Vlad: The Last Confession (36 page)

“Another of your cousins, Basarab Laiota. Stephen wanted him on the throne and your brother gone. But now that has happened, the puppet refuses to dance for the puppeteer. He has signed a treaty with Mehmet. He sends him gold, boys…”

Dracula tipped his head back, looked at the ceiling. “And so it goes on and on and on—the Danse Macabre. The dead join hands with the living and gambol on the grave of the Dragon.” He looked down. “And you want me to join in the dance again? To meet the same fate as all my family? Dracul beheaded, Mircea buried alive, Radu…rotted?”

“No, my prince,” Ion replied, less hesitation on the word. “This time, with this alliance, we can take and hold the Dragon’s land, expel the usurper, finish what we began. Make Wallachia safe again, strong again.”

“We, Ion?” Dracula thrust his head forward into the candle-light. “You, who hate me more than anyone, would stand again at my side? Why?”

Ion could not hold the green gaze fixed upon him. He looked down, at snakes’ tongues and cooling soup, and spoke softly. “I would do it for my land, which deserves better than to be ruled by dupes and tyrants. I would do it for the cross of Jesus, raised in triumph over His enemies. And I would do it for the expiation of innumerable sins. Mine own…and yours, too.” He breathed, deeply, “And if God
can
forgive so many, then perhaps…perhaps I can forgive one.”

“Forgive me for Ilona,” Dracula said clearly, loudly.

“Yes,” replied Ion, meeting his gaze again. “For Ilona.”

For a long moment the two men stared at each other. Then Dracula slumped back, reached for his wine, drank deep, finally spoke in a low voice. “Well. It is much you offer. More than any prince has done. But forgiveness? I am not sure there can be any for either of us, Ion, this side of hell.” He rubbed his eyes. “And I tell you this—even if I wanted to, how can I do what you ask? I am not the man I was.” He shook his hair forward till it almost covered his face. “Look at me! An old man should be content in his own little kingdom. Content with what he can control.” He sighed. “I fear the Dragon has slept too long to be roused now.”

“You are my age, my prince,” Ion protested, “forty-four. Why your father—”

Vlad pushed the hair back from his face. “Old,” he interrupted, picking up his spoon again, sipping soup. “Crusading is for the young.”

Ion stared at the man opposite him. He wanted to speak, to urge, to use some final, unanswerable argument. But if the man would not do it for country, for God, even ultimately, for Ilona…

Silence. Another snake tongue crisped and fell. And then the silence was ended by the loud banging of metal on wood and by shouting. Silent still, both men rose and reached for their swords.

Invasion

They descended to the courtyard. It was bright with flame-light, for several of the strangers carried torches—apart from the huge man who stood at their center whose hands were occupied in throttling Stoica.

They stepped from the shadows under the balcony. Immediately, two crossbows were levelled. They raised their blades flat before them, in defense. “Peace,” called Dracula.

“If you want that,” yelled the big man, “then put your weapons down now. Now!”

They slid them onto the courtyard table, pommels towards them. “And now,” said Dracula, “will you release my steward?”

“Eh?” The officer—they could see his chain of office from the city of Pest hanging at his chest—looked down as if he’d forgotten what his hands were about. Still he didn’t release the gasping man. “He tried to deny me entrance. Me! Then he wouldn’t answer any questions.”

“He’s mute.”

“Oh,” grunted the officer, dropping Stoica as if he had some disease. The bald man rolled backwards under the table, clutching his throat. “Well, you’re not. Do you order your servants to deny entrance to the King’s men?”

“This is my kingdom,” Dracula replied. “It is customary to treat for admission.”

The man tipped back his head, roaring with laughter. “Kingdom, is it? You Pest merchants. Think you’re all princes.” He scratched his thick beard. “In the week I’ve been here I’ve seen more conceit than in most of the courts of Europe. And I’ve seen a few.”

“Never the less—”

“Quiet, old man!” He was very tall, with a huge chest, and he made Dracula look small as he leaned down and thrust his face close. “I am not here to ‘treat’ with you. I am here for a thief.” He straightened, looked around at his men. “Find him!”

“You must not—”

“I said, quiet!” The officer raised a gauntleted hand, and flame-light glimmered on metal studs. “Unless you want some of what your servant got.” He turned. “Search!”

Ion looked at his former prince. He had never seen anyone speak to him this way, not
boyars
, not Turks, not kings. Yet Dracula did nothing, showed nothing, just stared. Ion sought, as he had at supper, for some flame within the eyes; but he saw only its reflection. And its absence confirmed what he’d begun to suspect—that he had ridden hard, for four weeks, for nothing.

“Whom do you seek?” Dracula asked, as the Watch spread out among the rooms.

