They passed quickly through dark corridors of stone, anterooms, narrow doorways, into the heart of the tower; then up a spiralling stone stairway to a heavy trapdoor in a floor of stone flags supported by great black timbers.
The trapdoor stood open and the Ferenczy gathered up his cloak before climbing through into a well lighted room. Thibor followed close behind, allowing the other no time to be on his own. As he emerged into the room he shivered. It would have been so very easy for someone -to spear him or lop off his head as he came up through the trapdoor. But apart from the pile’s master, the room was empty of men. Thibor glanced at his host, looked all around. The room was long, broad, high. overhead, a ceiling of timbers was badly gapped; flickering firelight showed a slate roof above the ceiling; missing tiles permitted a glimpse of stars swimming in smoke from the fire. The place was somewhat open to the weather. In winter it would be bitterly cold. Even now it would not be warm if not for the fire.
The fire was of pine logs, roaring in a huge open fireplace with a chimney built at an angle to pass through an exterior wall. The logs burned on a cradle of warped iron bars, twisted with the heat of many such fires. At the fire’s front, six spitted woodcocks were roasting over red ashes. Sprinkled with herbs, the smell of their flesh was mouth-watering.
Close to the fireplace stood a heavy table and two chairs of oak. On the table were wooden platters, eating knives, a stone pitcher of wine or water. In the centre of the table the roasted joint of some beast still smoked. There was a bowl of dried fruits, too, and another containing slices of coarse dark bread. It was not intended that Thibor should starve!
He glanced again at the wall with the fireplace; its base was of stone, but higher up it was of timber. There was also a square window, open to the night. He crossed to the window, looked out and down on a dizzy scene: the ravine, dark with close-packed firs, and away in the east the vast black forests. And now the Voevod knew that he was in a room of the castle’s central span where it crossed the narrow gorge between the towers.
‘Are you nervous, Wallach?’ Faethor Ferenczy’s soft voice (soft now, aye) startled him.
‘Nervous?’ Thibor slowly shook his head. ‘Bemused, that’s all. Surprised. You are alone here!’
‘Oh? And did you expect something else? Didn’t Arvos the gypsy tell you I was alone?’
Thibor narrowed his eyes. ‘He told me several things -and now he’s dead.’
The other showed not the slightest flicker of surprise, nor of remorse. ‘Death comes to all men,’ he said.
‘My two friends, they’re also dead.’ Thibor hardened his tone of voice.
The Ferenczy merely shrugged. ‘The way up is hard. It’s cost many lives over the years. But friends, did you say? Then you are fortunate. I have no friends.’
Thibor’s hand strayed close to the hilt of his sword. ‘I had fancied an entire pack of your “friends” showed me the way here . . .’
His host at once stepped close to him, less a step than a flowing motion. The man moved like liquid. A long hand, slender but strong, rested on the hilt of Thibor’s sword under his own hand. Touching it was like touching living – snakeskin. Thibor’s flesh crawled and he jerked his hand away. In the same moment the Boyar unsheathed his sword, again with that flowing, liquid motion. The Wallach stood disarmed, astonished.
‘You can’t eat with this great thing clanging about your legs,’ the Ferenczy told him. He weighed the sword like a toy in his hands, smiled a thin smile. ‘Ah! A warrior’s weapon. And are you a warrior, Thibor of Wallachia? A Voevod, eh? I’ve heard how Vladimir Svyatoslavich recruits many warlords – even from peasants.’
Again Thibor was caught off guard; he hadn’t told the Ferenczy his name, hadn’t mentioned the Kievan Vlad. But before he could find words for an answer: