Dave Duncan - When the Saints

The rough side of this situation, of course, was that if a company of Wend archers did break cover now, the Cardicians would be trying to flee back home through all that snow with a hail of arrows following them the whole way. So the cavalry had better advance smartly and flush the whoresons out.

He glanced at Jachym and realized that he felt as cold as the man looked. He waved his arm as a signal to follow him, and urged his horse forward again, past the litter of snow and timber the Wends had left, and around the bend.

He had taken part in some mad escapades in the last dozen years, but never anything quite this mad. The air and the ground were all white, even the rocky wall to his left. The corner was abrupt, taking him suddenly into the gorge, but the crossbow bolts he half expected failed to arrive. No sentries leaped to their feet in alarm; no trumpets blew. The footing became treacherous, covered with scattered spars and shorter timbers, rtexpectedcollapsed tents, a few barrels, shovels and axes. No people at all.

Vlad’s horse balked, understandably, so he dismounted and tied the reins to a heavy beam. Drawing his sword, he set off to pick his way through this appalling clutter, hearing Jachym shouting orders behind him. The going improved as he left the work site. He walked along the road unchallenged until he came upon a couple of empty carts with their oxen still yoked, but no carters. He glanced at Master Sergeant Jachym, who was one step back on his left. “You think the devil came and took them all to hell?”

The old warrior’s nervy grin barely showed under his helmet. “My guess, sir, would be that they heard the devil taking a lot of them, and the rest ran back to help the wounded.”

That sounded logical.

The snow had stopped, but the light was fading fast under the trees. To walk until nightfall would be ridiculous, asking for trouble. But still there was nobody! Still, no quarrels came hissing out from the quiet.

Where were all the Wends?

Last night Wulf had been assigned a cubbyhole called the Blue Room, just large enough to hold a bed and a wicker hamper. He had not had a chance to sleep there yet, but he had asked a housekeeper to find him some clothes, and she had apparently succeeded, for the basket was almost full.

As he stripped, he reflected that he had killed men by the hundreds that morning and by thousands in the afternoon. He couldn’t do penance for such Satanism if he went back and forth between Jerusalem and Santiago de Compostela on his knees for the rest of his life.

Bed beckoned, for he had not slept at all last night and very little the two nights before that; but he had an appointment with Justina to discuss what might be done about the Dragon bombard. He had almost certainly solved that problem by himself, and she might refuse to give him any more help than she already had, but he enjoyed talking with her. He had just pulled on his trunk hose and was reaching for a shirt when the light of a nimbus flared up behind him. He whirled around to face the intruder.

For a moment he did not recognize the demure young lady who stood there in a billowing silken ball gown.

“Pretty,” Sybilla said. “Nice muscles.”

He stuffed his arms into the shirt he was holding and hauled the rest of it over his head. “Why don’t you go to hell and drive the devil crazy? Why pick on me?”

She leaned against a bedpost like a cat rubbing itself against a friend’s leg. “Oo! Do I drive you crazy?”

“Not crazy the way you’re crazy. What do you want?”

“You for a pet, but I can’t have you. I came to say goodbye. Dearest Wulfgang, this is farewell! We can never meet again!” She sighed and clasped her hands in an Our Lady of Sorrows pose.

“I am overcome with indescribable emotion.”

That was not the right answer, because she pouted. “I am about to be jessed!”

“Congratulations,” he said, as jessing was obviously something worth bragging about. Justina had dropped hints about jessing. And she had used other falconry terms: cadger, haggard, brancher. If he wasn’t so tired, he could probably work out how a bird could be a stand-in for a Speaker. “Who’s the lucky man?”

“Not a man! A lady.”

She had not answered with scorn, so a man would have been possible. If Wulf baited his hooks carefully, he might even start to learn something about the mysterious Saints.

“Ah, you mean your cadger?”

“Of course!”

“Anyone I know?”

That was again the right question, because she flashed a perfect set of pearl-white teeth at him. If her appearance was at all real, Sybilla truly was as beautiful as she thought she was.

“Certainly not, but you must have heard of her: Anne of France!”

“Sorry. I’m just a backwoods esquire with aspirations.”

The scorn returned. He had been expected to swoon.

“Anne of Beaujeu, then? Sister of King Louis, wife of Peter of Bourbon. She is fourteen. I am to be her mistress of jewels! I shall live at court. Probably never far from her side.”

“Wonderful! Congratulations. What will your duties be, apart from minding the lady’s jewels?”

“Oh…” Sybilla’s shrugs involved much more than just shoulders, and her smile could freeze blood. “Whatever she wants. Within reason, that is.”

“This was your father’s doing, I take it?”

Anne of Beaujeu’s pet witch strolled over to the little mirror to admire herself. “Well, the dean of the College of Cardinals does have influence, you know!”

A hand to wash and be washed by any other, no question. Wulf wondered what the other half of this arrangement was-how much the king of France had paid, in gold or political fav po="0eors, to obtain a sorcerous fixer-bodyguard for his sister.

“And of course my mother is Lady Umbral,” she added.

“I am not familiar with-”

“Prelate of the Saints.” From the way she glanced at him in the mirror, she was dropping hints. She had mentioned the Saints before in a way that suggested a non-standard meaning.

“But the Lady Anne is not another Speaker?”

“Of course not.” Sybilla did not turn.

She had been disappointed to hear him ask such a stupid question. Which was what he had expected. He was beginning to understand now.

At last.

“Well, I must go,” she said. “I have other friends who will be eager to hear my good news.”

“I am very happy for you, and I am sorry for any rude things I said. I am sure you will serve your lady well, and Anne of France is fortunate to have acquired such a promising, er, Speaker?”

Sybilla gave him a contemptuous sidelong glance. “Falcon.”

“Of course. Saints be with you.”

She disappeared into empty air.

He chuckled and laced up his doublet. He thought that Sybilla would make a better guard dog than a falcon, but Anne of Beaujeu should have no trouble keeping her court in line from now on. How soon would she find her tame Speaker flying her, instead of the other way about? The Speakers’ fondness for falconry terms verged on the absurd, but it was an obvious defense against dangerous talk that might be overheard. Falcons were also the fastest-moving creatures in God’s creation, which was probably no coincidence.

He reached for his cloak.

Justina was sitting in the vineyard, apparently just staring at the vines, but possibly Looking through Wulf’s eyes, which suggested the infinite regress of a pair of mirrors.

He stepped through limbo. Near to setting, the sun still shone on golden leaves, and once again the softness of the air took Wulf’s breath away. Justina greeted him with a look of sour dislike, but a bottle of wine and three glasses adorned the table, and she pushed the bottle over to his side. Taking that as an invitation, he sat down.