

“If you glimpse another nimbus, stay and keep them honest. Be prepared to talk. If you see two or more, come back here
instantly
, you hear? You’re not ready for a fight. And come back here and ask my advice before you use any major power. Don’t worry if I’m not alone, just come.”

She paused at the door to the cottage. “Take a look.”

He looked. It was obviously a kitchen, and a well-equipped one, with a big table in the center and shelves around the walls laden with crocks and pots.

“I’ll be here in Avlona, outdoors or indoors. Don’t come to me if I’m anywhere else. If there’s anyone with me here, come to the other side of the wall and enter like a workaday. And on no account murder any more priests or clerics! Come at dusk, in any case, and we’ll think what we can do about that bombard.”

“I thank you for your help,” he said, not meaning to be ironic. She had told him very little, but she had hinted at much. It had been his first proper discussion with another Speaker, and already he felt like less of a freak—there were other people out there like him! She had taught him more than Marek had learned in five years at Koupel. That wall of silence was itself informative. He slung his cloak over his shoulders. “I look forward to many more lessons, Justina.”

“We’ll see. You’re in very great danger. Not just the castle, you personally. I was sent to help you, but if m Cyouwidth="1ey superiors … To be honest, I can’t see that I’ll be allowed to continue helping when this news gets out.”

So the helping hand was being withdrawn and the prison gates were closing. He did not feel surprised. The sense of doom that had come with Marek’s death returned stronger than ever. Father had always told him his temper would kill him one day.

He bowed. “Thank you for what you have done already. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, so if you’d rather I just dissolved into thin air, I’ll—”

“Wait!” she said. “That horrible gallows contrivance your hairy brother was building … Now, I am no warrior, only a simple serving wench, but I do hope they call in the bishop to bless it.”

Wulf paused in buckling on his sword. “The wood may be unsound?”

She nodded. “It’s old.”

“A blessing is a sort of curse in reverse?”

She nodded again, eyes twinkling.

“How close must a Speaker be to bless?”

“The closer the better. Laying a hand on it would be best.”

“Thank you, Justina.”

“And hereafter, mind well what you bless or curse or what oaths you swear! You may do more than you intend.”

“Thank you again!” About to open a gate through limbo, he realized that the castle and town would be a whirlwind of activity, people everywhere. “Um … how do I find a safe place to return unobserved?”

She shrugged, seeming amused at his naïveté. “You don’t want to be seen stepping out of thin air.”

“No, I certainly do not.”

“So you want not to?”

“Yes.” What was she hinting?

“You think your Voices don’t know that?”

Not wanting to seem stupid, he nodded. “Thank you. God be with you, Justina.”

He went back to Gallant.

CHAPTER
5

Wulf stepped out of limbo in the corner behind one of the outdoor stone st FSa="0aircases that lined the streets of the town. Even if his Voices no longer spoke to him, they must still be looking after his well-being, because nobody noticed. A band of women was hurrying away from him, but no one was coming in his direction, and he saw no faces peering out of windows. The north barbican tower loomed over the road ahead, so he took off at a run, shouting at the women to get out of his way. They cleared a path at once for a man dressed as a noble.

There was no direct access to the barbican from the town at ground level, so he ran out through the big gate to the Quarantine Road. He found himself in a human anthill, with men and horses bringing in tools, timber, and bales of arrows from the town. Dalibor Notivova, the constable, was shouting himself hoarse in the tumult. There had been no time to erect derricks and pulleys, so men on the roof were hauling the supplies up on ropes, hand over hand. Every few minutes one would lose his grip and screams of warning would announce a load coming down much faster than it had been going up.

Wulf silently cursed the late Count Bukovany, who had done nothing to put his castle on a war footing. But Anton had been keeper for five days now and done no better. He had not even stocked the two barbican towers with ammunition.
Anton had still not reached the south barbican.
That was a dizzying reminder that the world of ordinary, er, workadays moved at a snail’s pace compared with the Speakers’.

Deciding that he could do no good there, Wulf ran back into the town. He was trying to find a way into his first battle with no orders, no specific duty, and no armor. He wielded the most potent weapon imaginable, but had not been trained in its use. About all he was sure of was that he was not Jove, who could have smitten that advancing column of Pomeranians with thunderbolts. And if he were, that would be a breach of the first commandment.

The nearest house was being demolished by men up at roof level, who were prying it apart stone by stone. Porters below were waiting until they saw a safe moment to dive forward and grab a block from the rising heaps. These they would then carry up the stairs flanking the curtain wall. Wulf needed to go up those stairs. Pride would not let him go empty-handed, so he joined the carrying line and was amused by the astonished expressions, the hasty bows and salutes. Only noblemen wore swords, so they stood aside to let him go next, and of course pride made him choose one of the largest stones he could see. Bent backward by its weight, he staggered over to join the line of sweating, half-naked men on the staircase.

