Count Brass

  And at last the speech was over and applauded and the people began to leave the arena so that the first of the bulls might be driven in and the first toreador attempt to remove the colourful ribbons which were tied to the beast's horns (for it was not the custom of the folk of the Kamarg to exhibit their courage by slaying animals—instead skill alone was pitted against the snorting savagery of the very fiercest bulls).

  But when the crowd had departed there was one who remained. Now Hawkmoon recalled his name. It was Czernik, originally a Bulgar mercenary who had thrown in his lot with Count Brass and ridden with him through a dozen campaigns. Czernik's face was flushed, as if he had been drinking, and his stance was unsteady as he pointed a finger up at Hawkmoon's box and spat again. 'Loyalty!' the old man croaked. 'I know otherwise. I know who is Count Brass's murderer—who betrayed him to his enemies! Coward! Play-actor! False hero!'

  Hawkmoon was stunned as he listened to Czernik rant. What could the old man mean?

  Stewards ran into the ring to grasp Czernik's arms and attempt to hurry him off. But he struggled with them.

  'Thus your master tries to silence the truth!' screamed Czernik. 'But it cannot be silenced! He has been accused by the only one whose word can be trusted!'

  If it had only been Czernik who had shown such animosity, Hawkmoon would have dismissed his ravings as senile. But Czernik was not the only one. Czernik had expressed what Hawkmoon had seen on more than a score of faces that day—and on previous days.

  'Let him be!' Hawkmoon called, standing up and leaning forward over the balustrade. 'Let him speak!'

  For a moment the stewards were at a loss to know what to do. Then, reluctantly, they released the old man. Czernik stood there trembling, glaring into Hawkmoon's eyes.

  'Now,' Hawkmoon called. 'Tell me of what you accuse me, Czernik. I will listen.'

  The attention of the whole populace of Aigues-Mortes was upon Hawkmoon and Czernik now. There was a stillness, a silence in the air.

  Yisselda tugged at her husband's surcoat. 'Do not listen to him, Dorian. He is drunk. He is mad.'

  'Tell me!' Hawkmoon demanded.

  Czernik scratched his head of grey, thinning hair. He stared around him at the crowd. He mumbled something.

  'Speak more clearly!' Hawkmoon said. 'I am eager to hear, Czernik.'

  'I called you murderer and murderer you be!' Czernik said.

  'Who told you that I am a murderer!'

  Again Czernik's mumble was inaudible.

  'Who told you?'

  'The one you murdered!' Czernik screamed. 'The one you betrayed.'

  'A dead man? Whom did I betray?'

  'The one we all love. The one I followed across a hundred provinces. The one who saved my life twice. The one to whom, living or dead, I would ever give my loyalty.'

  Yisselda's whisper from behind Hawkmoon was incredulous. 'He can speak of none other but my father . ..'

  'Do you mean Count Brass?' Hawkmoon called.

  'Aye!' cried Czernik defiantly. 'Count Brass, who came to the Kamarg all those years ago and saved it from tyranny. Who fought the Dark Empire and saved the whole world! His deeds are well known. What was not known was that at Londra he was betrayed by one who not only coveted his daughter but coveted his castle, too. And killed him for them!'

  'You lie,' and Hawkmoon evenly. 'If you were younger, Czernik, I would challenge you to defend your foul words with a sword. How could you believe such lies?'

  'Many believe them!' Czernik gestured to indicate the crowd. 'Many here have heard what I have heard.'

  'Where have you heard this?' Yisselda joined her husband at the balustrade.

  'In the marshlands beyond the town. At night. Some, like me, journeying home from another town—they have heard it.'

  'And from whose lying lips?' Hawkmoon was trembling with anger. He and Count Brass had fought side by side, each had been prepared to die for the other—and now this dreadful lie was being told—a He which insulted Count Brass's memory. And that was why Hawkmoon was angry.

  'From his own! From Count Brass's lips.'

  'Drunken fool! Count Brass is dead. You said as much yourself.'

  'Aye—but his ghost has returned to the Kamarg. Riding upon the back of his great horned horse in all his armour of gleaming brass, with his hair and his moustache all red as brass and his eyes like burnished brass. He is out there, treacherous Hawkmoon, in the marsh. He haunts you. And those who meet him are told of your treachery, how you deserted him when his enemies beset him, how you let him die in Londra.'

