Текст книги "Here and Now"

Автор книги: Henry Lion Oldie

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 4 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 2 страниц]

The entire tavern was laughing at him.

Nevertheless, there was found a daring man who wasn’t afraid of sharing the cooper’s fate. There, Karolinka’s playing with toys, Mom’s happiness. People had babbled things about a child without a father, but never found out the truth. Skwozhina, when asked about her daughter, would keep mum. Usually she would wag her tongue, say something – run away and fight off! And here – silent as a grave. The same way Skwozhina kept silent when the frontier guard men were whipping her trying to find out the hideout of Jendrich Dry Storm: you’re in the tavern, knowing everything, seeing everything – tell us! The taverner may have his own interest, and what’s in it for you?

They whipped and whipped and gave up. Decided she was a mute.

“Mister Jendrich, let me look at your leg. I think there’s a dislocation.”

“A doctor?” Dry Storm squinted at the youth unkindly.

“Well... Sort of.”

“Go on.”

Lukerda turned away shyly when Jendrich began pulling off his leather lined trousers with the youth’s help; while Skwozhina, not abashed a bit, was staring impudently at the chieftain’s legs, hairy and slightly crooked.

“Indeed, that’s a dislocation!” announced the youth sonorously, glad he had been right. “And the bones are intact. You were lucky...”

“Don’t babble. If you can set it – do it. Soon the Maintz men will visit the tavern.”

“I would ask you, mister...”

“Giacomo Seingalt at your service, young man.”

“Could you hold him, please? Yes, thank you. And I’ll attend to his leg. Now it will hurt...”

“I’ll take it. If you set it, kid – I’ll pay in gold!”

The thin fingers of the youth, proving to be suddenly strong, seized Jendrich’s dislocated leg. “Well, with the God’s help!” Then the youth acted surprisingly quickly and confidently. There was a short strong jerk. Jendrich cursed through his clenched teeth, and this time old Giacomo didn’t reproach him. “That’s all. Now we must bandage it.”

The chieftain moved his leg, made a grimace. “Look at you! It seems you really have been a doctor’s apprentice. Search in the farther packs – there’re fabrics. Take any of them, cut for a bandage. Here’s a knife, take it.”

From the first pack cut open there appeared expensive brocade. The youth and Giacomo who joined him (the latter was sneezing desperately because of the aroused dust) had to open three more packs before they got to the store of strong linen.

“How many things daddy’s got here! I didn’t even know...” Lukerda was looking at the chieftain, bewildered. He didn’t answer, groaning from the painful bandaging. Suddenly he grew silent, pushed his finger to his lips abruptly. Everyone in the cellar held their breath. Giacomo, intending to sneeze once more, hastily closed his mouth and nose with his hand, made a strangled grunt and shuddered.

Muted steps above, over their heads. Voices mumble vaguely. Boards creak, sagging.

Thin dust pours on the turned up faces.

“There, at the ceiling,” Jendrich’s hissing whisper. “Do you see the bung? Pull it out. Just be silent!”

Giacomo pulled out the lump of rags bunging a rat-hole or a vent with a visible effort.

“...rode away?”

“To the forest, to the forest, where else?”

“Don’t you lie?!”

“Why would I lie, sir knight? Robbers are robbers. Pure squandering. To the forest, odd-even, they flew, their den’s there, damn them...”

“And where are the people? Why’s the tavern empty?”

“Afraid, they are. You’ll become angry, that is, order to whip. Hiding they are...”

“A sly devil you are, taverner. Well, bring here meat, wine, but see to it, you rascal, that it’s the very best! You bring us rotten stuff – I’ll order to burn your tavern down, and hang you up high on...”

“The very best, sir knight! Just a moment!.. Wife, quick: wine, wine for the good gentlemen, and I’ll, odd-even, put sausages on the pan...”

Jendrich gestured to Giacomo to put the bung back in its place.

