Dave Duncan - When the Saints

Cardinal d’Estouteville was engaged in conversation with a man, probably a young man, from the sound of his voice, but the cardinal’s eyesight was so blurred that Wulf could make out no details. Whatever they were speaking, it did not sound like Italian. It might be French, but if it was, and the other man was who he thought he might be, then it was likely Norman French they were using, and that would be very different from the French of Paris. Not that Wulf could understand a word of either.

He stripped, laid out his Italian outfit on the covers, and set to work to ensorcel it. After a few hastily corrected misjudgments, he made the trunk hose a uniform pale gray and the doublet and coat a somber blue of modest cut and sensible sleeves. When he had dressed again, he was a stylish Jorgarian gentleman.

He still could not Look in on Madlenka. Vlad was stretched out on the bed and staring at the canopy, while Otto gazed fixedly out the window. He went to them.

Otto spun around. “Thank the Lord! You’re safe?”

“So far,” Wulf said. “Why didn’t you tell me that Gallant had fallen and Anton was wounded?”

His brother sighed and avoided his eyes. d his ey#x201C; Because there was nothing you could do. Rumors of Satanism are flying, Wulf. People suspect the Vranovs more than us, but the bishop set up a vigil of two priests at all times in Anton’s room. You could not have meddled this time. They caught him in the street, without a helmet. He took such a terrible cut to the head… You saved his life twice. You have nothing to repent.”

Wulf nodded. It was too late to explain that he had healed Countess Edita in that same room without entering it. Otto’s decision made sense, but the failure would haunt Wulf for years. If he had years.

“What’s your news, Wolfcub?” Vlad growled.

“Nothing much. I am Sir Wulfgang Magnus, the crown prince’s master of horse. I am on my way to Rome to meet with Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville, to negotiate the marriage of Princess Laima, and the Scarlet Spider expects me to rescue his castle from Vranov. Tonight there is going to be a Walpurgis Night party of all the best Satanists in Europe, to which I am invited but from which I may never return.”

“Glad to hear that one of us is still able to hold his head up,” Vlad growled.

“It may be higher yet if it ends on a pike,” Wulf said. “How in hell did you lose the most impregnable castle in Christendom?”

“Gross fornicating incompetence!” Vlad roared. “I made the worst mistake in warfare-I counted on the enemy doing what I wanted him to do! Vranov had been told the river had stopped running, and he could confirm that. His allies were beaten and he had nothing to gain by continuing his rebellion. If he was in any sense sane, he would be halfway home to Woda by now. I went to bed. I woke up with a sword at my throat.”

“You didn’t allow for talent? Sorcery?”

The big man nodded miserably. “I had set guards on the gates, but they must have been as drunk as lords. All the church bells were already ringing, so there was no way to sound the alarm; the whole town was drunk by then. The Satanists brought Vranov’s men right into the keep, I think. They beat us from the inside out.”

Vlad was obviously crushed by his failure. The first commandment forbade such trickery, but once again Vranov had broken the rules.

“I think we can sort it out. What Speaking has done can be undone by Speaking.” Wulf had an appointment to keep. He was also famished. “I must go.”

“God be with you, Brother,” Otto said formally. He was deliberately avoiding emotional farewells, and probably that was wise.

Back at the inn, yesterday’s Brother Daniel, the younger, thinner one, was sitting on the edge of the bed with a document case beside case behim. His head jerked up as if he had been close to falling asleep.

Wulf’s dreams of food faded. “Long hours?”

“Thirty hours a day, eight days a week,” the friar said ruefully. “You are doing well, Sir Wulfgang. The Spider is not easily impressed and rarely gives his trust.”

“The Greeks said we should not judge a man until we know how he dies.”

The friar conceded the point with a sigh. “And that is especially true of Speakers. Open the way, please.”

Wulf extended his hand.

Daniel frowned and then gripped his wrist.

Wulf led him into limbo and closed the gate. “How far does this contract differ from the terms of the Frenchman’s last offer, do you know?”

“Very little. My brother took the Spider’s dictation and wrote the draft for him to edit; I just copied it out in fair. His Eminence altered the order of the clauses, which makes comparison harder. The only change I noticed was omission of a provision that the couple will reside in Jorgary. There’s no prohibition against them choosing to do so, though.”

Except the cardinal’s future displeasure.

“And the dowry kickbacks?”

The friar smiled. “He was quite generous-for him. He rarely settles for less than one hundred per centum. A draft on the Fugger bank for one-quarter of the amount will be supplied as soon as the terms are accepted. The rest will be due on the wedding day, but I am authorized to mention that there may be delays in payments. Likely no one will ever know who pockets what.”

So goes the world. “Then let us see if it is acceptable.”

“Why should it not be?”

“Because the omission you noticed was deliberate. Cardinal d’Estouteville is anxious that his nephew live in Jorgary. Cardinal Zdenek is anxious that he not. Please do not draw attention to the change and pray fervently that the Roman scribes are less observant than you.”

Wulf opened a gate into d’Estouteville’s study. There was no one present.

D’Estouteville was asleep somewhere. So there would be no immediate decision. An old man deserved his nap. The fire had been banked and a warm sun shone beyond the windows. Brother Daniel wandered over there to look out at the city. Wulf eyed the books heaped on the big table and wondered if he dare pry.

Before his conscience and curience andosity could decide on a winner, the door opened to admit two priests, so mismatched that they might have been chosen for comic relief: one tall and cadaverous, the other short and pudgy. The first was a workaday, as was the servant who followed them in. The plump priest was Father Giulio, the Speaker who had fetched Wulf from Cardice to Rome. He wasted no time on formalities.

“Brother,” Giulio said, “we have been sent to examine the documents you bring. We assume that you will wish to be present while we do so.” Taking the friar’s consent for granted, he turned to Wulf. “And I am told that you, my son, have had no chance to eat yet today. If you go with this man, you will be fed.”

Obviously a very detailed watch had been kept over him for the last twenty-four hours, but food was an irresistible offer. He accepted, following the servant out and along a corridor with walls painted in a jarring red above oak wainscot. Their destination was a small, stark room containing only a rectangular table and six chairs. Most likely it was designed for meetings, and it was easy to imagine clerks spreading their exchequer cloth there to tally money. At the moment it was being fitted out as a private dining room, with four men laying out dishes and jabbering among themselves in fast Italian, but never addressing him. He was given water to wash his hands, and offered dishes to accept or refuse. Once his platter was loaded and his goblet filled, the servants departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts and dishes for seconds. The fare was cold and largely unfamiliar: rice and pasta, two fish of unknown species, roast goose, beans, and fruit.