“Hmm?” The officer dropped into one of the courtyard chairs, laid his long, booted legs upon the table. “Oh, a notorious thief. I am doing you a favor, old man. This villain has robbed half the houses in Pest. The local law was helpless. That’s why they sent for me.” He struck his bulging chest. “Janos Varency. Thief-taker!”

“Janos
Horvathy
?” Dracula said softly.

“Eh? No,
Varency
. Are you deaf?” The officer took off his gauntlets, pressed fingers to his nose, leaned to the side and blew it. Wiping his fingers on his jerkin, he smiled up. “You must have heard of me. I am the best there is.”

“This thief,” said Dracula, staring down, “why do you think he’s here?”

“A tavern rat warned us that he was to rob the house next door tonight. We waited out there—Jesu, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a plaster Christ, isn’t it?—until we spotted him. But he spotted us, too, hopped onto your roof and…” He spread his arms wide. “…Here we are.”

The sounds of banging doors, opened shutters and chests came from all around. Somewhere a plate smashed, followed by laughter. “My wife and children are upstairs. I doubt they sleep now but I must go and reassure them.”

Varency brought his legs off the table. “You’ll go nowhere. They will be brought to you.”

“No,” came the soft reply. “They are not allowed to see blood spilled.”

Ion, who had been looking down, contemplating failure, now looked sharply up. So did the officer.

“There’ll be no blood,” Varency said. “Well, maybe a little. But the town wants this pig fucker alive so they can boil him in oil in the town square next Sunday as an example.”

“It was not his blood I was talking about,” said Dracula.

“Eh?” Varency’s brow wrinkled. Then the shouting began, of triumph, of despair. Two of the Watch appeared from the kitchens, a third man thrust before them.

“Gotcha!” Varency smiled, rose, as the thief was thrown at his feet. He lifted his chin with the toe of a boot. The thief wore a soiled, padded coat, thick woollen leg coverings, boots that gaped. Greasy brown hair fell around an angular face. He was not much more than a boy. “This him?” Varency’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he studied what was on his boot, as if he’d brought it in from the open sewers outside. “This worm?”

He had put his studded gauntlets back on. Now he bent, grabbing cloth, jerking the whimpering youth up till his toes barely touched the ground, pulled one hand back, made a fist, and drove it into the youth’s face. The whimpering ceased as the body sagged.

Varency dropped him. Wiping blood and skin onto his coat, he called, “Drag him out by his heels.”

Two of his men rushed forward, grabbed a boot each.

“Wait!”

No one heard Dracula, apart from Ion, who had been listening for a word, hoping for a word. So he said it again, louder, stepping forward to grip the shoulder of a crossbowman about to leave.

The man tried to shrug off the grip, was surprised when he couldn’t. “Sir?” he called.

The officer, who had already taken a couple of strides towards the tunnel, stopped, as did the men doing the dragging. He looked back. “What is it?” he said.

“I know your name, Janos Varency. But you do not know mine.”

“Why would I care? Oh, and let go of my man,” the officer replied, coming back, his hand going to the sword hilt at his side.

He obeyed, releasing the man, taking a step towards the table. “You should care,” he said. “For my name is Dracula.”

The other men in the courtyard paused, sucked in breath. One whistled. Varency laughed. “What, as in the Impaler?”

“That is one name I am known by, yes. But another is Prince of Wallachia.” He looked around. “And when I said that this is my kingdom, I meant exactly that. This is a piece of Wallachia while I stand upon it.” He pointed at the semi-conscious prisoner. “And he sought sanctuary here, in my country. So it is up to the prince to rule whether you may have him or not.”

“May have him?” Varency echoed in wonder. Then he bellowed. “Are you stupid as well as deaf? I am the law in Pest.”

“I have just told you. This is not Pest. This is Wallachia. I am its prince. So I am the law, here.”

Wonder had changed to fury. “Well, I wouldn’t care if you were the fucking Pope,” Varency said, stepping closer. “If you
are
Dracula, you’re little more than a prisoner, too, of the king I serve. Now,” he continued, jabbing his toe into the youth’s side, drawing a squeal, “when I deliver this filth to the town jail, I get a bag of silver in return. Quite a large bag. And no so-called ‘Prince of Wallachia’ is going to stop me, understand?” Turning to his men, he bellowed, “Take him out,” and as he did, he drew his sword.

“Now that,” said Dracula softly, “is an act of war.”

“Oh, go shove a stake up your arse, Impaler,” Varency said, the last thing he ever said.

Ion doubted he saw much, as Dracula moved so fast. His own sword was on the table, then it was in his hands and he’d jumped, for Varency was a tall man, and swung at the same time. And then Varency’s head was on the ground, though the body stood above it for just a moment longer before it also fell.

Ion had picked up his sword, too, as a precaution, but none of the other men reached for theirs. They simply began walking slowly backwards into the tunnel. Then, as if by a signal, they all broke and ran.

