The world became a silent, silvery mist. Balaam screamed in terror and reared. Otto grabbed the pommel of his saddle and clung tight with his thighs. Balaam bolted along the foggy trail, and now nothing was solid except Wulf and Copper, racing along at their side. Balaam skidded to a halt and tried bucking again like a two-year-old. Eventually the old courser steadied, more from exhaustion than his rider’s direction, but for a few moments it had been Wulf’s horsemanship that had kept the two mounts close together, not Otto’s.
He said, “Sorry! I was a little too sudden with that.” He looked very innocent, but there was a devilish gleam in his eye. The world hadn’t beaten all the boy out of him yet.
“When in Mauvnik, stay at the Bacchus” had been a family motto for generations. Otto was greeted with joyful deference and polite inquiries about “the hardships of my lord’s journey.” Wulf was welcomed back, having spent one night there a month ago.
If all went well, there would be no need to overnight in Mauvnik, but Otto needed a place to change. With Vlad’s ransom in hand at last, he was freed from the penny-pinching of the last two years, so he demanded a private room, no sharing, with two beds if possible-most travelers were happy to sleep three or four to a bed. He also wanted a boy to guard the baggage when he and Wulf were absent, hay and fresh straw for the horses, and the room to be cleaned and ready within twenty minutes. The landlord promised everything he asked.
With Wulf playing valet, Otto shed his traveling clothes and changed into city wear. Leaving their room guarded by the grubby-faced youth they had hired, the brothers reclaimed their mounts and rode off up the hill to Upper Mauvnik. Even in the capital, they did not venture out without their sabers.
The local Medici agent did his business in his home near the palace in a street so grand that it was both paved and wide enough for two wagons to pass. It was also less fouled with garbage and horse dung than most. Servants came running to take the horses and escort the noble baron indoors to meet the illustrious bankers. An effort was made to store Wulfgang in the basement with the menials while the oily Italian gentlemen discussed money upstairs with Otto, but Otto insisted that he attend. This gave the lad an hour’s instruction in how little he would enjoy a career in banking, watching shiny coins being weighed and tallied, and listening to shop talk about the grape harvest. Otto wondered if his brother was noticing how skillfully the bankers questioned him. They would forward the information they gained to Medici headquarters in Florence, to add to the vast store of intelligence that the bank amassed from all over Christendom.
Vladislav had been given quarter, which meant that his captor must be reimbursed for two years’ food and board. Otto had brought a pouch containing another sixty florins to add to Anton’s two thousand. He did not explain why the money was needed and nobody was crass enough to ask.
It was close to terce before the brothers emerged in the stable yard, Otto carrying a stout leather bag containing sixteen pounds of gold. Not wanting to try vaulting into the saddle with this burden, he handed it up to Wulf, who whistled at the weight.
“I could stun a robber with this.”
“Don’t lose it. Come to think of it, I must be crazy, entrusting it to you. You used to be very good at losing things.”
“I hadn’t been gone a month when I lost my heart.”
But not his virginity, Otto guessed. The small talk died, and the brothers smiled uneasily. The moment of double peril had come and they must part.
“I’d best hurry and find a comfortable chair in the Spider’s web,” Otto said, “in case I have to spend the rest of the day there. You remember where Baron Emilian lives?”
“Castle Orel.”
“Bavaria’s a big place. Do you know how to find it?”
Wulf gave him an odd look. “I just have to ask, Otto.”
Jesus save us! Even the whirlwind ride from Dobkov had not impressed Otto as much as those simple words. What had his baby brother become? Marek might have exactly the same powers, but Marek was a peace-loving scholar. Wulf had more of the warrior Magnus blood in him; a lightning-bolt temper hid behind his easygoing manner. Would his saints rein him in if he tried to use his powers too hastily?
“Then I don’t even need to wish you safe journey, but I’ll do it anyway. I’ll see you at the Bacchus when we both get back there.”
“And I wish you a safe return as well, Brother Baron. It was good to come home and be made welcome, even if it’s only for a very short time.” Wulf wheeled his horse and took off at a slow walk along the grand street.
Ottokar Magnus knew where the palace stabled visitors’ mounts and how to find the bureaucrats’ wing where the work of government was done. His title and the impressive document he bore were enough to gain him admittance to the cardinal’s anteroom, which was already crowded with petitioners. Two years had passed since he last graced the royal palace with his presence, when he came to beg for a royal grant to help ransom Vlad. Then he had been one of many on the same quest, and he had gotten no farther than he was now; even Vlad’s warrior reputation had failed to win a hearing from His Eminence. This time, Otto had come on behalf of the baby of the family, and his chances of being admitted were considerably better. He found that amusing, although Vlad would not.
He strolled across the marble floor, noting rustic aristocracy like himself in their shabby hand-me-downs amid lawyers, burghers, and courtiers flaunting the latest styles. The points on some of the shoes were so long that they had to be chained up to their wearers’ knees. Liripipes, the stupid tails attached to men’s hoods, had grown until they were wrapped around the head like turbans. There were no women present to compare, only men, some standing, some sitting, and all of them wanting something that they probably shouldn’t get. How did Zdenek stand it, day after day for a lifetime? Did he just enjoy the power to grant or deny? Didn’t it pall eventually, even on the son of a butcher, which is what he was?
The chancellor at the desk beside the door to the sanctum was a friar in Franciscan brown, and a flock of bored novices perched nearby, waiting to carry messages. The friar looked up at the visitor with a studied smile of welcome.
Otto introduced himself and the sender of the letter he bore.
The cleric’s smile curdled. He held out an ink-stained hand for the letter.
Otto retained it. “I must deliver this personally to the cardinal.”
Stalemate. “If Your Lordship would be so gracious as to take a seat for just a few minutes, I am sure His Eminence will be happy to accord you an audience very promptly.” That meant an hour or two.
“His Eminence is most gracious.” Otto turned away and was annoyed to see two men obviously trying to catch his eye. Almost certainly they were comrade knights from his campaigning days, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember their names or where he had met them. He smiled and began wandering in their direction. He did not get far before a treble voice spoke at his shoulder.
“Baron Magnus? His Eminence will see you right away.”
The two knights were too far away to overhear, but they could guess at the words and were staring as if the last trump had just sounded. With a shrug to indicate how disappointed he was at not being able to chat with them, Otto turned and followed the novice to the door of the inner sanctum.
Twenty years ago the Scarlet Spider had been a mere clerk, reticent and obsequious, his working quarters cramped and dingy. Now the center of his web shone in an obscene display of gold and crystal to proclaim his greatness. So much opulence made Otto feel slightly ill. The years had taken their toll of the old man. His beard and eyebrows were white, his fingers knobbed, and his smile displayed long teeth when he offered his cardinal’s ring for the visitor to kiss. If he were a garment, he would be regarded as threadbare. Nevertheless, he flaunted the red hat and robes of a prince of the Church and his chair was just high enough to register as a throne. Not bad for a butcher’s son.