Whereupon she had drawn the dagger she always carried at her belt and stabbed at him—striking upward into his open mouth, and piercing his brain.
“You never saw so much blood in all your life,” the gypsy assured Grey, unconsciously echoing Herr Huckel.
“Oh, I rather think I have,” Grey said politely. His hand went to his own waist—but of course, he had left his dagger with Franz. “But pray go on. The marks, as of an animal’s fangs?”
“A nail,” she said, and shrugged.
“So, was it him—Koenig, I mean—was it him tried to snatch little Siggy?” Tom, deeply absorbed in the revelations, could not keep himself from blurting out the question. He coughed and tried to fade back into the woodwork, but Grey indicated that this was a question which he himself found of some interest.
“You did not tell me where your sister is. But I assume that it was you the boy saw in his chamber?”“What did she look like?” he had asked.“Like a witch,”the child replied. Did she? She did not look like Grey’s conception of a witch—but what was that, save the fabrication of a limited imagination?
She was tall for a woman, dark, and her face mingled an odd sexuality with a strongly forbidding aspect—a combination that many men would find intriguing. Grey thought it was not something that would have struck Siggy, but something else about her evidently had.
She nodded. She was fingering her ring, he saw, and watching him with calculation, as though deciding whether to tell him a lie.
“I have seen the Dowager Princess’s medal,” he said politely. “Is she an Austrian, by birth? I assume that you and your sister are.”
The woman stared at him and said something in her own tongue, which sounded highly uncomplimentary.
“And you thinkI am a witch!” she said, evidently translating the thought.
“No, I don’t,” Grey said. “But others do, and that is what brings us here. If you please, madam, let us conclude our business. I expect someone will shortly come for you.” The Schloss was at dinner; Tom had earlier brought Grey a tray, which he had been too tired to eat. No doubt the rune-casting would be the after-dinner entertainment, and he must make his desires clear before that.
“Well, then.” The gypsy regarded him, her awe at his perspicacity fading back into the usual derision. “It was your fault.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was Princess Gertrude—the Dowager, so you call her. She saw Louisa—that slut—” She spat casually on the floor, almost without pausing, and went on. “—making sheep’s eyes at you, and was afraid she meant to marry you. Louisa thought she would marry you and go to England, to be safe and rich. But if she did, she would take with her her son.”
“And the Dowager did not wish to be parted from her grandson,” Grey said slowly. Whether the gossip was true or not, the old woman loved the boy.
The gypsy nodded. “So she arranged that we would take the boy—my sister and me. He would be safe with us, and after a time, when the Austrians had killed you all or driven you away, we would bring him back.”
Hanna had gone down the ladder first, meaning to comfort Siggy if he woke in the rain. But Siggy had wakened before that, and bollixed the scheme by running away. Hanna had no choice but to flee when Grey had tipped the ladder over, leaving her sister to hide in the Schloss and make her way out at daybreak, with the help of the Dowager.
“She is with our family,” the gypsy said, with another shrug. “Safe.”
“The ring,” Grey said, nodding at the gypsy’s circlet. “Do you serve the Dowager? Is that what it means?”
So much confessed, the gypsy evidently felt now at ease. Casually, she pushed a platter of dead doves aside and sat down upon the shelf, feet dangling.
“We are Rom,” she said, drawing herself up proudly. “The Rom serve no one. But we have known the Trauchtenbergs—the Dowager’s family—for generations, and there is tradition between us. It was her great-great-grandfather who bought the child who guards the bridge—and that child was the younger brother of my own four-times-great-grandfather. The ring was given to my ancestor then, as a sign of the bargain.”
Grey heard Tom grunt slightly with confusion, but took no heed. The words struck him as forcibly as a blow, and he could not speak for a moment. The thing was too shocking. He took a deep breath, fighting the vision of Franz’s words—the small, round, white skull, looking out at him from the hollow in the bridge.
Sounds of banging and clashing dishes from the scullery nearby brought him to himself, though, and he realized that time was growing short.
