‘The Vlad?’ Thibor carved more meat, took a swig of , red wine. It was vinegary stuff, but no worse than he was used to. Then he looked again at the Ferenczy and shrugged. ‘He told me that you live under his protection but swear him no allegiance. That you occupy land but concede no taxes. That you could muster many men but choose to sit here brooding while other Boyars fight off the Pechenegi to keep your hide whole.’
For a moment the Ferenczy’s eyes went wide, seemed flecked in their corners with blood, and his nostrils gaped in an audible grunt. His top lip wrinkled and curled back a little, and his jagged peaked eyebrows crushed together on his pale, high forehead. Then … he sat back, seemed to relax, grinned and nodded.
Thibor had stopped eating, but as the Ferenczy brought himself under control, so he carried on. Between mouthfuls he said, ‘Did you think I’d flatter you, Faethor Ferenczy? Perhaps you also thought your trickery would scare me off?’
The castle’s master frowned, wrinkled his nose into ridges. ‘My . . . trickery?’
Thibor nodded. ‘The Prince’s advisors – Christian monks out of Greek-land – think you’re some sort of demon, a “vampire”. I believe he thinks so too. But me, I’m just a common man – a peasant, aye – and I say you’re only a clever trickster. You speak to your Szgany serfs with mirror signals, and you’ve a trained wolf or two to do your bidding, like dogs. Hah! Mangy wolves! Why, in Kiev there’s a man leads great bears around on a leash – and he dances with them! And what else do you have, eh? Nothing! Oh, you make shrewd guesses – and then pretend that your eyes have powers, that they see over woods and mountains. You cloak yourself in mystery and superstition up here in these dark hills, but that only works with the superstitious. And who are most superstitious? Educated men, monks and princes, that’s who! They know so much – their brains are so bursting with knowledge – that they’ll believe anything! But a common man, a warrior, he only believes in blood and iron. The first to give him strength to wield the second, the second to spill the first in a scarlet flood.’
A little surprised at himself, Thibor paused, wiped his mouth. The wine had loosened his tongue.
The Ferenczy had sat there as if turned to stone; now he rocked back in his chair, slapped the table with a long, flat hand, roared his mirth. And Thibor saw that indeed his eye-teeth were like those of a great dog. ‘What? Wisdom from a warrior?’ the Boyar shouted. He pointed a slender finger. ‘But you are so right, Thibor! Right to be outspoken, and I like you for it. And I’m glad you came, whatever your mission. Wasn’t I right to say you could be my son? Indeed, I was right. A man after my own heart – in perhaps more ways than one, eh?’
His eyes were red again (only an effect of the fire’s glow, surely?) but Thibor made sure that a knife lay close at hand. Perhaps the Ferenczy was mad. Certainly he looked mad, when he laughed like that.
The fire flared up as a log turned on its side. A smell of burning wafted to Thibor’s nostrils. The woodcocks! Both he and his host had forgotten them. He decided to be charitable, to let the hermit eat before killing him. ‘Your birds,’ he said, or tried to say, as he made to get to his feet. But the words tangled themselves up on his tongue, came out slurred and alien sounding. Worse, he couldn’t force himself upright; his hands seemed glued to the table top, and his feet were heavy as lumps of lead!
Thibor looked down at his straining, twitching hands, his nearly paralysed body, and even his horrified glance was slow, filled with an unnatural languor. It was as if he were drunk, but drunker than he’d ever been. It would require only the slightest shove, he was sure, to send him sprawling.
Then his eyes fell upon his goblet, the red wine from the pitcher. Vinegary, yes. That and worse. He was poisoned!