All the Plagues of Hell

by Eric Flint

  Now, she rattled off a burst of words in what Francisco assumed to be her native tongue. That would be the Mongolian dialect used by the Golden Horde.

  Erik said something in reply, in the same language. As soon as he finished, Bortai and both of the Mongolians standing behind her got expressions on their faces that…

  Boded very, very ill for somebody.

  The duke of Parma, Francisco was pretty sure. He wasn’t very familiar with the Golden Horde and its customs, but he assumed they shared the typical Mongol attitude on the subject of envoys. However ruthless Mongols might be in other respects, envoys—any sort of ambassador or emissary—were considered sacrosanct. They were never harmed, or even threatened with harm.

  Bortai rattled off something else. Grinning coldly, Erik looked down at Sforza and said: “If your troops can open a path for us whenever you meet this Umberto fellow in the field, we’ll be glad to reap his parts for you.”

  Startled, Petro Dorma looked at Manfred. “Ah, Your Highness…”

  The prince shrugged. “I’m not going to tell Erik and Bortai what to do with their own troops. Besides, I think”—he glanced from Dorma to Sforza to Violetta—“we can discuss the political implications later.”

  While that exchange took place, Sforza had been studying Erik; then, gave the two Mongol soldiers a quick study; then, looked back at Erik. “How many men do you have? And are they really that good?”

  Before Erik could answer, Carlo held up his hand. “Hear me out, please. I’m sure I can defeat that bastard Umberto in any battle”—here his expression became somber—“but I doubt if I can rout him. Not with the number of men I’ll have. The problem is that we’re being invaded by others besides Parma, so I have no choice but to divide my forces.”

  He looked now to Francisco. “Who else will we be facing? In the next fortnight, I’m talking about.”

  Turner tugged at his beard, thinking. “Malatesta, for sure. I don’t know about Lippi Pagano and his Imolans. The viscount is being his usual cagey self. But what I’m more concerned about at the moment is this silly notion that you will be leading anybody in the field. For the love of all that’s holy, Carlo, you’re still a very sick man.”

  The duke of Milan shook his head impatiently. “I’m not proposing to lead any charges—in fact, I won’t even be on horseback. I’ve gotten used to riding in a carriage. Maybe it’s my advanced age. And it’s no harder—well, not much, anyway—to sit in a carriage than it is to lie on a couch.”

  “Sitting in a carriage, no,” said Manfred, “but what you’re proposing is that you’ll be directing a battle from that carriage.” The big prince made a face. “I’ve commanded soldiers in a battle. No matter what position you do it from—standing; on horseback; sitting in a carriage; lying flat on your back, for that matter—it’s…ah, what the word?”

  “Stressful,” Francisco supplied forcefully. “Carlo, this is unwise. Let me deal with Duke Umberto. You have other officers who can handle Malatesta.”

  “No.” Sforza’s response was just as forceful. “Yes, I’ve got other men who can deal with Malatesta. But we’re fighting on three fronts, not two. You seem to have forgotten that Milan itself is now in the hands of my treacherous wife. I want it back—and you’re by far the best man I have for that purpose.”

  Francisco started to argue but fell silent. Carlo’s assessment was…

  Probably accurate. The Wolf of the North was such a dominant figure that, while he had plenty of capable military subordinates, he really didn’t have very many good political advisors and assistants. He didn’t usually need them.

  A slight commotion behind him drew his attention. Another person was being ushered into the chamber, whom Francisco had met before.

  The duke of Florence had joined them. Cosimo must have just arrived in Venice.

  Violetta didn’t notice, however. Her attention was concentrated entirely on Sforza. Now she spoke up, for the first time since her entrance. “Are you sure of this, Carlo?” She sounded genuinely concerned. “If anything goes wrong…”

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong. At least, nothing that would pose a threat to me personally.” Sforza glanced again at Erik and the Mongols. “Whether they can do their part…we’ll see.”

  Bortai frowned. The other two Mongols had no reaction to the Milanese ruler’s somewhat skeptical remark—probably because they hadn’t understood him. Their command of Italian was obviously rudimentary.

