by Eric Flint
The moment he heard the book was almost a millennium old, Francisco set it down on his lap, as if afraid the oils in the skin of his hands—anything—might damage the precious thing. “What treatment?” he asked.
“An attar of rose petals from the garden of the dwarf Laurin.”
Francisco looked up. “Ah. There are some Arabic texts on the use of scents, but I’ve yet to see it proved.”
“Still…you will send this book to him. Please? I ask it as a boon.”
“Well, certainly. That is, if I can get the nyx to deliver it. She carries the messages in a bottle—it would need to be waterproofed.”
“I have a glass canister for my experiments which will hold it. It can be sealed.”
* * *
Lucia was pleased at how the reins of power had fallen into her hands at the Palazzo Ducale. It was relatively simple: those who did not do her bidding had a visit from the asp. Those few who did not fall under its hypnotic spell…died.
And word, it seemed, still got around. Someone had tried to poison her. But the asp detected it. Not that it matters. You have the great wyrm’s own poison in your veins. That poison will drive out lesser ones.
“It never bit me! Never. I did not permit it to do so.”
The tooth of the great wyrm is so keen that all you would feel is barely as much as a fleabite. But it does not matter, mistress. The wyrm is yours to command. I scent his magnificence about you.
She was not pleased or soothed. “Who tried to kill me? Who dared?”
The asp slithered out from her bosom and let its black forked tongue flicker across the sweetmeats. One of your ladies-in-waiting. The one with the blonde hair.
Lucia knew who and knew why. The fool girl was wrong, of course, for her lover had no appeal to the duchess. His flowery talk was amusing, no more. But she did like to have the handsome men of the court dangle after her. It would be amusing to flirt with him in her presence…and then to make him feed her one of her own sweetmeats. Lucia was mildly annoyed at the choice of delicacy. She liked marzipan flowers both for their artistry and their taste.
Then her footman came to politely inform her that Lord Palmeri craved an audience.
After making his entrance into the chamber she used for her dealings with courtiers, the spymaster brought news of the war. This was not of vast interest to Lucia, but after the possibilities that that lowborn scum captain of Sforza’s—she refused to think of him as “husband”—had pointed out, she did need to pay it some attention.
The news wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear—which was that it was all over, and Sforza could get on with dying. “It’s very balanced, Your Grace. But the balance has shifted now to Sforza. He wins battles against the odds, or I would say it was not. I think victory for Milan assured. He’s not been well, but his men fight well for him. He is due back in town tomorrow.” He smiled coyly. “They say he longs for the sweet embraces of his beautiful wife.”
It might be time for yet more poison, if that happened. And if he had defeated the military threat…well, he would be less needed then. It would be nice if he could be rendered witless and compliant, like her mother, to frighten foes. But the asp said that was not possible.
“And did you track down the one of his soldiers, the captain who was in my palazzo sending his soldiers scurrying about?” Lucia had thought it over. He had to be taught a lesson, and if not killed outright and openly, he was still overdue a good flogging. She always remembered her grievances and settled them.
“Yes, indeed. He is Captain Caviliero Francisco Turner. He is Carlo Sforza’s personal physician, and I gather also a military man of some note. He played a great role in the conflict with our old allies, the Scaligeri. He has removed from the palace to the central barracks, and spends some time with a man that Venice believes is our new and highly dangerous magician, out at Val di Castellazzo. A man who goes by the name ‘Master Kazimierz’ and is under heavy guard.”
A magician? Yes, he had mentioned that and the Val di Castellazzo before. What would Sforza be doing with one of those? Could he be useful? They were reputed to be good with curses to make foes fail to prosper—that she and the asp could see to themselves. They provided potions to inflame lusts and solve unwanted pregnancies. Hers was not unwanted…by her. Not anymore. Uncomfortable and unpleasant, yes, because it spoiled the fit of her dresses and took up space in her abdomen. But it could be that Sforza would not want her child to take the ducal throne of Milan. He had a by-blow child in Benito Valdosta, whom, Lucia realized, she’d better see to getting killed as well. Inflame lusts? She would have none of that. She’d seen and experienced what it had done to her father.
“I shall need to go and see this so-called magician. Arrange it.” This Caviliero Turner would just have to wait a little… On the other hand, did he have to? And it might just be better to have the physician out of the way. “This man Turner. I want him dead. See to it.”
The spymaster, who had, she knew, taken care of many deaths for her father, knew better than to pause. But his face betrayed him. He blanched, but nodded. “It may take a little time. He is away quite a lot.”
She just looked at him.
“He’s, um, known to go running in the morning.”
“Running?” Lucia wondered if she’d heard right.
“Yes. A very strange act. We thought it must be a cover for some deviant behavior, so I had men follow him and observe. They complained a great deal. He typically runs along the towpath. But I gather he also runs elsewhere.”
“It sounds unhealthy. Anyway, see to his death.”
He nodded. “When would it be convenient for Your Grace to see this magician?”
“Within the hour. My father always said to strike as soon as possible.”
He bowed and scurried off.
