by Eric Flint
He decided he’d see if Rhene was there, before getting himself a beer. He stopped at the usual stump bollard, where the barges would tie up for the bargee to get a mug or two from the Grosso Luccio. The tree on the other side of the towpath provided shade. It also had the second bonus of making this a quieter and more private spot to drink beer and converse with nyxes.
And that, as he bent to wash his hands and face, was also its disadvantage, as it turned out. In the dawn, there was no one about, except the knifemen who leapt out from behind the tree and, a few seconds later, their panting red-faced friend.
If it hadn’t been for the panting, and the knapsack with the bottled book in it, Francisco might have been knifed in the back before he knew someone was trying to kill him. As it was, either the panting or the sudden footfalls behind him made Francisco turn slightly. The knife, instead of going into his back, ripped into the knapsack, skittered off the glass, and then glanced across Francisco’s shoulder.
The force of the blow was enough to turn Francisco, and have the knifeman stumble and fall. The fellow’s outthrust left hand missed the edge of the canal and he went into the water, his face smacking into the muddy grass. But his knife was still held in his right hand. Francisco rolled and kicked the elbow of the knife arm. The blade went flying, as his behind-the-tree companion dived forward, stabbing. That narrowly missed, too, as Francisco jerked away and managed to grab the front of his second attacker’s doublet, and pull the man over him.
Francisco was on the ground and his attacker stooped, looking for his knife lost in the turf. Francisco hauled forward with frantic strength. The attacker only had one way and one place to go: over Francisco and into the canal with a yell and a splash. Francisco scrambled to his feet to meet the third man, drawing his main gauche as he stood up. The third fellow, red-faced and panting, also had his knife out.
Francisco didn’t waste any time. He feinted a wide thrust, and as the man tried to block it, he lunged hard, thrusting the blade under the rib cage. The man gasped, his arms going wide, and he fell backwards off the blade, collapsing onto his knees at the water’s edge, clutching his chest. Francisco turned hastily to see if there were any more. The first stabber was on his knees reaching for the second man’s turf-imbedded knife. A slim white hand from the canal grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him into the water as, with a brief shriek of terror, he looked at what had grabbed him.
Knife in hand, Francisco looked around. The one who had tried to follow him running, whom he had stabbed, had fallen face forward. He was plainly dying, and there was no help for him, and no threat from him, either. There was no one else on the land side…and in the water was Rhene, with two men, far bigger than her slight self. She held their wrists in those slim hands of hers, and her face was full of a rather nasty delight.
The two in the water looked at her, and at each other, and thrashed and both drew breath to scream. She pulled them underwater in a swirl of greenish hair.
Francisco stood there, panting himself from the shock and sudden exertion, watching the water as a few bubbles came up. She kept them down a good while. Eventually, she popped up, still holding the two men, now thrashing rather weakly, spluttering and gasping.
“Two,” she said. “I’ve never tried it with two.” She licked her upper lip—rather like a cat contemplating a bowl of cream. “Do you think that might give me a child?”
Francisco looked at the two terrified half-drowned men and suppressed a desire to laugh hysterically. “I think that might be part of the problem, Rhene. Neither of them would make what I would think of as a good father, as even between the two of them that wouldn’t add up to one.”
“Oh. They are quite large. Bigger than you. The equipment is usually somewhat proportional. I know. I’ve looked at a lot. I wondered if that had something to do with it.”
“Nothing at all, I am afraid. You’ve got to choose good bloodlines. Humans, and I should think nyxes, are no different from breeding horses.”
She frowned, and then grasped what she thought was his meaning. “Ah. Like stallions. I was right then. I’ll look.”
He held up his hand. “That’s not what I meant. A good stallion in the wild looks after and guards his mares, and protects them and the foals. Those are the stallions whose mares have many foals, and the foals live. These men couldn’t even protect themselves, let alone stick around to help to look after the little ones.”
