Maze of Moonlight, Gael Baudino [ebook reader screen TXT] 📗

of the stairwell. There is no door: a section of wall should be open.”

“You know where he is? The patterns?”

“The patterns say less and less, my friend. But in past years, my kind came here often. I can guess.”

Christopher nodded. Less and less. Fading. But before he left, he drew his sword and put all the strength of his shoulders and hips into a strike that smashed through the bedpost to which Joanna was chained. Reaching out, Christopher slipped the ring from the wooden stump and put it into the girl's startled hands.

“Be free,” he said. “Be healed.”

Mirya's cheeks, he saw, were damp.

“I'll find Jehan.”

Taking a candle, bearing light into the darkness of a deserted castle, he left the room, climbed stairs, turned to his right, and followed the upper corridor toward the ruddy flicker of torchlight.

Yes, Jehan was here. A section of wall had, by hidden mechanism and secret prompt, swung back, and Christopher, passing through the opening, found himself in a kind of armory. Here, though, were no common weapons of base metal, for the swords he saw gleamed with gold, the pikes and spears with silver. Mail and plate sparkled with gems.

At his approach, Jehan looked up from a surcoat he was holding. “Take what you want, Messire d'Aurverelle,” he said, sweeping out an arm. “Go and battle your enemies . . . and mine.”

The surcoat in Jehan's hands, agleam with jewels and embroidery, was blazoned with the delMari gryphon and silver star. Jehan held it up, regarded it solemnly. “It was for my adubbement,” he explained. “My father . . .” He bent his head. “My father so wanted me . . .”

Christopher did not know Paul delMari well, but he knew him well enough. “He still wants you.”

“No . . . no . . .” Jehan shook his head, his eyes hollow. “He has Martin now.” He examined the surcoat again. “But . . . I'll take this.”

His mouth set, he clutched the garment to his chest.

“It's all that I'll need,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-one

Martin Osmore, resplendent in the livery of a knight of Aurverelle, leaned across the immense desk and seemingly transfixed the mayor of Saint Blaise in his chair. “How many men? All you have.”

Paul delMari did his best to suppress a smile. Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall near the door of the office, content to watch from a corner the confrontation between virtual noble and ostentatious peasant.

“Ah . . .” Matthew was a stout man, and his dark hair was suddenly damp with sweat. “. . . see here, Martin. I can't just go and authorize the departure of all the city's men-at-arms.”

“Why not?” said Martin. “As you've been telling me all my life, you're the mayor.”

Matthew seemed to inflate a little at the reminder of his office. “There you go again, Martin. I'm afraid you've not much of a head for figure. Never have. That time in Shrinerock didn't do a thing for you in that department—”

Martin glanced at Paul. Smiling, Paul lifted his eyes to heaven, spread his hands.

“—and that's why your mother and I want you to marry Agnes Darci,” Matthew continued. “She's a nice girl, very practical—knows a groat from a penny, you know—and she's got a head for figures. Good hips, too! You'll need her if you're to amount to much, you know.”

“Right now,” said Martin, “I need soldiers. Saint Brigid needs soldiers.”

“And . . . this Saint Brigid stuff. I can't send all the men-at-arms to Saint Brigid with you.”

Martin glanced again at Paul, this time with a look that said: You see what I have to deal with? Can you blame me? But Paul winked and nodded.

Give it to him, son, he thought. Give it to him.

Martin turned back to his father. “I'd like to know why.”

“Well,” said Matthew, “they're . . . just not our people, you know. They're rather queer.”

Martin's eyebrows lifted, his dark eyes widened. “I'm sorry: I didn't realize that.”

“And that's another thing—” Matthew began, but Martin's mailed fist crashed to the desk, stopping him in mid-sentence. Matthew stared at the fist, then at Martin. Paul delMari smiled. Yes, that black Aurverelle livery was rather impressive. Just like Martin himself.

“Lord Mayor,” said Martin, “the Messire d'Aurverelle, at great risk to his life, is attempting to put an end to the threat of constant pillage and violence that hangs over all of Adria.” The lad whacked out the words as though he were driving wooden pegs into a plank. “I am on my way south to help him.” Whack! “I'm asking for men.” Whack!

Matthew stared.

“Will you . . .” Whack! “. . . give them . . .” Whack! “. . . to me?” Whack!

Matthew tried once again. “Martin, I ask you, give up this foolishness. We have plenty of men to guard our city . . .”

“That's why I'm asking you to lend me a few.”

“. . . and there's no reason you have to go off and meddle with other people's affairs. It's . . . well . . . it's not good business.” The mayor nodded as though he had just demonstrated a geometric proof. “You need to stay here and marry Agnes.”

Paul saw the anger building in Martin, tried to head off the explosion. “Son . . .”

“Not now, Father,” Martin snapped. Paul took a step back, eyes wide, lips pursed . . . but silently applauding. Spirited!

Martin went back to Matthew, who seemed convinced that he had dealt with the problem. “I'm not going to marry Agnes Darci,” he said flatly.

Matthew's eyebrows went up. “You certainly will.”

“It's impossible . . .”

Matthew blinked. Paul gritted his teeth. Here it was . . . look out . . .

“I don't like girls,” Martin continued. “At least, I don't like to sleep with them.”

Matthew stared, uncomprehending.

“I like men. I like to sleep with them.”

Matthew paled. “Surely you can't—”

Martin's fist thudded to the desk once again. “I like to fuck them!”

Silence in the office. Outside, a street vendor