“Very well,” he said, as briskly as he could. “I want one last bit of justice, and our bargain is made. Agathe Blomberg.”
“Old Agathe?” The gypsy laughed, and, despite her missing tooth, he could see how attractive she could be. “How funny! How could they suppose such an old fish might be a demon of desire? A hag, yes, but a night-hag?” She went off into peals of laughter, and Grey jumped to his feet, seizing her by the shoulder to silence her.
“Be quiet,” he said, “someone will come.”
She stopped, then, though she still snorted with amusement.
“So, then?”
“So, then,” he said firmly. “When you do your hocus-pocus—whatever it is they’ve brought you here to do—I wish you particularly to exonerate Agathe Blomberg. I don’t care what you say or how you do it—I leave that to your own devices, which I expect are considerable.”
She looked at him for a moment, looked down at his hand upon her shoulder, and shrugged it off.
“That’s all, is it?” she asked sarcastically.
“That’s all. Then you may go.”
“Oh, I may go? How kind.” She stood smiling at him, but not in a kindly way. It occurred to him quite suddenly that she had required no assurances from him; had not asked for so much as his word as a gentleman—though he supposed she would not have valued that, in any case.
She did not care, he realized, with a small shock. She had not told him anything for the sake of saving herself—she simply wasn’t afraid. Did she think the Dowager would protect her, for the sake either of their ancient bond, or because of what she knew about the failed kidnapping?
Perhaps. Perhaps she had confidence in something else. And if she had, he chose not to consider what that might be. He rose from the cask of fish and pushed it back under the shelves.
“Agathe Blomberg was a woman, too,” he said.
She rose, too, and stood looking at him, rubbing her ring with apparent thought.
“So she was. Well, perhaps I will do it, then. Why should men dig up her coffin and drag her poor old carcass through the streets?”
He could feel Tom behind him, vibrating with eagerness to be gone; the racket of the dinner-clearing was much louder.
“For you, though—”
He glanced at her, startled by the tone in her voice, which held something different. Neither mockery nor venom, nor any other emotion that he knew.
Her eyes were huge, gleaming in the candlelight, but so dark that they seemed void pools, her face without expression.
“Let me tell you this. You will never satisfy a woman,” she said softly. “Never. Any woman who shares your bed will leave after no more than a single night, cursing you.”
Grey rubbed a knuckle against his stubbled chin, and nodded.
“Very likely, madam,” he said. “Good night.”
EPILOGUE
AMONG THETRUMPETS
The order of battle was set. The autumn sun had barely risen, and the troops would march within the hour to meet their destiny at the bridge of Aschenwald.
Grey was in the stable block, checking Karolus’s tack, tightening the girth, adjusting the bridle, marking second by second the time until he should depart, as though each second marked an irretrievable and most precious drop of his life.
Outside the stables, all was confusion, as people ran hither and thither, gathering belongings, searching for children, calling for wi
ves and parents, strewing away objects gathered only moments before, heedless in their distraction. His heart beat fast in his chest, and intermittent small thrills coursed up the backs of his legs and curled between them, tightening his scrotum.
The drums were beating in the distance, ordering the troops. The thrum of them beat in his blood, in his bone. Soon, soon, soon. His chest was tight; it was difficult to draw full breath.
He did not hear the footsteps approaching through the straw of the stables. Keyed up as he was, though, he felt the disturbance of air nearby, that intimation of intrusion that now and then had saved his life, and whirled, hand on his dagger.
It was Stephan von Namtzen, gaudy in full uniform, his great plumed helmet underneath one arm—but with a face sober by contrast to his clothing.
“It is nearly time,” the Hanoverian said quietly. “I would speak with you—if you will hear me.”
Grey slowly let his hand fall away from the dagger, and took the full breath he had been longing for.
“You know that I will.”
Von Namtzen inclined his head in acknowledgment, but did not speak at once, seeming to need to gather his words—although they were speaking German now.