  Erik Hakkonsen, on the other hand, just looked amused. “I’ve got the best light cavalry in the world, Duke. And anyone stupid enough to have an envoy mutilated isn’t likely to be any more astute on a battlefield, I’m thinking.”

  Sforza studied him for a moment, then grunted. “You’ve got the right of that. Parma’s an ass and a drunkard—and those are his best qualities.”

  He swiveled in his wheelchair to look at the woman in the wheelchair next to him, and gave her a big smile. “You can probably manage a carriage ride yourself. Would you like to see a battle, instead of just reading about them?”

  Violetta brightened immediately, as if Carlo had offered her some fine jewelry rather than a view of carnage. “Oh, yes, Carlo! That would be splendid.”

  While that exchange was taking place, Duke Cosimo had advanced to the center of the chamber and come to stand just behind his niece. “What would be splendid, Violetta?”

  Startled, she looked back at him. “Uncle Cosimo! I didn’t know you were here.” She pointed at Sforza. “Carlo’s offered to let me watch one of his battles. Isn’t that exciting?”

  * * *

  It was Cosimo de’ Medici’s turn to be startled. Not at the notion of his niece going to a battlefield, but at Sforza’s new status with her.

  “Carlo,” was it now? And he hadn’t missed the undertone of affection.

  Well, this was interesting.

  Chapter 53

  Val di Castellazzo, Duchy of Milan

  As it turned out, Prince Manfred and his Knights of the Holy Trinity had no role to play at Val di Castellazzo—beyond that of simple laborers. When they got to the villa, they discovered that the whole compound was now in ruins. And it was completely deserted. Having done their wreckage and plundering, Duchess Lucia’s troops had apparently returned to Milan.

  As he and Manfred surveyed the scene from horseback, Count Mindaug started tugging at his mustache. The gesture somehow managed to combine anger and thoughtfulness.

  “Doesn’t look like there’s much left,” commented Manfred. He waved at the ruins with a large, gauntleted hand. “If it hadn’t rained yesterday, everything here would probably still be smoldering.”

  “With respect to the edifice, you’re right. But my library—the books, at least—will still be intact. We’ll need to dig them out from under the rubble, of course.”

  Seeing the surprised expression on the prince’s face, Mindaug left off his mustache tugging and smiled. Or so, at least, Manfred presumed from the little heave in the enormous mustache. You couldn’t actually see any part of the Lithuanian magician’s mouth.

  “I assure you the fire those miserable arsonists started won’t have damaged the books, Prince. The reason I know that is because one of the wards I set upon my library protects them by incinerating any would-be reivers. That would hardly do me any good if my library got incinerated at the same time.”

  He began climbing down from his horse. “Let’s go see what needs to be done.”

  Venice

  Marco looked over the five Knights of the Holy Trinity resting on their cots in the same room in the Doge’s palace where he’d healed Carlo Sforza and Violetta de’ Medici. These were the Knights who’d survived Orkise’s breath, which the monster had spewed upon them in the battle at Val di Castellazzo.

  Survived—but only for the moment. The plague god’s venomous breath had poisoned them badly. Unless Marco could neutralize its effects, they would all die soon.

  He’d decided to try the same treatment he’d used t
o good effect with Sforza and Violetta. He didn’t know if he had enough left of the rose petal attar, but there was only one way to find out. So, he’d had the knights’ cots arranged like a five-pointed star, with their heads clustered together. That way, he could have the same sort of tent covering them, within which they’d be able to breathe as much of the attar as possible.

  “Will it work?” asked Patriarch Michael. He and Father Thomas Lüber were standing next to Marco. Just behind them stood the Aemiline hesychast, Brother Dimitrios, who’d arrived in Venice the day before at the patriarch’s summons.

  Marco spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “I don’t know, because I don’t know how much of the essence of those rose petals hasn’t been steamed out of them already. You can tell just from the smell that the attar has become weaker. We’ll just have to see. They won’t heal quickly, no matter what.”

