like this I almost wish I hadn’t torn your tongue out. Ah, well, it cannot be helped. We could not have you revealing my secrets to the villagers if you escaped, could we?”
The count crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the empty fireplace. The paper burst into flames. “Boarhound and boar,” Strahd repeated as he opened a hidden panel in the stone wall. In the tiny alcove he placed the pen, ink, and crystal ball. “Intriguing.”
The mystic stirred and reached out for the crystal ball. “Urrr,” he groaned plaintively when he found the table empty before him.
The globe was Voldra’s only means of contact with the world. It provided the old man, who had been deaf and blind from birth, limited glimpses into life beyond his sheltered mind. The orb granted other gifts, as well. The mystic had never learned to write; in the farming village where he’d lived much of his life, there was little need for such skills. The crystal ball allowed him to join pen to paper and make meaningful, if somewhat vague, statements.
The wordless, strangled cries of his prisoner hardly touched Strahd’s consciousness as he crossed to the iron door and left the barren cell. His mind was coiling itself around the notion that the two strangers might prove useful to him. The count had known one of them was quite powerful even before Voldra’s scribbled message; no being with strength of will or spell entered the duchy without Strahd’s knowledge.
Strahd knew that the zombies he’d sent to test the newcomers’ strength had been destroyed. He knew, too, that the weaker of the two strangers had fled into the forest before the battle. The wolves were following that one, herding him toward the castle.
The other would prove more of a challenge. The thought excited Strahd; it had been a long time since a problem worthy of his serpentine intellect had presented itself. The thing to do now, he decided as he paced with stately grace down the lightless corridor, past the sobbing prisoners in their filthy cells, was to gather more information.
FOUR
The tearful keening of a violin filled the clearing and twined with the moonlight in the forest. The man playing the sad, rustic melody tapped his foot in time with his bow’s movement. Nearby, two dozen men, women, and children sat in the glow of a campfire. The small crowd swayed to the music as if they were cobras mesmerized by a serpent tamer’s flute.
Seven caravans were drawn into a semicircle around the forest camp. Ornately carved, brightly painted creatures and designs covered the large wagons, and these now served as a backdrop for the young man playing the violin. The multicolored scarf tied around his head and the similarly dyed sash girded about his thin waist blended in with the garish wagons. His tight black pants and the white shirt hanging open at his neck were in contrast to them.
As the song wound to its conclusion, the musician picked up the tempo. He played the last few bars boldly, in defiance of the piece’s somber tone. Three notes plucked, pizzicato, from the strings concluded the tune. After, all was silent in the midnight forest save the crackling campfire. The musician expected no applause, for these were his nephews, cousins, and grandparents who were listening to him play. Their thoughtful silence told Andari his music had touched them, and that meant almost as much to him as the coins that sometimes rewarded his performances for strangers.
The young man wrapped his violin in a thick, embroidered cloth, stolen yesterday from a village nearby. He took meticulous care of the instrument. It had been handed down from father to son for five generations now, and he intended to give the violin to his own eldest boy when his fingers were too cramped to play.
“No! Leave me alone!”
The woman’s shout startled Andari into dropping the precious heirloom. Had the violin not been covered by the cloth, the stone it struck may well have gouged a hole into its exterior. A small chip was the only damage the instrument sustained, yet it was enough to send Andari into a rage.
“Magda!” he shouted, cradling the wounded violin in his arms like a child.
The sound of glass shattering erupted from inside one of the wagons. “Get away from me!” Something heavy thudded against the wall of the caravan, and the door flew open. “Go back to your fat wife!”
A young woman stood framed by the lantern-lit doorway. Her raven-black hair fell in loose curls to her shoulders, and she shifted a lock of it away from her eyes with a defiant toss of her head. High cheekbones lent her expression a hard edge, despite her full, soft lips and inviting green eyes. With those eyes she cast an angry look back into the wagon as she gathered her long skirt in one hand, revealing slender legs. The way she leaped down the wagon’s three wooden stairs told of her skill as a dancer.
“Damn you, Magda,” Andari cursed. In two long-legged strides he was at the woman’s side. With one hand the musician clutched the violin to his breast, with the other he grabbed Magda’s shoulder. “Look what you’ve done! Your screeching made me drop my violin!”
A short, balding man peered from the noisy wagon. His face was pale, and drops of sweat worked their way down his forehead into his beady eyes. With a shrug, he straightened his shirt. As he did up the expensive silver buttons ornamenting the white cotton, he said, “She’s not for me, Andari, not unless I want to be murdered in my bed.”
Violently Andari shook the young woman. “I told you to be friendly to him, didn’t I?”
Magda slapped her brother across the face. The men and woman nearby paid no attention as they wandered away from the campfire toward their own wagons. They had seen similar scenes between Andari and his sister before; there was no need to interfere. “You can’t make me bed such a lout-not even for my keep,” Magda said, her voice low and taut with anger.
His shirt buttoned tightly over his sizable paunch, the balding man emerged from the caravan. “I would have paid handsomely for a wench as comely as you,” he offered. He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. “For hitting me with that bowl I ought to have the constable whip you. You’re lucky I’m an affable fellow.”
Andari smiled obsequiously. “Indeed, Herr Grest,” he purred. “Have no fear. We will see Magda is punished for her ill treatment of you.”
“Whatever,” the little man replied absently. He looked the beautiful woman up and down. Anger flushed her tan face, and her green eyes flashed like a storm at sea. Even after her insults, the boyar found those large eyes inviting. They were the kind of eyes a man could drown in…
Grest shook his head. “I could have made you a wealthy woman.” That said, he sighed and turned to Andari. “My horse, boy. I should get back to the village right away.”
The young musician’s false smile dropped. “Are you certain you do not wish your fortune told, Herr Grest? Or perhaps you would prefer the company of one of my cousins?” He eyed the purse tied to the merchant’s belt; it wasn’t often the tribe allowed strangers, who they called giorgios, into camp. To let this one escape with his purse intact would be a shame.
“Just get my horse,” Herr Grest said drily. He looked away from the semicircle of wagons into the darkened forest. “I’m a fool to be traveling at night… but I thought the journey would be worth the danger.”
“Go get the gentleman’s horse,” Magda snapped. Andari tensed to strike his sister. She dropped her hand to the wide sash that bound her waist, and he paused. Andari knew from experience that she had a dirk secreted there.
“My sister does not understand the ways of the world,” Andari noted as he turned to retrieve the boyar’s horse. He rubbed a long, white scar on the back of his hand. “Do not think we Vistani are all so naive.” The musician ran to his wagon, placed his cloth-wrapped violin on the steps, and disappeared behind the caravans.
An uncomfortable silence settled between Magda and Grest, then the young woman smiled. “There may be something I can offer you, after all,” she said coyly.
Magda walked to the family wagon and, careful to avoid touching Andari’s violin, grabbed a small burlap sack that lay near the opening. The bag’s contents jingled as she returned to the giorgio ’s side.
“There are subtle ways to make you irresistible to young girls,” she murmured, pulling a tiny pouch from the sack and holding it up for inspection. “Slip a pinch of this into a beautiful woman’s wine and she will be at your command. Of course, it does not work on we Vistani.”
