by Eric Flint
As he’d had experience of being asked for those, Francisco understood precisely what he was talking about. “They seem to work, too, when they are believed in.”
“Ah, belief. Many strange things may be due to that,” said the bookseller-cum-magician-fraud. “It was a concept about which Xenophanes was wrong, and Pythagoras correct. Anyway, come down to the cellar and I will show you one of the devices I have had some success with. I am really in need of a larger and more private place for this. I used to have space…back before I was relegated to fleeing with my books. In those days, I never thought of experimenting with these things, and now I regret it.”
“You fled your home?”
“Oh, yes. In Hungary, not Bohemia. Politics, you understand.” He sighed. “At the time, I cared, I think. But now the farther I get from Hungary and its mad politics, the more I just want a safe place to read my books and experiment a little.”
“Milan is not what most would think of as ‘safe’ these days.”
The man shrugged. “I actually wanted to go to Florence, but it seems there is a war in my way.”
He led Francisco down to the cellar, which was singularly lacking in pentacles or such arcana, but did have a workbench along one wall with considerable broken glassware—the result of the last experiment, Francisco guessed. There was a little shelter of crates, which had a desk, a journal and a book which plainly had been being referred to, and a stool in it, and in the far corner a second screen—now somewhat splintered.
The journal had careful notes in it, Francisco noticed. The man was obviously systematic and, for what he was doing, careful. He took out a small tube from the drawer. “These are quite successful. I have a larger version which produces a great volume of smoke, too, and considerable noise. But I cannot test those yet. The smoke would be unendurable down here, and the neighbors might become upset. It is a simple mixture of the substances used in gunpowder, ground malachite, and salt and iron filings.” He put the little tube in a clamp behind the structure, and then lit a small candle, which he placed under a second little bowl, and a wick on top of that. He retreated to join Francisco. “The second little bowl is made of wax. It takes a little time to melt through and ignite the fuse. This little device appears quite safe—but I am cautious.”
They waited and watched. The second wax bowl melted through, the candle flared up, the fuse burned, and the tube began spraying green fire—and then spat, with a small shriek, a fat glowing yellow spark which burst with a loud pop and smell of sulfur.
It was, even knowing what it was, and having seen the muzzle flash of cannon often enough, and even having seen gunpowder sparking and burning, still enough to raise the hair on Francisco’s neck.
“So-called ‘magic’ via gunpowder,” said the supposed bookseller, plainly smiling behind the mustache. “Now let us go upstairs before those men of yours come bursting in to rescue you, and I end up on trial for black magic. I can provide you with the precise instructions. There are no demons involved.”
“I’ll talk to Carlo Sforza about it, and possibly find you a place where the neighbors are less likely to come and haul you out at night and crucify you. You can do other colors?”
“Some. And probably more, with experimentation. The description of rockets that I have read sounds…militarily interesting.”
Francisco was thinking of night signals, let alone frightening the hell out of superstitious foes. The trick might be to not frighten their own troops just as badly.
He was actually whistling jauntily when he left there. More so, because the bookseller had given him a gift of the three books attributed to Al-Nafis that he had wanted. So the fellow was a fraud…
All the better. Both Francisco and Carlo Sforza would be more comfortable with a fraud and a man of science than a real magician. Now all he had to do was compose a letter to Marco Valdosta.
He was a few hundred paces down the street when it struck him that he might just as well ask the bookseller-fraud—obviously a fallen nobleman, but one who had spent his wealth on reading and experimentation rather than drink and fornication—if in his researches he’d ever seen a description of that snake. That would be something to tell Marco, anyway.
So he went back. The man was settling in with a book when he returned, but got up to greet him. “Had you forgotten something, Caviliero?”
“Not directly, no. It struck me as I was walking down the road that you are a well-read and, it seems, a well-traveled man. I have been trying to identify a snake—an extremely poisonous one. It’s a plummy blue-black and has a dirty yellow belly, with some brighter yellow about the head. I had never come across such colors in a snake.”
The man raised his head and nodded thoughtfully. His cheeks moved indicating a smile beneath that vast mustache. It must be very in the way for eating, thought Francisco.
He cocked his head slightly. “Is this a trick question?
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Oh. I thought you were referring to this.” He pointed to the book on the table. “A few pages back.”
He turned them, carefully. It was a very old book, handwritten and illustrated. “A history of Lombardy. Not very well written, but interesting. Ah. Here it is.”
There was a color illustration of a crowned blue-black serpent, with that precise purple shade to it, devouring a red human.
Francisco had seen it often enough. The biscione was the heraldic charge of the noble House of Visconti. The modern version he’d always seen, however, had made it far closer to argent than purple, and the figure had been more determinedly male, and the head modified to be more dragonlike.
The bookseller frowned slightly. “I did read something about it in a poem about Theoderic many years ago. I forget the precise details. Something about a knight rescuing a virgin from the wyrm.”
“That was what dragons did,” said Francisco.
