thinks like a two-year-old. If you’re nice to him, he’s usually very sweet.”
“I’ve seen him before. The day I arrived, when I was hurrying to the cathedral, he was sitting in the street outside, playing with a stray dog. Men-at-arms were guarding him.”
She nodded. “Vranov wouldn’t let him go inside. Marijus told me he gets upset by the way sounds reverberate in churches. He’s just a baby in a youth’s body, but Vranov takes him everywhere. He says if he leaves Leonas at home, the others boys pick on him. I suspect he’s more concerned about protecting them than him. Leonas might be dangerous to small children.”
“He couldn’t hurt me, so why did you contradict my orders about the puppy?”
“It was a trap, my lord,” the girl said, being servile to an unpredictable husband. “When Vranov came visiting last month, Father got into a shouting match with the boy. He wouldn’t let Leonas sit at the high table and Leonas went crazy, screaming, throwing things, foaming at the mouth. Havel just sat there and watched as if it was all a big joke, or else Father’s fault. Petr got involved. Mother tried to reason with Leonas, but nothing worked. Eventually he broke down and lay on the floor, weeping. I didn’t want to see you involved in another scene like that.”
“Thank you,” Anton said stiffly. “I apologize for doubting you. See your mother to bed. The celebration seems to be over.”
“Does anyone have any idea,” asked Otto, who had been watching all this in silence, “what Count Vranov hoped to gain by that harebrained performance? He frightened a lot of people, but all he really did was confirm the stories that he is in league with the devil. What good can that do him?”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Vlad remarked diffidently to Anton, “you are liable to have half the population of the town streaming out the gates before sunset. I suggest you give orders that no one is to leave.”
Anton nodded uncertainly.
“Anton-my lord!” Wulf said loudly. Marek had not noticed him at the back of the group, but he must have arrived there by conventional means, for he was carrying a lantern. He had lost his hat and his hair was disheveled like storm-flattened barley. His eyes were wild. “A private word!” He grabbed Anton by the arm. “You come, too, Marek.”
Anton angrily broke loose of his grip, but he let Wulf lead him over to the fireplace and Marek followed. What was making Wulf so excited? He was positively jumpy. Where had he been and how had he left the hall?
Wulf said, “You’re lord of the marches. I ask for your approval of a sortie!”
“A what?”
Wulf turned to Marek. “The priest was the Speaker, right? Not Vranov. Only the squinty priest; no one else?”
Marek nodded.
Anton frowned. “How do you know this?”
“We can tell,” Wulf insisted. “Trust us. So Father Vilhelmas was the one who nearly killed you at Long Valley and almost certainly the one who murdered the last count and his son. I know where he is right now. I want to go there and kill him. Have I your permission?”
Anton stiffened in astonishment. “Are you drunk?”
“I am sober as a nun. If I can take out Vranov’s Speaker, I’ll have drawn his teeth. It’s the best contribution I can make to your cause right now, Count Magnus of Cardice. Do I have your permission? ”
Anton looked to Marek, probably thinking the same thing as he was: this sounded like another Wulfgang out- of-the-blue thunderbolt, like the attack that had laid Anton flat on his back that morning. Warfare needed more planning than a bare-knuckle brawl, but to kill the enemies’ Speaker would be a masterstroke like capturing an opponent’s queen in a chess game.
“Lord Anton!” Bishop Ugne had arrived with a couple of priests. “It is imperative that we perform a ritual of exorcism to cleanse this hall of the Satanic taint left by the devil worshipers.”
“Um, yes.” For a moment Anton dithered. Then he dealt with Wulf first. “Permission granted. Be careful. My lord bishop…”
“Wait!” Marek cried, running after him. “Wait, Wulf.”
Wulf did not seem to hear. He went past Otto without a glance, totally intent on whatever he was planning.
“Follow him,” Otto said to Marek. “Don’t let him do anything too crazy.”
Marek almost caught up with Wulfgang at the door, but got stuck behind some of the injured and the priests and others trying to help them. The corridor outside was dark now, for the sun had gone behind clouds or mountains. Fortunately Marek could see Wulf’s nimbus glowing as bright as his lantern. They arrived at the stairs together.
“I want to help,” Marek said.
Wulf went up two steps at a time. “No you don’t. What I’m going to do is nasty, not honorable. But I thank you very much for the warning you gave me when Vranov and his gang came into the hall.” He was bubbling like a brewer’s vat. “That was brilliant! And fast! Very well done.” He reached the landing, turned right. He seemed to know where he was going in this labyrinth.
Marek stayed close. “Glad to help. Tell me how you got out of there.”
“The same way Vlad taught me to swim-he threw me in the moat.” Wulf threw open a door and went in.
Marek followed and recognized the Orchard Room, where they had changed out of their traveling clothes that morning. The floor was still littered with boots, swords, daggers, saddlebags, and wet cloaks, and scattered clothing covered the bed. It was slightly brighter than the corridor, but still dim and cold. Wulf set the lantern on the mantel above the empty grate. Marek closed the door.
“You didn’t swim out of the hall, Brother, and you didn’t have time to call on your Voices. You just vanished.”
“Yes.” Wulf went over to the bed. He located his own boots in the heap and set them upright. Holding a bedpost to steady himself, he slid a foot into a boot. “I seem to have advanced another grade. Now I’m at least a Seven, maybe an Eight. It’s incredible!”
“Tell me.”
He smiled diffidently. “I won’t. And I’m not saying that just to vex you. I think I know now why the Voices won’t answer questions and the monks wouldn’t teach you much. There’s a good reason why Speakers don’t talk about Speaking. Telling you would do more harm than good. And listen, Marek, you honestly don’t want to be involved in an assassination. No chivalry, no challenge or warning, just cold-blooded murder. This is not for you.”
“Execution,” Marek said stubbornly. “Did Vilhelmas give the Bukovanys a formal challenge? Did the Wends warn us that they were going to attack Long Valley and murder the garrison? This is war, not a tilting yard. I want to help!”
Wulf pulled an unhappy expression. “We do trust you. You don’t have to prove whose side you’re on.”
The problem was worse than that. Marek didn’t trust himself. After five years of enforced piety, he wasn’t sure if there was any sort of real man left in him at all. He felt like a wet rag compared with his brothers, especially young Wulf, for some reason.
“Please?” he said. “It matters a lot to me. Give me a sword and I’ll stick it in Father Vilhelmas myself.”
“A crossbow is what I have in mind, but I’ll find you a sword.”
Wulf buckled on sword and dagger, took a candle off the mantel and lit it from the lamp. At the door he stopped, looking at Marek. “This is horrible, I agree, but if the Wends have no Speaker to help them, they’ll have to give up and go home. Then the war will be over for this year. I will have done my duty and I’ll be free to go far, far away. Tonight, even.” He reached for the latch.
“Wulf!”
Wulf turned.
“I’m sorry about you and Madlenka,” Marek said. He had meant it as a comfort, but knew at once that he had only increased the hurt.
Wulf froze, his face twisted in pain. “So am I. But the king has commanded and she has consented. So now she sleeps in Anton’s bed and I have to get out of here and far away before I do something crazy. That’s another reason to kill Father Vilhelmas.”
