“God’s breath! Be careful, boy! What’s this?”
“Two thousand florins.”
Vlad drew a deep breath. “From Anton?”
Despite the forebodings Wulf had jokingly expressed to Otto, he was looking forward to this discussion. “The first installment on his wife’s dowry. Baby Anton’s been growing up while you’ve been lazing around here, Sir Vlad. At the moment he is keeper of Castle Gallant, in Cardice, guarding the Silver Road north.” He watched the shaggy eyebrows fly up. An honor like that would satisfy Vlad as a worthy reward for a whole lifetime of cleaving and skewering the king’s enemies. “Unfortunately the Pomeranians are invading. Anton doesn’t have forces to withstand a long siege and the king can’t get reinforcements there before the Wends bring up their wall-smashing cannon. Anton needs your help, Brother. He needs a seasoned warrior like you. He needs you very much and very soon.”
Vlad’s always-ugly face twisted into something worse. “You are making this up. How did you get here, really?”
“Before God, every word I said is true.”
The big man scowled as he thought it through. “And how do I get to Castle Gallant?”
“My Voices will take us.”
Vlad crossed himself. “Satanism!”
“If my Voices are evil, why have they saved Anton’s life twice in the last week? Anyway, I can tell you everything when we get to Dobkov.”
Vlad laughed at him. “Just like that? Am I allowed to put on some clothes first? Emilian isn’t here. He won’t be back until tonight, probably late. All this money will have to be weighed.”
“It’s warranted by a Medici seal on the bag.”
“Won’t matter, sonny. And there’s not just me. What about my lance-two squires, a sergeant, and a varlet. You planning to talk the devil into taking all of us?”
“Just you!” Wulf snapped.
“Thought so. Well, they’ll have to follow. You brought the money they’ll need on the road?”
“You sent them home two years ago.” Wulf had forgotten how annoying this brother’s twisted humor could be. He seemed to consider it some sort of hazing, and he would probably be doing it to his youngest brother when they were both in their dotage.
“So I did. Just wondering if you remembered. You have the money to cover my quarter the last two years?”
“How much more do you want?”
“About eighty florins ought to cover it.”
“ Eighty? I don’t happen to have that much on me.”
“You’ll have to find it before I can leave here.”
“Maybe Anton can get by without you.”
“Maybe he’ll have to.”
Wulf reached out to take back the money bag and a hand the size of a steel gauntlet closed on his wrist; he was helpless in that grip. No matter how hard he tugged, the hand did not budge.
“Well, Wolfcub? You haven’t answered my question.”
For a moment the brothers just stared at each other. The big man had never been known for his courtly manners, and now that he was learning how two junior brothers had lapped him during his captivity he must be feeling especially vicious. Wulf wondered uneasily if Vlad was truly someone he should entrust with his big secret.
“Why don’t you grow a beard, Wolfcub? Or can’t you, yet?”
“Why don’t you write a note for the rest of the money, or doesn’t he trust you? Ow! That hurts!”
The big man released his wrist. “It was meant to. All right, I’ll talk to Emilian tomorrow and see how much he wants.”
“Otto added another sixty florins. What do the servant girls charge?”
Anger bristled the great beard. “You been spying on me?”
“No, but when I asked my Voices what you were doing a little while ago, they told me.”
“That’s a pretty handy trick. You going to stay the night?”
“No. What time tomorrow? Terce? Can you be up that early?”
Vlad scowled. “Could be ready then, or at least I’ll know if I can’t come.”
“Then I’ll ride up to the front door about terce. I don’t want to meet anyone or see anyone. You ride out to meet me. If anyone else appears, then I’ll be gone and you can stay here and rot.”
“For a beardless brat, you give a lot of orders to your seniors.”
“Victorinus, take me to the inn.” Wulf spun around and stepped into a blaze of sunlight. The mystic doorway closed behind him. Screwing up his eyes against the brightness, he laughed. He wished he could see Vlad’s face right then, but imagining it was almost as good.
Obviously Otto had not yet returned from the palace. That left Wulf the choice of wasting his appetite by eating his dinner in the inn, or stretching out on a bed to wait for him.
Hunger won. He went down to the dining room, which was dark and packed tight with plank tables and benches, but he was happily surprised to see how crowded the place was. The food might not be good, but it must be better than the Bacchus’s competitors’. He found an empty space on a bench and paid the wench half a silver penny for water to wash his hands, a flagon of wine, and a trencher of four-day-old bread. He proceeded to heap the trencher with slices of salt pork, fresh boiled mutton, rye bread, and spoonfuls of onion sauce and beans. He had barely put his knife back in his belt before Otto squeezed in beside him.
“Much as expected,” he said, smiling. “Promises, no more.”
“Same with me. I have to go back for him at terce tomorrow.”
There were too many other people at their table and directly behind them to say more about important matters. They could speak only in generalities.
“How long,” Wulf asked, “until our other brother gets some company?”
Shrug. “My friend said maybe forty days.”
“Why so long? The boy Gintaras rode here in eight days!”
Otto grinned in an affectionate, big-brotherly way. “First he has to find the money, and no king ever has enough money. Then find men. He won’t send the regiments, because they have to stay and guard the capital. If he does, they have to be replaced here. Either he must find mercenaries or call up a feudal levy. September is the worst possible time to muster levies. Is the mutton as tough as it looks?”
“Tougher. The pork is good and lardy, though, and there’s lots of honey and raisins in the frumenty.”
Otto cut a slice of pork with his knife and spooned some of the thick wheat porridge onto his trencher. “It’s not just time from here to there that counts. It’s couriers from here to the countryside, then men from the countryside back to here, then on to where you need them. Mercenaries are moving into winter quarters, the lords are away hunting so they can have salt venison in the winter, and even when they get the summons, they don’t want to take their men from the fields and vineyards.
“Meanwhile the quartermaster has to find horses and tack, oxen and wagons, victuals, fodder, tentage, bows and arrows, guns, powder and shot, horseshoes and nails, blacksmiths, farriers, saddlers, anvils, carters, and fletchers and bowyers. Some of these are certain to be almost impossible to find, but you never know which will be lacking this time. Officers want attendants, heralds, secretaries, and cooks; the men want women and priests, in that order. If Mauvnik can even get such a force moving within forty days, it’ll be a miracle.
“And the journey itself will be a teeth-grinding business. Armies often make only three or four miles a day. Winter days are short; they can’t start before dawn, and they need daylight to pitch camp. Trails can divide or disappear altogether in the forest, and if it rains they become mud pits. Rivers in flood wash away ferries and bridges; they drown the fords and turn the water meadows into marshlands for a mile on either side of them. Don’t even think about snow-you damn nearly have to carry the horses then. Armies always have food and forage problems. The lords don’t want them anywhere near their game parks. In enemy country it’s easier, you just go where you please and take what you want, but if you try that in your own homeland, you’re going to have barons running to the king, screaming rape and pillage.”