by Eric Flint
Francisco’s arrival at least allowed him to put that off a little, to try to work around it…because he realized he liked this bluff soldier, too, and he liked the university idea vastly. Somehow, some way, this disease monster-god had to be destroyed and contained.
“Bring him in, Mario,” said Kazimierz.
Neither of them missed the fact that the caviliero winced slightly as he bowed. “Ah, Francisco. Is that shoulder still troubling you?” said Sforza, in what was plainly concern. Mindaug was learning to judge these things. Sforza cared for his physician, as much as the physician plainly was loyal to him.
“It’s the other shoulder. That one has healed beautifully. Three of Palmeri’s hirelings tried to kill me this morning when I went for my run,” said Francisco.
“What?” snarled Sforza furiously. “I’ll have the snake’s balls shoved down his throat! Are you sure it was Palmeri?”
“Sure enough. I have two of his men outside, very much the worse for wear, but still alive. I thought you might want to have them put to the question. Not that I think they can sing much more than they have. They tried to knife me and poison my beer.”
“You should have made the testa di cazzo drink it,” said Sforza. “I’m going to have to come up with some special and nasty death for poisoners. A man with a knife at least has to face his victim and do the deed.”
“These ones were set on stabbing me in the back,” said Francisco. “My lord, would you forgive me if I asked our host to get his servants to get me a glass…preferably of beer. I missed my beer after the run, and have had a fight and a long ride. I feel as if I’ll fall over any moment.”
“Of course. Sit down. Do you need the shoulder seen to? How did you know I was here?”
Francisco dropped into a chair. “It’s only an annoying scratch. I cleaned it with some grappa and bound it up. And I did not know you were here, my lord. I just knew there was a decent garrison of men here, and I didn’t want the prisoners in Milan, where news of their failure and the fact that they were still alive and talking would alert Palmeri. He’d see them dead. This way, they could at least tell you what they know before they die.”
“Very wise,” said Sforza. Turning to Kazimierz, he said: “And he plays a good game of chess, too. Tell us about this attempt on your life? The people of Milan are going to learn that I will not tolerate the murder of my men.”
As Francisco was doing so, Emma came in, bearing a huge tray, which she was balancing partly on her stomach. She had a pitcher of beer, foaming over the top edge, and a platter set with fresh bread and newly cut cheese, slices of salami, and fresh figs. She struggled to balance the tray and try to curtsey, and settled for putting the tray down while she bowed. “Does the noble sir need anything else?” she asked in her best Frankish, managing a proper curtsey—to Francisco.
“I can tell who is the honored and familiar guest here,” said Sforza, sounding both amused and more at ease.
She turned awkwardly and curtseyed to Sforza. “I am not knowing what to say to you, Lord,” she said awkwardly.
Sforza laughed. “Nothing, young woman, except ‘can I bring you a tankard too.’”
“And how is young Tamas?” asked Francisco, pouring himself beer.
“Much better, noble sir. He is reading too much, though. Will it hurt his brain?”
“No,” said Francisco seriously. “But go and get Lord Sforza a small tankard. He has already had wine.”
“But beer is much better for you than wine,” she said seriously, and then hurried out.
“This is the young woman who will be marrying your artificer?” said Sforza. “I think the size of the estate I’ll grant him just increased.”
“She’s a Hungarian peasant,” said Mindaug, feeling mildly awkward. “Francisco helped with Tamas’s injury, so she feels food and drink for him must come from her own hand. And food is her way…”
“Oh, it’s a gesture of love and respect,” said Sforza. “I am not offended, and he’ll become a well-fed man by the looks of it. He will need the estate to feed him and a pack of children, by the looks of that, too. Now, continue your story, Francisco.”
“And she’s right about the beer,” said Francisco, smiling and drinking some.
“Eat. You need that, too. It smells almost good enough to make me hungry. My lack of appetite is appalling.”
Mindaug noticed that plainly worried Francisco.
* * *
One of the footmen came in to say that the rockets were now ready to be shown to the noble lords. So off they all trooped to the testing ground, where someone had put down a folded blanket on the bench. “Luxury,” said Francisco, pointing to it. “They’re attempting to curry favor with you. I had to sit on the bare boards.”
“Most ingenious,” said Carlo, looking at the mirror, “but very impractical for the battlefield.”
“It’s really intended for testing new devices,” explained Kazimierz. “They have a distressing tendency to explode when you least expect it. So I try to expect it all of the time.”
“It’s amazing how like dealing with normal military operations this is,” said Carlo, obviously amused. Francisco could tell that he had taken to Kazimierz. “In any given situation, anything that can go wrong will, usually when you least expect it to.”
“Can I light the fuses, master?” asked the one-eyed Klaus.
“Oh, you can, but should you?” said Francisco, much cheered by some beer and food, and the fact that his commander was here and had had considerable success at containing and defeating their foes…though he was still concerned about the man’s health.
“Now that I am sitting down, I can see no reason why not, Bombardier,” said Carlo. “It is merely you and Master Kazimierz who may have their heads blown off.”
