Yes, just so.
“Then Judith said to them with a loud voice, Praise, praise God, praise God, I say, for he hath not taken away his mercy from the house of Israel, but hath destroyed our enemies by mine hands this night. So she took the head out of the bag, and shewed it, and said unto them, behold the head of Holofernes, the chief captain of the army of Assur, and behold the canopy, wherein he did lie in his drunkenness; and the Lord hath smitten him by the hand of a woman. As the Lord liveth, who hath kept me in my way that I went, my countenance hath deceived him to his destruction, and yet hath he not committed sin with me, to defile and shame me!”
“Feast on, gentlemen!” The margrave Siegfried stood up. For a moment the hall became silent, though the margrave hadn’t raised his voice at all. Just that some cold flew between the tables. “Feast on, feel at ease! Excuse me for leaving you in such early a time...”
The hour has come, Belinda understood.
Here and now.
She raised her eyes at the margrave. Smiled – experiencedly and alluringly. Now to sip out of the tin goblet. To lick the lips with the tongue. Slower. Still slower. These cowards have hidden their wives and daughters. The cowards are afraid for their cowardly women. I’m alone here. Still better. Still easier.
“You are leaving us, my knight? What a pity...”
A pause.
A carefully calculated one, mellow as old sherry.
“And I’ve supposed I won’t spend this night alone...”
In his bedroom there surely can be found a sword. Or a dagger. Blood will not spatter – it would be ridiculous to perform a feat in a dress soiled in red. And in the morning Belinda will go out to the entire city holding a bag with the enslaver’s head. At the picture “Judith and Holofernes” by the crazy painter Fontanalli everything is reaclass="underline" beautiful and exalted. Without any stains of blood and a cyanotic face colour of the deceased. And there shall peal the bells of the Saint Johann’s cathedral, and troubadours shall praise the feat of the proud maiden, and the Lord shall not permit sin to defile and shame me, for the Lord is always on the side of virtue!
“I won’t disappoint you, my darling,” Siegfried von Maintz was looking at the burgomaster’s daughter affably. The stupid chubby girl had dressed up in the most stupid dress he’d ever seen. “Gunter, the charming fräulein doesn’t want to sleep alone. She’s cold and lonely. Have you understood me, Gunter? And tell your lads I’ll order to hang all your hundred, one by one, if the charming fräulein is left dissatisfied. Have you understood me correctly, my loyal, my clever Gunter?”
Gunter von Dragmain, the captain of guard of the young margrave, always understood his lord immediately.
“...No! Don’t you touch me! A-a-a!...”
“Calm down, my dear. It’s all right. You’re here, with us! It’s not real. Everything’s all right...”
“Oh yes, all right to the last degree...”
“Dirty, sweaty... Beasts!”
“Hush...”
“How dared he! Scoundrel!”
“Hush! They’ll hear...”
Lukerda shrivelled by the chest, shuddering with soundless sobbing. Giacomo, sitting near her, was gently stroking the maiden’s dishevelled hair, trying to soothe her.
“Martzin, was it you that stopped the game? This time everything ended much faster...”
“Yes, it was me.”
“Thank you, young man. Lukerda wouldn’t have survived this.”
“I’ve guessed,” the youth’s cheeks were ashen-grey, and the vein in the corner of his eye was throbbing as a fish thrown at the shore. It was seen he was hardly standing on his feet, but a strange force, astonishing even Martzin Oblaz himself, was emerging from the depths of his soul, preventing him from falling into a swoon. “Well, it’s my turn. My teacher has hesitated too long. Excuse me, meister Byarn, for disturbing your ashes...”
The sand flew up faster than usual.
The disciple, in trepidation, reached for the massive rook.
...Byarn the Pensive put aside the pen and sanded what he had written. The ink is quite fresh. Let it dry out. The choice is always left behind us. Always... The old mage was wondering at himself. Having known an hour ago that any direct intervention would only complicate the situation – Byarn even knew why, – he changed his mind in a sudden. Decisively and irrevocably. There’s need to act. Tomorrow Holne will fall. Most likely, there’ll be no siege. The burgomaster Claas van Dayk, a prudent man, will bring to the margrave the keys of the free city – dooming the citizens to economical ruin, but saving them from slaughter. Last evening the burgomaster had visited the mage. He asked: if the stubborn home guard lead by Richard Broose, the syndic of the butcher guild, takes the risk of defending the walls, could the most honourable meister Byarn help with defense. Eem... rain of fire, for instance. Or, that is, lightnings with five jags each. Exclusively on the enemies’ heads.
Then, eem, the burgomaster would be ready to support the idea of defense.
You are a clever man, herre Claas, said Byarn the Pensive. You will understand. Yes, I think I would be able to render assistance. But let me explain why I will not do so. Tell me, if you take a loan from some almost unlawful resources, in addition doubting your future paying capabilities – you do understand that you still have to return it nevertheless, don’t you? Only not the way you’ve intended to.
Eem, I do, nodded the burgomaster. He was quite not so timid and stupid as he wanted to seem.
Herre Claas, said the mage. Even if an aged man like me has enough power for the five-jagged lightnings – you would agree I’ll have to kill. While every member of the Aaltricht lodge knows: a true mage refrains from killing. Because he strikes a deal with fate: to aspire for knowledge while not aspiring for life. Everyone delineates the borders of the allotted territories himself. But you can kill, asked the burgomaster. Yes, herre Claas, answered the old man. I can. Only that then I take a loan from fate, giving it the right for the next move. It has the right to kill as many as I do. The choice is its. It may do this or not, today or tomorrow, hitting or missing, good or bad, laughing or crying... But it will be its move.
Do you want to play with fate for a thousand lives, herre Claas?
For two, three thousands?
I’ll surrender the city, said the burgomaster, taking his hat from a clothes-peg. I won’t force you to take a loan from fate. Not even because you’re my friend, meister Byarn.
He knew how to make decisions, Claas van Dayk.
Tomorrow Holne will fall. Within five days Siegfried von Maintz will move to Opolie. Most likely Opolie will also fall soon: under the existing circumstances the prince Razimir won’t be able to stop the Maintz army. After that there’ll be the turn of Moravian principalities. Mercenaries will pour into the army of the lucky commander. A bloody deluge will begin. And one day powerful Henning will find itself facing destruction, when it stops containing the constant challenge of the Maintz Mark.
Maybe fate is making its move stealthily?
Reshaping and sewing together anew?!
The craving for action, not characteristic for Byarn before, overwhelmed his soul suddenly. As if a secret guest had settled there, moving furniture and sweeping dust out of the corners. The mage felt himself young. Naïve – naïvety is strong, it allows not pondering of the consequences. After it’s all over he should write “The Praise for Naïvety.”
But this is afterwards.
Byarn went out into the night. The moon was chewing on the edges of dark clouds, spitting from time to time yellow saliva on the cobbles of a pavement. The mage stood into the lunar spittle; looked at the shadow prostrate at his feet.