by Eric Flint
She nodded, and the carriage was driven out of there, entirely too fast, making her feel very sick. It was worrying. She said so to the asp. It seemed to misunderstand her.
They always try to run. That spreads the kiss of Orkise wider and wider. Some try to hide away.
“But I said I just wanted that town destroyed. I told him that!”
And your orders are obeyed…by Orkise. But humans carry the kiss wider. And then the kiss of Orkise must be used to deal with them. Never fear, mistress. They cannot stand against you.
“I won’t allow that. We need more soldiers to control the behavior here. We want the plague in their cities, not ours. Is that clear?”
Orkise will do as you order, and he will control his legions. But once the kiss goes to humans, they flee in terror and they pass it on between each other, and then Orkise cannot control them.
“Then I will.”
Later she called Lord Laglissio to her chambers. “We need to quash this plague rumor. We need more troops on the gates. Get a list from the central barracks of all the troops of Sforza’s mercenaries, too. Any stationed here can be taken for duty. I shall sign the necessary orders.”
A little later he was back. “There are very few of his mercenary company’s men within the city, Your Grace. Here is the list. Here are the orders I have had the scribes draw up.”
She signed them all, including one for the troops on the Val di Castellazzo. The name brought back an errant memory. Ah, yes. Her source of the poison, that Sforza had somehow detected. He’d still be useful later.
“And I want the man who issued those ridiculous orders about Terdona brought to me: Francisco Turner. Unless I am much mistaken, he is the fellow who disrespected me before. I’ll have his head.”
“I will order that he is brought to Your Grace in chains,” said Laglissio.
Chapter 47
The Duchy of Milan
The news of a warrant for his arrest for the quarantine of Terdona was something of a surprise to Francisco Turner. It shouldn’t have been, but it was.
“Treason. On the orders of Her Grace, Lucia, Duchess of Milan, for preventing the capture of Terdona by the forces of the Protector,” said the officer who had loftily informed Francisco he was here to arrest him.
Francisco was tired. He’d always wondered just how his commander had come by the energy and the mental acumen that a war required. Now he found that even harder to fathom. Perhaps one got used to it or something. Right now this party—you couldn’t really call it a troop—of the duchess’s peacock soldiers outnumbered his escort by three to one. They were still obviously wary about actually seizing the man they carried a warrant for. That wasn’t all that surprising since Francisco’s men were battle-hardened veterans. Neither the officer attempting to arrest him nor his troops had been in more than a barfight, most likely.
There was no sense in making it easy for them. “You wish to arrest me for obeying Protector Sforza’s direct orders?” he said incredulously. “There is disease in Terdona; it is under quarantine. If that quarantine is broken you’ll have the disease in Milan. Do you want that?”
At least that would possibly stop that quarantine being broken, as the story would get around.
“No, but I have a warrant for your arrest signed by the duchess. I cannot go against that. I…I am sure that once the matter is clarified, then all will be resolved, Captain,” said the man stiffly.
“I am sure my corpse will be very interested in that. No, gentlemen. A warrant bears the signature and seal of the Lord Protector of Milan. What is your name?” asked Francisco, reaching calmly into his saddlebag. He took out an oilskin document pouch.
“I am Captain Count di Neiro of Her Grace’s guard,” the officer announced.
Francisco took one of the documents from the pouch. The pouch was set up for writing while traveling, with a small ink bottle and quill.
“A letter won’t do. You will accompany us voluntarily or I will order my men to take you by force,” said Di Neiro.
“One moment,” said Francisco. “Di Neiro has an e before the i—correct?”
“You can’t bribe me!”
“Bribe you?” Francisco snorted, holding up the document. “Do you recognize this signature and this seal, Di Neiro?”
“Uh. The usurp— ah, Protector,” said the man. “But even if you have orders to quarantine that town, I cannot carry them to Her Grace for you, and the order specifically states you are to come before her in chains.”
“This is an order for your immediate execution,” said Francisco, loudly and clearly. “I’d be very sure that everyone who witnessed this and does not act dies, or Sforza will want their heads, too. The Wolf is recovering well. Do you think his personal physician would be running around the country otherwise?”
“Excuse me, Captain,” said Francisco’s sergeant. “Might do to tell these play soldiers that we’ve got four less men than we had, because I sent two forward to tell Lieutenant Balchi and two to the barracks in Brescia.”
If the knot of Francisco’s men were four less, the melt of Di Neiro’s troop was considerably larger…and he plainly realized this, by his sudden desperate lunge for his horse. If he’d been fitter and less of the epitome of fashion—not designed for fast movement—he might have made it, too.
As it was, he just ended up dead.
It was a good short-term solution, but Francisco knew his time in Milanese territory was likely to cause more problems than it solved. He just wasn’t sure quite what to do now, except to inform the other captains.
Venice
So far as she could ever recall afterward, there was never a specific moment at which Violetta realized that the man she shared the rose-scented healing tent with was Carlo Sforza. The knowledge simply dawned on her over time, very much like the sunrise itself.
