Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

He ran back upstairs to say his farewells.

Count Magnus of Cardice was aware that he did have some shortcomings and that sitting still was one of them. He could sit a horse as well as any man alive-even keep up with Wulfgang, four times out of nine-but sitting in bed leaning against a pile of pillows and listening to Madlenka Bukovany reading from Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival was sheer torture. He tried to look interested, struggling with the antique high German and taking his cue on when to smile or seem sad from the inevitably present Giedre.

He had work to do, organizing the defense of Castle Gallant, and he couldn’t do it in bed while pretending to be recovering from a major loss of blood. The bedroom setting was making him increasingly aware that it was two days since he parted from the overwhelming, oversexed, overripe Baroness Nadezda. Another night of abstinence would make concentration utterly impossible. Even now he was hard put not to ogle his future wife too openly.

Madlenka had spurned his suggestion that they get on with the meaningful part of the marriage and take their time to plan the ceremonial part for next year. For the life of him he could not see the objection to this. By the king’s command they must marry and kings’ commands should be obeyed promptly. A sheltered damsel like Madlenka could not understand the severe suffering that celibacy imposed on a healthy young man. He must get rid of her busybody chaperone and explain that if she did not consent to handfasting, the alternative was that he take a mistress.

Or should he get rid of Madlenka and explain this to Giedre?

Madlenka was not the type he would have chosen for his countess. She was striking enough in a classical way, but she had the coloring of a corpse and even her shapeless mourning garments could not hide her skinniness. What sort of midget babies could she push through those hips? What sort of pathetic tits would she offer her husband to play with? Giedre, now, was plump and blessed with the sultry Mediterranean look that could square a man’s shoulders, puff out his chest, and so on.

A tap on the door announced the arrival of Radim with ink, wax, and the fair copy of the report. The boy had done a fine job with the drafting. Anton had ordered only enough changes to make his own actions sound more like a breathtaking feat of rescuing a wounded subordinate and less like attempted suicide while of unsound mind.

He had that part read to him again to make sure the amendments were satisfactory, then signed his name at the bottom: Cardice. He gazed at that proudly for a moment and then-with a sense of sheer wonder-added CStV. No Magnus before him had ever been appointed to the Order of St. Vaclav.

As Radim departed, in wandered Wulf, his normally affable expression distorted by facial bruises into ogreish menace. He looked even worse when he smiled.

“I’m away,” he said. “I hope this is not goodbye, Your Countship.”

But it could be. Anyone going on a long journey might disappear and never be heard from again.

“I wish you godspeed, Brother. Here’s my report to His Majesty. It is late to be starting out. The sun will set in an hour. You sure you won’t stay over and leave at dawn?”

“No.” He came around to the side of the bed to give Anton a farewell hug. “God bless,” he said, “and may He grant you good fortune. You’ll need it,” he added softly.

“You don’t have to do this. I have lots of good horsemen here in Cardice who could carry my dispatch south.” In the next month or so, miracles would rank very high among Castle Gallant’s requirements.

Wulf chuckled. “When did you ever know me to change my mind? Except when I used to promise to kill you, I mean, and that was only after Father begged me.”

“Never. But I’m going to need your help, Wulf.” He meant miracles, but mustn’t say so.

Wulf understood, because he shook his head very slightly. “I do intend to make it back here safe and sound. Don’t slaughter all the Wends before I can get my share.” He turned to Madlenka. “And the pulchritudinous countess designate? Farewell, my lady. You were most exceeding kind to the wounded sparrow who took refuge on your windowsill.”

“Farewell to you, squire. I am distressed that you cannot stay longer with us.”

Wulf lifted her hand to kiss her fingers. “Maid, in thy prayers be all my sins remembered.”

She blushed.

Blushed?

“And just what does that mean?” Anton barked.

“Nothing,” Wulf said hastily. “Farewell to you, too, my lady Giedre, and my thanks for your kindness also.” He vanished out the door and closed it.

Madlenka opened the book again. “More Parzival, my lord?”

Sod Parzival, and his horse, too! “No. First I would like to know why you should be remembering my brother’s sins in your prayers?’

She stared at him with a very good imitation of blank innocence. “It is only an expression, my lord, a politeness.”

“Not, perhaps, because they were your sins, also? That you were sinning together?”

Now she sprang to her feet, slapping the book shut. “My lord, that is a vicious insinuation! You asked me to see that your brother was well cared for, and I tended him myself. But we were never alone together. Always Giedre or others were present. Your remarks were unworthy of your rank and my honor. You owe me an apology.”

Anton’s temper surged up like bile, almost choking him. If he were free to jump to his feet and storm around the room he might be able to deal with this conspiracy, but his lower half was not presentable and must remain under the covers.

“Oh, do I? I remind you that you owe me fidelity and chastity. And you, Mistress Giedre? What exactly were the kindnesses that my brother remembered to thank you for so graciously? Did you perhaps take invigorating little walks when you were supposed to be chaperoning my betrothed?”

Giedre recoiled and looked to her mistress in panic, guilt written all over her face.

“Aha! Will you swear on a Bible that you never left her alone with my brother, not once?”

“Once… but only for a moment, my lord. I mean, not long enough for… anything improper to happen.”

“And you know how long those improper things take? By experience, you know, or just from old wives’ tales? It is customary on a wedding night, Lady Madlenka, for the bedsheet to be passed out so the guests can see the bloodstain that proves the bride was a virgin. I trust that you are prepared to meet this standard?”

Lady Madlenka hurled Parzival across the room at him like a stone from a ballista. It would have brained him had he not ducked.

“How dare you?” they roared simultaneously.

The perfectly penned but ponderous volume impacted a priceless carafe of Venetian glass, which shattered against the stone wall.

“Upstart!”

“Hussy!”

“Interloper!”

Someone rapped on the door.

“Whore!”

“Murdering incompetent narcissistic foulmouthed blackguard!”

“Hellcat!”

“Am I interrupting something?” inquired a new voice. Into the room swept a woman of impressive dimensions, clad all in black from toes to bonnet; even her hands were hidden by lace cuffs, but her veil was raised to reveal a face like a glacier. She moved with the somber majesty of a funeral procession. “Count Magnus!” She curtseyed to him.

“Mother!” Madlenka cried, hurling herself into the arms of-who else but? — Dowager Countess Edita. “Oh, Mother, you’re better!”

The countess endured the impact with no perceptible wobble, then detached her now-sobbing daughter. “While bathing and dressing me, my women have made me informed of all that has transpired since I was cast down by grief. As His Majesty’s chosen, you are welcome to Castle Gallant, my lord.”