“I will marry Louisa,” he said, finally, formally. “If I live until Christmas. My children—” He hesitated, free hand flat upon the breast of his coat. “It will be good they should have a mother once more. And—”
“You need not give reasons,” Grey interrupted. He smiled at the big German, with open affection. Caution was no longer necessary. “If you wish this, then I wish you well.”
Von Namtzen’s face lightened a bit. He ducked his head a little, and took a breath.
“Danke.I say, I will marry, if I am alive. If I am not . . .” His hand still rested on his breast, above the miniature of his children.
“If I live, and you do not, then I will go to your home,” Grey said. “I will tell your son what I have known of you—as a warrior, and as a man. Is this your desire?”
The Hanoverian’s graveness did not alter, but a deep warmth softened his gray eyes.
“It is. You have known me, perhaps, better than anyone.”
He stood still, looking at Grey, and all at once, the relentless marking of fleeting time stopped. Confusion and danger still hastened without, and drums beat loud, but inside the stables, there was a great peace.
Stephan’s hand left his breast, and reached out. Grey took it, and felt love flow between them. He thought that heart and body must be entirely melted—if only for that moment.
Then they parted, each drawing back, each seeing the flash of desolation in the other’s face, both smiling ruefully to see it.
Stephan was turning to go, when Grey remembered.
“Wait!” he called, and turned to fumble in his saddlebag. He found what he was looking for, and thrust it into the German’s hands.
“What is this?” Stephan turned the small, heavy box over, looking puzzled.
“A charm,” Grey said, smiling. “A blessing. My blessing—and Saint Orgevald’s. May it protect you.”
“But—” Von Namtzen frowned with doubt, and tried to give the reliquary back, but Grey would not accept it.
“Believe me,” he said in English, “it will do you more good than me.”
Stephan looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded and, tucking the little box away in his pocket, turned and left. Grey turned back to Karolus, who was growing restive, tossing his head and snorting softly through his nose.
The horse stamped, hard, and the vibration of it ran through the long bones of Grey’s legs. “Hast thou given the horse strength?” he quoted softly, hand stroking the braided mane that ran smooth and serpentlike down the great ridge of the stallion’s neck. “Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword.”
He leaned close and pressed his forehead against the horse’s shoulder. Huge muscles bulged beneath the skin, warm and eager, and the clean musky scent of the horse’s excitement filled him. He straightened then, and slapped the taut, twitching hide.
“He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.”
Grey heard the drums again, and his palms began to sweat.
Historical note: In October of 1757, the forces of Frederick the Great and his allies moved swiftly, crossing the country to defeat the gathering French and Austrian army at Rossbach, in Saxony. The town of Gundwitz was left undisturbed; the bridge at Aschenwald never crossed by an enemy.
MAJIPOOR
ROBERT SILVERBERG
LORDVALENTINE’SCASTLE(1980)
MAJIPOORCHRONICLES(1981)
VALENTINEPONTIFEX(1983)
THEMOUNTAINS OFMAJIPOOR(1995)
THE PRESTIMION TRILOGY:
SORCERERS OFMAJIPOOR(1997)
LORDPRESTIMION(1999)
THEKING OFDREAMS(2001)
The giant world of Majipoor, with a diameter at least ten times as great as that of our own planet’s, was settled in the distant past by colonists from Earth, who made a place for themselves amidst the Piurivars, the intelligent native beings, known to the intruders from Earth as “Shapeshifters” or “Metamorphs” because of their ability to alter their bodily forms. Majipoor is an extraordinarily beautiful planet, with a largely benign climate, and is a place of astonishing zoological, botanical, and geographical wonders. Everything on Majipoor is large-scale—fantastic, marvelous.