“Here they are... Never mind: Jas will douse them with wine and they’ll melt. We’ll hole up. Well, kid, just the time for you to make noise, for the Maintz men to take us on the spot. Eh?”

The youth shuddered again, as if from a slap. Even in the unsteady light of the candle it was seen that he blushed. Anger? Shame?

“You shouldn’t say so, mister Jendrich...”

“Oh, I’m so very sorry! And who was it that threatened to sell us out when we didn’t want to take him into the hideout?”

“I was scared...”

“Scared he was! With rats we have a short talk. A knife in the belly and the bowels on a branch. Tell us, what’s there between you and the margrave Siegfried?”

“I...” The youth felt confused under the intent glances fixed on him. “I... I can’t be captured, by no means! I was going to your prince, to Razimir of Opolie. Look, take me to Wrozlav! You can do it! Surely you know all the paths!”

“What, you have a bag full of golden amulets? The prince will be awfully glad to see you! Gold for us, you for him. The last hope, that is.”

“I have no amulets. I’ve given the last one to the taverner. And as for hope... Maybe the truth is yours. I’m the only hope. Opolie won’t stand against Maintz...”

“Young man, are you experienced in military art?” Giacomo Seingalt curved his brow sarcastically. “Are you a strategist? Do you suppose the prince Razimir will appoint you commander?”

“You are mocking me. But I must! I want to give the prince this...”

The youth opened his bag, began to rustle with the rags. There came to light a casket – shabby, triangular, marked in black, red and yellow chequers like a buffoon’s tights. Its paint had peeled off in some places, its edges were severely beaten. In addition to the casket in the bag there was a big hourglass.

“A game, is it?” the chieftain made a contemptuous grimace.

Giacomo nodded with confidence: “The ‘Triple Nornscoll’, or ‘Cheat the Fate’. I would play it in my time... We may amuse ourselves now, one way or another we’ll be sitting here doing nothing for a long time. Will you play, Jendrich? And you, young man? By the way, don’t you want to introduce yourself to your fellows in misfortune?”

“Forgive me... My name is Martzin, Martzin Oblaz from the free city of Holne. From the former free city. But this is not an ordinary game. It has belonged to Byarn the Pensive.”

“The mage from Holne?!”

“Yes.”

“What a rogue you are, lad! Stole the game from Byarn himself?! First he snitched the amulet, then the game! Or all at once? You’re desperate, and a doctor too... Want to join my gang?” It was hard to understand whether the chieftain was joking, mocking or talking seriously.

“It would be better if I really stole it...” whispered Martzin faintly, lowering his eyes.

“Didn’t steal? So where did you get it?”

“This is a legacy. My teacher Byarn the Pensive died last week.”

“Died?! Tell more lies! Mages – they live for a thousand years!”

“Unfortunately, you are mistaken. Meister Byarn had a weak heart... I know this better than many others.”

“Heart? Why didn’t he make himself healthy with magic and be over with it?”

“Oh, mister Jendrich,” Martzin sighed heavily. The flame of the candle flickered, queer shadows swayed along the walls, and the hideout seemed for a moment unreal – as if the next moment it would flow like fog and disperse. “Don’t mistake a mage for God. The magic of healing uses the healer’s own power. This is not alike spells or taming of the elements. One cannot heal one’s own heart. And I... I’m just learning. Was learning.”

“So how old was he, Byarn? Five hundred years? Seven hundred?”

“Seventy two.”

“A liar you are, kid! My old man lived up to ninety. And there you’ve got a mage!”

“You may not believe me, but I’m telling the truth.” The youth pursed his lips, offended.

“Begging your pardon for interrupting your absorbing discussion, but it seems that you, young man, wanted to expound to us the secret of your legacy. Why do you want to deliver this game to Wrozlav? Or do you hope that while practicing ‘Triple Nornscoll’ Razimir of Opolie will find the method of winning the war with the Maintz Mark?”

