Dave Duncan - When the Saints

“What puppet king?”

“Whoever they choose to receive the crown matrimonial.” That was what Otto had called it.

Konrad practically screamed. “Laima? Laima wouldn’t do that!”

“They may leave her no choice, sire.”

The pallor had faded, but now it returned. They had stopped discussing deposition and moved on to assassination.

Fifteen minutes and three tweaks later, the hunt arrived at Kastan Lodge, a minor timber palace on the shore of a small lake. Wulf had seen it a week ago, when the water had been jade green, reflecting the forest around it, but now it was silver below the darkening sky. The sun had set and he had less than twenty-four hours to betroth Princess Laima to Louis of Rouen.

A haze of wood smoke greeted the visitors as they dismounted, grumbling about stiff muscles and saddle sores. Between the escort and the lodge staff, there must have been two hundred servants fussing around a royal party of thirty or so. The hounds had long gone back to Mauvnik; grooms led away the horses and the hunters climbed four steps to the front door.

They passed directly into a large hall, open to the rafters and lit by four great chandeliers of a hundred candles each. This was new to Wulf, for last week he had not been allowed indoors. A staircase led up to a gallery flanking three sides of the hall and giving access to bedrooms. He wondered uneasily if it also served as an observation gallery for orgies staged on the main floor, because the furniture there consisted of well-padded divans and thick rugs, not the spare, rustic seating he would have expected in a hunting lodge. Did new boys get hazed, and if so, in what ways? Half a dozen girls were there to greet the hunt-either well-dressed street girls or informally dressed court ladies, who could tell? They squealed with childish delight at being reunited with old friends, kissing the men with more fervor than discrimination. Darina was not among them.

Darina was dining with a grandfatherly, well-dressed gentleman, just the two of them. Most likely he was her cadger, and she was reporting the results of her meddling.

Pretty servant girls were proffering silver cups of wine. Manservants were emerging from an upstairs door to carry steaming water buckets along the gallery. The courtiers, now entangled in twos or threes, were congregating at the foot of the stairs, while an elongated young noble stood a few steps up, vai?steps upnly calling for silence. His buck teeth identified him as Lubos, the prince’s chamberlain.

“Pavel Chlebicek of Podpazi,” announced a slender youth, blocking Wulf’s path. He was dusty and windburned, but last night he had been a true dandy. “Wherever did you get those exquisite duds, my dear Wulfie?”

“These, Pav?” Wulf’s finery was well used now, much in need of a wash, and reeking of horse. “They were a wedding present from my wife. I can only pray that she came by them honestly.”

Pavel uttered a shrill titter, but his eyes remained icy. The onlookers’ laughter seemed more genuine.

Lubos jangled a bunch of keys overhead until he was allowed a hearing. “Your Highness, we are short a room. Where do you wish me to billet Sir Wulfgang?”

Predictable vulgarity broke out all around.

This problem had been worrying Wulf since they arrived. When the hunt had overnighted at Kastan last week, he had found a place in the hay barn with the rest of the lowlife. Now he would feel safer under a bush in the forest.

Konrad smiled as if he, too, had been waiting for this. “It’s my fault for inviting him to join us, so he can double up with me.”

That produced an outburst of ribaldry ranging from the racy to the openly obscene. Wulf blushed furiously-he could Look through others’ eyes and see his own face, redder than holly berries. Although that definitely did not help his mood, it seemed to improve everyone else’s.

As long as they were laughing at him, they did not suspect Satanism.

Lubos started handing out tagged keys. Konrad had his own. He led Wulf upstairs and along the gallery to the royal chamber. It was large and luxurious enough to have a separate privy. The bed was also large and luxurious, but there was only one of it, which was to be expected. A bowl of water steamed on a marble-topped table.

The prince began hauling off his clothes. “You told me your preferences,” he said gruffly. “And, frankly, I’m too tired for games tonight.” His childish sneer showed for a moment. “I hope you aren’t worried about your reputation?”

“I have no reputation to worry about, sire.” Now Wulf could start to credit Darina’s claim that the royal debauchery was all pretense, but he wouldn’t let down his guard.

The door opened briefly to admit a young manservant, who hastened over to help the prince. No surprise that he was blessed with cherubic good looks.

“Ah, Nenad! I?(can manage. See if you can find anything to fit Sir Wulfgang.”

Nenad changed direction. He walked around Wulf, eyed him for height and scanned him from front, side, and back. Then, instead of heading for one of the cedar chests, which must hold clothes, he went out again, having not spoken a word and hardly even slowing down.

Stripped to the waist, Konrad went to the wash water. Eyeing his massive back and shoulders, Wulf decided that only sorcery would let him escape humiliation and possibly injury during tomorrow’s wrestling. By the time it was his turn at the basin, Nenad had returned with an armful of clothes, presumably looted from other guests. He had brought two or three of everything, and at least one of everything fit Wulf perfectly. The service at Kastan was impressive, a hint that Konrad’s judgment was more than skin deep. If he didn’t choose the menials himself, he had delegated the job to an aide who did it well.

When they went downstairs again, six tables in two rows of three were being loaded with food, and wine was flowing. Under the great chandeliers, Sir Wulfgang was meeting everyone, being told their names, bowing, bowing, bowing. His reenactment of Anton’s miraculous jump was described in detail, over and over. Mouthwatering odors left him relatively unmoved after his late dinner at Avlona, but it promoted salivation among hungry hunters, and very soon the party moved to the tables, where he found himself seated at the prince’s right hand. By then he was feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself. What should be a great honor was tasteless when it had been won by cheating.

During the meal, the hunt was described for the benefit of the ladies, and the prince pontificated on Julius Caesar, Bohemian dancing, and viniculture. Wulf knew enough about grapes to know that Konrad was talking nonsense there, and he suspected that Julius Caesar had never conquered Russia. No one commented, though. Servants kept bringing more food.

Sir Augustin Vila, who sat on the prince’s left and appeared to be a special crony, rose to propose a toast to the new master of horse, provoking loud cries for a speech. Wulf stood up, said a terse thank-you, and toasted the prince. A whiff of sorcery had made his wine much less potent than anyone else’s, but even so his head was starting to buzz. No one proposed the king’s health, but that would have been hypocritical. They all expected the old man’s death to bring them prosperity.

He took note of the men who seemed especially resentful of his sudden rise, and also the smiley ones, who might be more dangerous. He tried to analyze expressions-resentful, wistful, disgusted, envious, and so on-except that they kept changing.

If Konrad truly was a fraud as an orgiast, then at least some of these people must know it, so why were there no secret smirks to suggest that the new boy had a big disappointment coming? How many knew and were loyal enough to keep the secret? Could this be some sort of test? A leader normally expected his cronies to keep his shortcomings confidential. Konrad seemed to be running a reverse deception.