Arcanum Part 10

"Something the matter, my prince?"

"Weren't the Ostara celebrations enough for you, my lady?"

"Apparently not, my prince. Neither, it appears, were they enough for you." She gave up any form of pretence and shrugged her coat off her shoulders. The heavy material fell away, hanging only from her arms which she straightened behind her to leave the garment as a puddle of red and gold on the floor. "A man going to war should have some idea of the welcome he'll receive when he returns victorious."

Did Emma do this for him? Had she ever got over the fact she was simply a token in a political alliance between Carinthia and the Franks? Had she loved him before she died? Gerhard stared at the pale beauty standing in front of him, hands clasped at her back and slowly shifting her weight from the ball of one foot to the other.

Had he actually found the right woman second time around?

"I can't take long," he said.

"I won't take long," she said.

He nodded towards the bed, and she ran to it with indecent haste.

12.

Almost everybody had assembled in the Great Hall by the time Gerhard arrived. Felix and his Italian teacher were at the foot of the dais, trading obscure Genoese insults along with each blow and block. Captain Reinhardt stood next to the armoury sergeant and watched the swordplay. The stable-master was deep in conversation with Trommler, and there were other servants: messengers, a herald, kitchen boys keeping the retinue supplied with bread and meat, enough men to carry the prince's armour, and another to bear the sword of state.

He ruled absolutely, and if he kept a room full of people waiting while he played hide the sausage with her highness, that was his prerogative. He jumped up onto the dais, and the conversation drained away before he reached the throne. He stood there for a moment, surveying the people below him, then sat down with a frown.

"Lord Chamberlain? There is a notable absence." He searched the room for a hint of a white robe: behind a pillar, perhaps, or skulking in the deep shadows. Or perhaps they were invisible, and only given away by a tremor in the air.

Trommler came to the dais. "My lord, a message has been sent. It was the first thing I did, knowing their somewhat erratic timekeeping and their concept of haste."

"So ..." Gerhard paused, giving any hexmaster present time to reveal themselves with a theatrical flourish. There was no sudden appearance, and his good mood no, his very good mood started to evaporate. "Where are the Order of the White Robe?"

"They are not here yet, my lord." Trommler turned and scanned the hall himself. "Ehrlichmann? Where's Ehrlichmann?"

Near the back of the crowd, a man with dusty boots held up his hand. "My lord?"

"You went to the novices' house?"

"Straight away, my lord."

"And you delivered the message?"

"Yes, my lord." He scraped his boots on the stone floor. "Should I call again?"

Trommler pursed his thin lips. "Yes, Ehrlichmann. I think you should."

He had gone before Trommler had finished speaking, leaving the chamberlain to make his open-handed apologies to Gerhard.

"I'm displeased," said the prince. "They take half half, mark my words of every single penny we collect in taxes to spend on gods knows what, and I ask for nothing in return except that they come when I call." He unclenched his fist and gave a grunt of annoyance. "Perhaps our allies need reminding of their responsibilities as much as our enemies need reminding of Carinthian might. Bring me my armour. It might be they'll grace me with their presence by the time I'm ready for war."

It was a show, but, without one of the principal players, it lacked meaning. Gerhard stood and posed his body as each piece of armour was strapped on. It was old, but it was functional. More to the point, it was enchanted. The metal itself was mostly for show, which made the whole suit light and easy to wear.

The sword of state was buckled to his waist and his helmet presented to him.

The Prince of Carinthia lowered himself slowly to his throne. Despite the armour's manufacture, it still weighed more than he was used to wearing. His mood soured further. "Where are the hexmasters, Lord Chamberlain?"

"They, they're not here, my lord." Trommler looked not just perplexed, but anxious. "My man hasn't returned yet." He glanced behind him in case Ehrlichmann had crept in without him seeing.

"Well ..." said Gerhard, and momentarily couldn't think of anything else to say. "Well. In that case..."

