by Eric Flint
* * *
A discordant note, however, was introduced by Brother Dimitrios. When told of Von Stebbens’s plans, the Aemiline hesychast shook his head.
“I think you may be acting precipitously, Archimandrite,” he said. “I have been able to watch Mindaug at very close range, using my little friends. So far I have seen no sign at all that he is engaged in any sort of dark magic, and it seems very odd that he would have two such servants if his intentions were really those you fear.”
Von Stebbens was skeptical. “And who, exactly, are these ‘little friends’ of yours who make such reliable spies?”
“Mice, mostly. Squirrels, sometimes. Once in a while I’m forced to use a bird, although I try to avoid that for this work.” His expression was rueful. “I’m afraid there is a reason for the expression ‘bird-brained.’ It’s hard to keep a bird focused on anything for very long.”
“I should think hawks or owls would be able to concentrate.”
The hesychast’s rueful expression was replaced by one of distaste. “I do not like to spend time in the minds of raptors,” said Dimitrios. “Their thoughts—and they generally have only one: kill and eat—are not pleasant.”
The archimandrite was still not satisfied. “Are you saying you can get these ‘little friends’ of yours close enough to Mindaug to really be able to spy on him?”
“Oh, they can get very close—within a few feet, usually. The count pays little attention to mice in his wagon, so long as they stay away from his crates of books. Even squirrels, he generally ignores. He’s odd, that way.”
Dimitrios smiled. “Of course, my little friends have little brains as well. So while they can hear what he and his servants say, they are just meaningless sounds to them.”
“You can’t translate?”
“Oh, no. I hear only what they do. But there’s nothing wrong with their eyesight, and I see everything that transpires quite well. I tell you, Archimandrite, whatever the count from Lithuania’s plans are, there has been no indication at all that he is seeking confederates beyond his two servants. And he’s refrained from using magic except once when he and his servants were attacked by robbers on the road—and that was a minor spell.”
Von Stebbens frowned. “But he fended them off? How?”
Dimitrios made a little grimace. “Even without magic—even as small as he is, and at his age—Mindaug turns out to be quite deadly. If you should happen to engage him in personal combat at some point, I strongly recommend you stay at sword’s length from him. Up close…”
The hesychast shook his head. “He is very adept with a dagger. A whip, too.”
“What one could expect from such an evil man,” said Heinrich von Tarnitz, nodding his head sagely.
Dimitrios gave the Knight a none-too-admiring look. “You think so? Let me ask you, Ritter—do you think a hawk is evil?”
“No, of course not. A hawk is just a wild animal, doing what its nature calls for.”
“Indeed so. I don’t like to spend time in a raptor’s mind, as I told you once. No more would I care to spend time in the mind of Count Mindaug. But did you ever once consider”—he glanced at Von Stebbens—“either one of you, what it would be like to be born and raised a very high-ranked nobleman in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania? Mindaug’s even in the line of succession.”
He paused, waiting for a response—but all he got were blank stares.
“I thought not. How much time have either of you ever spent in Lithuania?”
Von Tarnitz shook his head. “None at all.”
“I visited Vilnius once,” said Von Stebbens. “Thankfully, only for three days.”
“Yes, well—I have spent a great deal of time in Vilnius and other cities in the Grand Duchy, as well as in those vast, ancient forests. My little friends make excellent monitors of Jagiellon’s doings. It is a wicked country—more so than ever since Jagiellon was possessed by Chernobog. The only man who could have survived Count Mindaug’s upbringing, no matter how inclined he might have been toward kindness, would have soon learned to think like a hawk himself.”
Dimitrios shook his head. “Do not be so certain, Ritters, that you understand the workings of such a man’s mind. I make no such arrogant claim myself. I simply pass on to you what I have observed for weeks now—that there has been no indication from Mindaug’s actual deeds that he intends any of the things you suspect him of.”
He paused briefly. “Have you heard that miners use canaries to warn them of the presence of dangerous fumes?”