“Strange as it is, you’ve almost guessed, mister Seingalt. Meister Byarn had made this ‘Nornscoll’ in his youth, soon after he finished studying with his teacher. With the help of this game...” Martzin became more and more excited, obviously hesitating: to tell more or to keep silent? His voice was trembling, drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. “With its help it’s possible to play again... to change anything! Any event that took place in the past can be turned back! Not to allow the war to begin at all. To change its course. Do you understand me?!”

“To change? And your mage, that is, died all of a sudden?” Jendrich squinted unbelievingly. “He’d do better to play again our sinful life, to save Holne, to win for himself some hundred years! You’re hiding something, student...”

“You are simplifying everything. Anyone can use the ‘Triple Nornscoll’ but its creator. In the hands of meister Byarn the game would lose its power.”

“So he should have given it to your burgomaster. Or to a commander.”

“I’ve suggested this to the teacher. But he refused. When Holne had already fallen, the teacher was considering sending me to the prince Razimir. But he lingered, hesitated... I don’t know why. Then I found him dead. The heart... And then I decided myself...”

“Well, those mages, of course... Nothing’s clear, in short. They don’t know themselves what they want. But you here – you’re our fellow! Put the Maintz men above there to sleep! And we’ll get out, knife them all, take their horses – and to the forest. Straight to the prince Razimir, to deliver him your game. Come on, Martzin! Make your magic!”

“I can’t,” the youth threw up his hands with a guilty look. “I studied only for three years. I learnt only to cause rain, and that with hail, too. The hail’s all right, it’s big, but the rain... The teacher would laugh: you, Martzin, he would say, lack anger for a heavy downpour. A duffer you are...”

“Hail – and that’s all?!”

“Well, some more trifles... But I can’t put anyone to sleep.”

The chieftain spat on the floor. “I knew it. To babble everybody knows, and to do something – no one gives a hoot!”

“Wait, wait! What if...” All the glances turned to Lukerda at once, and the girl became abashed, flushed shyly. And then she started jabbering, floundering and stammering with excitement, as if she was afraid she would be interrupted and wouldn’t be able to finish. “Let’s try ourselves! Ourselves! So that there won’t be a war! Tell us, Martzin, your game... can anyone play it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” the youth glanced at the taverner’s daughter with surprise, as if seeing her for the first time. Apparently, such a thought just hadn’t occurred to him. The idea of delivering the game to the prince Razimir had possessed his soul since the moment of his teacher’s death, and he hadn’t thought of anything else.

“Then why deliver it to the prince? Maybe we can do it?! And if not – the game won’t lose its power, will it? Right, Martzin?”

“Yes.”

“If we don’t manage, you’ll take the game to Wrozlav!”

“He lies, this Martzin, he does,” Jendrich waved his hand with dismissal. But those who were in the hideout didn’t fail to notice that the chieftain’s eyes were glittering with excitement. “Let him first prove he’s a bit of a mage. Right now... it’s just fooling around.” The severe chieftain wouldn’t confess even to himself that he wanted desperately, to tears wanted to believe in a miracle. With the help of some trashy casket to turn the course of the war back, and the margrave Siegfried will never invade the lands of Opolie, and Jendrich’s gang-mates that have fallen at dawn will remain alive, and...

“Prove? How?” Martzin ruffled like a funny sparrow.

“Have you learnt at least something? To light a candle without a flint?”

“Yes.”

“Come on then!”

The chieftain blew abruptly, and the hideout became pitch dark. The tang of soot crawled into the nostrils. Rustling, vague movement. A drop of flame appears noiselessly, coming out of the darkness. It’s strange, amber, with a vertical line in the middle – like a cat’s eye. Only after two or three heartbeats do they understand that the flame is burning in the air, between Martzin’s hands brought together.

The youth brings the drop to the candle.

The wick kindles at once.

“He’s a wizad, he’s a wizad! Make more wizadly!”

“Hush, Karolinka! Bad fellas will hear – them come and take you. Hush, my daughter...”

