Shadow of the Lion hoa-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  * * *

  Agony led the way, dragging the monster back into consciousness. In the cage, true enough, its bones and flesh would knit and heal. But--not without pain. Immense pain, in this instance.

  Worse than the pain, however, was the terror; once the monster's returning mind understood that Chernobog himself was here.

  Here . . . and in a rage.

  Another blow destroyed most of the healing. A second broke the monster's spine anew.

  You imbecile! You had your orders!

  The monster tried to babble its excuse. But it was impossible, with a still-mangled snout.

  It would have done no good, in any event. Chernobog was not to be misled, and the monster--now that its mind was no longer clouded with lust--knew how foolish that thought had been.

  You awakened the Lion!

  Another blow sent gouts of blood flying, along with gobbets of flesh.

  Thankfully, it felt Chernobog receding. The fury in the master's voice ebbed, slightly, replaced by a colder and more thoughtful anger.

  Nothing for it. I cannot punish the servant, for there is nothing left to punish. Nor the vessel either, for the moment, since I still have use for it. But you . . .

  The broken-bodied, half-paralyzed monster whined, begging forgiveness.

  On you I will feed.

  The monster howled for some time thereafter, as Chernobog held it down and tore out its innards. Not gobbling the intestines so much as chewing on them, slowly and with apparent relish.

  When Chernobog was done, there was not much left of the monster. But, in the recesses of what had once been a mind, the monster knew that there was still . . . enough.

  It would survive. Barely.

  The healing would be painful. Agonizing.

  I trust you will obey me, henceforth.

  The monster tried to whine its abject obedience; but failed, quite miserably. The only sound it made was that of spilling blood. Chernobog had also devoured its tongue.

  Chapter 19 ==========

  Caesare Aldanto leaned back in the dark corner of the tavern where he had taken a table. For a moment, he closed his eyes, scowling inwardly as he felt the continuing effects of the disease he'd contracted. It had been almost two weeks now since Marco had begun medicating him. And while that medication had certainly helped enormously--quite possibly saved his life, in fact--Caesare was still feeling some lingering weakness.

  Damn Venice and its miserable swamps anyway!

  He sighed. He couldn't afford any weakness. Not at any time in his life, much less now. In Venice, less so than in any city in the world except possibly his home town of Milan itself.

  In truth, he detested Venice. Still . . . it was an excellent place for a man like him to make his fortune. So, suppressing all else, Caesare reopened his eyes and gave the gloomy interior of the tavern another careful examination.

  This was not Caesare's usual haunt, but it suited his purpose today. The tavern was dark, the food and wine were inferior enough that it wasn't very popular, and he wasn't known here.

  Sensing movement at the door, his eyes flicked in that direction. Caesare had taken a table in the rear, as he had specified to the contact. So when Sachs's man entered, he didn't have to stand in the doorway peering around, which would have made him suspicious and uncomfortable.

  As the new arrival made his way past the tables, Caesare realized that this man would have had no difficulty recognizing him anyway. They were old acquaintances, after all.

  Relishing the shock he'd give the fellow, Caesare leaned forward, taking his face out of the shadows. "Good evening, Francesco," he said genially.

  Francesco Aleri was good; Caesare had to give him that. Except for a momentary start, Aleri's astonishment was quickly covered. Not surprising, of course, for the man who was Duke Visconti's chief agent in Venice--which meant, in practice if not in theory, also the head of the Montagnard faction in the city.

  Caesare, by sheer willpower, forced any trace of the weakness produced by the disease from his face. The grin that creased that face was purely savage. He could not afford to let Aleri suspect he might be ill.

  And, besides . . . Caesare was genuinely enjoying himself. This must be a dreadful moment for Francesco, who had thought until now--and with good reason--that Caesare was safely dead. After all, Aleri had been the one responsible for cracking him over the back of the head and dumping him in the Rio dei Mendicanti.

  That would have been the end of the matter for Caesare, if Francesco hadn't chosen to dump him off a bridge rather than rolling him over the side of the canal. But as it happened, there had been a small boat tied up under that bridge, and in the boat had been a young girl, alone, and . . . very susceptible to a handsome young man in obvious danger. Especially one who was as consummate an actor as Caesare Aldanto.

  "You look prosperous, Caesare," Aleri said pleasantly, taking a seat across from him. The motion was easy, casual, relaxed--but Francesco's back, needless to say, was prudently to the wall.

  Caesare smiled. "I do well enough," he said, in tones as smooth and bland as unflavored cream. "Despite the ungentle fashion in which I was discharged from my previous, ah, position."

  "You seem to have landed on your feet," Francesco said, shrugging.

  Aleri said nothing else, although Caesare had expected a retort, at least. From Aleri, who had been the one who had discovered that Caesare had been selling his information outside of Montagnard circles. Aleri, who had denounced him as a traitor.