Both Knights nodded.
“Well, you might do well to consider those two young and quite innocent servants of Mindaug’s as your canaries. If you wish to know what evil the count plans, watch them. If they die—if they faint, or grow ill—then you have your warning. Until then…be cautious in your conclusions.”
Mainz
Emperor Charles Fredrik sat in one of the smaller rooms in the palace to discuss the matter with Abbot Goldenbuss and two of his other advisors. “Milan. Carlo Sforza. We had assumed that the worst of the rot in Milan had died with Filippo Maria, but we were wrong. It continues, apparently.”
“He’s a very capable general, but outnumbered—vastly so, if we intervene,” said Baron Saasveld.
“Which may well be why he has brought Count Mindaug into the equation,” said Count de Bressy, who was a rising strategist in Imperial circles. The Emperor liked him. The man was cautious when it came to military affairs, but thoughtful and never lost sight of practical matters like how to keep an army supplied in the field.
“But when we add the possibility of an outbreak of Justinian’s Plague, we cannot take military intervention lightly,” De Bressy continued. “We could just wind up making the situation worse than it is already.”
The abbot looked grave. He leaned forward in his seat, planting his hands on his knees. “Our largest concern is that the three things tie together; that, somehow, Mindaug has found how to magically control the plague, and Sforza plans to use it for military expansionism. There are hints of something similar in a few documents in the Church’s possession.”
There was a silence.
Then the Emperor said heavily: “If I had known this earlier, I would have ordered Mindaug’s immediate capture and, after questioning, his execution.”
“We did not know…or, rather, we never guessed,” said Goldenbuss. “One of the scholars searching for treatments for the plague came to me only two days ago. He found reference to such a possibility in a very old text, somewhat distorted by recopying. It took us a while to work out that when it referred to the purple bites of the summoned destroying serpent, it was not merely using poetic language to describe Satan. Parts of it are literally indecipherable but we think it refers to a pagan rite of the sacrifice of a virgin to a dragon.”
“It’s a common story,” said Baron Saasveld, chuckling a bit sarcastically. “Invariably, a knight saves her.”
“But what if it had a real origin?” said the abbot, sitting back up straight. “Stories often do, after all. Monks and nuns of our orders are researching it urgently, going through manuscripts and record from that time.” He looked directly at the Emperor: “You do realize, Your Majesty, that Count Mindaug has one of the premier collections of old books and writings, particularly of magic? That was how we first spotted him approaching our borders—the books contain so much lore, much of it very dark in nature, that they emitted a faint aura. He has that very dangerous library with him, and he is, apparently, an indefatigable researcher.”
“It all does seem to tie together, does it not?” mused De Bressy. “Your Majesty, what about the Venetians? They seem, by all reports, to be on relatively good terms with Carlo Sforza. Surprisingly so, all things considered. Could they be asked to intervene?”
The Emperor nodded. “They can be asked, certainly; hard to know what their response would be. Abbot Goldenbuss, send some of your men to Venice. I will send a message to my ambassador there, as fast as possible. Firstly
, Petro Dorma must be apprised of these developments, and secondly, perhaps they can arrange for the Knights to travel to Milan and exchange this man for some concessions.”
“Venice being Venice, and the Council of Ten being what they are, they can always just have him killed,” said Saasveld, with the brutal practicality for which he was famed as a general.
That thought had gone through the Emperor’s head, too. But all he asked was: “And what news from Hungary?”
Chapter 21
The Duchy of Milan
Actually, Count Mindaug and his two servants were at that very moment having their first encounter with the mercenary troops of Carlo Sforza. The soldiers were guarding a bridge over the Adda River, and had positioned themselves in such a way as to direct flanking fire from their harquebuses to support the half-dozen lancers on the bridge. They weren’t in loot-and-destroy mode yet, thankfully, because Count Mindaug would have had little choice but to use magical means to survive such. Two hand-cannons weren’t going to go far in changing the balance of power.
