Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

“Not that I know of.”

Tired or not, Anton must now determine how he was going to proceed. He was too exhausted to make major decisions, and this one might determine the success or failure of his efforts to defend Castle Gallant against the Wends. He could release Kavarskas and confirm him as constable; his hours in a cell would serve as a warning of who was in charge. Keep him there overnight, though, and his loyalty could never be trusted again.

Which meant that Anton didn’t trust him now, so he had already made his decision.

He turned to look at Notivova. “You would repeat under oath what you just told me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then I will have to hang Kavarskas.”

The man compressed his lips, staring down at the floor. After a moment he said, “Yes, my lord. I hope you won’t promote me in his place, my lord. I mean, it would look bad.”

“I’ll decide that later. If the facts were as you say, then you made the correct decision in a very difficult situation.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“For the moment, keep taking your orders from the German. Tell me about the road from Pomerania.”

Notivova led him around to the north side of the tower so he could point. “As you can see, the trail from the barbican hugs the hillside to the mouth of the gorge, my lord. That’s about half a mile, uphill slightly, but we have it in clear sight all the way. Any enemy approaching is walking on a killing ground. After you get past the bend it twists a lot going through the gorge. There are four bridges and three fords. About five miles up you get to Long Valley, on the other side of this mountain, which we call the Hogback. There the country spreads out. The Wends say the border’s at our Long Valley outpost. We say it’s about a mile farther on, at their landing stage. We don’t fight over that mile.”

“And you-I mean, we-keep a garrison at Long Valley?”

He nodded. “We send out a troop of six every morning. They spend two nights, then ride back, so we always have a dozen men there, enough so they can spare a couple to bring back warnings if needed. Usually all they do is report on what caravans are coming. Very few, this late in the year.”

He knew his job.

Pause.

It must be Anton’s turn to say something.

“This’s an odd stronghold. Usually the value of a fortress is that an invader daren’t bypass it and leave a foe in his rear. So the enemy has to shed a chunk of his army to besiege it. But everyone insists that there’s no way to bypass Cardice.”

“A nimble man could, in summer,” Notivova said. “But he’ll find himself on the wrong side of the Ruzena, and it’s twenty miles down to the first ford. There are ways over the mountains west of us, but then he comes down in Pelrelm.”

But if Pelrelm and Pomerania were to join forces, Cardice would be caught in a vise.

“I want you to lead the Long Valley patrol, not tomorrow, but the next day. I’ll come with you.”

Notivova was surprised, but approving. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Don’t discuss our talk tonight with anyone. Dismissed.”

As the man’s boot steps faded, Anton drooped against a merlon. He was shaking with weariness, but if he sat down in a crenel he would go to sleep and topple out backward, and it was a long way down. Where was Ekkehardt? And why was it he had asked the man to come up here?

More steps. He turned to watch the landsknecht captain emerge through the trapdoor, massive in his padded linen armor, shrewd eyes glittering above a bush of yellow beard.

Anton straightened up. “Good evening to you, Kommandant.”

“And to you, Count.” The big man scowled through his hayfield. Looking up to other men must be a rarity for him.

“Come over here.” Anton led him over to the town side. “Barbarossa said this was a perfect place for a fortress, so I’m told.”

“Maybe it was-then.”

“How could Count Stepan have been so incredibly stupid as to let it fill up with houses like this? Even with slate roofs, the place is one big firetrap.” There should be houses for the garrison, yes, but most of the land inside the curtain wall ought to be open space.

Ekkehardt grunted, perhaps surprised that this weedy youth had worked that out. “Pestilence.”

“Explain.”

“I mean, it’s fifty years since pestilence last came through here to weed it out. The townsfolk breed like mice. The counts didn’t notice, or weren’t hardhearted enough to send them away. Who cares, in peacetime?”

That made sense, but it had been a terrible mistake, and Anton Magnus was going to have a hellish struggle to put it right before the Wends arrived and started sending fire arrows over the walls.

Now to more urgent business… “I haven’t had time to read over your contract, Kommandant, but I’m sure we can agree on some increase. What I want right now is your views on how to defend that north road when-”

The heavy guttural voice cut him off. “My advice you can have for free, my lord. But all the money in Jorgary will not keep me and my lads here. We’re packing now and will be gone at dawn.”

After a moment, Anton decided that he had heard that correctly. “Why?” he croaked.

“One of our women is sick. She’s an archer’s wife, so he says, but she takes on others and he gets a cut.”

“All armies have those.”

“But she’s sick, and now she’s showing black lumps in her armpits. We are leaving. No argument. I didn’t want to blurt it out in the church and start a panic.”

“Thank you,” Anton muttered. It was more than a century since the Great Pestilence had devastated Christendom, but local outbursts of plague still happened from time to time, reaping a dreadful harvest. Some wretches suffered for days, but a man in perfect health could find spots on his chest and be dead in a few hours. Livid spots on the skin or lumps in groin or armpit warned of imminent death. The invalids in the infirmary were probably approaching the final stages of the fever. Likely Wulf had caught it from them while he was there. Anton himself might have caught it, and that brainless doctor who had not yet diagnosed the problem was doomed.

When you think things cannot get worse, they always do. All his dreams of glory came tinkling down like icicles in sunshine.

Wulf would tell him that that’s what he got for accepting help from the devil.

Madlenka knocked. In a moment Radim peered out, then emerged and closed the door behind him. He was red-eyed and unshaven, having missed half a night’s sleep. He would not sleep on duty: Father would never have promoted him to secretary had he not been diligent to a fault.

“He’s awake, my lady. He tries not to show it, but I think he’s still in a lot of pain.”

“Well done. We’ll take over now. Go and catch some rest. The count is not up yet.”

As Radim limped off along the corridor, she opened the door and stood aside to let Giedre carry in the tray. The window shutters and the bed curtains were open. Squire Wulfgang turned his head on the pillow to see who had arrived. His face was still swollen and multicolored.

But his eyes were golden!

“Good morning, Squire Wulfgang. I am Madlenka Bukovany. How are you feeling this morning?”

He licked his puffed lips. “Puzzled.”

“Puzzled by what?”

“I hurt so much that this must be purgatory. Why am I seeing angels?”

“I think he’s better,” Giedre said, fussing with the food on the tray.

“Usually I’m much better than that, my lady. Sometimes even witty.”

Madlenka caught herself smiling. “May I present my companion and best friend, Giedre Jurbarkas? Are you hungry? We brought you some beef soup.” She caught up a spare pillow. “Can you raise yourself, or would you rather we lifted you?”