Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

Havel Vranov had a couple of hundred men at the gates. How many more were standing ready to come running when he whistled? Her blood chilled at the thought of battle raging in the streets.

“Why did you say that the landsknechte were the ones who mattered?”

“Because they’re trained warriors, my lady, and will obey their leader’s orders. Vranov’s hill men may be savage enough, and will certainly be loyal to their lord, but they cannot have the skill of mercenaries. Few of Kavarskas’s men have had any field experience, and many may refuse to follow him if he betrays his king and the late count’s daughter. The townsmen will be mowed like hay in any serious battle, but there are a lot of them. You see? Nobody can be certain who will come out on top if the swords leap out, but the landsknechte are the safest bet.”

It was horrible.

They halted at the door to the hall, and now it was Giedre’s turn to detach herself.

Standing with one hand on the handle, the seneschal said, “I will speak for you, with your permission, my lady.”

That was about the worst idea she had heard yet. “No! I can speak for myself. If you feel I am making a mistake, you may call me aside for counsel or even speak up and contradict me.” Better that than have her trying to interrupt him, like a badly trained child.

The old man shook his head. “I understand completely your concern about your future marriage, Madlenka, but that is not what the count came here to discuss. I spoke with him only briefly, but he never mentioned that subject. If it comes up, then of course you may speak. I hope you will pardon my saying so, but the worries he brings us are more urgent, and I think the constable will be doing most of the talking. After you, my lady.”

The keep was the stronghold, an ugly stone oblong around a central open bailey. Most of the rooms were cramped and drafty. The great hall was the largest room in Cardice after the nave of St. Andrej’s, but when Petr came back from Mauvnik, he had laughed and said that he had seen privies there that were larger. It was a long, awkwardly narrow room, full of tables and benches, for it was where the castle staff and garrison ate their meals. A small dais at one end marked where the count held court and presided over major festivals; there was a fireplace in one corner. The door was in the center of one of the long sides; glazed windows opposite looked out into the bailey.

There were more people present than Madlenka had expected, because Count Vranov had brought his token bodyguard in with him. Five swordsmen in half armor sat on a bench at the end farthest from the hearth, their surcoats bearing blazons of a hound’s head. Dogs required handlers, so they were flanked by six landsknechte and six archers of the garrison, led by Deputy Constable Dalibor Notivova. It was more worrisome evidence of the divisions in the town.

So much for the chorus. The principals were grouped on two benches before the fire, and they began to rise to greet her as soon as they realized she had arrived. She was so intent on them that an unexpected voice behind her made her jump.

“Why’re you hiding?” The speaker was down on his hands and knees inspecting a mouse hole.

“Leonas!” she said. “You startled me.” She lifted her veil briefly.

The youth scrambled up and leered at her with the wet-lipped, slack-jawed gape of a simpleton. He was one of Vranov’s sons, built like a lance, all height and no width, with a beardless face reddened by windburn and all-over freckles that were much the same shade as his untidy thatch of hair. The count had brought him along to Castle Gallant on both his previous visits, explaining merely that the lad got picked on if he was left behind, a thoughtfulness that belied Havel’s ruthless reputation.

“I know you,” Leonas said proudly.

“And I know you. You’ve grown since you were here last.”

He chortled. “My da says I’ve got a spear I could take boar hunting!”

Um… yes. Unable to think of a suitable response and distressed at the thought of how the half-wit might start using that implement in a year or so, Madlenka just smiled and headed off toward the group by the fire, followed by the seneschal. She lowered her veil again.

There was Vranov, of course, and Constable Kavarskas-what treachery had he been plotting with the Hound? The odious walleyed priest, Father Vilhelmas, was not present. The third man she did not know, but she strongly suspected he must be another of Havel Vranov’s army of sons. Another suitor, third time lucky? He was a bulky man of around thirty, with a battered and scarred face.

The count limped forward to meet her, doffed his hat, and bowed. Despite his evil reputation, he was very ordinary-seeming, and had always been well-mannered when she was present, although Petr had referred to him as a foulmouthed blackguard. He seemed to have suffered no ill effects from a lifetime of raiding and rapine other than a twisted leg. His only concession to age was a beard, gray streaked with brown, and his most noteworthy feature a massive hooked nose. He wore sword and dagger, but not armor.

“Lady Madlenka, I grieve deeply for your tragic loss. Father and brother, and both of them noble men. I have ordered prayers said for them in all the churches in Pelrelm.”

She nodded her thanks, grateful that her face was hidden, regretting that she did not trust the veil enough to stick out her tongue at him. At least Father Vilhelmas was not here, loudly declaiming prayers for her father, who had disliked the squinty priest as much as she did.

“Thank you, Lord Vranov.”

“And today I hear that your lady mother has been taken by melancholy. It is a heavy burden you bear.”

“Indeed it is,” she said. “Personally I suspect that some Speaker has laid a curse on us.”

“I could not agree more,” he said solemnly.

“You do? I mean, you couldn’t?” How dare he startle her like that!

“I believe it. Father Vilhelmas is of the same opinion. Pray, let us all sit down and discuss our mutual problems.”

He offered his arm, curse him, and escorted her to the corner fire, where the benches had been arranged in a V, separated by a narrow gap. He put her on the left one and sat on the other, across the gap from her. The seneschal moved swiftly to sit on her left, and the others arranged themselves and sat down-Kavarskas and Ekkehardt beyond Jurbarkas, with Kavarskas at the end next the wall. The second Pelrelm man, sitting beyond Vranov, was not introduced, but their family resemblance was obvious.

“Constable,” the seneschal said, “would you please advise Lady Madlenka on the present situation?”

The warrior’s nod of agreement displayed impatience at having to report to a slip of a girl who put on airs and sent for him. “My lady, Count Vranov has brought news that the Wends are planning an imminent invasion of Jorgary.”

“How imminent?” she asked, but it was an involuntary reaction, like a blink. Her mind was rummaging through memories of what Petr had said in the summer, when he returned from court. He had explained to her, summarizing what he had told Father, that the reason he had hired a troop of landsknechte to overwinter in Gallant was because Cardinal Zdenek had warned that Duke Wartislaw of Pomerania was mustering his army and Castle Gallant was his most likely target. So Havel Vranov might be telling the truth this time.

“Within days,” the constable said. “He believes that his sources are trustworthy.”

“It is almost winter!”

“Wars can be fought in winter,” Vranov interjected. “I beg you to trust me in this, my lady. I have been fighting the Wends all my life. I have killed them with arrows and pikes and swords and roasted not a few of them. My spies insist that what is being planned now is no mere cattle raid. The Pomeranian army is moving down the Silver Road towards the border. Crews are strengthening bridges and repairing fords. Their vanguard may be here by Wednesday.”