Dave Duncan - When the Saints

People suspected of heresy could be shut up in dark stone boxes on dry straw for thirty years before the Inquisition even thought to interrogate them, and might never hear the charges against them. So this was not the Inquisition, not yet anyway. If Wulf had to guess the name of his host, he would bet on Sybilla’s father, the shadowy Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville. Whoever he was, he would want to cajole Wulf into accepting a new cadger. And if being nice didn’t work, he would have other methods to try.

He ate, and the empty dishes remained uncollected. The next hour or so felt like a good part of that thirty year sentence. Bells clanged from a score of campaniles, but he had no idea which canonical hour they were calling, for the clouds hid the sun. He addressed a few appropriate prayers to the crucifix. Eventually he did try the door, but merely confirmed that it was locked.

He had been a total fool last night! He could remember Father’s frequent warnings of the need for adequate sleep. Fatigue was not restricted to sissies, he would insist. One of his favorite stories had been of a commander who had led his army on four ten-hour days of forced march, and marched every pace with them to prove how tough he was. When the enemy sprang the ambush, the men were still alert enough to fight, but their leader was too exhausted to exhaustethink.

Wulf had let himself get into that state last night. Exhaustion and pride. He had behaved as if the Wends’ destruction had really been his doing and not a divine miracle. He had grossly insulted his future king and spurned Lady Umbral, who had been willing to put him under her protection. Choosing Madlenka as his cadger had been a triumph of lovesick folly over common sense, for she could not provide the guidance that an experienced cadger could give him. That had been another of his crazy impulses, like shooting Father Azuolas. Worse, because he had put the woman he loved into terrible danger. Now she held the only key to his powers, so his enemies could torture her to make him do their bidding. Fool! Idiot! Moron! Cretin! Dolt!

The next hour felt even longer.

It was interesting, though, how his strike against the Wends had changed everything. Before it he had been a murderer, despised even by Great-aunt Justina, and after a heroic warrior. Modesty aside-no Magnus was ever much hampered by modesty-he had done remarkably well. The Speakers he had met so far had been an unimpressive collection. Justina might have been good in her time, but young Leonas was an imbecile, Father Vilhelmas and his brancher, Alojz Zauber, were unscrupulous. Inquisitor Azuolas and Brother Lodnicka had bungled their attempt to return Marek to the monastery at Koupel. Sybilla was a flighty, immature girl completely bedazzled by her own importance and her destiny as the king of France’s sister’s hireling.

But what of Marquessa Darina? Yes, she was probably competent, in a cold-blooded, mercenary way. Dangerous, certainly. And a liar. She denied being a leading performer in Konrad’s notorious orgies. She had given no credible explanation for sweeping Wulf off to the palace last night and letting him spy on the dying king. Or for contriving his meeting with dear Cabbage Head. What was she up to?

Even last night, deadened by fatigue, Wulf had suspected that there must be a conspiracy afoot, dirty work directed at the younger Konrad; as his imprisonment dragged on into the afternoon, he became more and more convinced of it. Zdenek would be at the heart of it, just because he was at the heart of everything. He was certainly the main axle of the government, but there had to be wheels as well: jurists, financiers, generals, ministers of this and that. Cardinal and prince were reputed to detest each other. On whose side was the royal mistress? Had the Scarlet Spider been behind that strange visit to Cardice and the even stranger encounter between Wulf and the prince?

None of which should concern a penniless workaday esquire trapped in a locked room a thousand miles away.

But if he wasn’t somehow important, why was he here?

Wulf’s ordeal was ended by a polite tap on the door. The visitor was the same dumpy little priest who had brought him to Rome-the same black cassock, jeweled pectoral cross, and Speaker’s halo shining bright. And the same oily little smile.

“Good day to you, Wulfgang. You slept well?

“I did, thank you, Father.” He could have slept on sharp rocks, but he would not sleep as well again until he received some answers. He was encouraged to note that the man had left the door open behind him.

“I apologize for leaving you here so long. Your host is a very busy man, as you can understand.” He was taunting.

“I do not know the name of my host, or yours. Or why I am here.”

Again the smile. “I am unimportant, but my name is Giulio. Come and meet His Eminence. He will be happy to answer all your questions.”

Maybe he would or maybe he wouldn’t, but he would be Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville without a doubt. Wulf nodded acceptance and followed his guide out to a simple, plain corridor, then down a narrow, plain, and quite steep staircase to a more majestic corridor, with paneled walls and tiled floor, and then down grander stairs. And eventually to a large, high chamber.

It was the room of a scholar, with books everywhere, covering two walls, stacked in corners, heaped among the litter of papers on a large table in the middle. Despite its size, it was cozy, with a fire crackling in a marble fireplace, thick Flemish carpet underfoot, a few battered fragments of classical statuary scattered around, and heavy velvet drapes hanging ready to hide the watery wintery afternoon that lurked beyond the mullioned windows. The man in the big chair by the fire was elderly, the hair around his red skullcap silver, and his scarlet robes buttoned up under his chin to hide his neck. His face had once been fleshy, even sensual, but now it sagged in pleats. His nose was long and prominent. He was a workaday, of course, not a Speaker. Speakers lurked in shadowy corners, not on thrones.

He extended an age-spotted hand to let Wulf kiss his ring. His smile was too mechanical to seem sincere. How well did those filmy eyes see?

“Wulfgang! I am honored to meet a man who has achieved so much in so little time. You almost restore our faith in youth. Rise, rise! Sit there, my son.” He indicated a chair as large and heavy as his own, on the far side of the fire. Beside it stood an inlaid table bearing a carafe and a goblet of cut crystal. “Help yourself to some wine, please. I cannot join you, I’m afraid, because my doctors regard all pleasures as unhealthy.” He shrugged. “Your glorious victory over the schismatics yesterday bears the stamp of a holy miracle.”

“Indeed it does, Your Eminence.” Wulf made himself comfortable and poured out one mouthful of wine. “No one knows that better than I. All I did was try to burn a wagon I thought carried gunpowder. Everything that followed was the Lord’s work.”

D’Estouteville nodded approval. The odor of hypocrisy grew stronger. “And now what? The Lord has granted you great powers, so to what purposes will you put them?”

Trap? “I have heard it said, Your Eminence, that powers such as you attrh as youibute to me are sent by the Father of Lies.” Wulf thought he had worded that rather well.

Evidently his host did also, for his next smile seemed more genuine. “I would not be entertaining you at my fireside if I believed so, my son.”

Wulf blurted, “Then they are sent by God?”

A penniless, juvenile esquire should be much more respectful to one of the senior figures in all Christendom. He should let the older man guide the conversation and not bark out impertinent questions like that. Yet d’Estouteville merely smiled that mechanical smile again.