Over the course of thousands of years, friction between the human colonists and the Metamorphs eventually led to a lengthy war and the defeat of the natives, who were penned up in huge reservations in remote regions of the planet. During those years, also, species from various other worlds came to settle on Majipoor—the tiny gnomish Vroons, the great shaggy four-armed Skandars, the two-headed Su-Suheris race, and several more. Some of these—notably the Vroons and the Su-Suheris—were gifted with extrasensory mental powers that permitted them to practice various forms of wizardry. But throughout the thousands of years of Majipoor history the humans remained the dominant species. They flourished and expanded, and eventually the human population of Majipoor came to number in the billions, mainly occupying huge and distinctive cities of ten to twenty million people.
The governmental system that evolved over those years was a kind of nonhereditary dual monarchy. Upon coming to power the senior ruler, known as the Pontifex, selects his own junior ruler, the Coronal. Technically the Coronal is regarded as the adoptive son of the Pontifex, and upon the death of the Pontifex takes his place on the senior throne, naming a new Coronal as his own successor. Both of these rulers make their homes on Alhanroel, the largest and most populous of Majipoor’s three continents. The imperial residence of the Pontifex is in the lowest level of a vast subterranean city called the Labyrinth, from which he emerges only at rare intervals. The Coronal lives in an enormous castle at the summit of Castle Mount, a thirty-mile-high peak whose atmosphere is maintained in an eternal springtime by elaborate machinery. From time to time the Coronal descends from the opulence of the Castle to travel across the face of the world in a Grand Processional, an event designed to remind Majipoor of the might and power of its rulers. Such a journey, which in Majipoor’s vast distances could take several years, invariably brings the Coronal to Zimroel, the second continent, a place of gigantic cities interspersed among tremendous rivers and great unspoiled forests. More rarely he goes to the torrid third continent in the south, Suvrael, largely a wasteland of Sahara-like deserts.
Two other functionaries became part of the Majipoor governmental system later on. The development of a method of worldwide telepathic communication made possible nightly sendings of oracular advice and occasional therapeutic counsel, which became the responsibility of the mother of the incumbent Coronal, under the title of Lady of the Isle of Sleep. Her headquarters
are situated on an island of continental size midway between Alhanroel and Zimroel. Later, a second telepathic authority, the King of Dreams, was set in place. He employs more powerful telepathic equipment in order to monitor and chastise criminals and other citizens whose behavior deviates from accepted Majipoor norms. This office is the hereditary property of the Barjazid family of Suvrael.
The first of the Majipoor novels,Lord Valentine’s Castle, tells of a conspiracy that succeeds in overthrowing the legitimate Coronal, Lord Valentine, and replacing him with an impostor. Valentine, stripped of all his memories, is set loose in Zimroel to live the life of a wandering juggler, but gradually regains an awareness of his true role and launches a successful campaign to reclaim his throne. In the sequel,Valentine Pontifex, the now mature Valentine, a pacifist at heart, must deal with an uprising among the Metamorphs, who are determined to drive the hated human conquerors from their world at last. Valentine defeats them and restores peace with the help of the giant maritime beasts known as sea-dragons, whose intelligent powers were not previously suspected on Majipoor.
The story collectionMajipoor Chronicles depicts scenes from many eras and social levels of Majipoor life, providing detailed insight into a number of aspects of the giant world not described in the novels. The short novelThe Mountains of Majipoor , set five hundred years after Valentine’s reign, carries the saga into the icy northlands, where a separate barbaric civilization has long endured. And the most recent of the Majipoor books,The Prestimion Trilogy, set a thousand years prior to Valentine’s time, tells of an era in which the powers of sorcery and magic have become rife on Majipoor. The Coronal Lord Prestimion, after being displaced from his throne by the usurping son of the former Coronal with the assistance of mages and warlocks, leads his faction to victory in a civil war in which he too makes use of necromantic powers.
The story presented here offers an episode dating back to a time before any of the Majipoor novels published so far—a period more than four thousand years before Valentine’s time, more than three thousand years before Prestimion. But its setting is ten thousand years after the time of the first human settlement, and the early history of Majipoor is already becoming legendary—