  He turned away from the tented cots and gestured toward the door. “Let us continue our discussion in the chamber beyond. These men don’t need to be disturbed; they need to rest.”

  * * *

  The chamber next door was one of the many moderate-sized salons that could be found throughout the Doge’s palace. The building served as the seat of the Venetian government, not simply the Doge’s residence, and had been designed accordingly. At any given time, many of La Serenissima’s multitude of councils and committees would be holding meetings within the palace, both formal and informal.

  The walls and ceiling of this chamber had the usual murals and paintings that decorated most of the rooms in the palace—not including the cells holding suspects, of course. The palace also served Venice as a prison.

  After the four men had taken seats, Patriarch Michael looked from Marco to Brother Dimitrios, and then back again. “I suspect the two of you have a better understanding of this Count Mindaug than anyone else in Italy—or in the Holy Roman Empire, for that matter. What do you think of him?”

  Marco glanced at the Aemiline hesychast. Brother Dimitrios’s expression was pensive; that of a man who would take some time to deliberate on his answer.

  Left to his own inclinations, Marco would probably have done the same, but the ancient power whose spirit he shared was not given to hesitation. So, almost as if he were hearing someone else speak, Marco heard his own voice filled the room. It was not a loud voice, just…powerful.

  “I would not call him a good man, certainly. But he has made his choice and he is neither indecisive nor someone who second-guesses himself. And, in his own fatalistic way, he is courageous. You can rely on him to fight on your side and not betray you.”

  Patriarch Michael frowned. “You are sure of this?”

  “Yes.” So might granite sound, if stone could speak.

  Brother Dimitrios ran fingers through his hair, which was now a bit thin on top but still dark. “I concur. I spent many hours observing the man. I don’t doubt he is capable of great—even extreme—ruthlessness. But I never detected any cruelty. Indeed, he was often kind to the little mice who shared his wagon, sharing bits of food with them and taking care not to frighten them. I think he rather enjoyed their company.”

  “But they posed no threat to him, either,” pointed out Father Lüber. “What you describe as kindness might simply have been forbearance.”

  The Aemiline smiled. “You can say so, if you wish. But I have spent a great deal of time in Lithuania, Father. In Chernobog’s realm, forbearance is no more common than kindness.”

  After a moment, Patriarch Michael nodded. “No, I suppose not—and I think we have little choice, in any event, between Orkise and Mindaug?”

  Father Lüber issued a soft little grunt, that even had some humor in it. “Put that way, we have no choice at all,” he said.

  Milan

  “I leave you in charge of the city, Lord Laglissio.” Impatiently, Lucia headed for the entrance to the ducal palace. Behind her, she heard the count say: “But, Your Grace, what would you have me—”

  “Just do it! I have pressing business to attend to in Arona.”

  Pressing, indeed. As she climbed into the carriage, she heard the asp’s hissing voice. It sounded louder than usual, but that was probably an illusion brought on by her own anxiety. The snake’s speech was not really a voice, just thoughts in her mind.

  Orkise is hurt. And enraged, of course.

  The carriage set off with a lurch. Lucia, unprepared, was slammed back into the seat. Normally, that would have resulted in punishment leveled on the coachman, but she was so preoccupied she barely noticed. She hadn’t actually been hurt, after all.

  “Will he survive?” she asked, now frightened. Without Orkise…

  The answer had a derisive tone. Orkise can’t be killed. How could he, since he is death himself? But he will sulk for a time. He is not accustomed to being thwarted.

  Lucia wondered what “sulk for a time” would translate into, if measured. Hours? Days? Even weeks? Months?

  Hours were not a problem. Days…she could manage, especially if they were just a few. But weeks—certainly months—could be disastrous.

  “And you say Sforza still lives?” That came out almost as a whisper.

  Yes. I do not understand it.

  Disastrous.

