Yet suddenly his conscience no longer shone like a well-honed blade. On the royal hunt two days ago, he had pulled off an insanely reckless feat of horsemanship that had been witnessed by at least a hundred people. It had made him the talk of the court. It might have started suspicious tongues wagging, arousing whispers of Speaking. But it had certainly not been remarkable enough to expose him to a formal investigation by the Holy Office. A watch might be set on him in future; no more than that.
“Lancer Anton Magnus of Company D of the Royal Light Hussars?” The boy looked bored and sleepy, not frightened or malicious.
His throat too dry for speech, Anton just nodded.
The novice lifted a lantern and adjusted the wick. “If you would be so good as to follow me, lancer?” He led the way, sandals slapping softly on the flagstones.
For the next few minutes, Anton Magnus continued to reassure himself with positive thoughts. He still hadn’t been relieved of his saber. Wherever he was being taken was no dungeon. The lantern’s faint glow and that of the occasional sconce shone on mosaic floors, frescoes, and wide mirrors, then a staircase wide enough to admit a coach-and-four.
“May I ask who has summoned me here at this ungodly hour?”
The boy glanced around briefly and flashed an amused smile, but did not reply.
At the top of the stairs, he led the way across a wide hall, dark as a starlit night, with only twinkles reflected from mirrors, chandeliers, cornices, and gilt picture frames, hinting at its great size. Beyond that lay another chamber, even larger, and then a third, vaster still. By then Anton Magnus had guessed the answer to his question. Very few men in the kingdom would merit such splendor, and only one of them would still be active at this hour of the night. The third doorway had been guarded by four sergeants-at-arms, who evidently knew the boy, for they had let him lead Anton Magnus past them without a word, saber and all.
Although by day the third antechamber must teem with anxious petitioners, tonight it was almost deserted. Three lamps gleamed near the far-side door, their light faintly reflected in the polished marble floor. At a desk there sat a single elderly friar, reading, guarding a door, and probably also keeping an eye on two boys nearby, who were writing on slates. He was clearly a doorman, and Anton presumed that the novices were messengers, being kept properly busy at their studies during the quiet hours when their nimble feet were not required. His guess was confirmed as his guide went to join them.
The friar looked up and nodded at the sight of the visitor. He rose and glided to the door he guarded, which must certainly lead to the inner sanctum of the most powerful man in Jorgary, the king’s first minister, Cardinal Zdenek.
Anton detoured to a convenient mirror for a hasty inspection. He straightened his plume and frowned at creases in his britches and scuff marks on his riding boots. Wulf had spent an hour polishing them last night, before Anton went off to the ball, but much had happened since then. No matter; they would have to do. Whatever had caused the cardinal to summon him in the middle of the night, it had not been to inspect smears of rouge on his collar. He twirled up his mustaches and turned back to his guide, who was waiting with the door open.
Zdenek’s audience chamber was ablaze with light from four huge chandeliers, reflected in the high crystal mirrors and gilded paneling. Rich brocade drapes covered the windows. Just one of those chairs of velvet and gilt would cost as much as Anton would be paid in the next five years. He felt suitably humbled.
The great man sat on a chair that was very nearly a throne, head bent to study a single sheet of paper. He was flanked on one side by a writing stand with inkwells and shelves to hold papers and on the other by a small table bearing four leather-bound folios and a goblet containing about two mouthfuls of dark ruby wine. He did not look up as his visitor came to a halt before him. Having no choice, Anton Magnus waited to be acknowledged. The door closed softly behind him.
Behold a portrait of the king’s faithful servant, laboring at all hours: Zdenek himself was elderly, shrunken inside his scarlet robes. The hand steadying the paper was skeletal and the color of lichen-spotted bone. His eyes were hidden by an uncomfortable-looking set of eyeglasses clamped to a beak nose; his beard and hair were silver, in stark contrast to the brilliant hue of his robes and broad-brimmed, tasseled hat, below which his eyebrows stuck out like two pale horns. He was a study in snowy white and the deep scarlet of clotted blood, like a winter battlefield.