“Ah, but the line between ‘dragon’ and ‘serpent’ or ‘wyrm’ is very small, the further back you go. I’ll look for the story. It’s still in one of the crates to be unpacked. Such stories and symbols often have a basis in reality, or have become real as a result. Reality, Caviliero, is less easy to understand than I once thought.” His sharp eyes were glinting. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No. My thanks, although I don’t think it can be that serpent… Well, unless reality is more complex than I imagine.”
“Oh, it always is,” said the bookseller.
Walking back to his quarters, this time Francisco was not whistling. He was deep in thought.
* * *
That was true of Count Mindaug, too. He’d lied. He had never forgotten any of the details of anything he had read. It was, of course, court practice, and his in particular, to use that knowledge to outfox and entrap your foes. But there had been something unusual about the caviliero’s visit. It had been many months since Mindaug had last had anything to do with people of his own order, and years since he’d had anything to do with men of his own intellect, well-read and with quick minds. And those had been foes, who would rather not give him information unless, as he had done himself, for advancement or as a trap.
This Turner was not of his own order—he was a soldier and an officer, not a nobleman. But the gap was not large, especially in Lithuania. Furthermore, his curiosity and his willingness to explain his field of knowledge, and the fact that he could converse intelligently on other topics and was, it was easy to see, still excited by ideas, had been striking. Turner had briefly made the count forget who and what he was, and take pleasure in the exchange of ideas.
This was a different world, and one which had not been given to the count’s prior experience. He thought, slightly wistfully, that it might have been rather pleasant to live like that. It was a bit late in life now, and Lithuania under Jagiellon had been no place for it.
But what was this about the wyrm? That was worrying, and not in his plans at all. He knew how it had been born, and whence the color
came from. It was the color of the buboes.
Chapter 25
Corfu
The Venetian fleet, storm-battered and tired, limped into Corfu Harbor, having had to make back under oars most of the distance they’d been blown south. Several of the vessels would have to remain in the little Arsenal for major repairs, and it would be a few days at least before even those which had weathered the storm best could sail on in convoy for Venice. Benito was glad he was going to be leaving the fleet there. Glad to get back to Corfu, glad to get back to his wife and babe.
Maria was not on the quay, nor waving with the others on the walls. Renate Belmondo was not an adequate or welcome substitute. She did bring him a letter from Maria and a letter with the seal of the Doge, as her husband, who was sick again, was not really up to coming down to the quay. He had been wheeled out of retirement to act as governor while Benito—who was himself a temporary appointee—was away with the fleet.
“I am sorry not to see your wife back on the island,” said the woman who was the high priestess of the Mother-Goddess cult, as well as the wife of the ex-governor.
She was not entirely sincere, Benito could read that in her tone. Maria might not be aware of it, but he could guess that the old queen bee was enjoying being in sole charge of the hive. Maria being away was good for her, but he was sure Renate would have been a lot happier if it was Benito who hadn’t come back.
“Yes, but the letter is reassuring,” he said calmly, hiding his worry as he tucked the letters away in a pocket of his doublet. “I am grateful for the messages.”
He’d do his level best to get the Venetian Republic to post Renate’s husband back to Venice, or somewhere else. On the other hand…that might promote Maria into her shoes.
“Excuse me, I must go and read these,” he said. She’d be curious and that would gall her. Benito knew he was nurturing a grudge, but that was what happened when anyone did not take extreme care with his family.
Duty be damned. After he got back to his cabin on the ship, he opened the letter from Maria first. She’d plainly worked on her penmanship since the last letter he had from her.
My darling Benito
I am missing you terribly, and so is Alessia. The Doge will not permit me to sail to Corfu to meet you, as they want you in Venice. I have a good surprise for you in that we will not have to be apart again.
That was wonderful. But…how had she done it?
Benito eased himself onto the chair at his small writing desk, as he pondered the problem. He’d made the bargain with Aidoneus, knowing that two thirds was still better than none at all and that had been his alternative. He’d never been that secure in the Lord of the Dead’s ability not to weasel out of his promise, but it seemed that not only had he honored it, but he had also decided to do more. Meeting the Lord of the Dead to thank him for his honorable conduct probably wasn’t going to happen, but one never knew. He wondered if Maria had thrown plates at his head. She had a fire of a temper on her!
There was more, news that Katerina was pregnant. That would be good for Marco. News of what Alessia was doing and saying…
Benito stopped himself from rereading it immediately, and opened the letter with the Doge’s seal on it. He knew it would be ordering his return to Venice, and indeed it was so. There were scant details, just that he should proceed immediately to Venice, as the Republic had need of his services yet again. They did get around to thanking him for what he’d done, but obviously the willing horse was to be flogged another mile. Well, at least Maria would be there waiting for him. And Venice would have to wait for services until he’d provided them to his wife.
His grandfather came into his cabin, closing the hatch behind him. “Well. So you’re to go to Venice.”
“Does everyone know? I have just read about it myself,” he said, holding up the letter. “Do you know why, seeing as they don’t say?”
The Old Fox gave the smile that had earned him his name, as much for his ability as a strategist and his cunning in outsmarting larger foes. “Not yet. But two of my spies were waiting on the quay for me, as well as a considerable number of letters. The joys of governance.”
