by Eric Flint
It had been a little frightening to watch. She could only imagine the terror that must have seeped into the souls of the Parmese who’d been battered by Sforza and his methods, and by the men he had to do the battering.
She was very tired now. She laid down on the seat of the carriage, her head nestled in Sforza’s lap.
“Are you all right?” he asked. She didn’t miss the genuine concern in his voice.
There was that about the man, too. “Oh, yes,” she said.
Chapter 55
Venice
“Yes, I can do it,” said Mindaug. “More precisely, I can try to do it.” He waggled a hand back and forth, indicating uncertainty. “Whether I will succeed or not…”
“What are the parameters involved?” asked Archimandrite von Stebbens. “What I mean is, what factors—”
“Work in our favor, and which against?” Mindaug paused for a moment, thinking, then said: “In our favor, the fact that I am generally very knowledgeable about such matters and the fact that the grimoire’s instructions are, in this case, unusually clear and precise.”
He puffed out his mustache. “Unusually clear, for this sort of magic. As a rule, the guidelines for affecting anything in the infernal regions are distressingly vague. You’re as likely to summon a specter as an eidolon—or a simple slab of beef. Or the Prince of Lies himself, in which case your continued existence will be brief in duration though near endless if measured by pain.”
Von Stebbens made a face. “And working against us?”
“Is the ambition of the project itself,” said Mindaug. He looked around the chamber, at each of the occupants therein. Besides the archimandrite, those consisted of Petro Dorma, Patriarch Michael, Father Thomas Lüber and Marco Valdosta. All of them were standing in a semicircle around the Doge, who was resting in a chair.
“Understand—understand clearly—what it is I propose to do. If the enchantment works—well, it’s more like a conjuration—Lucia will find herself in a portion of the netherworld that has been separated from all others. I will, in effect, have changed the very topography of damnation. She will be trapped in an endless loop from which there is no escape—nor any means of rescuing her.”
He glanced around the room. Spotting a small writing desk against a side wall, he asked: “Is there any paper in that drawer?” Without bothering to wait for an answer from the Doge—which he wouldn’t have gotten anyway, since Dorma had no idea what was in the drawer—he went over and pulled it open.
“Ah! Perfect.” He came back to the center of the room, tearing a sheet of paper down its length as he did so. Once he arrived back in the center, he folded the paper half over so that one side rested atop the opposite side at the end of the strip.
“You see?” he said. “Imagine yourself walking down this strip of paper. Eventually you would loop around to the other side, yes. But since that side has now become the same side you started on, you will continue to walk endlessly.”
“Will Orkise be trapped as well?”
“Not…exactly. The wyrm will, at no time, be in the same place as Lucia. Its body will remain behind, wherever it is—probably in the cellars of the Castello di Arona, if my guess is right. But, as I’ve told you, the two are now inseparably connected. So long as Lucia wanders in that netherplace, Orkise will be in a stupor. A trance, you might say. Only when she finally dies will the monster’s mind be free again.”
Von Stebbens issued a little grunt. “An ingenious trap—and I see what you meant by ‘changing the topography of damnation.’ What will snare the evil woman are not chains which might be broken, but the very nature of her new surroundings.”
“Precisely.” Mindaug grimaced again. “What makes the whole business so dangerous is not the peril of the enchantment itself. It’s that there is no way to make such a profound transformation in Satan’s realm—even a small part of that realm—without alerting him. Leaving aside his generally unpleasant temperament, the Prince of Darkness is particularly inflamed by anything which trespasses upon what he views as his dominion.”
Von Stebbens nodded. “Which Hell would certainly qualify as.”
Father Lüber raised an admonishing finger. “Technically, that’s not true. The underworld—all parts of it—were created by God along with everything else. The Devil is really no more than a tenant.”
The archimandrite gave him a level, flat gaze. Father Lüber smiled. “I grant you, Satan would dispute the matter.”
“And while he would lose the argument with God,” said Mindaug, “he would probably not lose it with me.” He puffed out his mustache again. “Not unless I had some aid.”
The patriarch frowned. “What sort of aid?” Uncertainly, he looked at Father Lüber and then at Von Stebbens. “I’m not sure…”
“They would be of almost no help at all,” said Mindaug, shaking his head. He said nothing further, simply stared at the floor.
Marco chuckled—very drily. “What he needs is the Lion. Am I correct, Count, in thinking that Satan would send an emissary to chastise you? What I mean is, he would not intervene personally.”
Mindaug shook his head. “Satan could not do so without triggering the same sort of—ah, what to call it?—territorial jealousy on the part of the Lord, let’s say. Which not even he would dare to do. So, yes, he will send an emissary—more like an executioner really.”
“And what are the spatial parameters of this enchantment…conjuration, whatever? How close to the Devil’s realm do you need to be in order to cast it?”
Mindaug looked momentarily confused, as if Marco had asked him a question so basic the sorcerer had forgotten the answer. Then, after a terse little headshake, he said: “That question has no meaning.”
