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  Dana had regained her temper, and her common sense. Besides, his asking for the word of a Valah appealed to her. "I swear. The word of the house of Valahia," she said proudly. "But you will let me come again," she said imperiously. "Our family are called the sons of the dragon."

  "We know. It is why we helped. We have dealt with your family from when your ancestor was just a hill clan chieftain. We stay out of settled people's affairs, normally. We need to keep you from becoming a hostage. There are things that need to be done. Sacrifices your father was not prepared to make because his son was a hostage. " He jerked a thumb at the wyverns. "They are a secret. You must also swear to keep it."

  Dana had no problems at all with being on that side of a secret. Besides, she suspected that there was more.

  "Now you must go. I will see you to the edge of the forest, and you must go quietly back to your sleeping place. You will tell Tante Silvia I asked that she mend that skirt before your mother sees it. It is not good that you are out alone. There are more dangerous things on the mountain, and not all are satisfied with venison."

  "You knew I was coming, didn't you?" she asked suddenly suspicious. He'd been in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

  He grinned again. Nodded. "We knew. This time."

  * * *

  Angelo waited until he had seen that she was all the way back to the carts and tents. Then he turned to Grigori who had ghosted down the mountainside behind them. "Old blood, that one."

  "At least she never asked how we knew," said Grigori. "You took a chance there, Angelo. They could have killed her, and she them, with that knife."

  "That is what this is all about, Grigori. Giving and taking chances. She could see them. I think we may need to re-think."

  "It has always been the males of the line, Brother."

  "The blood runs in both the male and the female, it would seem. They called to her, and she came, in spite of the fear. We may have to rethink. Blood is blood. And we cannot always choose. There is little enough of it left. And they accepted her too."

  Grigori raised an eyebrow. "I look forward to your telling Radu that. He is more conservative than I am about such things, although I will agree that the she—wolf can be more deadly than the male. I will go now and arrange that the little one of the House Valah is not alone again. There will always be some children with her. But I will think about what you say."

  * * *

  Dana too was deep in her own thoughts. Wyverns were a heraldic symbol . . . supporters in her family coat of arms. They were believed to spread disease, pestilence and poison . . . and yet, too were symbols of strength. Which were these? Why did the gypsies seem to look after such things? Was there a reason, a real reason for them being on the coat of arms?

  Chapter 37

  David was glad enough just to lie down in the cart, and close his eyes and control his shaking. He had to admit—at least to himself if to no-one else—he was badly rattled by all of this. He actually wanted to cry and might just have permitted himself a snuffle or two. Was the entire world determined to kill him? He hadn't even done anything to most of it, yet.

  And if the entire world did have to be set on killing him, was it right that there should be quite so much world?

  Pondering the unrightness and unfairness of it all, he might possibly have fallen asleep for a while. He was not certain. He had his eyes closed anyway. But the feeling that he was being watched finally penetrated his rest. He had grown up as a thief in family of thieves in Jerusalem. The days of strict enforcement of the Yasa code were long gone, but even so, there were very few thieves in Jerusalem, and those that there were, were like David—very aware of being watched. They'd been selected for that. The Yasa code of laws had had those who failed, killed. Of course that hadn't stopped him going against his instincts at that market stall on Corfu, where he could SEE that the stall-holder had her back to him. She had two small mirrors hidden among her merchandise . . .

  Someone was definitely watching him. He opened his eyes a slit, wondering just how fast he could get to the knife in his boot. If they had tried to kill him with arrows . . . and failed, knives and certainty would be next.

  It was the boy. He was half sitting up in the bed they had made up for him, staring at David. David opened his eyes properly and sat up.

  "What are you doing here? And why are you wearing my deel?" asked the boy.

  Perhaps because he had just managed to frighten himself silly again, David was less than respectful to this scion of a noble Mongol clan. "I'm here because your sister tried to get me killed instead of you," said David bitterly. "Which is why she made me wear your deel and sit out there, and get shot at. But she didn't tell me that. Oh no. She told me she was helping me."

