Shadow of the Lion hoa-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  Poor little Katerina. The fortunes of the Montescues had not prospered in the time he'd been gone, although there was a part of that which could be laid at the old man's door, wasting endless amounts of money on that stupid attempt to destroy Casa Valdosta, root and branch.

  Old fool.

  But Luciano, now huddled over his brazier as the evening mists crept in and the air grew cold and damp, did not have a great deal of time or pity to waste on his former pupil and her family. He was collecting information, and he needed as much of it as he could gather, as fast as he could bring it in.

  He had questions, but there was one thing that he had no doubt of. The hand of true evil was stretched towards Venice, and it had at least one finger firmly planted within the city.

  Finger? Call it a claw, a talon.

  Who, for a start. Who was the nun with the dead eyes? If there was a vessel for that talon, it was surely her, but who was she? To what Order did she belong? The Servants of the Trinity? If that was so, then how could such a creature have gotten into the ranks of those most fully dedicated to fighting it at all costs? How could they possibly miss the signs of such evil?

  What? What was the monster he had seen in the scrying-mirror, the thing that was surely a servant of the Great Evil if not another vessel for it--the monster that was killing in such a horrible manner, the monster that could seemingly reach anyone, anywhere?

  Why? What was the ultimate plan here? Luciano was quite certain by now that the Great Evil lurking behind these machinations took the form of the Grand Duke of Lithuania. But why was the duke so interested in Venice? At a glance, there seemed no logic to it.

  And, a very, very urgent question--when? There would be an attack on the city, of that Luciano was now also certain. So--when? Who would be the major players?

  His vision had shown him some of those players: Lucrezia Brunelli and her brother Ricardo, the nun, another churchman who was certainly wearing the cassock of the Servants of the Trinity. Another question, just how many plots were there building to a climax, and how many of them were interwoven? What he had seen was--he thought--the sources of danger to Venice; which, since these things were of necessity biased towards the attitude of the seeker, meant Venice as he knew it. Now, Lucrezia and Ricardo could, together or separately, have plans for Venice involving alliances outside the borders of the city-state that would certainly destroy the fabric of the city as he knew it, but did that mean they were allied to the Great Evil? And if they were, did they know it? The Sots--

  Well, the Sots and presumably the Knots, fanatical Paulines as they were, would be only too happy to purge the city with fire and the sword of anything that was not of their own rigidly defined Christian path. That would certainly destroy Venice, but that did not mean they were allied with the Great Evil.

  Ah, but one did not need to be allied with or a part of something to serve it.

  What could he do? Well, he could, at the least, move to protect a few people, who had no protections of their own. Little Kat, for instance. He had once held that Hypatian medal of hers in his own two hands, and that once was enough for him to invest it with far more power than the mere wardings it contained. Now that he knew the reality of . . . It . . . in his city, he could do something specific.

  But first, his protections.

  He moved his bits of furniture against the wall, picked up the rug--a sadly worn import from Persia--and flipped it over. No one but another mage would ever have guessed what he'd had bonded onto the back of this old rug.

  A pentagram within a protective circle, formed of bitumen mixed with blessed salt--courtesy of Sister Evangelina--and the pulverized dust of pearls and gemstones, frankincense, myrrh-gum, ambergris, copal resin, and cinnabar. A coating of artist's varnish sealed it and allowed it to be painted over with the appropriate symbols, then sealed again. Before he went to work, Luciano went over the entire diagram with his nose mere inches from the painted cloth, looking for cracks and flaws. Today there were none; had there been any, he would have immediately repaired them. Never mind that the energies were supposed to be able to flow across any such defects; in these circumstances, he dared not take any chances. Once he was done, he blew out all the lanterns in his room but one, set up his tiny altar in the middle of the pentacle, then blew out that final lamp before feeling his way to the altar.

  He lit a single candle on the altar, with a spark of magic.

  He cast his circle three times three, with each element--salt for earth, incense for air, a candle-flame for fire, and water. Then he traced it again, three times three, with his ritual white dagger, made, not of human bone as the Paulines claimed, but the leg bone of a fine buck-deer. And again, three times three, with the black dagger, carved of obsidian-glass from the heart of a volcano. When he was done, a faintly glowing border followed the outermost line of his circle.

  He took up the bowl of water and whispered a blessing over it, then held it up to the east. "Guardian of the spirits of the water, guardian of the creatures of the water, I summon thee from thy dwelling place in the Uttermost East to stand as Watchtower, to witness my rites and guard my work."

  As he flicked a single drop of water towards the east, a pillar of blue light sprang up out of nowhere, reaching from floor to ceiling, as if it was some arcane support pillar.

  He turned to his right, to the west, and took up the candle. "Guardian of the spirits of fire, guardian of the creatures of fire, I summon thee. . . ."