“A point,” she said, nodding. “I’ll drown them then.”
“I’d like to ask them a few questions. And then perhaps I can help you.”
“Ooh. That sounds interesting. Are you a good stallion?”
“That isn’t quite what I meant either. But we’ll talk about it when I’ve got some answers.”
“Let us go or it’ll be worse for you,” said the bigger bald-headed man. “We’ve got friends.” The other said nothing. He was still coughing weakly.
Francisco pointed at the bald-headed one. “Please take that one down for a little, Rhene. He doesn’t understand, and that’ll help him to do so.”
Bald-head had time for a brief scream before she twitched him under, pushing his head down.
“You’re probably a good judge of when they’re nearly drowned, Rhene. Let him up when he starts to suck water,” said Francisco, not at all sympathetic. He turned his attention to the coughing terrified man who was still on the surface, trying to paddle rather feebly for the bank. “I wouldn’t try to escape the water. I’ll kick you back in and she’ll kill you then. You talk, and you might have a chance. I’m not promising though. Who sent you?”
They were too well dressed, and too well fed to be anything but professional hirelings. Also, no bunch of cutthroat thieves was going to be waiting about here on the lonely canal path before Matins bell on the off chance of a victim. They’d been here for him, and on orders.
“Lord Palmeri.” Cough. “His orders.”
Palmeri was one of Filippo Maria’s relics that Sforza planned to get rid of. He’d been slowly easing the man out of arranging Milan’s spying and assassinations. It was difficult, because Palmeri knew a great deal and had many contacts, and so Carlo had been running a parallel agency and had several of his own men put across. Francisco had disliked the fellow even before he’d tried to murder him. He was a toady to those above and a thankless martinet to those below—what Carlo described as the perfect example of a bad officer.
Rhene let the other one up. He was gasping and spitting water. When he could talk, which took a little while, he confirmed who the order, the money and the information about where to find him had come from. Francisco was mildly disgusted at the price. He was worth more than that. On the other hand, had Palmeri not skimped on paying for proper help, he might have gotten better quality, and then Francisco would be dead. If they’d been able to afford crossbows instead of knives, he might well have been floating facedown in the canal right now.
“I need these two for a long talk with my commander, Rhene. Or at least one of them. Either of you two not want to cooperate? I can leave you here.”
Francisco was fairly sure that Carlo Sforza was going to provide summary justice to both, and if they had any brains, the muscles knew that—but certain death by drowning now might make the probability of being shot or hanged later seem attractive. And they might hope their boss could get them out alive. By the way they hastily assured him of their willingness to talk, they both preferred that option.
Rhene did not look pleased. “I don’t like to let them live after seeing me,” she said.
“They’re not that likely to tell of you,” he said. Since both men were within hearing range, he didn’t add because they’ll be dead soon. He left it at: “Let me tie them up and take them away, Rhene. I have a small gift for you as well as, I hope, some way to help you with your heart’s desire. And a small gift for my friend Marco Valdosta, too.”
She clapped her hands, letting go of both prisoners, who began to struggle towards the verge of the
canal. “Not so fast,” said Francisco. “Keep them there, Rhene. I want to get some beer out of the taverna, and fetch some rope.”
“Don’t drink the beer!” said the bald-headed man. “It’s poisoned. We don’t want to die here.”
Francisco stopped. “You poisoned the beer?” he exclaimed in horror, staring at them in newfound fury.
“Yes. But then you came straight to the waterside and we weren’t sure if you’d go in the taverna.”
“The whole keg?!”
He nodded. “Yes. Lord Palmeri said it was probably better if a lot of people died, and not just you.”
“You’d better hope that Carlo either shoots you or puts you in jail for life,” he said grimly. “If Old Capra the barman gets hold of you, you’re in for a hard death.”
He walked over to the taverna where, just around the corner, his sergeant had sat down on the bench against the wall in the first sunlight. He had a mug of beer in his hand, raising it to his lips. “Drop it!” barked Francisco.