Building stones were usually cut to a size one man could conveniently move, but even so they could conveniently crush feet when dropped. He could probably use his talent to make his burden lighter, but then he would despise himself for cheating. Climbing stairs with such a load was especially tricky, for the steps were high and made him waddle. The countercurrent of men hurrying down to fetch more stones was going by on the outside, and to jostle one of them might send him plunging down to death or injury. All in all, it was a challenging experience, and he could not let his attention wander to spy on what was happening elsewhere.

He could hear the sounds of war coming over the curtain wall, though: shouts, screams, bugles, the constant rat-tat of crossbows, the even louder cracks of firearms. He could smell powder smoke, although he could not se K coe ce any. Several dead or badly wounded men had fallen from the curtain wall to the street, and once he had to wait while a body lying on the steps was removed. With so few men to defend the city, Vlad might fail to hold it even against a conventional attack. And while the defenders were occupied with this assault, gunners would be preparing a nest for the Dragon at the mouth of the gorge.

Just as he thought his arms would be dragged out of their sockets, he arrived at the top of the stairs, level with the walk along the wall. The porters ahead of him went hurrying into the shelter of the barbican, but he needed to see what was going on. He stepped across to the parapet, which was about waist high, and heaved the stone up on it. Then he vaulted up beside it, staying down at a crouch to avoid becoming a target, and trying not to get in the way of the archers stationed there. The dozen or so crenels nearest the barbican were manned by two archers apiece—crenels farther away from the barbican would be too far from the road for accurate shooting. The men took turns shooting through the gap and then retreating to the shelter of the merlons to crank up their bows again. Crossbows were much handier for this battlement work than longbows, but sometimes an archer was not quick enough, and a bolt from an attacker would hiss past him, or thud into him. Half a dozen dead or wounded lay in full view.

Madlenka was hurrying along the battlements in this direction, but keeping her gaze straight ahead. Giedre was sure to be somewhere close, so he switched his point of view to her, and discovered that she was bringing up the rear of a parade of at least a dozen boys, women, and older men, coming from the keep, bringing stretchers and bandages. Madlenka was out in front, of course.

Wulf waited until the nearest crenel was vacant, then stood up to peer through it. At least a thousand Wends were approaching down the Silver Road at a slow, deliberate pace like a funeral march, obviously trying to keep their formation, and still far enough from the gate that the defenders could not yet drop rocks on them. The front three ranks and the file on their left, which was the open side of the road, carried large shields as protection against archery, but the defenders were taking a fearsome toll on them. The men on the right of the column were protected by the cliff. Those at the rear, roughly half of the troop, were archers, shooting over the heads of the rest. They must outnumber the castle’s archers by five or six to one, but they were handicapped by having to keep moving. They would stop to span their bows, run forward to the rear of the main force, then load and shoot. Then repeat. Of course they were shooting almost blind, aiming at loopholes and crenels, while presenting childishly easy targets to the defenders. So what were the rest of the men planning, those carrying neither bows nor shields? If they did not do whatever it was soon, their whole force was going to be obliterated.

Yes, more men were busily doing something in the distance, at the mouth of the gorge. Digging a trench to hold the Dragon, most likely.

“Boy!”
roared an archer, grabbing Wulf’s shoulder and yanking him out of the crenel. A bolt clanged off the side of the merlon and twanged away into the town. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

“Seems I almost did,” Wulf admitted sheepishly. “Thanks.”

KD;
Idiot! Even a Speaker would be no help if he had a quarrel sticking out of his chest. Steadying his sword, Wulf jumped down off the parapet. He succeeded in lifting the building stone without damage to toes or fingers and then inserted himself in the line of porters heading into the barbican, where progress slowed to a crawl.

Now he could let his mind roam to the south barbican.
Anton was standing just inside the sally port, talking with Arturas, the herald. A few men-at-arms were lurking nearby and nobody seemed to be unduly alarmed.

“… cardinal warned me that I might find myself between the dogs and the wolves.”

Arturas laughed and the eavesdroppers exchanged proud smiles.

Of course they would be impressed to hear that their count was on joking terms with the king’s first minister, which was what Anton had intended. The story would be all over town by nightfall. Arturas was a short, nondescript, clerical sort of man in his late twenties, rarely seen without a diffident smile. Today he was wearing a formal herald’s tabard, which meant that Anton’s sudden summons to the south gate had been a call to a parley. Count Pelrelm must have sent up a flag of truce, as required by the Church’s laws of war. Anton was not as experienced in wrangling as Otto or even Vlad, but he was glib of tongue and fast of wit. He had thrown Havel out of the cathedral on Sunday and the great hall yesterday, and would not be easily fooled. If Havel wanted to talk now, it was probably because his bishop had insisted. The Church always tried to arrange a negotiated settlement before a battle. And one would get you ten that the present delay was because the Cardicians were waiting on Bishop Ugne to complete their team.

“One Speaker is defense,” Justina had said. Havel would certainly have brought a Speaker along to defend him against tweaking, assuming he had found one to replace Vilhelmas. The boy Leonas lacked the wits to undertake that sort of task. So Wulf’s place was at his brother’s side. He must quickly do whatever he could at the north gate and get to the parley before the dirty work began.