Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

“Show me your warrant, lad!”

“As you wish, monk, although were you a layman of rank I should call you out on your implications of distrust. Don’t put your greasy fingers on it.”

Anton spread out the scroll and held it up so that Bohdan could read it. He pouted, then licked his thick lips. “This house is dedicated to God. King Konrad’s writ does not run here.”

Anton bowed and tucked the scroll back in his satchel. “I shall so inform His Majesty. He was of a contrary opinion.” He turned on his heel to go.

“Wait.” The abbot belched.

“Good one,” Anton remarked. “Anything else?”

“Have you broken your fast yet?”

“Now that you ask, no, my squire and I have not. Our business is too urgent for delays.”

“Brother Cenek!”

The monk waiting by the door said, “Father Abbot?”

“Conduct Count Magnus and his squire to the guests’ refectory and tell the hosteler to feed them. I shall send in Brother Marek as soon as prime is over.”

“Your Reverence is most gracious,” Anton murmured.

Wulf coughed admiringly as they headed for the door.

The guests’ refectory was a dank, cool room, so long and narrow as to seem more like a corridor than a hall, yet Wulf found it beautiful in a hard, austere way. The tall stained-glass windows were set high enough that no one could see out or in; ribbed arches supported the stone ceiling. Fixed benches stretched the length of each side, with freestanding tables fronting them. It was a fair bet that male and female guests were seated on opposing sides and that a monk stood at the ornate lectern in the center and read Scripture to them during meals.

Lay servants poured water for the visitors to wash their hands, laid trenchers of hard bread before them, and then brought a breakfast of lamprey pie, pike in a thick sauce, eggs, fresh grapes, crusty bread, a mountain of butter, four cheeses, and flagons of Tokay. The sight of food churned Wulf’s stomach, and eating with his sallet down, almost touching his bevor, would be impossible. He raised the helmet briefly to take a swig of the wine, which was surprisingly sweet and seemed to soothe him, confirming that he was suffering from no ordinary colic. He tried not to watch as Anton heaped his trencher and set to work with knife and fingers like a ravening, um, abbot.

“They eat well,” he mumbled around a mouthful.

“Food’s the only excitement they’re allowed.”

“Suppose so. What’re you going to ask Marek?”

“Won’t know till I see him.”

“It’s been four years!”

“Five.” Wulf decided to risk another swallow of the Tokay.

Anton shrugged and cut himself another generous wedge of pie.

Wulf said, “Here he is!”

A diminutive black-robed figure had entered by the main door and was pacing along the refectory with an in-toed gait that Wulf had forgotten but now recognized as painfully familiar; head lowered, hands tucked in sleeves. Vladislav had always referred to Marek as “Midge,” but Vlad cared even less for other people’s feelings than Anton did. If he seemed even smaller now than Wulf remembered, that was quite natural, because Wulf had been only thirteen when his favorite brother was taken away by two Dominican friars and a troop of lancers.

Anton and Wulf jumped up with cries of welcome. Anton stepped around the end of the table to embrace him, armor and all, but Marek blocked him by making the sign of the cross in blessing. Baffled, Anton stopped.

The monk set back his cowl. His face was thin, pinched, with lines around his eyes. His smile was bloodless, professional. “So it really is you! I couldn’t believe it. My little brother Anton a count? And the sash of St. Vaclav? What are you now, twenty-one? No, twenty! You must have done mighty deeds for His Majesty. Or was it those dashing good looks? Did you catch the eye of Princess Laima? Cloth-of-gold suits you, Brother.”

Baffled, Anton muttered, “Thank you.” He shot Wulf an alarmed glance, looking to see what he thought, then returned to his seat. Had he not realized that five years’ prayer and discipline would change the merry youth he had known?

The strangely austere Marek turned his inspection on Wulf, who kept his greeting to a respectful smile, but found it so restricted by the bevor that he sat down and raised his sallet. There was no one else in that great hall to see his face.

“And Wulfgang, too. My dear boy! So tall now!”

Marek was the only Magnus who would describe Wulf as tall. Wulf cast about for a tactful reply. “Just well-proportioned.”

“But big for sixteen,” Marek said softly.

Why was Marek saying that? He could not have forgotten the difference in their ages. He was hinting at something, but before Wulf could question, Anton’s steel solleret banged against his boot in a needlessly painful warning. Wulf suppressed a wince.

“Someone else remarked on that to me just last night,” Anton remarked, while still chewing.

Not his lady friend, certainly. Cardinal Zdenek, most likely, Wulf decided. He didn’t understand why his age mattered, or why the king’s first minister would care about it.

“Oh, you haven’t finished?” Marek said. “Hurry up, because there are much more comfortable places to talk than here.” He stayed on his feet opposite them and regarded Wulf thoughtfully across the narrow plank table. He had dark, shrewd eyes, but his hands were ingrained with dark lines, like a peasant’s.

“What brings you here, Brother Wulfgang?”

Shrug, forced smile. “I am but an humble squire. I follow my lord.”

“When did the humility grow in?” Marek murmured in a faint echo of his former humor. “You are not planning to stay here?”

“No!” Wulf said, with more emphasis than courtesy.

Marek sighed and glanced sideways. “So explain that sash, noble Lord Magnus.” Then he went back to staring at Wulf.

“It’s a long story, Brother Marek. It’s the real thing, but I haven’t exactly earned it yet, if you follow me. You heard that Father died?”

The monk nodded and made the sign of the cross. “When Otto’s letter came, the abbot passed on the sad news, and mentioned him in our prayers that evening. How is Ottokar?”

Wulf took over the talking so that he needn’t pretend to be eating. He told how well Ottokar ruled now as baron, how Branka kept giving him twins, and of course how Vlad had gone off to war and been taken prisoner at the Battle of the Boundary Stone. Then there was Anton’s acceptance into the king’s hussars.

All the time he was tortured by the realization that there was something horribly wrong, something he could not pin down. This somber Marek was not the same happy person he had loved as a child, the only one of his brothers who had ever had much time for him back then.

“Well, it is wonderful to hear that you are all safe in God’s grace,” the monk declared, making as if to leave. “Let us go to the scriptorium and talk there. It’s above the kitchen, so it’s warm.”

Under the table, Anton’s solleret again pushed against Wulf’s boot, more gently than the last time. Whatever failings Anton might have, there was nothing wrong with his wits, so he, too, was seeing the change in Marek. He had known Marek better than Wulf had.

Wulf forced himself to cut a slice of cheese. “I haven’t finished eating. I’m talking too much. Tell us about Koupel. Are you happy here?”

Marek smiled carefully. “Oh, yes, yes! At first there was talk of making me a Dominican friar, you know, and I think I should have found their rule much too strict. Ours is easier. We live very quietly, every day like the last, but better a quiet life and the Lord’s grace than sin and eternal fires. I assist Brother Lodnicka in the herb garden now. Very interesting work, and most beneficial. Our apothecary prepares many potent medications from the herbs we cultivate. Ah! You are not eating. Ready to go now?”