“I made my views quite clear, I think.”
“You did, but I do think you will change them now.”
“I doubt that,” Lady Umbral said impatiently.
Justina wished she could watch the lady’s expression, but a drape hung over the grille on the far side, and Lady Umbral would be sitting in darkness. Elysium had been made as snoop-proof as possible.
“Wulfgang has done what was needed. He went into the Wends’ camp and blew up their powder wagons with hot coals from a bed warmer. We don’t know yet what damage that did directly, but it brought down an avalanche that plugged the pass. He’s dammed the Ruzena River and closed the Silver Road for months or years. The Pomeranian invasion is over.”
“Mother of God!”
In the reigns of three prelates, Justina had never before heard an Umbral blaspheme.
“Wartislaw is totally defeated and may be dead. He must have lost thousands of men, plus his camp and complete artillery train. It’s a rout.”
Umbral laughed. “I grovel! I abase myself! I genuflect to your paramount wisdom. Enlist him! Grab that Magnus boy before Zdenek hears of this. Or the Church.”
The game had changed. The fact was that too many Speakers were half mad, like Leonas, or twisters like Vilhelmas. Honest, effective Speakers were rare and very precious. Justina had been one in her day, and Wulfgang was clearly another. Even the Church might prefer to turn him than burn him now. Negotiation might be possible.
“Rome is the biggest problem, my lady. Is that why His Holiness has invited you? Has he heard this yet, do you know?”
“I’m fairly sure he wants to talk about Azuolas’s death. Even if he’s still thinking of bonfires at the moment, he may change his mind when he hears this news.”
Justina felt an enormous sense of reprieve. Wulfgang was not going to burn! On the other hand, he might not be totally enamored of the alternative.
“The girl, Madlenka Bukovany, who was supposed to marry Anton-she and Wulfgang go fish-eyed every time they look at each other. I don’t think they’ve had a chance to make the two-backed monster yet, but I give them two days at the most before they crack.”
“He won’t want to take an oath of celibacy, you mean?” Umbral said impatiently. “Nobody takes that seriously anymore.”
Wulfgang would.
“No, the Church might let him marry and remain a layman, as long as he was jessed by a cleric. The trouble is that Count Anton guessed which way the tide was turning and bullied the girl into a handfasting, which he consummated with dispatch. The pope can annul that and you cannot. They’re both the type to want Church blessing.”
Lady Umbral muttered, “’Sblood!” under her breath.
“And if Zdenek gets his pitch in, he can play on the boy’s loyalty. The Magnuses pride themselves on having served the kings of Jorgary for centuries, with never a waver.”
“No offense to your homeland, but he would be wasted serving such a pipsqueak kingdom.”
Justina did not fancy telling the boy that. “And we must fend off the Agioi. Wulfgang and Marek assassinated their Father Vilhelmas, so they may start calling for justice.”
“From what you told me earlier, he got justice. Our first priority must be to jess your Wulfgang wonder before anyone else gets him.” The lady was starting to sound curt, impatient to return to her supper with the Vicar of Christ. “Offer him protection and we’ll settle the deaths somehow. It won’t be the first time I’ve bought a pope, or even the patriarch.”
“There’s more, I’m afraid.”
Lady Umbral sighed. “I should ha1C; size='-1've known there would be. You’ve never panicked before. Go on, then.”
Justina did not consider that she’d panicked now. She had recognized a crisis that required more than her own authority, that was all.
“A woman in the town may have died of plague a few days ago.”
“Ignore that,” Lady Umbral said firmly. “The Good Lord never asks my permission before He visits pestilence on people, and we can heal our own, as long as we’re discreet. Anything more?”
Wasn’t that enough? Justina was feeling too old for so much excitement. “I think I’ve covered the main points.”
“Then go back there and enlist Wulfgang Magnus. Do anything at all, but get him jessed by someone in th e Saints! I’ll happily jess him myself, if he agrees. I’ll be available right after this snack with Sixtus. Bring him here, if you can, to Elysium.”
“Thank you, my lady. Bon appetit!”
She heard a low growl from behind the curtain and then silence. Justina opened her eyes to glimpse a few stars and one single, lonely light somewhere down on the plain.
Time to go. Wulfgang was still not in bed. In fact, he was talking to…
Oh, no!
CHAPTER 20
Arturas Synovec was twenty-three years old, the count’s herald, a native of Gallant, betrothed to the most beautiful girl he had ever met, and a bastard. His mother had been housekeeper to the bishop-two-back, and such things happened. He and his brothers had received an education out of the situation, and in their cases not much else. Arturas, though, having displayed some talent with pen and brush, and lacking the brawn for physical work or warfare, had become a clerk in the count’s service, then apprentice to Klement, the old herald, and eventually his successor. Life had been simple but penurious, with little hope that he could ever earn enough money to take on family responsibilities. Then Count Bukovany and his son had died suddenly and Count Magnus had appeared even more suddenly. Arturas felt as if he had barely slept since.
If the castle survived the Wends and the Pelrelmians, he could realistically hope to receive a bonus from the victorious count, perhaps even a raise, and thus the means to afford marriage. If the castle fell… He tried not to think about that. Gallant sat between two armies like a nut in a nutcracker, and the people prayed as they had not prayed in a century.
Near sunset, rumors of a miracle began to circulate. The count’s brother, Sir Vladislav, was reported to be leading a sortie out the north gate, which ought to be suicide. The snow showed signs of ending, but darkness was falling, so perhaps he could still hope to escape detection long enough to damag1C; sih oe whatever the enemy had been doing up at the mouth of the gorge.
Then word was passed for Arturas Synovec to attend His Lordship on the roof of the north barbican. Raise or bonus would depend on diligence, so he ran the whole way, arriving almost too breathless to speak. The bitter wind was still howling up there, and the three men standing by the battlements were all muffled like hibernating bears. He could recognize the count by his height, and he was fairly certain that the one in armor was Constable Dali Notivova.
His footsteps were muffled, but they heard him puffing and turned to face him.
“Herald,” the count said, “have you heard about the river?”
That was about the most unexpected question he had ever been asked.
“No, my”-gasp-“lord.”
“Constable, tell him.”
“It’s stopped flowing,” Notivova said. “Just a trickle here and there. Never seen anything like it.”
And what did they expect Arturas Synovec to do about it? He said nothing, which was usually a wise choice for a herald, or so Klement had taught him.
“We heard thunder a while ago,” the count said, “and the ground shook. We think a landslide must have