  When his invocations were complete, four tall pillars of light--blue, red, green, and yellow--stood within his glowing circle, which was now a glowing floor-to-ceiling wall stretching in a curve along the curve of the painted circle on the rug. But his protections were not yet complete, for now he would do what no Christian mage ever dared. He would invoke his deity. The Goddess, not the God--he had a sense that the monster he had seen might once have been linked in to some northern deity--Odin, perhaps, or Thor. It might be . . . impolitic . . . to invoke the Lord at the moment. Let Him decide whether or not to act on His own; there was no point in trying to force His hand.

  He faced the altar, with the triple-moon sculpture of hammered bronze, and the ancient Cretan axe that was also Her symbol. "Lady of the night, Lady of the moon, you who have been Isis, Astarte, Tiamet, Diana, Artemis, Aphrodite, Rhiannon, Inana, I call and invoke thee to witness my work and guard my rituals--"

  He didn't necessarily expect a response; you could invoke all you wanted, but whether or not She chose to bless you with Her presence was up to Her. But this time--

  This time, with no warning at all, the inside of his circle was flooded with powerful, silvery light. The Lady of the moon not only approved, but She was minded to take a hand.

  Thank you, he whispered, feeling much humbled, and bent over his scrying bowl. He had to find Kat. Then he had to fence her in with a subtle web of power that would cut any thrice-damned Odin-creature to ribbons before it even knew the protections were there.

  And then--well, he would see what occurred to him.

  * * *

  He was startled by a knock on the door. He wasn't expecting any visitors at all. But, since the knock had consisted of the special signal he'd told his few confidants to use--two short, two long, three short, one long--he went to the door and opened it immediately.

  He was more than startled to see Marco standing there. "How--"

  "Rafael told me," said Marco. The boy's face seemed full of suppressed anguish. "Please, Chiano--I have to talk to you."

  * * *

  After Luciano heard what Marco had to say, he rubbed his face wearily. "Is happiness so much to ask for?" he murmured.

  But he did not dwell on the matter. He had asked the Goddess that question many times, in his life. He would ask it no longer.

  No more softness!

  "Marco," he said quietly, "Venice is in the gravest danger. At such a time, you must think of your responsibilities. You don't even know this canaler-girl's surname. You know nothing about her fa
mily--or even, to be honest, she herself."

  Marco's face was set in a stubborn cast. Luciano sighed. "Speak to the girl if you must, before you make your final decision. But I will tell you this, boy. I can think of nothing you could do which would strengthen Venice more than to weld Valdosta reborn--and Dell'este--to the house of Dorma."

  Except a marriage between Valdosta and Montescue, came the whimsical thought. But Marina dismissed the notion as a ridiculous fancy. Lodovico Montescue would disrupt any such wedding by having the groom assassinated as he walked to the altar.

  "The Valdosta name, which is still a powerful thing, would give weight to Petro Dorma's position. And, as I'm sure you've come to realize yourself, he's the best of the lot. Potentially, the leadership which Venice will need--does need, already."

  Marco hung his head. He was listening, at least. Marina started to add more, but decided not to do so. Anything more, at this point, would be counterproductive. Marco Valdosta had a fierce sense of honor. Give the boy time, and he would make the right decision.

  "I've got to talk to Kat," he whispered. When he lifted his head, his eyes were blurred with tears. The sight was heart-breaking.

  "Talk to her then," said Luciano. "But please, Marco--remember your responsibilities."

  It was time to change the subject. "So. When are you being officially presented to the city?"

  Marco smiled wanly. "Tomorrow night, at the Doge's Levee."

  "Splendid!"

  "I think I'd rather go anywhere else," muttered Marco. "Even the Jesolo."

  Chapter 67 ==========

  Kat was whistling. A terrible un-genteel habit, as Alessandra told her frequently. Right now the thought of that made her want to whistle louder. She wanted to practice being un-genteel. And besides, happiness was bubbling up in her.

  Her joy seemed to be affecting everything. The last cargo had come through, perfectly. The Montescue's tiny share as part of a Colleganza of a wood shipment to Alexandria had paid off handsomely, the merchant having come up with a return cargo of ivory . . . which had caught the current fashion for marquetry just in the upswing. It had made them a tidy profit. Not enough to tow the Casa Montescue out of the river tick but enough to make it seem as if there might--eventually--be a light on the horizon.

  And she'd be seeing Marco again on Thursday. She hugged herself. Two days. She should have made it sooner. But, well, she didn't want it to appear too much as if she was chasing him.

  Even the thought of tonight's levee at the Doge's palace could not upset her. If Senor Lopez was there and wanted to talk to her . . . well, he had no real evidence. Mind you, even the thought of that eagle gaze was enough to put a damper on her mood. He wasn't the sort who needed "evidence." She shook off the thought and took her mind back to Marco Felluci. It wasn't hard. And the thoughts were pleasant as she waited for Madelena to come down and help her dress for the levee.