Everyone was looking at him. Of course they were. He was the Prince of Carinthia in his battle armour. But it seemed he didn't command the total loyalty of all his subjects. Was this a deliberate snub? Why now? A thousand-year mutually beneficial alliance couldn't be unravelling because of a few hundred barbarian horsemen, could it?

What did this mean?

He saw the confusion on his face spread to the rest of the hall, and he got a grip on himself. He was man enough to leave his wife in gasping, sweat-sheened exhaustion; he was man enough to call the Order to heel.

"Perhaps it's raining," he said. "Or perhaps it's too cold for them. Or perhaps it's too early, and the messenger found them all in bed. True Carinthians don't care about the weather, or the hour. We're always ready for a fight." He laughed. "Well then, when we turn up at their tower ready for the battle that they're apparently unwilling to meet, perhaps we can shame them into joining us. Saddle the horses, form the men into files. I'm ready, and I'll wait for no one."

He lifted his helmet up and over his head. He held it there for a moment before he pressed it down. The padding inside gripped his skull, and Trommler's expression turned to one of pride.

Gerhard gripped the arms of the throne and levered himself upright. "Carinthia rides," he growled, a good deal more viciously than he had meant to. "Carinthia rides!"

The room cleared, every man hurrying to do his allotted job. Even Felix and the Italian: had he seen a flash of fear in the boy's eyes just now? Good. His heir needed to realise there was more to being a prince than being a good administrator.

He walked to the side of the dais and down the steps, to the soft whisper of chain against plate. The day outside beckoned him, and he hesitated again. Why hadn't they come? They'd come yesterday, unbidden.

Or had they? A figure in a white robe, face veiled, had walked in, taken no part in the audience, then left again. It could have been anybody.

There was only one way to find out, and that was to ask them himself.

He marched outside, and was handed the reins of his horse. Everything in the courtyard was now orderly, where moments before it had been in chaos. The castle guards were arranged in a neat column. The other riders were already mounted, horses clattering their shoes on the stones, raising sparks and rattling their tack.

Gerhard bent his knee and a servant quickly cupped his hands under it, pulling upwards and heaving the prince high enough for him to swing his other leg over. He settled himself in the saddle, and allowed his feet to be fitted into the stirrups.

"So, signore" Gerhard found himself next to his son's tutor "does your blood run hot at this sight? Are your sinews stiffened? Is your ardour stroked? Do you yearn for the ring of steel and the shock of impact in your arm?"

Allegretti, with whatever Italianate armour he possessed stowed on one of the wagons, looked as though he was out for a leisurely ride. His green mazzocchio was tilted back on his head at a rakish angle, and his expression of gentle bemusement looked singularly out of place amid the Germanic seriousness of his fellows.

"My prince, forgive me. My homeland is tormented by war, so I do not delight in these preparations." Yet he still looked puzzled.

"Then what?"

"Do you not need more men?"

Gerhard's jaw jutted out. They hardly needed what they had: the men-at-arms and earls on horseback were only required to wheel the hexmasters into position. If he had to draw his sword in anger, he'd be surprised. He snorted at the sword-master.

"We've more than sufficient to deal with a handful of barbarians. The fewer the men, the greater the honour." He wheeled his horse around. "Have I entrusted my son to a coward?"

"No, my prince: to a cautious man."

"Often the same in my book," Gerhard sneered. He raised his voice: "Carinthia rides."

He nudged his heels into the flank of his horse, and it trotted towards the open gate. He was first through, and everyone followed in order, the cavalry, the infantry, and the spare horses, down the stone-edged road towards the outer wall. Of course they followed; he didn't need to look back and check.

Where were the hexmasters? Where were his hexmasters?

At the bottom of the hill, the wagons joined the back of the cavalcade, each one tended by a man with a long steering pole that he would occasionally slip under a wheel to keep the whole thing on course.

The column turned to mimic the flow of the river, clopping and marching down the quay, with merchants and stevedores stepping quickly out of their way. Children waved, woman curtsied, men bowed. He thought briefly about acknowledging their acts of obeisance with some small gesture of his own, but he would be riding past half of Juvavum and whatever he did would become rapidly tiresome.