Benito nodded in invitation at the nearby bunk where he slept at night. His cabin was on the small side and that was the only other place to sit besides his writing chair. After his grandfather had taken a seat, Benito shook his head. “Indeed. I’m quite glad not to wade through the mess old Belmondo will have made of my reforms to the Libri del Oro system. They’ll have been trying to get at him to reverse the changes. Not so good for Venice.”
“It’s a smart man who can see the long term,” said his grandfather, “and a smarter one who can persuade others to do so. It’s one of the joys of absolute rule. Not that you can let go of popularity, just that you allow yourself a little more leeway.”
Benito shook his head again, this time in disbelief rather than reproof. The duke of Ferrara, Benito knew, was so popular with his people that it was hard to imagine them turning against him.
He said so.
The duke pulled a wry face and shook his head. “That is something you can never be sure of until you’re dead. Remember that. Always remember that. If you have to do something unpopular, you see to it that you make a good show of it making your life less pleasant, too. Let them identify with you—beat iron even if you do it badly. Give them victories, but don’t let them get too fat and comfortable.”
Benito realized he was getting the you will take over my principality talk. He still wasn’t at all sure how he felt about that, but instead of debating the point, he merely said: “But if they’re fat and comfortable, surely they won’t be rebellious?”
“Ah, but if they’re too fat and comfortable, the slightest hardship will seem like the world’s end and fit to rebel about. It’s a balancing act. You should be good at it from climbing around on rooftops.”
“They don’t move as much as people do. So how did you know I was going to Venice?”
His grandfather looked around, making a pretense of inspecting the cabin. “No Maria here,” he said after a few seconds. “But you are not that upset. Therefore, logic states she and your daughter must be in Venice, and you are going there. So: as you have nothing else to do, come and hear my spies reporting to me.”
This, too, was a great honor and an exercise in trust, Benito knew. But it was not to happen just then, because no sooner had he and Dell’este gotten back out onto the deck than Manfred came bustling up.
“Ah, Benito! Our friend the Loukoumia just found me on the quayside.” He waved his hand more or less in that direction. “He says Erik is across the channel, some miles away, with Iskander Beg. Is there any chance I can prevail upon you to arrange transport and accommodation for him and Bortai before you charge off to Venice?”
Benito scowled. “Does everyone know I’m going to Venice?”
“Of course. It’s as obvious as the nose on your face, even if all the crew didn’t know it already. Some trouble with Milan apparently. Not war, though—yet, at least.”
That was uncomfortable. The last time he’d faced his father, it had been as Carlo Sforza handed him back his daughter, and without Sforza, that entire incident would not have come out well.
“Why do I bother to pay spies? I should just listen to the crewmen,” said Dell’este sourly. “Go with Manfred, Benito. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
So Benito did that. Arranging transport for Bortai and Erik Hakkonsen was not particularly trying. Arranging transport, feed, and sufficient land for the grazing of their herd of horses was another challenge entirely. That involved going to his old offices in the Castel del Mar and seeing the mess that he would have to deal with, if he did not leave for Venice, pretty smartly. It involved old friends, all of whom wanted to talk to him.
On Corfu they understood that talk was a dry, thirsty business, and believed it needed lubricating with wine. So they repaired to a nearby tavern. It took a long time before he got back to his grandfather,
who was waiting for him in his cabin, reclined on the bunk and reading a book.
The duke of Ferrara sniffed and said: “Good party?” disapprovingly.
“If you mean the smell of wine, you try talking to the skipper of a fishing vessel without it. It hasn’t been a party. More like a mystery of just how they all managed before me and how they managed without me,” said Benito, sitting down on the chair at the writing desk. “And, no, thank you. I won’t have another glass of wine. I shall have a headache tomorrow anyway.”
“They probably did manage to cope just as well as they will manage when you’re gone again,” said his grandfather. “Some interesting news about Milan for you.” And he outlined the fact that Carlo Sforza was now the Protector of Milan, and married to Lucia del Maino. “Who I gather was one of Filippo Maria’s by-blows.”
“And I didn’t even get an invitation to the wedding,” said Benito, who had actually had a bit more wine than was wise, or rather, made him think he was wise. “No wonder we’re on the brink of war.”
“Well, for what it is worth, Venice is not. She’s sitting out this one, although it seems there are several other supposed rightful claimants to the ducal throne for whom any excuse will do.”
“Venice is sitting out a perfectly good war with Milan? That is surprising.”
His grandfather shrugged. “It’s one I plan to sit out if they do, at least while I wait to see what is happening, and can see when and where to strike. I have no desire to have Sforza ruling a powerful, wealthy duchy that near to Ferrara, even if I did not have my own axe to grind, but only a fool underestimates the man. And it seems he has a number of fools opposing him. If they attack singly, he can devour any of them, and as I know most of them, each of his foes will consider themselves to be the leader. Especially that ass, Umberto of Parma. Count Andrea is nastier, but at least has the sense to hire professionals and then claim the credit for their skill for himself.”