  'It is a lie!' shouted Yisselda. 'I was there. I fought at Londra. Nothing could save my father.'

  'And,' continued Czernik, his voice deepening but still loud, 'I heard from Count Brass how you joined with your lover to deceive him.'

  'Oh!' Yisselda clapped her hands to her ears. This is obscene! Obscene!'

  'Be silent now, Czernik,' warned Hawkmoon hollowly. 'Still your tongue, for you go too far!'

  'He awaits you in the marshes. He will take his vengeance upon you out there at night when next you travel beyond the walls of Aigues-Mortes—if you dare. And his ghost is still more of a hero, more of a man than are you, turncoat. Aye—turncoat you be. First you served Koln, then you served the Empire, then you turned against the Empire, then you aided the Empire in its plot against Count Brass, then once again you betrayed the Empire. Your history speaks for the truth of what I say. I am not mad. I am not drunk. There are others who have seen and heard what I have seen and heard.'

  "Then you have been deceived,' said Yisselda firmly.

  'It is you who have been deceived, my lady!' Czernik growled.

  And then the stewards came forward again and Hawkmoon did not try to stop them as they dragged the old man from the amphitheatre.

  The rest of the proceedings did not go well, after that. Hawkmoon's guests were too embarrassed to comment on the incident and the crowd's interest was not on the bulls or the toreadors who leaped so skilfully the ring, plucking the ribbons from the horns.

  A banquet followed at Castle Brass. To the banquet had been invited all the local dignitaries of the Kamarg, as well as the ambassadors, and it was noticeable that four or five of the local people had not come. Hawkmoon ate little and drank more than was normal for him. He tried hard to rid himself of the gloomy mood into which Czernik's peculiar declarations had put him, but he found it difficult to smile even when his own children came down to greet him and be introduced to his guests. Every sentence he spoke required an effort and there was no flow of conversation, even among the guests. Many of the ambassadors made excuses and went early to their beds. And soon only Hawkmoon and Yisselda were left in the banqueting hall, still seatedin their places at the head of the table, watching the servants clear away the remains of the meal.

  'What could he have seen?' said Yisselda as, at last, the servants, too, left. 'What could he have heard, Dorian?'

  Hawkmoon shrugged. 'He told us. Your father's ghost . . .'

  'A baragoon more articulate than most?'

  'He described your father. His horse. His armour. His face.'

  'But he was drank even today.'

  'He said that others saw Count Brass and heard the same story from his lips.'

  'Then it is a plot. Some enemy of yours—one of the Dark Empire lords who survived unrepentant—dressed up with false whiskers and his face painted to resemble my father's.'

  'That could be,' said Hawkmoon. 'But would not Czernik of all people have seen through such a deception? He knew Count Brass for years.'

  'Aye. And knew him well,' Yisselda admitted.

  Hawkmoon rose slowly from his chair and walked heavily towards the fireplace where Count Brass's war-gear hung. He looked up at it, reached out to finger it. He shook his head. 'I must discover for myself what this "ghost" is. Why should anyone seek to discredit me in this way? Who could my enemy be?'

  'Czernik himself? Could he resent your presence at Castle Brass?'

  'Czernik is old?
??near senile. He could not have invented such an elaborate deception.'

  'Has he not wondered why Count Brass should remain in the marshes complaining about me? That is not like Count Brass. He would come to his own castle if he were here. If he had a grudge he would tax me with it.'

  'You speak as if you believe Czernik now.'

  Hawkmoon sighed. 'I must know more. I must find Czernik and question him . . .'

  'I will send one of our retainers into the town.'

  'No. I will go into the town and search him out.'

  'Are you sure... ?'

  'It is what I must do.' He kissed her. 'I'll put an end to this tonight. Why should we be plagued by phantoms we have not even seen?'

  He wrapped a thick cloak of dark blue silk about his shoulders and kissed Yisselda once more before going out into the courtyard and ordering his horned horse saddled and harnessed. Some minutes later he rode out from the castle and down the winding road to the town. Few lights burned in Aigues-Mortes, for all that there was supposed to be a festival in the town. Evidently the townspeople had been as affected by the scene in the bullring as had Hawkmoon and his guests. The wind was beginning to blow as Hawkmoon reached the streets; the harsh mistral wind of the Kamarg, which the people hereabouts called the Life Wind, for it was supposed to have saved their land during the Tragic Millennium.