Now Skwozhina bore little resemblance to the loudmouthed squabbler that would tell bawdy jokes and wouldn’t give a hoot about anybody. Having drawn Karolinka closer to herself, she was stroking the girl’s head tenderly with a coarse hand, trying to protect, close, hide in her bosom from the troubles awaiting the child in the evil and hostile world.

“Here...”

Jendrich Dry Storm thrust his fingers into his curly inky mane, scratched his head – and suddenly grinned merrily: “Alright, hold that I believe you. Well, mage boy! Teach us to replay fate!”

The pieces were old, part of them lacked a head or a top. Well matching the peeled and cracked casket-board. Martzin was placing them carefully, biting his lip. Giacomo Seingalt was watching the youth’s actions intently. He reached forward: “Three colours? I assume that black is for the Maintz Mark, yellow for Holne and red – our Opolie. Can we choose any side? Any camp?”

“Of course. But you must choose only a single piece. Then for a short time you’ll become the man whose image you’ve chosen. And you’ll move backwards, into the past. There you can try to change something, to give a new course to the events. You’ll have about two months. My teacher would have transferred you for some twenty years without an effort, but I...”

“This sounds alluring. I think I would risk playing for...”

“Two months? That will do! The tournament! The tournament in Maintz! Damn it, I know what to do! Lubina decided not to take part in the jousting! And he should... Oh, I’ll show this son of a bitch!”

“There’s another thing. Would the margrave Dietrich, Siegfried’s father, live at least five-six years more...”

“I know that the burgomaster of Holne has a daughter. Were I in her place...”

“Good heavens! How hadn’t it occurred to me before! Were my teacher a bit more resolute...”

“Mommy, I want play!”

“Wait, dolly. After grown men finish making fools of themselves, they’ll give you toys to play too. Damn you! Just like babies...”

“Hush! Well, lad, show how to play.”

“Have you already chosen a piece, mister Jendrich?”

“Sure!”

The chieftain reached out to the board.

“Wait! This is not how it must be done. Imagine thoroughly what you’re going to do in the chosen man’s place. Because during the game you cease being yourself. Just remember the main thing – what you are playing for. So?”

In the chieftain’s face there expressed the unusually hard labour of the mind. After some lingering Jendrich Dry Storm nodded with a visible effort.

“Then clap your hands over the board. And then, when I say, touch the piece.”

Jendrich’s arms, swelling with lumps of muscles, met in a mute clap. None of them understood where most of the pieces vanished to from the board. The chieftain’s burning eyes were fixed tightly on the image of an armoured knight with a shield and a spear in its hands. The spearhead was long ago broken, the red paint had peeled off the helm – but this didn’t matter now. Martzin took in his hands the hourglass with the massive bronze stand, shook it slightly and stared at the bulging glass. The youth’s glance became lifeless, dim – and they saw that in the lower part of the vessel there rose a thin sandstorm. One by one, faster and faster the sand grains rushed for the orifice of the vessel, to the upper part of it.

The sand was flowing the other way around!

Lukerda gasped and closed her mouth with her palm.

Together with the crazy sand Time itself was turning back, returning on its circuits, casting away generously once gathered stones, giving the possibility to step twice in the same river – to improve, to change, to play again... The last grain of sand dived into the narrow orifice. Time stopped, hanging like an axe over a victim’s neck – and Martzin raised his face, stiffened, pale as a wax mask. “Hurry on, chieftain!”

“Chieftain?!” grinned in response Jendrich Dry Storm. “Hell no! This time – a knight! Lubina Rava, the noble commander of the prince of Opolie! Hold on, Siegfried, you dog, I’m coming!”

The strong fingers, more used to the hilt of a sword, closed on the piece. The next moment the “Triple Nornscoll” disappeared. In its place a window was flung wide open, and one could see distinctly how...