Lucia wondered if he was even aware that she had his hat, secreted and ready, in case he had to die. Her father had also believed in being prepared.
* * *
Within the hour she was in her grand carriage, sprung on leather straps, ornate and liberally decorated with gilt. She and the outriders and escort were rolling out of Milan towards Val di Castellazzo. Looking out of the window onto the green fields she realized she’d forgotten how much she despised the countryside, and drew the blind.
When she arrived there and was ushered through the guarded gates and arrived at the small villa—barely twelve rooms, hardly worth calling a house—she realized rapidly that it had been a waste of time. Other than a large mustache and an impeccable Mainz-Frankish, the man was a very ordinary elderly fraud, poorly dressed. He had a lot of books apparently, which were grounds for suspicion. He also had suitable court manners, but showed no obvious signs of arcane knowledge or skill. Nonetheless, she had a private interview with him.
“What may I do for you, Your Grace?” he asked, bowing respectfully again. “I am entirely at your service.”
“I’ve been informed that you’re a magician. A worker of spells and curses, potions…and poisons.”
“Alas. You have been gravely misinformed, Your Grace. I wish I was, but I am a simple scholar. I work on weapons for the Protector, for the great Duchy of Milan.”
Still, there was something about him that made the asp stir. “Why all the guards?”
He shrugged. “My previous employer does not like the fact that I am making cannon that fire further and shoot straighter—for someone else.”
* * *
Count Kazimierz Mindaug had dealt with murder, foulness, and Jagiellon’s lack of hygiene. He knew a great deal about poisons, spells and curses. He maintained his cool demeanor, showing, he hoped, no indication of the fact that he was weighing his chances with the misericorde in his sleeve.
He thought, he certainly hoped—and if he could find a divinity that would accept prayer from him, he would have prayed—that she had no idea what or who he was. His little spell traps would not affect her, and unless he was very much mistaken, she was probably carrying a serp
ent, a part of the great wyrm. He saw the tiny unblinking eyes in the mirror as it peered out of her corsage. People always thought of mirrors as vanity. Mindaug thought of them as eyes behind his back and had positioned them accordingly. Emma thought he was mad, but he was allowed to be that.
So: this was whom the wyrm had entrapped. Logic said it was probable that his employer, Carlo Sforza, was also given to the serpent. Did they not know what it was?
The answer was “no,” for no sane person would agree to that. No insane person, for that matter. They had deceived themselves that it was merely a key to power. They always did.
“So you do not have any appropriate curses or poisons for our foes. How disappointing.” The expression on the young duchess’s face was not pleasant. “My spymaster tells me our enemies believe you do. I have no use for you in the service of Milan. I need a real magician.”
Her hands twitched convulsively, her voice rising as she said it. The count knew this behavior, knew the signs, and had seen it in Elizabeth Bartholdy. She was moody and going to kill someone, simply because her monomania was mildly obstructed. With the insane, logic did not work, and the best he could do would be to appease her, to buy time.
“I don’t have any curses, I’m afraid. Poisons of various sorts, yes; I do experiment with those.”
That worked. She was interested and no longer displaying signs of that angry petulance. “Ones which kill without trace?”
“Sadly, such things are rare. I can provide one which kills slowly and with the victim losing their mental faculty over several months. There is no trace to that.”
He saw by the glittering eye that he’d scored a hit. And that his own death would follow shortly if he had the folly to stay where she could reach him. “That could be useful. Give me some.”
“It will take a few days to prepare, Your Grace. I could have it sent to the Protector.”
And that surprised him afresh. The expression betrayed her to Mindaug—he had dealt with treachery so often, he knew those signs too well. “Ah. No. It is not a military matter. I will have one of my men fetch it. Tomorrow. You must do it by then.”
He bowed. “I shall work through the night. How will I recognize your man, Your Grace? Secrecy is paramount with such things, of course. I do not wish to accidentally betray your great trust in me.”
She showed him a signet on her hand. It bore the Visconti coat of arms. “He will bear this. You are to give it to him, in here, alone.”
And he will then kill me and leave, thought Mindaug, to whom she was quite transparent. “Of course,” he assured her.
“You are to tell no one of this. How is it administered?”
“Approximately seven drops a day, for at least three days. In the evening, in wine is best. It will work slowly over the next week. Even a single dose works, but takes much longer. The victims gradually lose their wits.”
“Good. See that it is done and I will have Sforza reward you richly.”
And she thought that so funny and so clever! Mentally, Mindaug shook his head. She wouldn’t have lasted long in Lithuania.
Well, not without the wyrm, at any rate.
When she had left, Count Kazimierz Mindaug fell into one of his new comfortable chairs and sighed. Emma came out from where she’d plainly been watching through the keyhole. “Can I get you some wine, master? Maybe some of my sweet cakes? What did she want here?”
“Nothing good.” He bit his lip, and then suddenly decided. “Emma, you and Tamas…ready any small precious things. Nothing heavy, nothing bulky. We may have to flee from here. Can you ride?”
She shook her head in alarm. “What is that smelly bitch going to try to do to you, master? I should have shot her.”
