Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

Wulf had never heard Otto speak like this before. “There already is a St. Wolfgang. One is plenty.”

Another candle went out.

“I’m serious, chaffhead,” Otto said. “You told me that your Voices have warned you of danger and won’t tell you what it is.”

“They never answer questions like that.”

“I just answered it for you. The Church doesn’t want miracles, so it calls what you’re doing witchcraft, acts of Satan. It’s all about power, Wulf, worldly power. You are a threat to the authority of the pope and the bishops. But if Cardinal Zdenek believed that you were an agent of Satan, he would never have dared use you. It wasn’t Anton the Spider wanted, it was you.”

Wulf nodded. “He had to take Anton because I’m only a kid.”

“You’re not a kid anymore.”

“But Anton’s ten feet tall, ruts like a goat, and beats men’s brains out with his mustache.”

“So he’s your puppet. You are the one the cardinal really hired.”

Wulf sniggered. He knew that Otto had been deliberately plying him with wine, and he was also very weary. “I don’t fancy telling Anton that!”

But Otto had struck to the heart of the problem, as usual, and now it was time to explain to him that Zdenek had not divided the rewards fairly. Yet Wulf still could not bring himself to talk about his love for Madlenka.

After waiting a moment, Otto sighed. “Back in the year Father died, a month or so after Marek was taken away, the Hartmannovas had a knighting celebration for Cousin Hans. Remember?”

“No.” That year Wulf had been twelve and fighting his own problems-strange noises and lights and the gnawing terror that he was growing up to be a Speaker like Marek.

“I went in Father’s stead, because he was too ill to travel. On the first night they held a ball and the first dance was a saltarello. There was a girl… every time we passed, our eyes met. When the dance was over I dragged my host through the crowd to her and had him introduce us. That was the end of the ball for both of us. We just sat in a corner and talked. Her name was Branka.”

Wulf swallowed a lump in his throat. “Am I so childishly obvious?”

His brother laughed. “Your eyes melted when you mentioned the beautiful heiress, but after that one time you ignored her, except to say that you think you healed her mother. Tell me about her.”

“There are no words. Her name is Madlenka. She’s glorious. Out of this world. Angelic. Clever, witty, feisty, mischievous…”

“Did you tell her that you love her?”

“And she loves me! I never knew it could happen so fast.”

Otto snapped his fingers. “Like that! I spoke with Branka’s parents the next day and when we got around to talking about dowry, I accepted their first offer. Branka and I have never regretted our marriage for a minute. But it doesn’t always have a happy ending, Wulf. Does Anton know?”

“No!” Wulf soaked in his misery for a few minutes, and finally said, “Anton wouldn’t care! If it has two legs and no crotch bulge, then he doesn’t care what face it wears.”

“Like Vlad-two nights is a long-term relationship. You’re like me, lad; you don’t keep your heart in your codpiece. I’m sure Anton would happily let you have her if she was any ordinary wench. But she isn’t, Wulf. She’s the key to his castle, a ward of the king, and any nonsense will land you in more trouble than you can imagine.”

“I know that, thank you. Not that I care about me. Only her.”

“Her, too. Oh, saints! You’ve really been hit hard, haven’t you? Cupid’s filled you plumb full of arrows. I’m sorry, Wulf, I really am. So tomorrow you plan to hand Anton’s letter to the cardinal, in person, and tell him you want the girl as your share?”

Wulf nodded. Coming from Otto it sounded even crazier than it had seemed before: suicide, self-immolation. Before he could say so, the last candle smoked and died, leaving only firelight. Otto heaved himself to his feet.

“Time to go. I am enormously proud of what you and Anton have done, Wulf. I’m humbled, honestly. No Magnus in three centuries has come close. One day your exploits will be added to the family chronicle in letters of gold, I promise you. And tomorrow, we’ll decide how I can best help you both.”

He took a new candle from the box on the mantel and lit it. He put it in a candlestick and handed it to Wulf, giving him a clap on the shoulder. “You’re half asleep. To bed. Sleep well, Sir Wulfgang.”

“There has been a mistake, my lord. I am Wulfgang Magnus, esquire.”

“You have proved yourself worthy of knighthood. Battle honors are no less worthy if they must be kept secret. Come along.”

Alerted by some guardian instinct, Whitetail awoke, heaved himself to his paws, and led the way to the door.

Wulf was to sleep in the main guest room, which was large by castle standards, but cold and musty. Many great lords and even royalty had slept there over the centuries, and the walls bore frescoes of their arms, some crude, some crafted in exact detail, some old and faded or even overlapped by newer work. A single candle flame did little to flatter them. He blew it out and set the candlestick on the table by the bed. Shivering, he stripped and slid in under the quilts. If one believed Otto’s flattery, he was not unworthy of his surroundings.

Neither armored foe nor the dawn screams of roosters could penetrate the walls of Castle Dobkov. Flunkies out in the bailey could stoke ovens, thresh rye, or crank the windlass on the well without being heard inside.

Regrettably, female servants slept in the attics. They arose with the roosters and the ancient floor beams creaked. Ottokar angrily pulled the quilt over his ear, trying to will himself back to sleep. Warm, soft arms embraced him. The tendency for occupants to collect in the middle was both the joy and the curse of a feather bed.

“You’re awake,” Branka murmured.

He said, “No.”

“So what’s the news that kept you tossing and turning all night?”

He abandoned hope of more sleep and rolled over to join in the hugging. “As far as the staff is concerned, Anton is betrothed to the only daughter of the late Count Bukovany and the first installment of her dowry will pay Vlad’s ransom-Wulf delivered it. That happens to be true, which is useful. Father Czcibor can arrange a thanksgiving Mass for Sunday.”

She said, “Mmph. No more?”

“Not for Father Czcibor.”

He felt her mood change instantly. “Wulf’s started Speaking?”

“How did you know about that? I never told you about it.”

She chuckled and squeezed him tighter. “No, you didn’t, but the senior servants all know. I arrived just after Marek was taken, remember, and they knew that something would trouble young Wulf at times, and he would run off to the church to pray, all by himself. A few of them even remembered one of your father’s aunts being ‘strange.’ Father Czcibor remarked to me once, just after we were married, that as long as Speakers didn’t answer the Voices they heard, then they were resisting temptation and were good Christians. I guessed that he meant Wulf.”

“It’s your brains that make me love you.”

“This is a recent change.”

“After the Dominicans took Marek away, Father made us all swear not to tell anyone about Wulf. So I couldn’t tell you, and I didn’t want to burden you, anyway. You’ll forgive me?”

“Of course. You were right. I didn’t know; I was just guessing. But now he’s started?”

Otto had always feared that Wulf wouldn’t be able to resist Speaking once he escaped out into the world. Damn Anton for tricking him into it, just to impress the court! That was typical of Anton. Had the positions been reversed and Wulf had tried something like that on Anton-not that Wulf ever would-Anton would have turned his back and let him go ahead and break his stupid neck.