...Clang, a thump on the ground. Enthusiastic cries of spectators. The spear of Siegfried, heir to the crown of Maintz, has unhorsed another rival. A good stroke. It seems that of the fighters that have dared to oppose the initiator remained two: Henric Labendz and himself, Lubina Rava. The rest are already beaten by the young bully. At first, though, Lubina wasn’t going to participate in the jousting. But to reject the invitation of the margrave Dietrich would have been an insult. And then again, the commander loved tournaments. Many were unhorsed by his strong hand, but rivals wouldn’t take offence at one another. Strong was the spirit of the knightly brotherhood, not as it is now...

“I’m getting old. I start grumbling. In our time, that is, the grass was greener, and the girls were prettier, and cows had four horns... Is your sun approaching the sunset, knight?! Come on! There's life in the old dog yet! And the boy is good, really good. Which means you must knock the stuffing out of this blockhead while you still can...”

“The knight Henric Labendz from Boleslavez!”

That’s it, he’s next. Lubina jumped slightly, checking the tourney armour, clenched and unclenched his fingers in the gauntlets. No, everything fitted well. A helm on the head, a spear and a shield in the hands – and he might go out to the field. What a pity that the joy had gone. He remembered sensation of holiday that had filled the tournaments of old. And here, in Maintz, everything seemed as it must be: banners, plumes, armours glittering in the sun, trumpets, heralds, ladies waving their handkerchiefs – yet the holiday was gone. Jealousy, envy... As if a cloud hung over the field, putting out smiles, penetrating souls with streams of darkness.

The commander knew the name of the cloud hanging over the Maintz Mark and threatening to shower its rain onto the neighbouring lands.

War was its name.

And its heart was the heart of young Siegfried.

Why was he so sure? The commander wondered at himself. Only yesterday the skies of the future had still shone with pure azure, and today Lubina was awake because of the sulphuric smell of trouble. In his time the margrave Dietrich von Maintz, Siegfried’s father, had been as belligerent and indomitable as his son was now. Not once and not twice had he tried to widen his borders, but at last, after he was beaten by the powerful duke of Henning, he calmed down. Became peaceful and hospitable. Only that Dietrich is old, and his heir longs for revenge. Clever enough to have learnt from his father’s bitter experience and not go west, to Henning, once again, Siegfried will move his troops east as soon as his hands are untied. Holne will fall quickly, only to whet his appetite; Opolie will stand for some more time. But without reliable allies the principality won’t withstand before powerful and rich Maintz. Making alliances requires time.

A secret guest that had settled inside Lubina was prompting: there was no time.

“A-a-ah!..”

Look at him! Henric Labendz proved to be strong – withheld the blow with his shield, remained in the saddle. Now the knights are departing for the next attack... Lubina felt in his bones: the tournament in Maintz would decide everything. Young Siegfried is trying his strength. When you are twenty two, your blood is up in your veins and your head is full of grandiose plans – victory in the tournament can be accepted for an omen from Heaven. And the flame of war will rage across the land, until the predator breaks his fangs fighting a stronger enemy.

So why not calm down the lad here and now?

“A-a-ah!..”

It’s over. Henric Labendz from Boleslavez is defeated.

Now it’s time.

“The knight Lubina Rava from Wrozlav!”

His hands are accepting the habitual weight of the shield and the spear brought by the squires. His eyes are looking at the world through the visor grid. While riding to the field pitted by hoofs, while listening to the welcoming roar of the crowd, the commander thought: “It’s not enough to simply unhorse the pup. It would be nice to send him to hell. Oh, how nice it would be...”

The thought flashed and disappeared. The weird, evil, foreign thought.

Trumpets.

The opposite tribunes rushed towards him in the usual way, in his ears sounded the victorious rumble of hoofs. But faster than the tribunes, in front of him there emerges a rider in glittering armour. On the azure field of his shield the griffon of Maintz claws a snake. Only a fool would fight a griffon face to face – above it, over the shield’s edge, aslant and up...

A stroke. Crash. For a moment everything goes dark before the commander’s eyes.

Hold on! Remain in the saddle at any cost!..

He made it. The horse stops obediently, turning around in its place. Here he is, Siegfried von Maintz – prostrate on the ground. The commander’s favourite stroke – a spear in a head – had reached its aim one more time. The boy is defeated. Alive or dead?