She had the hand-cannon ready and primed in her apron, the count observed. He also observed she was patting his shoulder and looking militantly defensive. He couldn’t help but see some humor in that.
“What are you laughing at, master?” she asked.
“Ah, Emma. I laugh partly at myself, and partly because I realize that I still have much to learn about people.”
“We’ll take care of you, master. You have been very good to us.”
The idea was still foreign to Count Mindaug, but he knew that in exchange, he was obliged to do his best to take care of them. Their power to do this was far below his, but in terms of their ability, they would give all. It was a loyalty worth keeping. That was the first time he’d come to admit it openly to himself. The peasants of Braclaw and Zwinogrodek would have been amazed. His late relations, more so.
But then, so was he.
“Did that woman—I know you only saw her in passing—did you notice anything odd about her?”
“She’s carrying awkwardly. And that scent of hers!” Emma waved her hand in front of her nose.
“Carrying awkwardly?”
“She’s pregnant. You can see it in the way she walks, even in those funny shoes of hers. I’d say she is nearly as far gone as me.” Emma blushed. “Master…would you, before we have to leave, give Tamas and me permission to marry?”
Mindaug knew that they were rural peasants. He had also never really given their marriage—or lack of it—a single thought. By the look on her face, it was something she desired, though.
“But why not? I will have to provide you with a suitable trousseau,” he said as a joke.
He was not prepared for her to burst into tears and kneel and kiss his hand. “You are like a father to me, master. Better than a father! God truly blessed us when he sent us to you that day. I pray for you every night, and thank God for you being there to save us, but there will be special prayers of thanks tonight, and every night from now onward.”
The count knew how to deal with demon-possessed princes, duchesses who had made deals with the devil, and even someone who had sacrificed to the serpent. This, however, was new to him.
“There, there,” he said awkwardly, and patted her head. A trousseau must be important to a peasant girl, especially one marrying up to a miller. He’d have to see she had one worthy of a princess. He’d met a few of those, and this child was worth more than most of them.
He wondered how her God felt about her prayers. Deities probably had a sense of humor, if you believed man was made in their image. And he wondered if Carlo Sforza knew his wife was at least four months pregnant. He knew that she hadn’t been in court that long. The man Sforza had usurped had barely been dead that long. Interesting…and right now a boring life had great appeal.
The night was not spent preparing a potion that he already had, and which would disappoint her, but in far more constructive preparations to flee. That was going to be a difficult task, without killing too many of Sforza’s men. Even with killing them all, he would still have to cross considerable hostile country before taking an uncertain refuge in Venetian territory. Mindaug was not too sure of the reception he might get there, but they shared a common enemy, and he could be of value. He would have to trade on that.
The difficult part was going to be transporting his books. The wagon would not be practical this time. It would have to be the method by which he had snatched them from Lithuania. Some preparatory workings had to be done. And those did involve very small magics. Well, it was a risk he would have to take.
While he was at it, he set up a further trap or two, ones designed to remove the strength and magical ability of any caught within. He had no idea if they would work on the serpent, but something was better than nothing.
And then, rather late, he went to bed, because sleep, too, was necessary. It stopped one from making mistakes. And the one thing about having fled Lithuania and Hungary: he didn’t have to be eternally watchful and set magical and physical traps every time he wanted to take as much as a nap.
Venice
In their quarters in the patriarch’s palace in Venice, Von Stebbens knew some triumph and some fear. Finally there were some signs of magical working, bearing the resonance of Count Mindaug. The exact nature of the sp
ells was something that he was unable to discern, however. No blood magic or sacrifice, but something possibly to do with elemental life-forms, the spirits of air, and wood and water.
Chapter 33
Milan
On returning to the barracks, Francisco found a message from Kazimierz awaiting him. There was an awkward matter he did not know how to deal with. Could he see Francisco as a matter of urgency?’
Francisco decided he could wait until morning, after his run. He had put off trying to send the small book Master Kazimierz wanted to get to Marco Valdosta, and he would prefer to have that done before seeing the old fellow. He wasn’t sure the nyx would be there—or willing—but he hoped so. Besides messages to be carried he had questions to ask.
He also had worries and doubts about this “Master Kazimierz.” The man had, at first, seemed a noble dilettante who had a healthy curiosity about the sciences, and would certainly satisfy the gullible that he was some kind of magician. But it seemed that the fellow had stretched his curiosity into the esoteric and arcane. And actually believed some of it!
A disease personified? Made into a serpent to be worshipped and sacrificed to?
Nonsense…
On the other hand, Francisco himself was about to go and talk to a nyx, who could be said to embody the spirit of drowned girl. He’d written quite an extensive covering letter to Marco about Kazimierz, some of which he hoped Carlo would not object to him revealing.
He was aware of someone running down the trail behind him, so he increased his pace a little. Occasionally, people would decide to ask why he was running or try to talk to him. He didn’t mind, usually, but they simply did not have the breath for it. Today he wanted to think, so he just ran faster. If they were running after him for any real reason, they could call out. They didn’t, so he just kept going. He was close to the end of his run anyway.