  The boy nodded slowly. "Bortai does that kind of thing. You get used to it," he said, quite as if he accepted this as a norm.

  "I'll get even. Just you wait. All right, maybe she didn't actually know they'd try to kill me. But she tricked me," he said, darkly.

  The boy sniggered. "She always does that. You get used to it," he said again. "Oh my aching head. What happened to me?"

  David had no intention of getting used to that sort of treatment from anyone, even a highborn Mongol lady. The very idea made him angry and frustrated, and although he knew he should be treating this boy with deference, he could not bring himself to do so. "You fell off your horse. Then you landed on your head. Knocked yourself unconscious."

  "I did not! I do not fall off," said the boy indignantly. He paused. "Something knocked me off. I remember that. That and the Vlach. I don't remember anything else."

  "I suppose you never fall off," said David sarcasm dripping from every word.

  Either the boy was totally unaccustomed to sarcasm, or the effects of being hit on the head were greater than David had realized, because he obviously failed to detect it. "Well. Not that often. And you?"

  "At least I don't land on my head," said David unwilling to admit that he had discovered that compared to the knights, and Kari, he was not a very good rider.

  "Oh I suppose you land on your feet," said the boy, showing that no matter how insensitive he was to being the target of sarcasm, he was expert at using it himself—and that he plainly took David for someone of his own rank, just a little older. "Where are you from? Your accent is very strange."

  "Jerusalem. The greatest city in the world," said David proudly.

  There was a longish silence. David eventually worked out that the kid—and he was a kid—at least a year younger than he was, was trying to work out where Jerusalem was. Everyone ought to know that. But maybe, on thinking about it, the kid had last been riding around at a kurultai, deep in this godforsaken part of the world. Someone from Jerusalem was not something he'd be expecting. "You're from the Ilkhan. Has Bortai got us away across the sea?"

  "No, you're still in the lands of the Golden Horde. I came here . . ." the kid probably had no idea who the knights of the Holy Trinity were, "with the tarkhan Borshar."

  "Oh. I am very thirsty."

  David sat up properly. "Hang on. I'll get Kari to call your sister to bring you something to drink. I don't know where to find anything."

  "Kari?"

  "Yes. He's driving the cart. He is mad. But don't worry, he's mostly harmless. He doesn't speak Mongol."

  "You have a servant that is mad?"

  Temptation, never too far from David, took a firm hold of him and steered his mind down to the reply he gave. It was bound to get him into trouble. But sometimes being in trouble was worth the payback. And he felt that he had a fair amount to pay Kari back for. "Doesn't everybody?" He said airily. "We humor him. He gets strange ideas. As I said, he's mostly harmless provided he doesn't get too excited. And he does a good job with the horses. We can't leave him to starve."

  "Ah!" Light and respect dawned on the boy. "Lesser clans do. But we of the Hawk clan also take our responsibilities seriously," said the boy. "I suppose old Mette is pretty crazy. She still t
hinks I am in swaddling clothes," he said, grimacing.

  David nodded, and pulled aside the door curtain. "Kari. The boy is awake. He says he's thirsty. Will you call his sister for him?"

  Shortly Bortai came along with a skin of what was, by the smells of it, Kumiss. "Help me sit him up," she said.

  "I can manage," said the boy rebelliously.

  David felt he had the measure of the boy by now. He was still very afraid of the lady Bortai, so scared that his mind failed to make the connection that this was in fact her brother. In his mind the boy had somehow become a sort of younger brother of his own. "Do what you are told, you hell-born brat, or I will beat you," he said, sitting the boy up.

  "Ha. You and how many others?" said the boy, not actually resisting. He took the skin of Kumiss and drank.

  "I think you must lie down again, Kildai" said Bortai.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but David again, without thinking, waved a finger at him. He scowled and cooperated. "What's going on, Bortai?" the boy asked, once they had made him comfortable again. "How long have I been like this? I'm tired and weak. I don't like it."