The lying knight is trying to grope for the hilt of his sword. That means he’s alive. All the same, from Lubina’s stroke he will not recover soon.

One of the tournament marshals runs up to him. His words are making their way through the hum of the tribunes: “Congratulations to the valiant knight on his victory! According to the tournament tradition the winner has the right for a trophy. What detail of the armour would the noble knight wish to take? The spur? The gauntlet? The belt?..”

Lubina Rava looks at Siegfried. Excellent armour. Gorgeous. A cuirass of Milanese steel – the “goose chest”! – a Burgonet helmet in the latest fashion, with a triple visor, lamellar armour surpasses leather one in flexibility. And gold all over: the image of the griffon, the decoration of the vambraces and the spaulders... At any fair such armour would cost oodles of money. While Rava’s lands don’t bring decent income, and the prince Razimir is a skinflint...

“A spur? A gauntlet?!” laughs Lubina with the foreign, stolen laughter. “Hell no! According to the ancient rules I take for myself all the armour of my rival! Order to deliver it into my tent!”

He pulls his helm off, grinning victoriously in the face of the bewildered marshal.

It’s over.

The boy has learnt a proper lesson.

“...victory! I beat him! There’ll be no war!”

“Jendrus! You’re a hero! Let me kiss you!”

“Lukerda, remember about decencies! I can’t allow...”

“No, he’s a hero! He’s a hero all the same! Only... why are we still sitting in this cellar?!”

“Because our most respected chieftain made a mistake. The real commander Rava would never do it.”

“Do what?”

Jendrich was blinking, dumbfounded, looking around him. He was still there, in the tournament field, looking at the defeated Siegfried, grinning in the marshal’s face...

Giacomo Seingalt’s voice sounded surprisingly simple; neither mocking nor the habitual old man’s sarcasm. Only sincere regret: “The knight Lubina would not set his eyes upon Siegfried’s personal armour. Of course, how would you know that the tradition of taking the armour of defeated rivals doesn’t actually exist for at least forty years? Now the winner is satisfied with only an honourable trophy. To act in a different way means humiliating a defeated rival in public...”

The old man thrust his long hand into a heap of stuff behind him with a wry face. With a nasty gnash he extracted a cuirass to which there were fixed by clasps disproportionately big spaulders with crests.

“Presses on my side,” he explained, though nobody asked him a thing. “I do understand you, Jendrich. If you were tempted by this quite unassuming armour, what to say about that of the Maintz heir... For all that, you’re a robber, don’t take this for rudeness. It just didn’t occur to you that you had insulted Siegfried deadly. Formally it isn’t forbidden by tournament rules. But... The future margrave hasn’t forgiven you his public shame. Or rather, hasn’t forgiven it to the knight Lubina Rava, the commander of the prince of Opolie. I’m very sorry, Jendrich. No, I’m really sorry. You have almost made it...”

Distressing silence set in the cellar.

“Damn, but I’m!.. I...” Jendrich turned away gloomily, hiding his face.

It was heard how in the tavern above the Maintz men were bawling a song.

“Well, I think it’s my turn now,” the dependant made himself smile. “There is another way. Would the old margrave live longer... The beloved son had certainly poisoned his father or had organized his assassination. But he who is warned is armed. Ah, my friends, what hasn’t old Giacomo Seingalt happened to be! If you only knew! But a margrave – never. It would be a sin not to use such an opportunity. I’m ready, Martzin. Should I clap my hands too?”

The bony, still strong fingers reached for the image of a king.

The image’s head was broken.

That morning Dietrich von Maintz woke up with the feeling of close death – a feeling as sharp as the assassin’s stiletto.

For the first time in seventeen years of calm and welfare.