So he stared straight ahead and concentrated on looking vengeful.

He approached the main bridge, and it cleared spontaneously: crowds gathered on both sides, either because they could or because they wanted to cross. Gerhard wasn't sure.

Damn them to Hel. There was no sign of a coterie of white-robed figures at the far end of the bridge. It would have to look planned; there could be no possible intimation that the Prince of Carinthia had to go begging to the sorcerers to protect him.

He was on the far side of the bridge now, and clearly the townsfolk were expecting him to head north, because they formed an arc across the road to the novices' house, the rooftops of which were just visible above the trees.

Just as he thought he was going to have to drive his horse into the people and force them to part, they parted by themselves. No, not quite: a single hooded hexmaster walked between the two straining rows of bodies to stand before him.

"My lord," she said.

Gerhard's heart hammered hard in his chest. How many masters were women? He didn't know of a single one, yet this gave him an opportunity to save face.

"Are you alone?"

The hood turned, left, right. "So it seems."

Gerhard raised his hand to halt the column, and the order was shouted in repetition behind him.

"So, hexmaster. Do you fly, or will you ride?"

"Give me a horse, and I'll ride for now." She stepped forward and lowered her voice, quiet enough that the prince had to lean from his saddle to hear her. "I have to speak with you. Alone."

He looked around and saw that one of the spare horses was being brought up. It was already saddled, but it wasn't suitable for a lady.

"Can you ..." he started, then coughed, "...cope?"

The hood turned to look at the horse. "My lord will find I'll cope more than adequately."

"Good."

The squire steadied the horse's head, and the hexmaster hexmistress? raised her foot into the stirrup.

Her legs weren't that long, thought Gerhard, distracted. She'll need the straps shortening.

As her hands fastened around the pommel, her sleeves fell away. Both arms were covered with tattoos, dark and menacing. Then she swung herself up, and settled quite naturally on the horse's back, sitting straight and holding the reins loosely.

The prince tried to rub his chin with his mailed fist, but at first contact of metal on skin, he desisted.

"Where did you learn to ride, hexmaster?" He asked because tradition had it that all sorcerers rode like a sack of shit, assuming they didn't scare their horses half to death in the first place.

"Byzantium," she said, as if it answered everything. "My stirrups..."

The squire who'd brought the horse forward quickly adjusted them, then returned to his place.

"I'm ready, my lord."

"Damned if I am," he muttered, but he kicked his mount into motion and deliberately let a gap grow between the two of them and the pair behind him, Felix and the Italian. The hexmaster matched his pace, drawing up on his right quarter.

"My lord?"

"This is not private," said Gerhard, continuing to look ahead. "Not yet." The street was still lined with people, spilling out from the new town and leaning out of windows to see them pass.

The houses finished, and the farms began.

"And now, my lord?"

He turned to her. She'd pulled her hood back, and she looked like a little Greek girl in white, riding a horse. Which she was. She encouraged her horse level with the prince.

"I'm not supposed to see your face. No one outside your Order's supposed to see your face." Gerhard wondered if his armour would save him. It was rumoured that it would, though testing it to destruction with him inside it was something he'd rather avoid.

"These are ..." and she pulled a face. Her skin was tight and unlined, showing just how young she was "unusual times."

"So it seems. Are you really a hexmaster?"

"No, my lord. I'm an adept." She looked over her shoulder at the tower on Goat Mountain, then stared up the road. The via stretched straight and true ahead of them.

"Then where, in the gods' names, are the hexmasters?"

"I'm not going lie to you, my lord," she said.

"Good. Because that would be treason."

"There's a problem with the magic."

Gerhard's horse walked on, but he felt like he was floating above it.

"Say that again, Adept?"

She sighed and shifted. "I can't explain this well. The masters still have some residual power, and enchanted items still seem to work. But very little else does. I may be the only adept left capable of casting a spell. The message you wanted to send to Leopold?"

"Yes?"

"Was never sent. The man tasked with it killed himself when he failed. Your summons this morning?"

Chapter end