Unfortunately, no one had explained that to Emma. She kept the weapon pointed unwaveringly at the lead horseman.
“Put that down,” snapped the sergeant in charge of the patrol. She obliged him by turning her aim on him. Holding the hand-cannon two-handed and rock-steady, she provided, Mindaug thought, a good distraction, and would stop them watching him too closely. He would see how he could play this.
The count raised a hand pacifyingly. “She doesn’t speak Frankish, Your Honor. We were attacked and her man badly injured by men dressed as soldiers outside Verona. So she is very scared. I don’t want her to panic and kill you. Then your men would kill us. We mean no harm, but please don’t alarm her. She’s, um, upset by her experiences. Not quite rational yet. I am hoping to take her to a convent for help.”
The sergeant didn’t like the weapon pointed at him, but it was obvious her fixed expressionless stare must have convinced him that there was some truth at least to the don’t cause her to panic part. So he concentrated his attention on the small older man with the huge mustache. “What is your business in the Duchy of Milan?”
Before he could answer, another horseman came clattering across the bridge from behind the guard. This was an obviously, by the more ornate uniform, a senior officer. The sergeant saluted him.
“And what have we got here, Sergeant?” he said, looking at the wagon. “The Scaliger invasion force?” He took in the hand-cannon and the woman holding it. “Armed to the teeth, too.”
Mindaug was a good enough judge of character to say: “I will try to tell her it is all right, Your Honor. She is just scared.” He repeated his story, and then told Emma in her native Magyar that she could rest the gun on her lap.
“Hungarian?” said the officer.
“My servants are, yes.” He repeated his tale about being a bastard who had inherited his old lord’s books, but gave his origins as Moravia.
“And so what is your business here?”
“Please, Your Honor, I am a scholar and bookseller.”
“Well, Francisco Turner will be glad to see you, even if no one else will. Don’t you know there is a war on?”
“No, we were just trying to get away from Verona. Actually, I hoped to go to Florence. I have heard books are much valued by Duke Cosimo.”
“I’ve been there. He even has a public library, so you’d lose your market.”
Mindaug shrugged. “Reading causes more reading, Your Honor. Please do not send us back into that lawless country behind us.”
“If you’re spies, you’re cleverer than most. We’ll need to check your wagon.”
“Certainly. I can show you my books,” said Mindaug, eagerly.
The officer snorted. “I think I’ll save that privilege for the sergeant. Go and have a look, Sergeant.”
So, accompanied by Mindaug, he did. They opened several bales and boxes at random. Fortunately, luck served the sergeant well—as it did Mindaug himself. Of course, it was unlikely a man as untutored as the sergeant would have realized the dangerous nature of some of the volumes. In any event, the presence of the bandaged and bloody Tamas inside the wagon bore out their story. They were allowed to proceed, which they did, towards the city of Milan.
It was not an unappealing city, thought the count. But that could also be because he was tired of traveling. He hired a small house near the lazaretto, and began the process of making himself comfortable. Count Mindaug knew something of spies and would have cheerfully bet that a man with a large collection of books arriving in the city would be known and noted quite fast. They would approach him in their own time and manner. The house had a cellar, which was good, because Mindaug wanted to perform some more experiments of the pyrotechnic nature. If you counted the fact that most of the rooms could have his books arrayed in them so he could find them easily, and a central, windowless one had a solid door and good lock, it was adequate. The weather, creeping toward summer, showed that it might be rather too warm for comfort here, later in the year. But Tamas, besides complaining of headaches, had largely recovered.
Milan might be in a state of war with its neighbors, but it was not yet showing any signs of it. Goods were still freely for sale, and farmers came in from the surrounding countryside to sell their produce every day. Emma apparently found the food acceptable, even if some things were far too expensive in her opinion. Mindaug found it slightly amusing how conservative she was of his money. The food was plentiful, not rationed in any way, and neither was the wine, which was better than he’d tasted before. No one appeared to anticipate a siege. Well, the count knew that that did not mean anything, and so long as he kept looters away from his books, why would he care? He could, if need be, take magical steps to see that happened. He had, gradually, carefully, without using any of his power, set up certain traps and wards that he could activate quickly.