A number of things led her to that understanding. First, the simple fact that he knew too much. The man knew details concerning the battles they discussed and sometimes argued about that only a man who’d actually been there could have known—and, at least in some instances, could only have known if he’d been in command. Second, although she sometimes disagreed with his tactical assessments and more often had doubts about his strategic opinions, she soon realized that she was completely outclassed when it came to practical issues.
Violetta had met the commander she most admired, Enrico Dell’este, on several occasions. Once, she’d even been able to discuss a couple of his victorious battles with the old soldier. The thing that had struck her the most about that conversation was the very different way Dell’este looked upon those events than the way she did.
As he’d put it to her at one point: “Your grasp of tactics is superb, Signorina de’ Medici—amazingly so, for someone who has never even seen a battle. That would be true of a man, much less a young woman like yourself. But you tend to overlook the issue that is always the central concern of an experienced soldier.”
“Which is?” she’d asked, just a bit miffed. She’d only been nineteen years old at the time.
“Supplies. What we sometimes call ‘logistics.’ More battles have been lost, throughout history, because a commander failed to properly match his resources to his tactics than because of a flaw in the tactics themselves.”
Time and again, as their discussions under the healing tent continued, Violetta was reminded of that conversation with Dell’este. The man she shared the tent with had that same hardheaded and practical view of a soldier’s work.
He knew so much she’d never even thought about. For instance, Violetta considered herself quite a good equestrienne, but her knowledge and understanding of horses was pitiful compared to what the man knew.
At what point in a heavy rain do cavalry mounts became unreliable? That point at which dirt became mud, it turned out. Like most big animals, horses grew anxious when their footing was unreliable.
How thickly massed did pikemen have to be in order to repel cavalry? Horses were dumb, even b
y animal standards, and could be forced to charge directly into pikes and fortifications. But only to a point—and knowing that point could be critical in a battle.
How early in the spring could a given-sized cavalry force or artillery force—any unit that required livestock—depend on there being enough grass to keep a campaign from being stalled? That varied from place to place, of course, but the man in the tent could tell you what the answer was for every region of Italy and parts of Europe beyond.
At first, she’d simply taken him for a very experienced soldier. A mercenary, in all likelihood. But as their discussions went on, she began realizing that he always viewed military affairs from the top down, as it were. The man had all the understanding of the practical realities of military affairs that you’d expect from a grizzled middle-aged sergeant, but he never looked at those affairs the way a sergeant would.
Looking back, she should have reached her conclusion earlier. But there were also things about the man that she had never associated with Carlo Sforza, which had veiled the truth from her for a while.
He was good-humored, for one thing. Who would think that of the man they called the “Wolf of the North”?
Even more surprising—astonishing, actually—was that he never patronized her. Indeed, he seemed genuinely interested in her opinions. Few men, in her experience, would have reacted that way to a woman expressing her views on military matters. True, they would be polite, given her status and position. But within a short time it would become obvious to Violetta that they were paying no attention at all to what she said.
The man in the tent did. Close attention, in fact.
* * *
Once she comprehended the truth, she tried to figure out what to do about it.
Demand that Sforza be removed from her presence?
That seemed…churlish. Not to mention unreasonable, presuming that what Marco Valdosta had told them was true, that he had only a very limited supply of the precious rose petals.
But, most of all, what dissuaded her from that course of action was that, if she did succeed, she’d just wind up being bored. Imagine doing nothing with your mind except enjoying the scent of roses!
Which were not her favorite flowers anyway.
As it was, she woke each time with the cheerful thought that the period of consciousness which followed would be filled with intelligent conversation with an older man whose views she found both interesting and stimulating. There weren’t many men like that, in her experience. Uncle Cosimo, of course, and…
Well. Carlo Sforza.
Chapter 48
Val di Castellazzo, Duchy of Milan
“If anyone sees Knights of the Holy Trinity scouting, word will almost certainly come to Count Mindaug,” Father Thomas Lüber said calmly. “A solitary priest, however, attracts no such comment. And it appears Duchess Lucia plans to keep us kicking our heels here. So I shall take my mule out to this Val di Castellazzo, and see what can be seen.”
He had returned some hours later. “The villagers told me the guard had been marched away last night. I walked to within sight of the house itself.”
Archimandrite von Stebbens took a deep breath. “God moves in mysterious ways. We will proceed there as soon as we can. Father Thomas, we bid you thanks and farewell.”
“I shall come with you. If indeed this is the source of the plague, I may find out more.”
“Father, it is quite possible that we will all be killed. I do not know that we will be able to overcome Mindaug and, even if we do, if we can then escape from the wrath of the Milanese.”
“And if I stay here, once your actions are known, I will be executed,” said Father Thomas calmly. “I am known to be with you, so I may as well actually be with you.”
That was an impossible argument to counter, so the tall spare priest rode with them when later that afternoon they set out through the gates of Milan, unchallenged.
“The key will be to give him as little time as possible to respond,” said Von Stebbens. “Speed is of the essence. Father Thomas, I must ask you to stay back and out of the way.”