  Aleri, who had volunteered as executioner. As he always did, at such times. Aleri prized his position of being Duke Visconti's "enforcer" among the Montagnards. It had been Aleri, also, who saw to the disposal of Bespi. Although, in Bespi's case, the cause had been an excess of enthusiasm rather than cynical peculation. Like many true believers, Bespi had eventually found the contradictions between Montagnard ideals and Milanese realities . . . too difficult to handle. And had then been stupid enough to send a protest to Duke Visconti.

  Caesare toyed with his wineglass. It was only there to give him an excuse for being here; he didn't intend to drink the vile stuff, not on top of lingering illness. He actually had landed on his feet; if he'd gone headfirst into Maria's boat, he probably would have died anyway of a broken neck. As it was, he'd been limp enough to collect nothing worse than a few more bruises. He'd feigned worse, naturally, when he realized where he was. He'd have been a fool not to; he had no money, no resources, and a Montagnard death sentence on his head. Maria had realized as much the moment he landed next to her, and had kept him safely hidden, becoming more and more infatuated with him with every day that passed. For his part, he had seen to it that the infatuation was fed until it spread through her veins like a fever and overcame the tiniest vestige of her common sense. Love was the surest hold a man could have over an inexperienced girl like Maria.

  He also made certain that she remained ever-conscious of the difference between their ranks. It made her unsure of her ability to keep him with her, without making her jealous. Jealousy might break the spell he had over her; self-doubt and the uncertainty of being worthy of him kept her eager to please.

  "I believe you requested a meeting," Caesare said lazily. "As I informed your contact."

  "Not a meeting with you," Aleri snarled softly. "I was supposed to meet--" The Milanese agent broke off abruptly, muttering something under his breath. Caesare wasn't certain, but he thought the phrase had been: that idiot monk!

  Assuming he was correct, Caesare pretended to sip from his wine and then added: "What can you do, Francesco? And the German cretins call us 'auslanders.' As if they could find their own assholes here in Venice. But, like it or not, I am the 'idiot monk's' chosen man for the job. Whatever the job might be."

  He set the glass of wine down on the table. "So why don't you tell me about it, and save us both the useless recriminations. I don't have any hard feelings, after all, despite being the injured party in the affair."

  Aleri's feature
s were not distorted. The only sign of the rage that Caesare had no doubt was filling the Montagnard was the coldness of his gaze. "Your services were always for sale, Caesare." There was ice in Aleri's voice, too. "Just like every other putta in this filthy city."

  Caesare did not rise to the bait; he'd been expecting it. Aleri was a true believer himself--which was odd, really, for a Milanese so close to Visconti--and that was his Achilles heel. He would do anything for faith; Caesare would do anything for money. They were two of a kind, and the joke was that Francesco didn't even see it. "The job," he prompted gently. "And my pay."

  Aleri, Caesare thought, was very near to throwing his own wineglass in his face. But . . . the memory of how good a duelist Caesare was prevented him. As good as Francesco was with a blade, Caesare was better--and they both knew it.

  Instead, after a moment's tense struggle with himself--for a moment, his face looked like a winter storm--Aleri reached into his cloak and brought out a leather purse. He slapped it down on the tabletop.

  "I'd have hired a dog first, myself. But this incident you're to organize and carry out is a fool's business anyway. If the German cretin wants to hire a traitor for it, why not? It matters not to me."

  Caesare took the purse and made a little show of pouring the coins into his hand and counting them. Aleri scowled slightly. "Stop being a fool. You always were too clever for your own good. It'll get you killed soon enough, and good riddance."

  Caesare didn't rise to the bait. "Tell me about it," he murmured. "The job, Francesco. Save the speeches for your faithful followers."

  * * *

  By the time Aleri finished, Caesare was waging a fierce battle to keep from scowling himself.

  That idiot monk! Typical German. Head as thick as a hog's.

  His mind raced. That the plan would work, on its own terms, Caesare had no reason to doubt. But . . .

  What is the point of it? And the trouble it might stir up! Does that clerical cretin have any idea how--?

  He broke off the thought. It was none of his business, after all. For whatever reason, Caesare's new employer and protector had given his approval to the abbot's silly schemes. Though why Brunelli, whose fortunes were tied to the Metropolitans, should have done so was a mystery to Caesare. Not for the first time, Caesare wondered if Casa Brunelli always operated with a single mind.

  Interesting thought. But he had neither the time nor the inclination to pursue it. Soon enough, Caesare had little doubt, he would have to look for another employer anyway. And, for the moment, the one he had paid well and--

  He smiled across the table at Aleri. And keeps this one, and his cohorts, from peeling the hide off my back.

  Aleri's chair scraped slightly on the floor as he pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. "You'd better keep one eye open from now on when you sleep," he growled. "Because the moment that your new patron finds you too expensive to support, is the moment when I finish the job I bungled."

  Caesare continued to smile. "In that case, I needn't worry," he mocked. "You'll have a long, gray beard before that day comes."

  Aleri stared down at him. "And did you tell your new woman your real history, Caesare?"

  Caesare must have shown something in his face; he cursed himself silently as Aleri continued: "Of course there's a new woman. There always is, with beautiful golden Caesare. You betray everyone, women even quicker than men. Whoever the girl is--and I'll find out, soon enough--I pity her. But my pity won't keep me from killing her also. An example must be set for what happens to traitors and their whores."

