Catholic fortress-the no pile. But Svaty’s price would certainly include the boy himself, and probably much else- yes. Lady Umbral was a trader in magic that the Church publicly condemned as Satanism, whatever it really believed, and thwheeved, aus her dealings must always be secret, and her reputation for honesty was vital to her continued success, but no one would ever dare denounce her if she cheated. Now that she knew about the boy, she must be bound by some sort of agreement, or she might feel free to grab him for her own purposes, leaving the castle, Zdenek, and Jorgary to fall together- yes, certainly.
He sighed and nodded. “Your Justina must serve until the Wends withdraw, though. As you said, it cannot be very long.”
“Until the Wends withdraw or the castle falls.”
“If the castle and the boy survive, then you get one-third of him.” There might still be opportunities to renege on that part of the agreement. The Magnus family had a long tradition of patriotism and service to their king.
“Agreed.”
“The password is ‘Greenwood’.”
“How do we arrange the travel?”
“Brother Daniel has met Count Anton. Brother?”
The friar nodded. “But the hour is late to go calling on a fortress under siege, Your Eminence. Men-at-arms in dangerous situations often strike first and ask questions later. Too late.” He removed his eye patch to let the visitors have a clear look at his face. “If you will come calling on me tomorrow morning at, say, terce, my lady, I shall be happy to conduct you to Cardice.”
“I’m no ‘lady,’” the Speaker said. “Just Justina. I will see you then, Brother.”
The women rose as one.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Eminence,” Lady Umbral said.
A gap seemed to open in the air itself. All three stepped through it and vanished, leaving the cardinal with his hand out, offering his ring to empty air.
CHAPTER 2
“Can’t you even pretend to enjoy it?” Anton raged.
A week ago he had been Lancer Magnus, most junior recruit in the king of Jorgary’s Light Hussars, living on gruel in a repulsive attic and forced to share a bed with Wulfgang. Now he was Count Magnus of Cardice, Companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, lord of the march, keeper of Castle Gallant, one of the premier noblemen of the realm. So life felt good, with a few exceptions. One of which was his current problem.
“Pretend how, my lord?” she said. Her voice was muffled, because they were both deep in a feather mattress and buried under a mountain of down quilts. She was underneath. eight='0em' width='1em' align='justify'› He was on top, which he always preferred, and also inside, but not making much progress. He must have swived two dozen young girls in the seven years or so since he became capable, but none had been so unresponsive. Older women-there had been even more of those-had always agreed that he was a good lover, delivering as much pleasure as he took. But Madlenka had been bewitched, and there was only one man around Castle Gallant who could use witchcraft.
Meanwhile, she was still waiting for instructions, although all he could do was repeat what he had told her a dozen times in the last three days. “Moan, thrash around. Bounce. Shriek. Bite and scratch. Above all, in the name of the Almighty, don’t just lie there and weep like that!”
A week ago he had been stalking the bawds of the court, hoping to work his way into the bed, if not affections, of some rich lady who might expand his income and advance his career. Now he was married-or at least handfasted, which was as good as married-to the daughter of the previous count. Only men who admired flattish chests and sinewy legs would regard her as a beauty. Anton’s taste ran to the voluptuous. He liked buttocks he could sink his fingers into and breasts like melons, great twin pillows where a man could bury his head; not these pale, pink-tipped pears. Her ivory skin, moonlight hair, and sapphire eyes were bloodless. She looked like an ice maiden and acted like one.
Madlenka sniffed. “I am not weeping, my lord.”
“You have tears in your eyes!”
“It hurts!”
Anton made an exasperated noise. What he might have said then remained unsaid, because another man spoke right behind him.
“Anton! Are you awake?”
Anton withdrew, rolled off, and peered out from under the quilt to make sure the bed curtains were safely closed.
“Otto?” He would tell anyone else to go to hell and stay there for at least two hours. “What the devil-”
“It’s urgent. Very bad news. Put some clothes on and come out here, to the fire.”
The door thumped shut.
Cursing, Count Magnus struggled out of the mattress and the curtains. Shivering as if he had fallen into icy water, he quickly covered his gooseflesh with the garments he had dropped on the floor last night, which were all just as cold.
He paused at the mirror to drag on his hat, dab some wax on his mustache, and twirl up the ends. He scowled at the bruise on his jaw and winced as he poked a loose tooth with his tongue. Anger, as much as cold, made his breath smoke. The windows overlooked the bailey and showed a thin slice of milky blue sky above the battlements on the far side. Up here in the mountains, September morninligember mgs felt like November back home at Dobkov.
The count’s quarters in Castle Gallant were shabby and ancient. As soon as he had driven off the Wends and settled into his demesne, he would have them redecorated in the Italian style; more like, say, the bedroom of Baroness Nadezda Radovan in Mauvnik. Now, there was a woman who understood the finer points of copulation! As she should, having been at it for thirty years. He strode out into Madlenka’s dressing room and shut the door behind him, ready to face whatever disaster the new day had brought.
Even a brother should not invade the count’s private quarters uninvited. But it wasn’t just Otto: three of them were out there, waiting for him. They must have brought a firepot, for the wood on the hearth was blazing merrily already. And they all stood up to honor the count, their host.
At thirty-six, Ottokar Baron Magnus of Dobkov was the senior brother and head of the family. He had arrived in Gallant yesterday on what was intended to be a brief celebratory visit, but now he dared not go home again lest he carry pestilence with him. Although Anton would not admit it, he was more than happy to have his oldest brother here to lean on in the present crisis. Otto was big, solid, and battle-hardened, but those qualities mattered much less than his level head, steady nerves, and experience. Whenever there was a dispute, Otto’s opinion would always be the soundest and the safest to accept.
The giant hiding behind the huge and very unfashionable black beard was second brother Sir Vladislav, even bigger than Otto, and a renowned warrior. He had come to Gallant to advise on how to fight off the Pomeranian army that was poised to attack the north gate. All through Anton’s childhood, Vlad had been a bullying pest, dispensing bruises on the training ground or mocking all lesser men with his cruel, hobnailed humor. But Vlad would still be languishing in captivity, a hostage in some godforsaken castle in Bavaria, had Anton not come up with his ransom, so Vlad owed him a gigantic favor and was having to behave himself at last.
And the youngest, Wulfgang. He looked small and babyish alongside the other two, but was neither. He was a superb horseman and packed a punch to fell oxen, as Anton’s sore jaw and loose tooth reminded him. No longer the amiable varlet who had tended his brother’s boots and clothes and tack without complaint last week, he was now a killer, as dangerous as a lightning bolt. Furthermore, he lusted after the Ice Maiden, and she craved him too, although she staunchly denied it. Shining like gold sequins, his pale eyes stared fixedly at Anton; his face was unreadable and almost frightening.
The absence of middle brother Marek meant that this was a military emergency that did not concern a renegade monk.