The thief was still prone on the ground, conscious now, eyes wide and gazing into the surprised eyes of Janos Varency. He looked up as Dracula leaned down. “Find another town to steal in,” he said, nudging him with the tip of his sword.

The youth was up and gone in a heartbeat.

Vlad stooped to stare into the severed head’s still-open eyes. He straightened, beckoned Stoica from under the table. “Fetch me a pail. With a lid,” he commanded.

The mute left the other two men to silence until he returned. On his prince’s nod, he lifted the head by the long hair, dropped it into the pail, lowered the lid.

“Corvinus may wish to see his officer,” said Dracula, sheathing his sword, “and we must see him. Now. Tonight.” He turned to Ion, eyes bright within the frame of his white hair, and smiled. “For it seems I am the same man after all.”

—

The Crow was nothing like his nickname. He was tall, thin and fair, not squat and black; his hair was a mass of blond curls, and his face was pocked with old scars and new spots. These stood out now in a face flushed with both the heat of his recently vacated bed, and his anger.

A trembling servant was failing to tie a cord around the waist of Corvinus’s nightgown. After the third futile attempt, the King of Hungary slapped his hand away and did it himself, his eyes never leaving the two men who stood before him. “Well, cousin,” he said, his voice hard, “I hope you have a very good reason for dragging me this early from my bed.”

Ion studied the King. He had met him several times before, on embassies. Most recently only the previous day when he arrived with messages from the court of Moldavia and the details of his mission. Corvinus was a decade younger than the two of them, and looked twice that. It wasn’t just the adolescent’s skin that made him so. He was more plotter than warrior, ever cautious, and had spent his life in palaces, rarely in army camps, unlike his father, Hunyadi—the White Knight had slept little in goose-down beds.

“A very good reason, Majesty,” Dracula said, bowing. “I thought you should hear two pieces of news, from my own lips and not from others.”

“News that could not wait till the morning?” Corvinus replied testily.

“Apologies, but…” Dracula shrugged. “First—did you know an officer by the name of Janos Varency?”

“The thief-taker? Of course I know him. I sent him…” He broke off. “What do you mean, ‘did’?”

“I regret to inform you, Majesty, that Varency is dead.”

“Indeed? And how did he die?”

“He committed suicide,” Dracula said, and pulled the lid off the pail.

The color left Corvinus’s face as he looked. He struggled for control, managed it. “That seems unlikely,” he said, through his teeth, “since his head has been chopped off.”

“No, no. Suicide, sure,” said Vlad. “He did it by invading the home of a monarch. I merely…aided him.”

The Crow raised his pallid eyes. “Aiding suicide is still a sin, Prince,” he said.

“For which I will do penance…King.”

The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Ion watched Corvinus’s face. Watched as a smile came, followed by a laugh.

“Cousin,” the King cried, “you are incredible as ever.”

“I am pleased to please Your Majesty.”

The smile vanished. “That we have yet to learn.” He stepped around the pail, pushed between the two men, went to a table. There he poured three goblets of wine, turned, beckoned. He gestured that they should choose a cup, lifted the one left, then drank. “The rest of this tale we shall hear in more detail,” he said, of the severed head. “But what I need to know is of the success of this man’s embassy.” He glanced at Ion. “Do you rally to the Cross, or no?”

Dracula nodded. “That is my second piece of news, Majesty. Eclipsing this other. I do…rally. On certain conditions.”

Corvinus set down his goblet. “Name them.”

“I fight in your name, and in my own, under the banners of Hungary and the Dragon. But I will not be commanded by anyone but your Majesty. Not my cousin, Stephen of Moldavia.”

“And since I will, aside from some banner raising, be largely here, you know that you will command upon the field.”

“And all my commands will be obeyed. All. For I know only one way to fight. Without mercy. Mercy is for the time of peace. It has no place in war.”

The King, glancing into the still-open pail, shuddered. “Are you already sharpening stakes as well as swords, Vlad Dracula?”

A slight smile came. “Your Majesty has misheard. Stakes need to be blunted.” The smile disappeared. “But I will do any and everything to triumph in our crusade. Only victory matters and if it is achieved, nothing that was done to achieve it will be remembered. It never is.” He looked at each man in turn, then thrust out a closed, maimed fist. “Is it agreed?”

“It is,” said Ion, folding his hand over Dracula’s, “on behalf of Stephen of Moldavia, I vow that we shall do all that is necessary to triumph, even unto death.”

Corvinus laid his hand atop the others. “And I vow, upon the Holy Cross and in the name of all Christendom, that you will command the forces you need to reclaim the throne of your fathers, kill the usurper and throw the Infidels back across the Danube. You will make Wallachia again into the bulwark it should always be against the Turk.” He brought his other hand up beneath, sealing the other three. “I vow I will do all that is necessary, even unto death.”