Still, it had all cost rather a large proportion of his gold. He would need some more soon. If that had not been the case, he could have considered himself very comfortably situated, safe, hidden, and working on a bolt-hole.
Chapter 22
The Eastern Mediterranean; Venice
The disadvantage, Benito Valdosta found, of having had the tritons advising the fleet on winter weather on their outbound trip, was that he had become accustomed to it. There had been no warning of the storm coming down the Adriatic that had struck them a day out of Cerigo, driving them southwest. There was little they could do but to ship oars and run before it, and hope it blew itself out before it left them shipwrecked on the coast of Africa.
“According to Grandfather’s maps, the good thing about this is there isn’t a lot of land to hit,” said Benito. “The bad thing about it is there isn’t anything to shelter behind, either.” Benito was standing on the heaving deck with Manfred. Neither of them suffered from seasickness, and the smell belowdecks was enough to make anyone think about being sick, even, as Manfred said, without drinking any wine.
Manfred shrugged. “It might get warmer if we reach Africa. There’s a smell of snow on this wind, as well as the bite of it. It is spring, but I shouldn’t wonder if Erik is stuck in a felt tent somewhere in the Balkans. Not that he’ll be complaining with the company he has, but it’ll hold him up as much as it does us.
“I want to get home. Home to a quiet life with my wife and baby,” Benito complained.
Manfred laughed. “Now, you are doomed. There’ll be at least another war by the time you get home, if not two.”
* * *
Marco Valdosta had largely despaired of finding out what sort of snake it had been. He’d had some success in getting a swallowing reaction from the young woman, but that still meant she was being fed, painstakingly slowly, a small spoonful of broth at a time. It was a good thing she’d been well-covered and healthy or she’d have starved by now.
He had also largely despaired of hearing from Francisco Turner. The nyx Rhene had not returned to the salty waters of the lagoon. He had no m
essages, but the Doge’s agents had brought word that war had begun, with soldiers from Parma and Lombardy ravaging the northern Milanese countryside. And now, it seemed, the Scaligeri were also about to attack Milan in the east. Probably his friend was away on military duties—but that did not make Marco worry less, or prevent him from wondering why he had not heard anything. He decided that the chief role of being a father-to-be was to increase the amount of worrying he did, a hundredfold.
A summons to see the Doge privately did not ease matters. Petro Dorma received Marco in one of the small chambers in the Doge’s palace that he used for small meetings he wished to keep very private. He was already seated when Marco entered and he gestured at a chair nearby.
“Please, have a seat.” Once Marco had done so, Dorma continued: “I have had a troubling message from Mainz, sent by their fastest courier. And as you have…um, magical connections with La Serenissima, I think you need to know. A very powerful and very unpleasant magician has now arrived in our back yard—a man who was Jagiellon’s confidante and worked for a time with Elizabeth Bartholdy. He was also, the Imperials inform me, Emeric of Hungary’s mage when he invaded the territory of the Golden Horde. He is thought to be in Milan, suspected of being in alliance with Carlo Sforza. They are attempting to locate him there.”
“Do they know what he’s planning?” asked Marco.
The Doge shook his head. “Not that they informed me of. He’s a nasty piece of work, though. I suspect Sforza may end up being used and devoured by the fellow. They’ve asked for our help in neutralizing him or, at least, locating him. They ask for my support in dealing with Carlo Sforza. They have a team of Knights of the Holy Trinity monitoring his magical works. It appears serious, whatever it is. Sforza does have a problem with the sheer number of enemies he has, but I cannot feel that adding the Holy Roman Empire to them is going to be worth having this fellow. My spies will be advised, and I will let you know, just as soon as I know any more.”