They sat down hastily, and Klaus lit the fuses. A few seconds later, with a mighty hissing roar, the rocket accelerated out of its launcher and raced toward the two scarecrows set up against the hillock. It exploded spectacularly just short of them, off to the one side. Still, there was nothing left of the scarecrows, except for some burning rags and half a stick.
“The timing on those fuses is still not what it needs to be,” said Master Kazimierz, “and neither is the accuracy, I am afraid. But the idea is that the rocket transports a grenade, which has a timed fuse, meaning it explodes in the air above the enemy. As the bombardier Klaus pointed out to me, it is far more deadly to have a grenade explode above them or among them, than on the ground, especially if they are behind walls or in ditches. It is possible to do something like this with a cannonball, but there is considerable risk to it exploding in the barrel. While our first experiments were actually fairly dangerous, with the grenade exploding a great deal too close and too soon, we’ve got it a lot better now.”
“How hard is it to make one of these devices?” asked Carlo, with that particular intensity that Francisco had come to recognize.
“Once one knows precisely what one is doing, any relatively competent artisan could do it. Of course, there is some danger, as there always is when working with black powder. But it is no harder than making a grenade. Making fuses that will burn at a constant rate is a lot more difficult. But, I believe that Klaus and Tamas have some ideas on how to do that quite easily.”
“It is rather like the old trebuchet, into which they would put a fused bomb made of clay and filled with shrapnel. The advantage being that these are easier to prepare than making or transporting a trebuchet. They take less training to use or to make reasonably accurate.”
“And the cost of these?”
Kazimierz shrugged. “It’s a cheap tube. It does not have to contain the force of the explosion, it just serves to aim the rocket. It can be made of almost anything, from wooden staves, with barrel hoops, to clay pipes. The rocket itself, well, at the moment we are using reeds and paper and wire, and a small baked-clay cone. We would get a far greater range and speed out of an iron casing as they do in Hind. The cost is mostly that of the bl
ack powder, the men and time. I have not worked it out, but perhaps five silver pennies. The tubes can be used over and over, but the rocket is debris.”
“I see. How soon can I have two hundred?”
“It takes Klaus and Tamas a few hours to make one. So, for the two of them, it would take a month. They would get faster, but to be honest with you, it would be better for them to teach some of the soldiers who are making the flying stars how to do it, which would leave them free to continue experimenting. Then it would depend on just how many men you set to the task.”
Carlo laughed. “Both a good point and an evasive answer. Two more questions: how many people know of this rocket, and just how big do you want this university to be? You have the potential to be of great value to me, and to Milan, although I suspect generations of widows will curse you.”
“The soldiers stationed here know something of it. The villagers nearby know we work on something for the army and probably know it means explosions. Well, they could hardly not know, but precise details, no. As for the university—it remains a good daydream, Lord Protector.”
“I’ll get Francisco to handpick a few more men to guard you and this place. And daydreams are something to strive for. Now, I’d best get on to Milan. I want to call on Lord Palmeri and ask him a few awkward questions, before he is aware Francisco is alive. I will ask Francisco to remain here for a few hours before bringing his prisoners to town.”
Francisco wished that he could simply persuade his commander to go and occupy one of the beds at the Val di Castellazzo. He had been quite animated, quite like his normal self for a while, watching the rocket and thinking about the possibilities. He plainly had become exhausted very suddenly again, but the man was driven by an iron will. Francisco was quite relieved to hear him say: “I never thought that I could get used to sleeping in a carriage, but now I seem to fall asleep the minute I get into one. Francisco, come with me to my carriage. I have some documents that I wish to give you, including an order for Lord Palmeri’s head that I’m going to write out, and several signed warrants I had prepared for you. I’ve left the names out.”
That was even more worrying. “Palmeri is a man I expect you to take pleasure in executing yourself, my lord.”
“So do I, but I think it may distract him from anything foolish, knowing you’re after his head. He might prefer my justice. He won’t like it any more, when he gets it, and the other documents will enable you to deal with anyone who gives you trouble or questions your authority.”
Francisco accompanied Sforza back to the carriage. “Now that we’re alone, I’m feeling like I’m half dead. All I want to do is sleep, and I’m even willing to take another purgative. The war is likely to go cool for a few weeks, while they regroup. I had a bad experience with Captain Reynald selling out, Francisco. I want a man I can trust looking after operations while I rest. I’m going to Milan today and then up towards Lake Como, either tomorrow or the day after, to that castle near Cantu. It’s cooler, and secure, and I’ll try to regain my strength. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I am sick of it. I am beginning to think you must be right again, and I have been poisoned.”
“I do think it. I want their guts for a rope, while they’re alive, and Palmeri is a good place to start. But rest, good light food, well, that is the best I can offer. I will make up a tonic for you, too. So who will be in charge while you’re recovering? Di Nebbiolo?”
“You. That’s what the letters are for in case anyone questions it. The warrants are for anyone who questions it twice. Use them in need, Francisco. You will only need to do it once.”
“Nebbiolo’s a better soldier.”
