talked into taking the girl on as a brancher. It had been a great compliment to her skills as a handler, honed on almost a dozen kids since the start of the century. Sybilla had turned out to be quite a handful, but good company for an ancient hermitess, and there was a cautious streak behind her wildness, which Justina had done all she could to encourage. A handler’s duties were not hard: a few lectures, a lot of language lessons, and firsthand experience of all the important cities of Europe. Now the job was done, and well done, for in a few days a new Speaker would be formally fledged and royally jessed.
Swallows and storks were long gone, and a honking V of geese was heading southward overhead. It must be about time for this falcon to go too, to turn in her broomstick, as the Saints said. About time to learn if a Speaker could find salvation. Justina took a long swig from the bottle and gave herself a coughing fit. Her hacking angered her, for it ruined her mood of genteel melancholy.
Wulfgang and Sybilla had split up, each riding alone in the snowstorm. Judging by the way Sybilla kept peering around her, she was preparing to open a gate the moment she was sure of being unobserved. Wulfgang was still interested in the traffic, seeking people out, rather than trying to avoid them.
Tragedy! The boy had so much promise, and it was all to be wasted. Without the Saints’ help he was doomed, and Umbral was steadfast in her refusal to take up his cause. Why hadn’t Zdenek called for the Saints’ help just one day earlier, so this appalling mess could have been avoided?
Although Umbral and Justina were distantly related, the relationship was by marriage, so Sybilla’s talent had not come from the Magnus line. The Magnus line was in serious trouble now.
Sybilla stepped out of limbo, shedding snow and her damp cloak. “Oo, that nephew of yours!” she said. “If the devil came for Wulf, he would kick him in the balls. Yummy! Will I find men like him in Paris?”
Justina pulled herself together enough to smile. “If you search a very long time you may, but don’t count on it.”
“Did you talk with Mother?”
“I mostly listened.”
Justina’s brancher gave her a long, hard look. “What’s wrong?”
Why did good news and bad news so often come hand in hand? Why must joy tarnish like silver? Sybilla’s triumph was totally ruined for Justina by Wulfgang’s disaster.
“Nothing’s wrong, dear. Umbral said to tell you that it’s all signed and sealed. Your cadger will receive instruction tomorrow, and you will probably be jessed next Sunday. Congratulations, my dear!”
Sybilla clapped her hands, just once. Her face wore the sort of expression that goes with tasting a delicious mouthful of some favorite treat. Only a few months ago she would have shrieked with joy and behaved like a child. The jessing negotiations had dragged on for nerve-racking weeks, so almost any display of pleasure would be justified. But now she came around the table to sit beside Justina and give her a fond hug. “It is all your doing, my lady! I am more grateful than I can possibly tell you.”
“It was a pleasure, and you did all the work.”
“Nonsense. Now, what’s wrong, grandmother?”
“I am not your grandmother.”
“You’re a great grandmother!”
That little exchange was a joke from their first days together, but they had not used it for years. It was a sign that Sybilla looked forward to their parting with regret as well as joy, and that she was a lot more mature and perceptive than she usually pretended. Now she put a firm young hand over the old one on the table.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“Wulfgang.”
“Oh!” She understood instantly. “Mother’s being difficult?”
That was hardly the word for Lady Umbral when she refused something.
“She has no choice, my dear. Wulfgang killed a Dominican priest and helped kill an Orthodox one. Vilhelmas’s death might be excused because he was leading an armed invasion and he’s a schismatic anyway. But not Azuolas’s. Neither pope nor Inquisition will forgive that. The Inquisition will come for Wulfgang in its own good time, but come for him it will. There’s nowhere he can hide.”
Sybilla pulled a face. She reached her other hand through limbo and brought it back holding a glass, which she set on the table. Justina poured brandy into it.
“Should I talk to Mother?”
“No. She can’t defy the Church when it has really set its mind on something. That would put the whole of the Saints at risk.”
Sybilla used a vulgar expression she must have picked up from a workaday. She sniffed at the brandy and tried a cautious sip, then laid the glass down hastily. “I’d better not. I have to get ready for the ball. Wulf is not a murderer!”
“Yes he is. In the eyes of the Church he is. He saw his brother being assaulted and broke into the fight to help him. He was outnumbered, because Marek had obviously been overpowered already, so he shot the bolt first to even the odds. A secular judge would acquit him. If the dead man th anhadn’t been a priest, the Church would absolve him with a massive penance and be willing to accept a big bag of gold in lieu of it. But facts is facts.”
“Father, then? Could he help?”
“Why should he?” Justina said sadly. “Quid pro quo? How can the Magnuses ever scratch his back enough for him to scratch Wulfgang off the Inquisition’s most-wanted list? What is really damnable is that I was five years too late in finding the boy, and if I’d been even one day sooner I could have prevented all this!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll think of something!” Sybilla rose and bent to kiss Justina’s ancient cheek. Then she stepped into limbo and was gone.
Justina took up the glass of brandy and drained it.
After all these years of success, her career was ending in total disaster. She had failed… and failed her own flesh and blood, too!
CHAPTER 14
Snow was falling just as hard in Castle Gallant as it was on the other side of the Hogback. Wulf had planned to return from Long Valley to the same bailey entrance tunnel that he had used to leave, but he materialized in the alley outside, about two house lengths away. His arrival was unobserved, because there was no one close, and the snow was thick enough to hide him from anyone watching through windows, yet the deviation startled him, a reminder that he was still very ignorant of the workings of talent. As he rode along to the arch, a troop of men- at-arms came marching out, proving that his intended destination would have been a very poor choice at that time. He had certainly not known this beforehand, so he must assume that Saints Helena and Victorinus were still looking after him, even if they did not speak to him anymore.
He found Balaam standing in the bailey with his reins looped around the burr-plate. He looked abandoned and bewildered, but was happy to follow Copper into the stable, where the same two boys as before came running to give both horses rubdowns. Fortunately, horses could not gossip about where they had been, or explain the mud on their legs.
Vlad and Anton were in the solar.
Wulf went next to the armory to turn in Count Szczecin’s armor as a contribution to the stores. To the victor go the spoils. He detoured to the kitchens to borrow a bed warmer, which he carried on his shoulder like a pike as he went on up to the solar. The few people he passed gave him puzzled looks, but did not question.
The shabby little room felt hot as an oven after the wintery day outside. Vlad was slumped on a chair with a wine bottle, yawning. Anton was pacing to and fro, and jumped like a frog when Wulf walked in.
Wulf lifted the bottle from Vlad’s hand and took a long swig. “How’s the war going?”
He laid down the contraption he had brought from the kitchen, and took another long swig. Dutch courage, they called that.
“All quiet at the moment,” Vlad said. “We can’t see the end of our noses out there. I think both sides are bringing up guns. They’ll start work on our gates as soon as the snow stops. Gallant will fall on Tuesday or Wednesday.”