Patriarch Michael interrupted. “You’ll have to forgive my young friend for his ignorance, Count Mindaug,” he said, with a smile: “His studies have been concentrated on the healing arts, not the darker ones that you, and I as well—no high churchman can be oblivious to these things—have spent so much of our lives examining.”
He turned to Marco. “The ‘location,’ as you call it, of Satan’s demesne is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The distance it lies from us—any of us—is measured by the soul, not by a yardstick of any kind.” Now, pointing a finger at Mindaug, he added: “I daresay he can get very close to it.”
“More than close enough,” Mindaug said. “Certainly closer than I’d like. Still, it would help if I could cast the enchantment from some place already attuned to perdition. Some place whose past has left a blot upon it. A desecrated monastery, perhaps, or—”
“I know of several such places in my lagoon,” said Marco. “Do you want one as isolated as possible?”
If you want to limit the side damage, yes.”
The young physician nodded. “There’s a small island in the northern reaches of the lagoon that would be suited for the purpose. It was blighted a long time ago when it was used for human sacrifices.”
“By whom?” asked Father Lüber. “I know of no such—”
Marco made an impatient gesture. “Long ago, I said.” There was a slight undertone to his voice. A growl, maybe, like that of an ancient creature annoyed a little by the chattering of infants. “Trust me, the place is there and will suit our purpose.”
He turned back to Mindaug. “You will have to do the magic, Count. I would have no idea where to begin. But I will be there with you, and if this emissary…executioner—call it Satan’s own sacrifice—dares to appear in my lagoon, I will deal with it.”
Marco was a slender man. But for just a moment, there was a sense of a huge form filling the space where he stood. Huge—and monstrous.
Mindaug held his breath for a second or two. Then, he exhaled. “That would…ah…be quite nice.”
Petro Dorma was frowning up at the young physician. “Marco, are you quite sure of this course of action? It will be most dangerous.”
“My lagoon,” Marco repeated. The sense of a monstrous presence in the
chamber was now thick, almost palpable.
“Ah…yes, of course.”
* * *
Once outside and standing in the Piazza San Marco, Archimandrite von Stebbens said, “I will come with you as well.” He tapped the front of his shield, where the cross favored by the Knights of the Holy Trinity was prominently displayed. “I believe this will help against what we will face.”
Count Mindaug gave him a look he hoped was inscrutable. Had it been scruted—was there such a word?—the meaning would have been quite obvious. Splendid. With that ridiculously ornate armor, the Knight is bound to draw the attention of Satan’s creature, allowing wiser fellows to make their escape if the affair goes badly.
He didn’t say it aloud, though. In Lithuania, the matter would have been obvious to a child. Here in the Western Lands…not so much.
Instead, he turned to practical issues. “How will we get there? By boat, I assume.”
Now it was Marco’s turn to look inscrutable. “Let me handle that. Just be ready shortly before dawn tomorrow. We will meet here again.”
Milan
As soon as Sforza’s army began passing through the Ticino gate, not far from the Basilica de San Lorenzo, Sforza gave orders to his staff to see to it that Duke Cosimo and his niece Violetta were provided with quarters suited to their station.
“Somewhere in the ducal palace,” he specified, waving his hand in a vague gesture. “Wherever they like.”
And off he went, with no further ado. Where was Turner? What was the balance of power in the city?
“He’s a brusque man at times,” said Cosimo.
Violetta smiled. “I can deal with brusqueness. It’s boredom that terrifies me.”
Cosimo gave her a sidelong gaze. “Are you sure of this, Violetta?”
“I thought it was what you wanted.”
He shrugged. “From a political standpoint, yes, I do. Very much so, in fact. An alliance between Tuscany and Milan would go a long way toward quieting the Italian political factions, which would be a blessing for everyone—especially with the risk of plague hanging over our heads. Still, I would not wish you unhappy.”
“I will be fine, Uncle.” She shifted in her seat. “Especially once I can get out of this blasted carriage and into a proper bed. I’m still easily fatigued.”
* * *
Sforza found Turner reclining at his ease in a chaise in one of the many chambers in the palace. He had a book in one hand and a glass of beer in the other.
“I thought you’d come to greet me at the gate,” the duke said, a bit crossly.
“Pressing matters of security kept me at my post,” Turner said stoutly. He declined to elaborate; Sforza declined to enquire. Some matters were best left unstated. Subordinates who could hand over a stable capital city in the middle of a semi-civil war did not grow on trees.
“Where is my beloved wife?” was the question he asked instead. If a wolf could smile, that would have been the expression on the predator’s face.
“She’s back in her estate in Arona.”
“You’re sure.”
“Oh, yes. One nice thing about the woman’s foul habits and casual cruelties—she leaves a wake wherever she goes.”
Sforza grunted, then lowered himself into a chair close to Turner’s. That done, he handed over the leather sack in his hand. “Have this taken care of.”
Turner set down his beer and book, took the sack in both hands, and opened it up.
“Well, Umberto’s looking a bit worse than usual,” he said. “Where would you like him displayed?”
