At the bottom of the staircase they found a chamber with a rack and other instruments, and a stained block, but no door or corridor leaving the place. In one wall was what looked like a large fireplace, though there was no sign that it had been used as such. The first knight went to it.
"A shaft," he said, "for removing bodies secretly. You look able to climb it and there should be a windlass at the top."
Nils ducked into it and stood. Looking up, he could see nothing but blackness. He pressed his back against the front of it and muscled his way up like an alpinist in a chimney, moving as rapidly as possible. It was a long climb-as high as the stair. When he reached the top, he found the darkness barely alleviated by light diffused from somewhere down a corridor. As the knight had predicted, there was a windlass, and Nils lowered the sling. When the rope slackened, he waited until he felt a tug, then began to crank.
It was the injured man he raised. He had begun to lower the sling once more when suddenly there was a shout from far below. "Hurry! They're coming!" He jerked rope from the windlass then, sending the crank spinning, and stepped astride the narrow dimension of the shaft. There was faint shouting and a cry of "Pull!" Hand over hand he drew on the rope with long strokes, disdaining the slow windlass, and in a few moments the knight grasped the edge of the shaft. Together they hauled him out onto the floor, Nils's breath great heaving gasps from the violence of his exertions, and for a moment he failed to read the mixture of pain and rage in the man's mind. One foot and calf had been sliced by a sword, thrust after him as he had started up.
"Where are we, do you know?" Nils asked when he was able.
"I think so. But we can't get away because they know where we are. Even now there must be men hurrying to cut us off. But this time they'll have to kill me. I don't intend to end up like that one down there."
"I'm going back down," said Nils. "I may have a better chance where they don't expect me."
The two Magyars exchanged brief words. "Good luck then," said the one who spoke Anglic. "And I hope you kill many." They shook hands with Nils and limped away down the dark corridor.
Nils slid down the rope into the torture chamber and moved quickly up the stairs past the bodies of the dead prisoner and the three guards. The door at the top was not locked, and he peered out cautiously into the corridor. There was no one in sight. He opened the door no more than necessary, avoiding the abominable screech of hinges, slipped through, and took the direction away from the guard room.
Within a few strides he heard booted feet behind him, not yet in sight, but he did not hurry, depending on the poor disguise of his blood-squattered guard cloak and cap for protection if seen. Within a few meters a curtain hung to the floor on his left and he pushed through it, finding a flight of stairs. He bounded silently up, then stopped at the uncurtained opening at the top. Slippered feet scuffed the corridor he faced, and a female mind mumbled to itself in Magyar. The feet would either pass by the stairs or turn down them. At the same time he heard the voices of men below, stopped just outside the curtain. Nils realized he was holding his breath. A middle-aged woman passed the stairwell entrance without looking in. Waiting a moment to avoid startling her, he stepped into the corridor behind her and moved in the opposite direction. A door opened and closed, and he sensed the dimming of psi pickup from her.
The voices from below were louder now, as if someone was holding the curtain open while talking, and he hurried. This corridor ended at a window, through which he could see the frozen courtyard a dozen meters below. Without hesitation he turned, opened the door to the nearest chamber and walked in.
A tall bald man, wide-shouldered and wearing a long robe, sat before a fire. He turned his weathered, hawklike face to Nils and rose, speaking coldly in Magyar. Nils responded quietly in Anglic.
"I am a foreigner and do not understand Magyar. I had planned to seek service with King Janos but was imprisoned here because this lord has no love for his king. But I killed three guards and escaped, and now they are hunting for me. Call out and you're a dead man."
Nils, his hair cut and wearing the livery of Lord Miklos, sat a horse among Lord Miklos' guard troop. Miklos' voice spoke clearly in the frosty morning air.
"I will repeat the warning, Lajos," he said in Magyar. "You owe your fief to the crown, and homage, and the taxes and services prescribed by law. Twice you've failed those taxes and the respect that should accompany them. The next time Janos will send an army instead of an ambassador. Those were his words. Think about them. And if duty means little to you, consider how precious you hold your life."
With that he turned his horse and, followed by his guard troop, rode stiff-backed across the iron-frozen courtyard and over the bridge.
11.
Lord Miklos looked tired and grim when Nils was ushered into his chamber. The young barbarian didn't need psi to know the reason; Janos II had died unexpectedly during Miklos' absence and Janos III had ascended the throne.
"You traveled far to serve King Janos," Miklos said. "And now he is dead. And while I know little about you, what I do know I like. I will be happy to have you serve me, if you wish to."
"Thank you, my lord," Nils answered. "But I was to serve King Janos, and a Janos sits on the throne. Therefore, I will ask to serve him. If he refuses, and if you still want me, I will be happy to serve you."
Miklos walked to the window and stared out, then turned and spoke carefully in explanation. "Janos III is not the man you sought to serve, nor the same kind of man. If it wasn't for the family resemblance and the nobility of his mother, I could hardly credit the elder with the fathership. Janos II was a noble man, fair, firm, and honorable, a man well fitted to rule. The son, on the other hand, is at best shallow and petty, and it will seldom occur to him that there are considerations beyond his momentary whim. He is devious without the compensation of cleverness, gives no man his confidence and heeds no counsel.
"But the worst that is said of him is only rumor, I hope without grounds-that he will tolerate, if not actually sanction, the vile cult of Baalzebub. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you that, for I've seen nothing that can stand as evidence. But I fear. Not the man, but what he may bring."
"Nonetheless," Nils replied, "I must seek service with King Janos. It was forseen by a seeress whose worth I value highly."
"You believe in seers?"
"I believe in this seeress, for I know her powers. They saved my life once."
"And so she commands you."
"No. But what she said seemed right to me."
"I see. Well, I will not recommend you to the new king. Any recommendation from me he'd take as grounds for suspicion." Miklos looked long and perplexedly at Nils, then rose and held out his hand. "But I give you my best wishes. If you are refused, or enter his service and wish to withdraw, let me know."
The sergeant was explaining to the guard master. "He said he'd come several hundred kilometers to seek service with King Janos. He doesn't even speak Magyar and I had to use Anglic with him. But he's a giant"-the sergeant motioned with his hand somewhat above the height of his own helmet-"and something about him gives me the feeling that he's a real fighter and not just an oaf. And you know how his Majesty likes size in his personal guards."
"All right, Bela, I'll look at him. His Highness is tolerant of foreigners. But he'll have to look very good before I'll ask the men to put up with someone who speaks no Magyar."