I’ll be murdered today, thought Dietrich with a frightful clearness. I’ll be murdered today, destroyed, eliminated, and young Siegfried will receive the crown of the Maintz Mark. The heir will become margrave, while I’ll become dust. Nothing. A vague memory, a ghost of the past. I don’t want to die. Don’t want to. Maybe it’s all because of the dream. It was the dream that had awakened in his soul a presentiment of death. At night Dietrich von Maintz had seen events that he would prefer not to recall. To forget forever. And in any case, not to resurrect them at night.

The rout of Maintz by the troops of Vitold the Bastard, duke of Henning.

It happened long ago – the heir Siegfried was five years old then. This... actually, what did it matter – where, when and how? Quite enough that it had once happened. And for long years it disinclined him from coveting his neighbours’ lands. Tamed his pride, moderated greed and vanity.

At times the margrave felt grateful to the duke Vitold for the lesson. And now...

“You’ll be murdered,” whispered the secret guest that had settled in his soul without asking for permission. “Be careful, old man.”

I’ll be careful, vowed Dietrich, answering the call. I’m not an old man. I won’t be murdered.

While making his morning toilet, he was watching the servants attentively. No one can be trusted. No one. Washing himself in a silver tub – the margrave had always been cleanly – Dietrich broke an arm of a young maid servant who was pouring hot water from a jug. It seemed to him that the maid was hiding a dagger in the jug, preparing to strike him in the back. The victim was sobbing, rolling up her eyes; bodyguards that had rushed into the bedroom were exchanging perplexed glances, while the margrave himself was soothing his heart with difficulty. His body was yet going strong – the maid’s elbow had cracked as a spill in skilful fingers, – but his heart was too worn out for such outbursts.

No, I won’t be murdered.

He drove the bodyguards out. Out!!! Sapheads, duffers, unable to distinguish an assassination attempt from the ordinary lord’s wrath... Then, after some considering, he called for the captain of the guard and ordered him to replace the guardians. The captain, a smart man, didn’t show interest in the cause of the disfavour. He just asked: “With whom to replace?” “Can I trust him?!” thought Dietrich, looking at the captain’s face. “He seems to be loyal. He’s got knight spurs from my hands. He dreams of barony. Or is he already suborned?! Looks straight, without blinking. Black eyes... black eyes, those of a sorcerer!..” The margrave ordered to bring him the list of the Gold Griffon squad and poked randomly at five names. This is safer. Fortuity will prevent them from doing what they’ve planned.

Who are “they”?

He didn’t know.

You’ll be murdered today, old man. No, I won’t.

“Provide the maiden with dowry,” ordered the margrave without looking at the maid who had fainted away. “On the cost of my treasury. Send her my private doctor. Let him not leave her till tomorrow. And marry... Marry her off.”

The doctor – that’s right. Let him not leave her. And not approach me.

Doctors are the main danger.

His heart calmed down and was beating evenly and strongly. Pretended to be young.

At breakfast Dietrich demanded to bring the chief cook into the hall. Let him stand near the table and taste all the dishes served for the beloved lord. Truffles. Deer meat. Hare pâté. Fruits. Wine. Pheasants in honey. Quails. Fish. Bread. In the end of the breakfast the cook, ready to fall on the floor any minute, was driven away by his hands. The margrave himself, satisfied with a piece of fresh bread and a goblet of spring water, was waiting for a long time: was it poisoning? It turned out to be indigestion. The cook had overeaten. Pheasants with fruits, pâté, steamed pike-fish... a bit too heavy. His wife permitted herself a surprised smile, but having caught her husband’s severe glance she halted. The heir, young Siegfried, pretended nothing was amiss.

Heirs are the most dangerous.

I won’t be murdered.

Here and now – I won’t.

Dietrich refused to go hunting. And for half a day was cursing himself for it. Yes, during the hunt it’s easy to shoot in the back. Or a horse would slip, throwing a rider into a ravine. But in the castle it’s not harder to strike with a dagger from behind a curtain. He was sitting in his room gloomily, staring at the wall and repeating as a spell, as a prayer: “Won’t be murdered. Won’t be murdered. Won’t...”