Sergeant Balco did, on his trousers. “You haven’t drunk any of that?” demanded Francisco.
“No, Captain Turner. The old man just got up. I thought I’d quaff one while I waited for you.”
“It’s poisoned.”
“You’re bleeding, Captain.”
“You should see the other fellow,” said Francisco, going into the tap room.
The old taverna-owner was polishing his bar. “Morning, Captain. A mug of yer usual?” he asked, turning to draw it.
“No. And don’t you drink any either. Some bastard poisoned it.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad. I always use clean water from the canal and a clean barrel…”
“I’ll be back in two minutes. Don’t you touch a drop of that brew. Wait!”
They had some picket ropes on the horses, and Francisco took them. “Wait here, Sergeant. And keep a gun on hand.”
He returned to the canal. “You keep a hold on his foot while I tie him up, Rhene. We don’t take chances with beer poisoners.” He hauled the man half up the bank and tied his hands behind his back. Then he cut his belt.
“Pull his trousers down, Rhene,” said Francisco.
“No!” squalled the prisoner, writhing desperately.
“Shut up. I’m not about to geld you. You’ll just waddle with them around your ankles. You can’t run like that, and before you can pull them up or kick them off, I’ll stick a knife in your kidneys.”
Once the first fellow had been handed to Sergeant Balco, Francisco repeated the process with the second. “Tie their feet, too, Sergeant. Then take them in there and offer them some of that beer, until they tell you what’s poisoned. Make sure the bastards drink some of what they say isn’t. I want them alive, so Old Capra isn’t to kill them. I’ll be back, I just have some business to transact.”
He went back to the waiting Rhene. “A bottle of the Pelaverga wine for the lady.” He handed her a bottle of the rare peppery red. “I suppose you do know it’s supposed to be aphrodisiacal?”
“Of course,” she said. “Would you like some?”
“I am a beer man myself. But I have here a little ruby pendant I picked up somewhere. I didn’t think you’d be much on silks or furs, or that perfume would stay on you too well, but I thought: jewelry, now, that’s something most ladies like.”
She looked at him with faint puzzlement in her foxy smile, but did not reach out to take it. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“No, actually, I wasn’t. I’m committed, you might say. But I thought some gift of thanks was called for, and after your help with these men even more so.”
“You’re a nice man. All the good ones are taken. Have you got any brothers?” she said in a slightly wistful voice, taking the little pendant from his fingers. It had been a piece of loot taken on one of his earliest battles at Carlo Sforza’s side, and he’d no use for it, but had never got around to selling it. She admired it. “Fasten it for me?” she asked, clasping it around her neck and turning her back to him, where he squatted on the edge of the water.
He did. She slipped up onto the bank, with her feet still in the water, naked as a newborn, and leaned over to look at her reflection in the water and admire her new acquisition.
Then she slipped back into the water. “Thank you. There is plenty of jewelry in the river, but I have never been given any.”
“My pleasure. It looks well on you. Brings out your hair’s color.” Flattery was not his natural métier, but he had enough tact to realize that there was a time and place for it. “Now, as a physician, I wanted to ask you a personal question, Rhene. Have you ever been pregnant?”
She looked at him strangely. “Yes, of course, often. That is what happens after lovemaking. I have had many lovers. Lusty young men not afraid of the water like you.”
“Ah. Have you ever carried the child to term?”
“Yes, but they all die.”
“I think that is the problem. The child is too human. You can swim around in the canals and rivers. Cold does not affect you and you do not seem to need to breathe. But your baby does.”
She absorbed this for a thoughtful moment or two. “But how, then, am I to have a child? I cannot leave the water for very long. I am it and it is me. And I will not give up my child.”