  "Longer than I liked either. Now lie still and get better because we may have to ride as if all the demons from the furthest corners of the realms of Erleg Khan are on our tails," she said.

  "Now?"

  "Not until we are across the great river," she said. "Rest."

  He was already slipping into sleep. Or at least his eyes were closing. He opened them briefly and looked at David. "Bortai. Honorable clan. Look after old retainers. Mad ones."

  She sat there watching him for a little bit. Kildai at least appeared to be sleeping. Eventually she asked. "What was that about, serf-boy?"

  "I have no idea, Noble lady," said David with his best attempt at insouciantly pretending not even having been in the same country as whatever had happened to cause whatever she was asking about. "He's been hit on the head. People get very confused by that."

  "Yes. He keeps asking me how long he's been like this. And then he forgets he's asked. But this time he recognized me. He seemed to be a lot more with us. He seemed to listen you. If I had told him to do that, even politely, he would have told me not to treat him like a baby. I am glad he had the Kumiss. It's the first time he's asked for anything. You can live off Kumiss."

  David nearly said 'Yes, but who would want to,' but managed to bite his tongue in time. The fermented, mildly alcoholic mares milk had come his way—well, he'd gone out of his way to steal it, because the noble Mongol still drank it sometimes. You had to grow up drinking kumiss to like it. Jerusalem had every other drink known to man, and of a long list David could make to try again, Kumiss was near the bottom. You'd have to drink a bucket of it to get mildly tipsy, and he would throw up long before that. But she wanted reassurance, so he gave it. "Yes. I have heard some people eat nothing else all summer."

  She scowled. "Yes. True. But the great Ulaghchi Khan forbade that." She looked at her brother again. "You are good with him. And I think it is probably safest for you in here. If he wakes again, call me. I need to watch for enemies."

  "Erik is watching. Nothing gets past him, Noble lady." He was beginning to believe it.

  She nodded. "He is a great Orkhan. But he does not know the Raven clan. They have no honor."

  So David found himself on sick-bed duty. It beat currying horses. He looked forward to telling Kari that he would have to do that on his own again.

  Some time later Kildai awoke again. David's hopes that he might have forgotten the last time or be lost in the confusion of concussion were dashed. Kildai plainly recognized him. "Can you call your crazy manservant? I need to pass some water. And I wasn't going to tell Bortai, but I don't think I can stand up. I feel so weak. But I really need to relieve myself. And I can't have a woman help me do that."

  * * *

  Later, when David had gone off to get himself fed, Bortai sat with her brother. He thought she was looking at him rather too keenly and too often, so he asked about the other boy. "He's not from any clan," said Bortai. "Although his mother was a tortoise," she said smiling.

  Kildai looked at her. "Oh. He said he came from Jerusalem."

  "Yes he's with the Franks and the tarkhan."

  Kildai had had a Byzantine tutor. His father had insisted. Bortai had learned more from the man than he ever had. The Byzantine knew nothing about the important things of life like horses, or the great game, or even about archery, war or hunting. Most of his attempts at teaching his charge about the history and geography of the wider world had passed into one of Kildai's ears and out of the other. A few errant bits had stuck. He knew that the Franks existed. And he knew that Jerusalem was in the lands of the Ilkhan Mongol. The Tortoise must be one of their clans. Strange, but maybe the Ilkhan had run out of good names.

  Chapter 38

  King Emeric was no rural hill shepherd who could track errant members of his flock by the smallest hoof indent. But the tracks here did not require that. The wagon had cut deep grooves in the turf next to the trail. He could see exactly where it had stopped. The fat merchant Kopernico Goldenfuss had definitely not lied about that. Of course, being a merchant he had probably lied about nearly everything else. Kneeling and shaking visibly before his king now, he probably wished that he had stayed there, or fled over the mountains, or done anything but return to report on the enemy's camp and how successful he'd been, and cheerfully demanded the reward he'd been promised.