  * * *

  Count Laglissio’s thoughts were similarly dark-hued, but the time frame was reversed. He was hoping for as much time as possible, before someone from the duke of Milan’s entourage—perhaps even Sforza himself, God forbid—showed up in Milan. The new military units that Duchess Lucia had assembled in the capital were still large in number, but they were poorly trained and probably had a morale to match their training.

  His fears proved well founded. In midafternoon, a sizeable cavalry force showed up at the city’s southern gate. The officer in command demanded entry and the fools manning the gate were browbeaten into compliance.

  The first act of the cavalry commander was to replace the existing guards with men from his own force. His second act was to lead the remainder of the force—still upward of four hundred strong—to the ducal palace.

  There—this was incomprehensible!—the commander succeeded in browbeating the guards into allowing his cavalrymen entry. The ducal palace of Milan was a fortress, which could have successfully resisted a much larger army.

  Perhaps they would have, except that the guards couldn’t find Lord Laglissio when they sent couriers to fetch him and get his instructions. They looked everywhere they could think of—

  —but, sadly, did not think to look in the treasury vault. Had they done so, they would have found the count hurriedly stuffing a sack with specie, before he headed to the stables and rode his horse out of the city via one of the smaller gates on the northeast wall.

  Let Lucia do what she would. Laglissio didn’t think she would be alive much longer anyway. Nor would he, if he didn’t get out of the duchy fast enough. The officer who’d led the cavalry force into Milan was that Turner fellow that Sforza seemed to dote on.

  Frightful man, for all that he claimed to be a simple healer. Turner was the same brute who’d had poor Captain Count di Neiro summarily executed. Cut down right in the street! As if he were a common criminal!

  * * *

  It was well for Laglissio that he made his escape from Milan. Francisco Turner did indeed have a warrant for the count’s arrest, signed by Sforza himself—and a not-thin batch of other documents, also signed by the duke, that authorized Turner to execute anyone he chose.

  He used four of them to execute the top officers of Lucia’s so-called “City Guard.” Or, at least, the four top officers who still remained in Milan. Lord Laglissio and two other leading figures in Her Grace’s City Guard appeared to have fled the city.

  “Should we set out in pursuit, Captain?” asked one of Francisco’s lieutenants.

  Turner shook his head. “It’s not worth the effort, and it’s certainly not worth diverting the needed men.” He gestured toward the four captured officers. “Just hang that lot—nothing fa
ncy; we don’t need to erect a gallows for the likes of them—and see to it that there aren’t any organized units of Lucia’s ‘City Guard’ still at large.”

  He thought for a moment. “Put up a proclamation announcing that anyone still wearing that ridiculous blue-and-gold uniform by tomorrow morning will be executed on the spot. That should do it, I think.”

  Val di Castellazzo, Duchy of Milan

  The next morning, Manfred and Mindaug and the prince’s retinue of Knights left the ruins of the villa. They escorted two wagons loaded with the count’s library, one of them driven by Mindaug himself and the other by Klaus the bombardier.

  Manfred rode alongside Mindaug’s wagon. He was sucking his left thumb.

  “Still hurts,” he complained.

  Mindaug grimaced with sympathy; so, at least, the prince interpreted the motion of his mustache. “That volume has always had a nasty disposition.”

  “Who ever heard of a book that bites?” grumbled Manfred.

  “Um.” Count Mindaug puffed air through his mustache. “At least that one doesn’t have a digestive tract. So you were never in much danger of losing your thumb.”

  The prince stared down at him. Mindaug’s view of the world was…

  Odd. Sometimes, quite disconcerting.

  Chapter 54

  Left bank of the Adda River

  A few miles northwest of Cremona

  Violetta fell asleep as they neared the site where Carlo predicted the battle would be fought. Her fatigue was not surprising, though. It had been a long and arduous journey, at least for someone still as weak from poisoning as she was. The carriage holding herself, Cosimo and Sforza, guarded by the soldiers her uncle had brought as an escort from Florence along with a sizeable force of Venetian cavalry, had left Milan several days earlier. They’d passed through Padua and Verona before striking west toward Cremona where most of Milan’s army had been awaiting Sforza’s arrival.