Chapter 74: THE BOY WHO COUNTED HORSES

The house of merchants’ wool smelled of lanolin and wet stone, and the boy who was not his brother—who was his son—sat on a stool by the window, counting horses.

Konrad stood in the doorway, his father’s sword cold against his thigh, and watched the child’s lips move. One. Two. Three. The boy was perhaps seven winters old, with hair the color of chestnuts and eyes that Konrad had seen every morning in his own looking-glass. The eyes were the same. The set of the jaw was the same. But the hands—the hands were small and quick, and they moved in the air as if tracing letters, or perhaps counting coins.

“You are the wolf,” the boy said, without turning.

Konrad’s breath caught. “Who told you that?”

“The woman in grey.” The boy turned now, and his face was calm, unnervingly calm. “She said the wolf would come before the snows melted. She said I should count the horses in the street and remember which ones carry riders with red cloaks. She said the red cloaks are the king’s men, and the king’s men are not our friends.”

Hedwig. Konrad’s jaw tightened. His aunt had been busy.

“What is your name?” Konrad asked.

“They call me Peter.” The boy tilted his head. “But the woman in grey says my true name is not Peter. She says my true name is a secret that will burn whoever speaks it.”

Konrad stepped into the room. The floorboards creaked, and the boy did not flinch. Outside, the late winter light was thin and grey, and the streets of Vienna were still churned with frost. Somewhere in this city, Rudolf’s agents were watching. Somewhere, Ottokar’s spies were counting the same horses. And here, in a merchant’s house that smelled of sheep, Konrad’s son sat on a stool and counted.

“Peter,” Konrad said, and the name felt foreign in his mouth. “Do you know who I am?”

The boy studied him. His eyes—my eyes, Konrad thought—moved from Konrad’s boots to his sword to his face, and something flickered there. Recognition. Or perhaps fear.

“You are the one who left,” Peter said. “The woman in grey told me. She said you did not know about me. She said you were young, and the world was loud, and you did not look behind you.”

Konrad felt the words land like stones in still water. He had been fifteen. Fifteen, and the girl—what had her name been? Elsbeth. A baker’s daughter in Brugg, with hair the color of wheat and a laugh that had made him forget, for a season, that he was a landless cadet with nothing but his uncle’s favor. He had gone to war. He had come back. She had been gone.

“Your mother,” Konrad said, and his voice was rougher than he intended. “What happened to her?”

“She died.” The boy said it plainly, without grief. “When I was small. The woman in grey brought me here. She said the merchants would keep me safe. She said the wolf would come when the time was right.”

Konrad crossed the room and knelt before the stool. The boy did not pull away. Up close, he could see the faint scar above the left eyebrow—the same scar Konrad had gotten at six, falling from a wall in Habsburg Castle. The same stubborn chin. The same quick, assessing gaze.

“I did not know,” Konrad said. “I swear to you, Peter. I did not know.”

The boy considered this. “The woman in grey said you would say that. She said it was true. She said you were not a bad man, only a blind one.” He paused. “Are you still blind?”

Konrad almost laughed. Almost. “Less than I was.”

“Good.” Peter slid off the stool and stood before him, small and grave. “Because the red cloaks are coming. I counted twelve horses this morning. They stopped at the house at the end of the street, the one with the iron gate. They are asking questions.”

Konrad’s blood went cold. Twelve horses. Red cloaks. Rudolf’s men—or Ottokar’s. In Vienna, it was sometimes hard to tell the difference.

“When did they arrive?”

“Three days ago.” Peter’s voice was steady. “The woman in grey said I should not tell the merchants. She said the merchants would panic. She said I should wait for the wolf.”

Three days. Konrad had been in the city for two. He had been chasing ledgers and confessions and the bones of his father, and all the while, his son had been counting horses.

“Where is the woman in grey now?” Konrad asked.

“She went to the river.” Peter pointed toward the window, toward the grey ribbon of the Danube beyond the rooftops. “She said the river remembers. She said she had one more thing to do before the ice broke.”

The river remembers. Hedwig’s words, again and again, like a bell tolling in fog. Konrad rose and went to the window. The street below was quiet, but he could see them now—two men in red cloaks, standing at the corner by the baker’s stall, their breath steaming in the cold. They were not looking at the house. Not yet.

“Peter,” Konrad said, without turning. “Do you know why the king’s men are here?”

“They are looking for a boy,” Peter said. “A boy with your father’s eyes. The woman in grey said the king is afraid of him. She said the king does not want the wolf’s cub to grow up.”

Konrad turned. The boy was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, the way Konrad himself had stood as a child, waiting for his father’s judgment. The same posture. The same patience.

“The king is my uncle,” Konrad said. “He is a serpent. He has killed men who asked too many questions. He may have killed my father. He will kill you if he finds you.”

“I know,” Peter said. “The woman in grey told me. She said the serpent eats its own.” He paused. “She said the wolf eats the serpent.”

Konrad stared at him. Seven years old. Counting horses. Speaking of serpents and wolves as if they were neighbors.

“We are leaving,” Konrad said. “Now. Before the red cloaks come to the door.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the river.” Konrad pulled his cloak tighter and checked the sword at his side. “To find the woman in grey. And then to Prague.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Prague? The lion’s den?”

“The lion is not the only beast in Prague,” Konrad said. “And the lion and the serpent are about to go to war. When they do, the wolf will need a pack.”

He held out his hand. Peter looked at it for a long moment, then took it. His grip was small but firm, and his palm was warm.

“I counted thirteen horses yesterday,” Peter said, as they moved toward the door. “One of them was grey. The woman in grey said to watch for a grey horse. She said it would bring a message.”

Konrad stopped. “Did you see the rider?”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “But the horse was saddled with a wolf’s head on the bridle. The same mark as the seal on your ring.”

Konrad looked down at his hand—at the ring Hedwig had given him, the wolf’s head biting its own tail. He had worn it under his glove for weeks. No one had seen it.

“Peter,” he said slowly. “How did you know about the ring?”

The boy smiled, and for a moment, he looked not like Konrad but like someone else—someone older, someone watching from behind his eyes.

“The river told me,” he said. “It remembers everything. Even the things that have not happened yet.”

Outside, in the street, a horse whinnied. A grey horse. And Konrad heard the sound of boots on frost—many boots, moving toward the house of merchants’ wool.

The river was pulling faster now. And the boy who counted horses had already counted the men who were coming to take him.