  The Milanese turned and stalked out.

  Caesare continued to play with his wine, and wait for young Benito to saunter in as a signal that it was safe to leave the place. As he did so, his thoughts drifted over his new . . . associates.

  Maria was invaluable for the moment, leaving aside the pleasure her fiercely enthusiastic lovemaking provided. Very unskilled enthusiasm, to be sure, and Caesare was beginning to get bored with it. But that problem was easy to solve, after all. Caesare gave it no further thought, beyond an idle moment of curiosity as to which of several Case Vecchie girls would be the first to climb into his bed and provide him with more expert entertainment. Alessandra, for one. He was quite certain the Montescue woman was eager to rekindle their old affair.

  The boys, on the other hand--Benito in particular--were proving far more useful than he would have guessed. No one ever looked twice at a child, particularly not a canal-brat like Benito. Aleri and his ilk would be looking for a woman. That they'd discover Maria soon enough, Caesare didn't doubt for a moment. Any more than he doubted what would happen to the canal-girl once . . . the situation changed. But the Montagnards would never suspect Caesare of employing the boys as his aides. Particularly not those boys--given how their mother had died, and by whose hand.

  But that, after all, was part of the dance, wasn't it? Caesare flexed his right hand, for a moment, remembering the feel of Lorendana's throat as Bespi slid the knife between her ribs. She had been quite shocked when she died, he remembered. Not so much with the knife as with the hand that kept her from crying out. She had always understood the risk of assassination, moving in the circles she did. What she hadn't expected was that her own lover would set up the killing--and time it for the moment she was most defenseless. Naked, in her own bed, right after they finished making love.

  A stupid woman, in the end, for all her quick wits. She should have known that once she lost the favor of Carlo Sforza she was sure to receive the delayed vengeance of Filippo Visconti. Yet she'd been careless enough to accept a Milanese adventurer as a new bedmate.

  Stupid. As stupid as Bespi, with his idiot ideals. Caesare's lips twisted in a little smile, remembering the look on Bespi's face as he killed Lorendana. The assassin's eyes had been on Caesare, not his victim. Eyes cold with loathing and disgust. Caesare had never been sure, but he suspected that killing had been the one which finally tipped Fortunato Bespi over the edge.

  No matter. Caesare was not stupid. And he enjoyed the irony of having Lorendana's orphans as his new underlings. It was the best proof imaginable that his own view of the world corresponded to reality.

  Caesare considered the wine, and sat back into the shadows. The wine was execrable; the shadows--ideal.

  Chapter 20 ==========

  Erik shifted his feet in the antechamber before Abbot Sachs's door. He took a deep breath. Then, reluctantly, knocked on the thick oak.

  He waited. He'd just knock again, and go. He could try later. He raised his hand. . . .

  "Enter," said a voice from within.

  Erik walked in. The room was sybaritically appointed. His eyes were still drawn first to the deep-set glowering stare of the abbot, rather than the furnishings fit for a prince of the blood. Sachs sat behind one of these, an escritoire of dark wood inlaid with ivory.

  "You wished to see me, Abbot?" asked Erik evenly. The air in the room was overly warm and full of an acerbic incense. And maybe just a hint of . . . perfume? Erik found himself wondering if Manfred's frequent witticisms about the relationship between Sachs and Sister Ursula might not have a basis of truth.

  Whatever the scent's nature, it was making his nose itch and his eyes water.

  The abbot's sour countenance twitched. Then, to Erik's amazement, his face did something the confrere knight had never seen it do before--the thin lips dragged themselves into a smile. "Ah. Hakkonsen. Yes. I have a task for you."

  Erik wondered whether it was too late to bolt for the door. It was either bolt--or sneeze soon. If there were two things Erik was certain of, the first was that Abbot Sachs disliked him violently; the second was that this incense was driving him mad. But as a confrere Knight he was, by order of Bishop-Commander Von Schielbar, under the authority of the leader of the Servants of the Holy Trinity in Venice.

  That remained true even if Erik had forcefully reminded the abbot, less than a fortnight ago, of the limits of his authority. The months they'd spent here in Venice
had made their dislike mutual; the incident in the church over sanctuary had brought it into the open. In the two weeks that had gone by since, the abbot had spoken not a single word to Erik, prior to now.

  The only official notice of the clash had been a summons to the quarters of Von Stublau, where the knight-commander began a stern lecture on the proper conduct of knights when dealing with abbots. It had been as brief as it was stern, because Erik had turned on his heel and left before Von Stublau finished his third sentence.

  The Prussian had been outraged, no doubt. But not even Von Stublau was prepared to press the matter any further. Erik's conduct in the church had given him a reputation among all the other knights as a man to be dealt with very, very gingerly. The more so when the reaction of official Venice to the incident in the church made it as clear as crystal that Erik's behavior had been the only thing that had saved the Knights from what might very well have been a political disaster.