Free Speak to the Devil by Dave Duncan Page B

painfully familiar; head lowered, hands tucked in sleeves. Vladislav had always referred to Marek as “Midge,” but Vlad cared even less for other people’s feelings than Anton did. If he seemed even smaller now than Wulf remembered, that was quite natural, because Wulf had been only thirteen when his favorite brother was taken away by two Dominican friars and a troop of lancers.
    Anton and Wulf jumped up with cries of welcome. Anton stepped around the end of the table to embrace him, armor and all, but Marek blocked him by making the sign of the cross in blessing. Baffled, Anton stopped.
    The monk set back his cowl. His face was thin, pinched, with lines around his eyes. His smile was bloodless, professional. “So it really is you! I couldn’t believe it. My little brother Anton a count? And the sash of St. Vaclav? What are you now, twenty-one? No, twenty! You must have done mighty deeds for His Majesty. Or was it those dashing good looks? Did you catch the eye of Princess Laima? Cloth-of-gold suits you, Brother.”
    Baffled, Anton muttered, “Thank you.” He shot Wulf an alarmed glance, looking to see what he thought, then returned to his seat. Had he not realized that five years’ prayer and discipline would change the merry youth he had known?
    The strangely austere Marek turned his inspection on Wulf, who kept his greeting to a respectful smile, but found it so restricted by the bevor that he sat down and raised his sallet. There was no one else in that great hall to see his face.
    “And Wulfgang, too. My dear boy! So tall now!”
    Marek was the only Magnus who would describe Wulf as tall. Wulf cast about for a tactful reply. “Just well-proportioned.”
    “But big for sixteen,” Marek said softly.
    Why was Marek saying that? He could not have forgotten the difference in their ages. He was hinting at something, but before Wulf could question, Anton’s steel solleret banged against his boot in a needlessly painful warning. Wulf suppressed a wince.
    “Someone else remarked on that to me just last night,” Anton remarked, while still chewing.
    Not his lady friend, certainly. Cardinal Zdenek, most likely, Wulf decided. He didn’t understand why his age mattered, or why the king’s first minister would care about it.
    “Oh, you haven’t finished?” Marek said. “Hurry up, because there are much more comfortable places to talk than here.” He stayed on his feet opposite them and regarded Wulf thoughtfully across the narrow plank table. He had dark, shrewd eyes, but his hands were ingrained with dark lines, like a peasant’s.
    “What brings you here, Brother Wulfgang?”
    Shrug, forced smile. “I am but an humble squire. I follow my lord.”
    “When did the humility grow in?” Marek murmured in a faint echo of his former humor. “You are not planning to stay here?”
    “No!” Wulf said, with more emphasis than courtesy.
    Marek sighed and glanced sideways. “So explain that sash, noble Lord Magnus.” Then he went back to staring at Wulf.
    “It’s a long story, Brother Marek. It’s the real thing, but I haven’t exactly earned it yet, if you follow me. You heard that Father died?”
    The monk nodded and made the sign of the cross. “When Otto’s letter came, the abbot passed on the sad news, and mentioned him in our prayers that evening. How is Ottokar?”
    Wulf took over the talking so that he needn’t pretend to be eating. He told how well Ottokar ruled now as baron, how Branka kept giving him twins, and of course how Vlad had gone off to war and been taken prisoner at the Battle of the Boundary Stone. Then there was Anton’s acceptance into the king’s hussars.
    All the time he was tortured by the realization that there was somethinghorribly wrong, something he could not pin down. This somber Marek was not the same happy person he had loved as a child, the only one of his brothers who had ever had much time for him back then.
    “Well, it is wonderful to hear that you are all safe in