passed her the reins.
“Your brothers think you’re in league with the devil,” she said, smirking. ng. iv›
Of course they did. He had seen the fear in their eyes. Even Otto hadn’t been able to hide it. They thought they were putting their own souls in peril by accepting his aid and failing to denounce him. They were probably right.
“Am I?” he asked. “Are you?”
She laughed and tried a coquettish leer on him. “If you were, what would you do with me?”
“Chain you to a rock and send a sea monster for you.” He nudged Copper into motion and rode around the back of the building, just in case there were pickets guarding the door at the front. The barracks might be deserted now, for all he knew, but as the only permanent structure available, it might also be Duke Wartislaw’s temporary palace, if His Grace was leading his army in person.
The casque’s original owner must also have been able to see well enough in it, but Wulf could not, so he removed it and propped it against the upright burr-plate on the front of his saddle. That way he was still an obvious nobleman, but less easily recognized as an imposter. His greatest danger, after other Speakers, were Two Stags’s surviving followers.
In a few minutes the intruders came to the edge of the pine knoll, where the land sloped gently down into marshy ground, which Dali Notivova had described in graphic terms. Scabby patches of snow did little to improve its appearance, while the passage of an army had churned the rest of it into ponds and black mud. Although the many small groves of trees had not yet shed their leaves, being aspens, they were managing to shake off most of the snow. Their spindly but densely packed trunks blocked sight lines so well that it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty yards in any direction, a blessing for a man trying to avoid attention while wearing a nimbus. Having the choice of a dozen new trails, Wulf chose one at random.
Dali had mentioned snowy peaks, but now a leaden lid of cloud lay low on the valley. The wind tugged at Wulf’s tattered red cloak and drove flurries of snow in his face. He saw two troops of archers plodding along, a disorganized rabble of women and children with handcarts, many wagons piled high with hay, others laden with more women and children. Although the mob as a whole was heading north, its parts veered this way and that between the little lakes and the aspen groves, with disputes over precedence breaking out wherever two streams joined or tried to cross. Those on foot made way for the mounted nobleman and his lady, but they in turn had to find their own path around the cumbersome wagons. The fighting part of the army was presumably farther ahead, setting up a long-term camp.
“You should be paying attention to me,” Sybilla announced, riding at his side. “Not gawking around like a village idiot.”
He glanced at her incredulously. “You ought to be gawking, too. If a Wendish Speaker spots our halos, he’s going to load up his crossbow and pull the trigger faster than you can flutter an eyelash. And he won’t miss.” That was one experiment in Satanism that Wulf had allowed himself years ago-directing an arrow. Blessing it, he would call it now.
“Well, he can only fire one bolt at a time, and you’ll get the first one.”
“That’s why I’m gawking.”
Sybilla sniggered nervously, and he reminded himself that she was only a kid who liked to play at being a seductress. Since Speakers were both rare and reclusive, he might well be the first one close to her own age she had ever met, and he must seem more intriguing than an elderly Roman cardinal or his friends. Perhaps his lack of real interest in her was just encouraging her to taunt him.
Progress was slow, and he would probably have to go all the way to the front before he would have much chance of finding the Dragon. Meanwhile, there was plenty to look at, but nothing especially useful or meaningful. Likewise, Sybilla’s taunting and teasing was even less interesting than her prattling about Rome and Paris. Snow began to fall in earnest. He wondered how much daylight remained in this weather and these mountains.
He wondered who had seen him kissing Madlenka and tattled about it to Anton. Probably nobody he had even heard of, but the juicy gossip would have spread like wildfire through the castle and town.
Vlad had made it safely back to the south barbican and was standing outside the sally port, gazing back down the trail as the Pelrelmians dismantled the breastwork at the bend. So far they were not daring to come any closer. Otto’s thoughts were full of nonsensical shapes and colors, which meant he was asleep; that seemed surprising at first, but made sense on second thoughts because he had not been to bed last night and would be a logical choice to take the night watch tonight. Anton, even more surprisingly, was visiting the wounded in the infirmary in the company of Dowager Countess Edita. Who had put him up to that little demonstration of concern and gratitude? If he could concentrate on ceremonial duties, he might be recovering from his obsessive jealousy.
Sybilla said, “What’s that?”
Wulf returned his attention to Long Valley. She was pointing to her left, indicating a dray that had become thoroughly lodged in the mire, despite having a team of sixteen oxen to haul it. Men were standing around, arguing and cursing. Other wagons were detouring around it, churning up weeds, turning the snow into great puddles. The division of the road into a tangle of many braids was an advantage for a spy, in that no one could keep track of anyone else in all the confusion. It was also a hindrance, in that Wulf was quite likely to miss his objective: Dragon, the bombard. But the dray Sybilla had noticed might be it.
“Let’s go and see.” Wulf directed Copper in that direction. “Mayhap we grand folks can tender some unhelpful suggestions.”
It did occur to him that he might be growing overconfident.
Drays were low-set, flatbed wagons used for especially heavy or awkward loads, and the giant bombard would certainly qualify as that. He soon saw that the dray ahat Sheead was not the one he sought. Its deck had been divided by balks of timber into a dozen compartments, each of which held a stone ball about a cubit across. This shot was so huge it could only belong to the Dragon itself. Unlike other loads, this one had been left uncovered, for snow would not hurt stone. He tried not to imagine the Dragon’s fiery roar hurling those cannonballs half a mile into the north barbican, shattering the ashlar walls to rubble.
The loud dispute faded as the participants noted his approach. Now he could not ride by without intervening. His remark about offering unhelpful suggestions had been made in jest, but he must stay in character.
Be Anton!
Worse, be Vlad.
“Make way there!” he bellowed, bulling Copper forward into the crowd. “What’re you lazy slobs doing standing there picking lice out of your asses when you’ve got work to do?”
A gnarled bear of a man saluted. “She’s sunk axle deep, my lord!”
“I can see that, cretin! There’s an army moving past you! Commandeer another team and add it on. Two more teams! And move smartly or the duke’ll have your hide for bowstrings!”
He urged Copper forward again, scattering more men and confident that Sybilla was capable of keeping up with him. He listened with amusement to a wake of obscene suggestions following her. Once he was through the mob and she pulled level with him again, he was pleased to see that her face was flushed crimson.
“A little different from Cardinal Whatshisname’s friends?”
“Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville,” she said. “No. Just cruder. And smellier. Same intentions. Was that an unhelpful idea?”
“As unhelpful as I could come up with on the spur of the moment. They’ll be jamming up the traffic on that part of the road until dark. With luck, they’ll pull the wagon to bits.”
“And a helpful one would be…?”
“Unload half the cargo and come back for it tomorrow. The Dragon will need days to shoot all those balls, if it ever does.” Of course, unloaded balls might have sunk out of sight in the swamp, so perhaps that would have been a better suggestion for him to make. But even half the load might be enough to demolish the barbican.
A moment later he saw another dray creeping along ahead, with the same cargo. When one had made it through the bad spot, the second driver had thought he could follow, not allowing for the damage the first vehicle had caused. Or he might be less skilled. And there was yet another team farther ahead. If Wartislaw thought he needed three dozen cannonballs, then either he distrusted the Dragon’s efficacy, or he expected to besiege more castles during his conquest of Jorgary.
Those ammunition drays had been easy to identify, but most of the other loads were anonymous. Many