  If Czernik was to be found anywhere it was in one of the taverns on the north side of town. Hawkmoon rode to the district, letting his horse make its own speed, for in many ways he was reluctant to repeat the earlier scene. He did not want to hear Czernik's lies again; they were lies which dishonoured all, even Count Brass, whom Czernik claimed to love.

  The old taverns on the north side were primarily of wood, with only their foundations being made of the white stone of the Kamarg. The wood was painted in many different colours and some of the most ambitious of the taverns had even painted whole scenes across the frontages—several of the scenes commemorating the deeds of Hawkmoon himself and others recalling earlier exploits of Count Brass before he came to save the Kamarg, for Count Brass had fought (and often been a prime mover) in almost every famous battle of his day. Indeed, not a few of the taverns were named for Count Brass's battles, as well as those of the four heroes who had served the Runestaff. One tavern was called The Magyarian Campaign while another proclaimed itself The Battle of Cannes. Here were The Fort at Balancia, Nine Left Standing and The Banner Dipped in Blood—all recalling Count Brass's exploits. Czernik, if he had not fallen on his face in some gutter by now, would be bound to be in one of them.

  Hawkmoon entered the nearest door, that of The Red Amulet (named for that mystic jewel he had once worn around his own neck), and found the place packed with old soldiers, many of whom he recognised. They were all pretty drunk, with big mugs of wine and ale in their hands. There was hardly a man among them who did not have scars on his face or limbs. Their laughter was harsh but not noisy—only their singing was loud. Hawkmoon felt pleased to be in such company and greeted many whom he knew. He went up to a one-armed Slavian—another of Count Brass's men—and greeted him with genuine pleasure.

  'Josef Vedla! Good evening, Captain. How goes it with you?'

  Vedla blinked and tried to smile. 'A good evening to you, my lord. We have not seen you in our taverns for many a month.' He lowered his eyes and took an interest in the contents of his wine-cup.

  'Will you join me in a skin of the new wine?' Hawkmoon asked. 'I hear it is singularly good this year. Perhaps some of our other old friends will—?'

  'No thanks, my lord.' Vedla rose. 'I've had too much as it is.' Awkwardly he pulled his cloak around him with his single hand.

  Hawkmoon spoke directly. 'Josef Vedla. Do you believe Czernik's tale of meeting Count Brass in the marsh?'

  'I must go.' Vedla walked towards the low doorway.

  'Captain Vedla. Stop.'

  Reluctantly, Vedla stopped and slowly he turned to look at Hawkmoon.

  'Do you believe that Count Brass told him I betrayed our cause? That I led Count Brass himself into a trap?'

  Vedla scowled. 'Czernik alone I would not believe. He grows old and remembers only his youth when he rode with Count Brass. Maybe I wouldn't believe any veteran, no matter what he told me—for we all still mourn for Court Brass and would have him come back to us.'

  'As would I.'

  Vedla sighed. 'I believe you, my lord. Though few would, these days. At least—most are simply not sure...'

  'Who else has seen this ghost?'

  'Several merchants, journeying back late at night through the marsh roads. A young bull-catcher. Even one guardian on duty in an eastern tower claims to have seen the figure in the distance. A figure that was unmistakably Count Brass.'

  'Do you know where Czernik is now?'

  'Probably in The Dnieper Crossing at the end of this alley. That's where he spends his pension these days.'

  They went out into the cobbled street.

  Hawkmoon said: 'Captain Vedla, can you believe that I would betray Count Brass?'

  Vedla rubbed his pitted nose. 'No. Nor can most. It is hard to think of you as a traitor, Duke of Koln. But the stories are so consistent. Everyone who has met this—this ghost—tells the same tale.'

  'But Count Brass—alive or dead—is not one to hover on the edges of the town complaining. If he wanted—if he wanted vengeance on me, do you not think he would come and claim it?'

  'Aye. Count Brass was not a man to be indecisive. Yet,' Captain Vedla smiled wanly, 'we also know that ghosts are supposed to act according to the customs of ghosts.'

  'You believe in ghosts, then?'