No true churchman, Zdenek had probably never baptized a babe or buried a corpse in his life. Few laymen could read, so most clerks were clerics of some sort. Ability and diligence had raised him in the king’s service, and some political favor for the pope had bought him a cardinal’s hat. He ran the kingdom now as he had run it for a generation. He was reputed to need almost no sleep. His many enemies called him the Scarlet Spider.
So the mystery of how Anton Magnus had been located was solved. The Spider knew everything-everyone knew that. Whichever young man escorted the baroness to the ball would escort her to bed later; this was understood but did not explain why the king’s chief minister had summoned the most junior recruit in the Light Hussars. They inhabited different worlds. Cardinal Zdenek should not even know that Lancer Anton Magnus existed.
And apparently he didn’t, for Zdenek continued to read. Lancer Anton Magnus continued to stand at attention. He dearly wished that he had stopped at some doorway in the town to empty his bladder. After what seemed an age, the old man acknowledged his visitor by laying the paper on the writing stand and looking up. Lamplight blazed on his eyeglasses, masking his eyes so that his face was a skull lantern, a macabre decoration for All Hallows’ Eve.
The hussar saluted. “Anton Magnus, Your Eminence.” His uniform said everything else necessary.
The cardinal studied him without any expression whatever, as if he were a piece of statuary.
The hussar felt a welcome shiver of anger replacing his apprehension. This was a test of nerve. Captain Walangoin had tried the same sort of tricks on him when he was sworn in ten days ago, but the Magnuses of Dobkov had been famed for centuries for their suicidal courage. Zdenek must have better things to do with his time than Captain Walangoin ever could. So Anton Magnus must keep his own face immobile, staring unblinking at those glowing fiery disks until the bloodless lips below them indicated a smile.
They didn’t. “I see now,” the cardinal said in a dry whisper, “why the fair baroness enlisted you with a speed extraordinary even for her.”
Anton felt a red tide flood his face. I did not realize Your Eminence had summoned me to hear my confession. But he did not say that. Silence was the best defense.
The cardinal held out his right hand. Anton knelt to kiss his ring.
As he rose, he caught a glimpse of a fading smile, worthy of the amusement with which a man might regard a cavorting puppy. “Welcome, lancer. Pour yourself a glass of wine over there.”
Anton turned in the direction indicated and went to where a bottle and crystal goblets stood on a small sideboard. He was surprised to see that there was another man present, a friar at a desk; he was behind the door, which was why Anton had not seen him earlier. He was writing something and did not look up.
Anton poured a very small amount of wine into a glass, well aware that dawn must be close and he could not have slept more than an hour. He returned to the cardinal.
“A glass, I said; not a sip. You insult His Majesty’s hospitality.”
Anton Magnus went back to the sideboard and topped up the goblet. If this was an attempt to make him drunk, it would not work. He had stayed very sober at the ball, having been forewarned by his messmates of the exertions the dear baroness would require of him later.
As he straightened, glass in hand, the cardinal spoke again.
“And bring that chair.”
The chair was solid oak, with arms and a high back. Was this a test of strength or good judgment? Make two trips so he could use both hands, or risk taking chair and glass both? Angry at this continuing childishness, Anton decided to risk one trip. He managed to lift the monster with his left hand alone and carry it back across the room without cracking his shins or spilling his wine. He set the chair on the floor and himself on the chair.
His host raised his own glass. “To the king and your service.”
He did not stand, as one should to toast the king, so neither did Anton.
“God preserve His Majesty.” The wine was richly spiced Hippocras from Smyrna, caressing the mouth like a woman’s kiss. It had been a favorite of Anton’s father, but such luxuries had been missing in Dobkov for the last two years.
So here he was, a penniless esquire owning a uniform, a suit of armor, and two horses-he had not even