So Father Thomas Lüber walked in behind the armored phalanx that charged up to and smashed its way into the apparently undefended house, and rushed forward, seeking their quarry in the book-lined hall, and broke into the first salon.
The floor under Von Maelenberg suddenly gave way and, in a cloud of debris and dust, the man disappeared. The rest of the Knights halted their rush.
Standing on the far side of the hole, Count Mindaug looked at them, his face almost expressionless.
The archimandrite looked at the hole between him and their quarry. It could be an illusion—or it could be the maw of hell. Knowing Count Kazimierz Mindaug, it was likely to be the latter.
“We will get you, you foul fiend!” he screamed at the monster, the sorcerer who had raised the plague demon.
* * *
Count Mindaug had made the trap for the serpent Orkise. He couldn’t have been more surprised by what it had caught, had a troupe of traveling players fallen into it.
“My apologies,” he said. “I had intended the trap for our foe. You should have knocked, like anyone else. I did not know who had broken down my door, and I took appropriate steps. I am afraid your companion has fallen a long way. Actually, he’s still falling.”
Archimandrite von Stebbens could deal with defeat. He could deal with death. This, however, sent him to the edge of fury. “Let that which cannot abide the name of Christ, be gone!”
There was no sign that that did any good, or had any effect.
He raised his sword, about to—
A voice behind them said: “Put your weapons down. Now!”
He turned to see what this new possible threat was. He swallowed, looking. She was not a very large woman and was certainly very pregnant, wearing an apron over the bulge. She also held a large hand-cannon with two hands, rock steady.
“Armor won’t protect you well enough,” she said. “Klaus has loaded the hand-cannon with steel fragments for me. Some of them will go through your visors and blind you.”
“And,” said Count Mindaug, “I do not know what brings you to my house, but we share a common enemy. I have already spoken with the Lion of Etruria, and I wanted to send a message to Emperor Charles Fredrik, the Church, and particularly to the Knights of the Holy Trinity. A thing—call it a god or a demon—has been awakened by…”
“Do not try to deceive us!”
“Do not interrupt the master,” said the girl with the gun.
There was only one of her, and fifteen—now fourteen—of them. But…she was a young, pregnant, and plainly peasant woman. Even from here he could see the cross hanging between her breasts. This must, by the accent, be one of the peasant servants who had gone to the church.
“Daughter, you have been misled,” said Von Stebbens, knowing full well that, if necessary, he would have to kill her. “Please put the gun down. We do God’s work, and you have been deceived.”
She snorted. “If breaking into Master Kazimierz’s house is your idea of God’s work, then your god must have horns and a tail. He’s the best and kindest of men. If we didn’t look after him, he’d be robbed blind.”
“I am not a particularly good man, actually,” said Kazimierz, “but I am not your enemy. I could kill all of you a great deal more easily than Emma could, but I actually need to talk to your masters.”
“We know who and what you are, Mindaug,” grated the archimandrite, weighing the possibilities, “and where you came from.”
That got a derisive snort. “Come now. I am absolutely certain the Church did not scry within Jagiellon’s defenses. Or Bartholdy’s, for that matter. And I nearly destroyed the former, and caused the downfall of the latter.”
“Do not pretend you fought for good. We know—”
“Oh, no. I did it for my own survival. But now, well, I have learned some interest in the survival of others. I like it here in the West, more than I could have dreamed. In
fact, I had begun to think I loved it, until you burst in here.”
Like Satan, he was the prince of lies, thought Von Stebbens. And then the side door burst open, with a shout of “Master, are you all right?”
Hartz reacted to the entry and slashed at the man who had just rushed in. He was a knight with a broadsword. The man was an unarmed peasant carrying a box.
* * *
The asp in Lucia’s bosom suddenly twisted and thrashed and burst out of her décolletage. Magic! Powerful magic!
“Am I being attacked?” demanded Lucia.
No. But it is a danger to you, to Orkise. And so close! The serpent will go. You must send soldiers, too, the ones my eyes have bent to your will.
“But they’re my special guard.” She knew precisely which troops the asp meant. Like her mother, they’d looked at the swaying serpent. The asp said such loyalty was best for those close to her, and she’d agreed with him.
Orkise is your source of power, mistress. I am part of Orkise, too. So close is danger!
“But he is safe under Arona’s castle.”
Oh, no, mistress. The kiss is loosed, his power rises with each death. And you are the one who made the sacrifice. He is close to you, readying his kine, and their legions. He goes as fast as he can to the place you took me to. Val di Castellazzo.
* * *
Count Mindaug saw Tamas come rushing in, just too late. He had the spell ready, waiting only for the activation, and they were all within the trap. It had been planned for the troops Duchess Lucia might turn loose against him, but would be just as effective against the Knights of the Holy Trinity. They were proofed against direct magical assault…but everything needed air. Within the sphere they stood in, the air wanted to leave and leave now. And while they might wish to leave with it, the floor would not make it easy. It did not truly become liquid, but more like the jelly that formed around cold pork, trickling slowly into the pit trap he had made for Orkise.