  "I swear Your Majesty. I swear they were right here. And they wanted that drink. They were paying me three times its price . . ." he plainly realized suddenly that this was perhaps not what he should be telling his overlord. "Dear God! It's their Prince. He's the devil. He even looks like the black spy. He stopped them buying and drinking it. I swear it must have been him who made your plan fail. I did exactly as you bade me."

  "Except to sell them liquor from my stores at an extortionate price. Which you somehow omitted to tell me," said Emeric coldly. He detested merchants. Chaffering scum. They always cheated him of his due. Well, sometimes it was important to remind them that a nobleman took at the sword's point.

  "Honestly, Your Majesty, I had to do that," he babbled. "They would have known I was a spy otherwise. Any merchant would have done what I did. I swear it. Asked anyone. Ask my apprentice, he was there. They suspected nothing. They would have been insensible with the drink . . . please Your Majesty. I did my best."

  "Except to steal from me. And fail me," said Emeric, putting his hands on the man's shoulders and letting pain arc through the merchant. The man screamed. "No Your Majesty, aaagh! I never brought back any silver. Truly, I would have given it to you. All I got was the script of the Prince."

  "Which you failed to tell me about. And Prince Vlad saw through you, knowing you to be a thieving merchant." Emeric let the magical gift of his aunt's flow through his hands again. The man writhed in agony and then slumped, and toppled over sideways. Emeric had this happen before, particularly with older men. He'd even had a few cut open to find out why. It would seem that their hearts were not equal to the burden the magic placed on them. He walked away, looking up the green valley, where, if this now dead merchant was to be believed, Prince Vlad of Valahia had quartered his little army. Well, short of necromancy he'd get no more from the merchant. But the man had mentioned his apprentice. Emeric had known that two of them had gone up. But he had not thought about questioning Goldenfuss's apprentice. He clicked his fingers. An officer-aide appeared as if by magic. Knowing that not to do so was a capital offense had worked so well with his aides. "Find me that merchant's apprentice," said Emeric, waving a negligent hand at the dead body. "And have that strung up as a warning. They'll not know he was dead first."

  The officer left at to run, glad to find a task within easy reach, no doubt. He came back a few minutes later, sweating more than could be justified by the heat. "Your Majesty . . . it appears that the apprentice has run away. With his master's strongbox."

  Emeric s
tared at the officer. "And how was this allowed to happen?"

  "Your Majesty, it appears that the fellow took off when the merchant went to you to ask for his reward. Er. The man was not guarded at that time. He didn't even wait for his master to get in to see you."

  "I see. You will find out who should have been guarding the wagon and the apprentice. Have them reduced to the ranks, and given 20 lashes."

  Emeric looked in frustration at the empty valley again. It had been such a good, elegant plot. It must have been that accursed apprentice who betrayed it. It would appear that he had killed the wrong man. Emeric shrugged. They were plenty more where that one came from. Vlad had escaped him this time, but he could not hope to continue to do so. He was under-armed and sooner or later would be drawn out into open conflict. Then the superiority of Emeric's cavalry over some peasant irregulars would make the young fool rue the day he'd fled his quarters in Buda castle.

  * * *

  The Smerek cousins had ridden through the night, luckily—and, in large part due to the intervention and wariness of their poacher escorts—had had no need to use Stanislaw's collection of pistols. Stanislaw had one in each boot – boots that had been specially modified to take them—three in his waist-band, and in a double bandolier had been made to fit under his loose cotte, a further four. He knew it was a way of compensating for being unable to do anything when he had had to watch the others die. But it would never happen again. He would start shooting first.

  Now, at last, it seemed as if he would have help doing it. And if he had his way it would not just be nine of the bastards that died. His cousin—and indeed the whole family—wanted revenge. But they also dreamed of a place they could have and hold, of a lord to whom they could be as loyal as he was to them. Stanislaw only dreamed of shooting as many as possible. It had been the family—and principally Józef—that had persuaded him out of taking his arsenal of pistols and heading straight back to Buda. That would have killed all of the family. But now . . . well it would seem he'd found both revenge and man to who he could feel loyalty, and who would protect his family.