“So use him as one. It’s not soldiering I need, it is trust, and a view of the bigger picture. I trust you, Francisco. I feel wretched, but I am damned if I will just lie down and die. Damn me, I hate all poisoners. I’ll find and kill a few first.”
“Likewise. And beer poisoners are almost on a level with those who poison you, my commander.”
Chapter 36
Venice
Marco got a message from the old Hypatian, Brother Mascoli, that there was a message waiting for him down in the water-chapel, and he went in haste. He still retained enormous faith in Francisco, and had been meaning to tell him about the fact that the snake was undoubtably magical…and that this magician he had consulted was thought to be the source of it all. It was an awkward letter, knowing that Francisco was fairly skeptical about magic, from years of being assumed to be a magician just because he had books.
Rhene was there, waiting for him. She turned her head and stuck out her chest. He’d grown accustomed to the fact that the undines and nyxes like to show off their breasts, and it no longer embarrassed or even worried him. By comparison to the larger undines, Rhene was quite petite. “See,” she said, and Marco was astute enough to realize that it was the small pendant trembling with a little red jewel between those pert breasts that she actually wanted him to look at.
“How beautiful,” he said. That was a fairly safe thing to say.
“Francisco gave it to me. I like it. He is going to help me to have a baby.”
This was not quite what Marco had intended for his friend when he had sent the nyx to him with a message. He swallowed and said: “Erhm.”
“He says that my babies all die because the water is too cold for them. Can that be true?”
“Possibly…yes. Babies, at least human ones, are a lot more sensitive to temperature than adults. You don’t find the water too cold, do you?”
She looked at him with innocent puzzlement. “Of course not, it is the perfect temperature! But humans seem to find it cold. Maybe the children take after their fathers. He said this was for you,” she said, handing him a glass canister. Through the glass, he could see a book and paper.
“Thank you. I must send a message back to him.”
She clapped her hands. “Oh, good! Last time he gave me this pendant, and two men to play with. And a bottle of aphrodisiac wine.”
Marco wondered whether he was doing his friend a disservice or not.
“I will come back when I have looked at these,” he said.
My good friend in medicine,
I find myself very troubled sending this letter to you. Master Kazimierz, who acts as our advisor on magical matters, was very insistent. He is a scholar and has begged me to send this very old book to you. He has marked certain passages that he feels may be relevant in treating the snakebite victim. I am afraid he has a great deal more belief in mystical matters than I do. If I understand him correctly, he believes that the serpent is part of a personification of the disease we know as Justinian’s Plague, and that any treatment will need to be magical. The book he feels will be valuable in dealing with the plague, too, although we know that is not something that there is any record of. He also recommends an attar of roses for snakebite, and although I cannot think it will be effective, you could try it.
The Lion part of Marco Valdosta knew that his friend Francisco was wrong, and that this Kazimierz was right. But if this Von Stebbens was right about the advisor, what the message and book contained might be a far-from-innocent trap. He did not look in the book, but instead packed it up and went in haste to see the patriarch Michael.
Here he was greeted by the news that Archimandrite von Stebbens and his fellow Knights had left for Florence on the previous day, to see if Cosimo de’ Medici could intervene with Sforza to allow them to close on Mindaug.
The patriarch Michael asked Marco if he could help. So Marco explained.
The old man said: “I have no magical ability, Marco Valdosta, but I suggest we take these to the chapel, and I shall bless them. Demons do not endure that well. And then, suitable protections or no, I think you should risk the strength of the Lion against any of the dark arts. You will be aware of any magic, will you not?”
“Here within the marshes of ancient Etruria, it would be very hard to bespell me, and within my demesne I would be aware of their working.
I might not be able to find them when they are still, but I could follow and destroy them if they tried that. Anything but the briefest and smallest evil working, I am aware of. It keeps the magic workers here from temptations. Of course, my idea of evil, and the Church’s idea, are not always the same.”
“In this area at least,” said the patriarch, with quiet smile, “I feel I will trust your judgment. Come, let us do this thing.”
There were no evil emanations or sudden appearances of demons boiling up from the book. It remained a book. The patriarch looked at it. “Ah. The sagas of Diderich. I know them well. Goldemar, Virginal, the Small Rose Garden. Of course, they are incomplete and fragmented. They were somewhat fancifully based on the Gothic king, Theoderic the Great, who ruled Italy in the sixth century.”
“I suspect we will find that this is not fragmented.”
“What a treasure that would be!”
Marco hoped so, too, but had a feeling that the treasure would not be one to the world of literature. He opened the book to discover that it was in Latin. Like any medical scholar he had some grasp of the language, but not to the extent of reading it fast or easily. A small slip of paper protruded. He opened it there. It was a note, in a neat, precise hand.
To the Lion, greeting
This is as near to the original tale of Orkise the wyrm, to whom maidens were sacrificed, and the rescue of Sintram’s soul, a man who was possibly the child of the original Visconti lord, from being devoured by this evil. According to this, its lair is somewhere near Arona. The maiden is revived by an attar of petals made from Laurin’s garden.
I cannot counter this creature. You have greater means.