  'I believe in nothing. I believe in everything. This world has taught me that lesson. What of the events concerning the Runestaff—would an ordinary man believe that they really took place?'

  Hawkmoon could not help but return Vedla's smile. 'I take your point. Well, good night to you, Captain.'

  'Good night, my lord.'

  Josef Vedla strode off in the opposite direction while Hawkmoon led his horse down the street to where he could see the sign of the tavern called The Dnieper Crossing. The paint was peeling on the sign and the tavern itself sagged as if one of its central beams had been removed. It looked an unsavoury place and the smell which came out of it was a mixture of sour wine, animal dung, grease and vomit. It was evident why a drunkard would choose it, for more oblivion could be bought here at the cheapest price.

  The place was almost empty as Hawkmoon ducked his head through the door and went inside. A few brands and candles illuminated the room. The unclean floor and the filthy benches and tables, the cracked leather of the wineskins strewn here and there, the chipped wooden and clay beakers, the ill-clothed men and women who sat hunched or lay sprawled in corners, all gave credence to Hawkmoon's original impression. People did not come to The Dnieper Crossing for social reasons. They came here to get drunk as quickly as was possible.

  A small, dirty man with a fringe of black, greasy hair around his bald pate, slid from a patch of darkness and smiled up at Hawkmoon. 'Ale, my lord? Good wine?'

  'Czernik,' said Hawkmoon. 'Is he here?'

  'Aye.' The small man jerked a thumb towards the corner and a door marked Privy. 'He's in there making space for more. He'll be out shortly. Shall I call him?'

  'No.' Hawkmoon looked around and then sat down on a bench he judged to be somewhat cleaner than the rest. 'I'll wait for him.'

  'And a cup of wine while you wait?'

  'Very well.'

  Hawkmoon left the wine untouched as he waited for Czernik to emerge. At last the old veteran came stumbling out and went straight to the bar. 'Another flagon,' he mumbled. He patted at his clothes, looking for his purse. He had not seen Hawkmoon.

  Hawkmoon rose. 'Czernik?'

  Czernik whirled around and almost fell over. He fumbled for a sword he had long since pawned to buy more drink. 'Have you come to kill me, traitor?' His bleary eyes slowly sharpened with hatred and fear. 'Must I die for te
lling the truth. If Count Brass were here .. . You know what this place is called?'

  'The Dnieper Crossing.'

  'Aye. We fought side by side, Count Brass and I, at The Dnieper Crossing. Against Prince Ruchtof's armies, against his cossaki. And the river was dammed with their bodies so that its course was changed for all time. And at the end of it all Prince Ruchtof's armies were dead and Count Brass and I were the only two of our side left alive.'

  'I know the tale.'

  'Then know that I am brave. That I do not fear you. Kill me, if you wish. But you shall not silence Count Brass himself.'

  'I did not come to silence you, Czernik, but to listen. Tell me again what you saw and what you heard.'

  Czernik glared suspiciously at Hawkmoon. 'I told you this afternoon.'

  'I wish to hear it once more. Without any of your own accusations. Tell me, as you remember them, Count Brass's words to you.'

  Czernik shrugged. 'He said that you had coveted his lands and his daughter ever since you first came to the Kamarg. He said that you had proved yourself a traitor several times over before you ever met him. He said that you fought the Dark Empire at Koln, then joined with the Beast Lords, even though they had slain your own father. Then you turned against the Empire when you thought you were strong enough, but they defeated you and took you back in chains of gilded iron to Londra where, in exchange for your own life you agreed to help them in a plot to betray Count Brass. Once out of their hands you came to the Kamarg and thought it easier to betray your Empire masters once again. This you did. Then you used your friends—Count Brass, Oladahn, Bowgentle and D'Averc—to beat the Empire and when they were no longer useful to you, you arranged things so that they should die in the Battle of Londra.'

  'A convincing story,' said Hawkmoon grimly. 'It fits the facts well enough, though it leaves out details which would vindicate my actions. A clever fabrication, indeed.'

  'You say Count Brass lies?'

  'I say that what you saw in the marshes—the ghost or mortal—is not Count Brass. I know I speak the truth, Czernik, for I have no betrayals on my conscience. Count Brass knew the truth. Why should he lie after death?'