“A difficult question. Let us both think about it,” he said, seeing an answer, but not wanting to push her too far. She hadn’t complained about letting the two thugs live yet. Maybe she could get her head around a fisherman or bargee father for the child, being allowed to live, who could then keep the child warm on the boat, and still let the mother be close. “Now, if that stabbing beer poisoner has not damaged the container…ah, it seems fine, just a scratch—heavy glass, but I am afraid my bag is going to need some sewing.” He handed her the glass jar with the book in it. “If you could give that to Valdosta, I would be glad.”
“Which one of the Valdostas? The Lion or the fire?” she asked.
It didn’t take a big stretch to get Benito out of “fire.” He was a bit like one. “I didn’t know the other one was back.”
“He has had contrary winds all the way. But the tritons say they will cross the Lido bar soon. His daughter is water-blessed, so we keep track,” said the nyx. “Our kind can communicate over long distances in the water. Sound carries there as it does not in the air.”
Francisco wondered if the merpeople had seen fit to share this information with Marco. He knew that Marco had expended a lot of anxiety about his wild brother. It probably just never occurred to Marco to ask them, or to them to tell him. “The Lion. But give my best to the other one’s daughter if you see her. She’s a sweet child.”
Back in the taverna, Francisco was not surprised to find the two thugs had taken some further damage, besides their half drowning. They were even wetter, having been dunked headfirst into the poisoned beer and told to hold their breath or be poisoned or drown. And they were sporting a pair of magnificent black eyes and a bloody nose, and the outraged innkeeper wouldn’t have stopped there, if Sergeant Balco hadn’t intervened. Once the innkeeper figured out it would have killed half his customers, if not himself, and worse, would have ruined his trade and reputation, the man had been more than incandescently angry.
“Pour the beer out, take what’s in their pockets and pouches, and there’s another dead one out on the towpath,” said Francisco. “I’ll make good the difference.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “Oh, no, Captain, you will not. You won’t pay for another drop of beer. Not if you keep up your crazy running along that path and drinking it after, not until I’m ninety.”
“We’ll argue about that next time. But I would get rid of the beer quietly, and also that body out there. Their boss and friends probably won’t be in any state to look for them, or to pay you back, and these ones certainly aren’t getting loose to tell them, but there’s no sense in taking chances. Now, have you got a spare nag I can buy or hire to tie these two to? I’m thinking that we’ll take
them somewhere other than the central barracks. They may have friends around there, and I want them talking to Sforza before those friends get wind of it.”
The old mule was a sorry one indeed, but then given the alternative, the two thugs would probably also have voted for being tied on like saddle bags, rather than remain at the taverna.
“Where are you going, Captain?” asked the sergeant, once Francisco had bandaged his arm, and got into the saddle.
“Out to Val di Castellazzo. It’ll be away from their friends and contacts, I was going there anyway, and there’s plenty of space, spare troops to guard them, and I can send a message to the commander. If he’s fighting, he doesn’t need to be bothered, but if he’s not, this boil needs to be lanced.”
The sergeant nodded. “Fair enough, Captain Turner. But I think we better pick up some men first. We can go by the west gate and get a small troop. If they’re out to kill you, the sooner I’ve got you in the middle of a bunch of our men, good fighting men, the happier I’ll be, and the less likely the commander will be to bite my head off. And if anything goes down,” he said, loosening his sabre, “I’ll kill them first while you run, Captain. And you keep running. It’s not me they’re trying to kill.”
That was a vast speech from him. He must be deeply worried—as a sergeant—to tell his captain what to do. Or to say that much, Francisco knew. Francisco also knew that an officer who didn’t listen when a sergeant was thus moved was an idiot, usually a dead idiot.
So they rode to the west gate barracks—in the wrong direction for Val di Castellazzo—which was not more than half a mile off, with the sergeant looking like a cat tiptoeing through a sleeping pack of hounds. He was ready to make them run and scratch some wounds to make sure that Francisco got away.
But it was unnecessary and, relatively soon, they rode out from the barracks with twenty men, which the sergeant thought too few, and Francisco, too many.