“His name is Suleiman.”
“... and a horde of Muspelheimers...”
“They call themselves mussulmen.”
“And they are menacing... who? The Aesir? The Celts?”
“Aye, and the Gauls and the Saxons and the Romans and everyone else west of Austria, which is where we are.”
Duffy frowned. “We fight in Austria? Defending Saxons? Why don’t we fall back and fortify our own lands, so as to be ready for them when they get there?”
“Because if they crash through here there may not be enough stones in all of England to build a wall they couldn’t shatter. We can’t let them work up the momentum. And they induct and train as soldiers the children of conquered nations, so the families we’d pass in our retreat would be the source of men we’d have to fight someday.” The old man sighed. “It may indeed prove necessary to abandon Vienna and fall back—but it would be like falling back from the sundered walls of a castle to defend the keep itself. It’s not a move you’d make if there was any choice.”
“I see. Very well, then, we fight them here. I’ll want maps of the local terrain, and an accouting of our army, and a history of how the siege has gone so far. We do have cavalry, don’t we? I could lead them in a—”
“It’s trickier than that, Arthur,” Aurelianus interrupted gently. “Listen—can you hover, awake, just below the surface of Duffy’s mind, so that you could take over if I called you?”
“I think so. He might sense me, of course. You have a plan, do you?”
“Oh, no, no. I do have one option, but it’s a thing,” and suddenly he looked old and frightened, “it’s a thing I’d... almost... rather die than do.”
Duffy’s knees popped as his body stood up. “It sounds like sorcery, and it sounds like something better left alone.” He walked to the door. “It’s late—I’ll let you get some sleep. I think I’ll walk around the city for a while.”
“You don’t speak the language. Wait until morning and I’ll give you a tour.”
“I think I’ll manage well enough.” He smiled, opened the door and was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
RAIN SWEPT IN WIDE SHEETS along the cobbled avenues, and the splashed-up mist on the stones as each gust went by looked like waves. The air in the Zimmermann dining room was a marbling of cold drafts carrying the dry-wine scent of wet streets and hot stale air smelling of candle grease and wet clothing.
At a small, otherwise unoccupied table in the kitchen-side corner, Lothario Mothertongue dipped black bread into a bowl of hot chicken broth, and chewed it slowly. His eyes were anxious as they followed the frequently interrupted course of the new serving girl. Finally as she was moving past him he caught her elbow. “Excuse me, miss. Doesn’t Epiphany Hallstadt usually work this shift?”
“Yes, and I wish she was here this morning. I can’t handle all this alone. Let go.”
Mothertongue ignored the order. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Let go.”
“Please, miss.” He stared up at her earnestly. “I have to know.”
“Ask Anna, then. Anna told Mrs. Hallstadt something that made her upset, early this morning. And Mrs. Hallstadt ran out without even taking off her apron. He may be dead, she yelled, and just ran out.”
“Who may be dead?”
“I don’t know.” With the last word she yanked her arm free of his grip and flounced off.
Mothertongue got up and went looking for Anna. He was ordered out of the kitchen by the cooks, and earned a few impatient curses by staying long enough to make sure she wasn’t in there; he opened the side door and peered up and down the rain-veiled alley; he even barged in on a no doubt glittering conversation between Kretchmer and Werner in the wine cellar, and was rudely told to leave. When he returned to his table he saw her helping the new girl carry trays.
He waited until she was nearby, then called to her. “Anna! Where is Epiphany?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen. She’s off visiting her father, Lothario, and I don’t know where he lives, so leave me alone, hm? Now then, sirs, what was it you wanted?”
For several minutes Mothertongue sat dejected, reflexively looking up every time he heard the front door creak open. After a while a tall man came in, his hair plastered down by the rain, and Mothertongue recognized Brian Duffy and waved, a little reluctantly. He pursed his lips then, for Duffy had returned the wave and was crossing the room toward him.
“Hello, Brian,” he said when the Irishman stood over him. “I don’t suppose you’d know where Epiphany’s father lives, would you? Or that you’d tell me, if you did?”
The Irishman sat down, eyed him narrowly and said something in a language Mothertongue didn’t understand. Mothertongue cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, and Duffy frowned with concentration, then spoke again in Latin. In spite of an unusual accent, the Englishman was able to understand it. “You seem unhappy, friend,” Duffy had said. “What troubles you?”
“I’m worried about Mrs. Hallstadt. She’s been—”
“In Latinae.”
Mothertongue stared in surprise at Duffy, trying to decide whether or not he was being made fun of. The intentness of Duffy’s gaze reassured him, and though still puzzled he began to speak haltingly in Latin. “Uh... I am concerned about Epiphany. She has been feeling bad lately, and then—I am sure unintentionally—you upset her yesterday morning by abruptly reappearing after an absence of many months. Now she has evidently received some bad news about her father, whom she has gone to see, and I would like to be with her in this crisis.”
“Ah. You care for this woman, do you?”
Mothertongue looked at him cautiously. “Well... yes. Why, do you—still have affection for her?”
The Irishman smiled. “Still? I see. Uh, no, not the sort you mean, though I naturally have a high regard for... the woman. I am glad she has found as worthy a man as yourself to be concerned for her.”
“Why, thank you, Brian, it is good of you to be that way about it, rather than... be some other way. Damn this language. It has all looked completely hopeless to me of late, but perhaps something can still be salvaged of the old order.”
“The old order?” Two citizens shambled past, gawking at these men speaking church language.
“Yes. Perhaps... perhaps you remember certain hints I was making, when I first got here, this last spring.”
“Remind me.”
“Well, certain powerful authorities have summoned me—” His face had begun to brighten, but now it fell. “But they might better have saved the effort. It has all failed.”
“Why don’t you just tell it to me.”
“I will. It’s an outmoded secret now. I—” he looked up, with a certain battered dignity. “I am the legendary King Arthur, re-born.”
Duffy’s gray eyebrows were as high as they could get. “Would you please repeat that, giving special care to your use of the verb?”
Mothertongue repeated it as before. “I know how fantastic that sounds, and I doubted it myself for years; but a number of visions, supplemented with a lot of logical reasoning, finally convinced me. As a matter of fact, I was aware that Arthur had come back long before I deduced that it was I. I believe several of my men have been re-born as well, and that some high power intended us to meet and lead the way to a final dispersal of the Turks.” He shook his head. “But it has failed. I found the men, but was unable to awaken the older souls in them. I told my secret to Count von Salm, and offered to assume command of a part of the army, and I was actually mocked—actually laughed at and ordered to leave.” Mothertongue waved in the direction of the door. “And then, idle here in my defeat, I noticed Epiphany. I happened to look in her eyes one day, and got a conviction as clear as my first convictions that Arthur had been re-born—I suddenly knew that this woman had known Arthur very well.” He shrugged. “Need I say more?”