Sforza waved over a nearby servant. “Some wine,” he said. To Turner: “Use your imagination. I don’t care, as long as the swine is widely visible.”
Venice
“Are you sure about this, Marco?” Kat asked worriedly. Standing close to her in the salon in Casa Montescue, Benito and Maria looked just as worried. The only one present who didn’t seem concerned was ’Lessi.
“Uncle Marco,” the child gurgled happily, beaming up at him. “Give me a ride.”
Marco smiled down at her. “Not right now, ’Lessi. I have to do something first.”
When he looked back up at the adults, his expression was as savage as Marco’s could ever get. “My lagoon,” he said.
Chapter 56
Venice
The three men who would be making the journey to the island assembled in the Piazza San Marco shortly before sunrise. Benito was with them also, having accompanied his half-brother from Casa Montescue.
“How do you do this?” he asked Marco.
“Do what?”
Benito made vague gestures with his hands. “You know…transform into the Lion. Or whatever you do. I was told that there was a big ceremony involved.”
Marco smiled. “That was the first time I took up the Mantle and the Crown. It’s much more straightforward now.” He looked to Von Stebbens and Count Mindaug. The first was encased in full armor, holding a two-handed great sword. The other was wearing a simple hassock and holding a slender volume. There was something odd about the book’s spine—it actually looked like a spine from a reptile of some sort.
“Are you ready?” he asked. Von Stebbens nodded. Mindaug shrugged.
An instant later, all three men vanished into some…
Thing. Benito couldn’t tell if it was a cloud or a phantom; perhaps a cross between the two. All he could make out clearly was a huge pair of wings that swiftly bore the thing out of sight.
“That’s the Lion, I guess,” he muttered to himself.
* * *
From Mindaug’s point of view, the situation was even less clear. He could tell that he was being swiftly borne somewhere—through the air, he supposed, although he could see nothing around him but a gray mist. Next to him—near to him, rather; the exact distance was unclear—he could detect although not see the archimandrite.
He had no sense of time passing. The journey might have taken seconds, minutes—possibly hours. Not days, though. He was sure of that for some reason.
Then he felt a thump under his feet, as if he’d hopped off a short ledge. Within seconds, the mist that had surrounded him cleared away.
And now, he could see the Winged Lion of St. Mark, the ancient guardian beast of the lagoon and the marshes, who predated even the Etrurians.
He almost wished he couldn’t. The creature—he struggled mightily not to think of him as a monster—was squatting on his haunches almost right next to him. Mindaug had to look up…and up…and up to see the Lion’s eyes.
Which were looking right back down at him.
“Well?” rumbled the Lion. “Hadn’t you best get started?”
The sun was just beginning to come up over the horizon. The Winged Lion had timed their arrival perfectly, for this was the moment when the diurnal balance of power shifted against the forces of darkness.
The count moved toward the center of the island, which wasn’t hard to determine, since the island was quite small and mostly barren of any vegetation. That in itself was unusual since most uninhabited places in the Venetian Lagoon were marshland. Normally, even a small island would be dense with cattails, sedges and sawgrass. But on this island there was very little beyond an occasional low shrub or patch of glasswort. Most of the island was as empty as a desert, although a haze that would never be found in a desert shrouded everything more than thirty yards offshore.
The island was eerily silent. Normally, in any of the marshlands of the lagoon, birds were plentiful—and noisy. Ducks of all kinds, herons, seagulls; they all lent their distinctive voices to the landscape.
But on this island…nothing. Mindaug could hear the faint sounds produced by birds on neighboring islands, but here the sound also seemed to be obscured by the haze. The ancient evil that had produced this unusual environment was palpable to him. The wickedness was much too old to have any direct effect on the magic he’d be using, thankfully. Still, it was unpleasant.
And about to become a lot more unpleasant.<
br />
Once he reached the place he estimated to be the island’s center, he crouched and opened up the book he’d been carrying. Off to the side, he could see Von Stebbens frowning fiercely. No doubt the upright archimandrite was wondering why Mindaug was using none of the wards that Christian and Jewish sorcerers—the Strega as well, although the specifics could be quite different—employed as a matter of routine.
Of course, such more-or-less saintly magicians were not generally trying to raise up the forces of darkness. Under the current circumstances, wards would have been worse than useless—a downright nuisance to Mindaug’s purpose.
He began reciting from the appropriate page in the text. The language was an ugly one—spiky, as it were. And he could only hope that he was approximating the pronunciation closely enough. That was hard to say, since no one—no man nor any creature—had used the tongue in centuries. Hopefully, Satan’s minions had no more familiarity than he did with the fine points of diction, inflection and elocution.
Halfway through the passage, he was able to descry the form taken by the geographic manipulation he was producing. Visually, it was confusing—to be expected, of course. But the main aspect of the twisting infernal topography was what could only be described as a discarnate stench.
He spotted Lucia only once, and that dimly and at a great distance. But the glimpse was enough for him to be sure that she was being properly snared in the trap. So, by the time he finished reciting the entire passage, he had a sense of fulfillment.