  * * *

  A levee at the Doge's palace . . . Marco was so nervous he could hardly think straight. All the haut monde of Venice would be there, Case Vecchie, rising merchant houses, distinguished foreign visitors, ambassadors and nobility. All the power and glitter of Venice. Marco had looked across the piazza past the winged lion of Saint Mark at the colonnaded Gothic palace often. But to be inside?!

  * * *

  The inside was a place of confusion, light, and above all, people. Musicians--no mean performers either--played in a side salon. Nobody kept quiet for them, however; people simply continued their light inconsequential chatter and laughter. If anyone had dared treat Valentina and Claudia's music thus! Marco was introduced to yet another Case Vecchie family head. He bowed politely for the . . . he'd lost count. No wonder the Case Vecchie went slumming at Barducci's.

  "Valdosta, eh?" said the florid Count Antonelli. "That's one of the old names we haven't heard for a while. Where have you been, boy?"

  "With his grandfather, Duke Dell'este," interposed Petro Dorma smoothly.

  The Count nodded. "So, boy--which way is Ferrara leaning? Venice, Milan . . . or Rome?"

  Yes, these were worrying times. Ferrara had for the better part of century stood by Venice, but keeping its independence. Then the Venetians had demanded the salt pans, and Ferrara had balked and called on Rome--and even, for a time, threatened alliance with Milan. Who, for its part, had sent no less of a condottiere than Carlo Sforza to pay a friendly visit to Ferrara . . . a visit to which, Marco suspected, he ultimately owed his brother.

  It had all blown over, eventually. But . . . by the presence of that sword in the Casa Dorma, the storm was brewing again.

  Marco was not prepared for the direct question. For the simplest reason: he had no idea what the old duke was planning to do.

  "My grandfather keeps his own council, milord."

  "Yes, but . . ."

  "I see the majordomo is beckoning to us, Count Antonelli," interrupted Petro. "Pardon us. I must find my sister and take my new ward to be presented to the Doge."

  Petro steered Marco away across the salon to where Angelina was talking to a tall, beautifully made up woman with a neat little mole above her rosebud mouth, standing in the circle that surrounded Lucrezia Brunelli. They were laughing. The woman gave Marco a very considering look as Petro snagged his sister and led them off to meet Doge Foscari.

  * * *

  Kat was preparing herself for the sheer delight of giving Signor Sergio Della Galbo the finest put-down of his obnoxious life. The fat curti had cornered her again. But knowing how her grandfather felt, and having met her soulmate, Katerina Montescue was going to tell this disgusting old roue where to get off. In training for a life as Katerina Felluci she was going to use some choice canaler terms she'd picked up from Maria.

  And then her grandfather came storming up, towing Alessandra. His lined face was as pale as his snowy linen. His eyes bulged. Alessandra was looking terrified and wasn't even protesting. "Come," was all the old man said. Very quietly.

  Della Galbo protested. "Get lost, worm!" snapped Kat, pushing past him to her grandfather. She slid an arm around the old man. "What is wrong, Grandpapa?" she asked, worried. The last time she seen him like this was when they'd brought the news of Alessandra's baby's death. Normally, if he was angry, the whole countryside knew about it.

  "Valdosta." He spat the name out as if it were a curse. "They're not all dead, girl. I told you some of the vermin still survived. But I never thought I'd see them here, bold as brass, under the protection of Casa Dorma." He pointed.

  She was glad she had her arm around the solid if elderly stanchion of her grandfather. Walking, head bent forward in the listening pose she knew so well, had studied so lovingly . . . was Marco Felluci. He was listening to Petro Dorma and that horrible spoiled brat, Angelina Dorma. Marco was not wearing Ventuccio livery, or old canaler clothes. He was dressed in a silk shirt, and fine hose, with a cloak that could have bought Maria's gondola. There was gold on his finger.

  "Who--who is that?" she asked, in a small wooden voice, feeling stupid, stunned, her world in chaos.

  Her grandfather hissed like a leaky kettle. "Calls himself 'Marco Valdosta.' They claim he's been in Ferrara. With the Dell'este. That's another Valdosta lie. I'm quite sure he's the same one I tried to have assassinated here in Venice last year--and failed, I'm sorry to say."

  For a moment, Kat thought she might faint.

  "Now come," growled Lodovico. "We're going home."

  * * *

  Kat sat on her bed. She had neither the will, nor, it seemed, the ability to do more than stare at the wall. Madelena had fussed her charge into a nightgown. Gently and quietly this once, seeing Katerina behaving like some porcelain doll, obedient but mechanical, and silent.

  Even Alessandra coming in to her room didn't excite any reaction. Madelena crossed herself.

  Alessandra was big with excitement. "Well! What a scene. I thought the old fool was going to drop dead on us. That Valdosta's not bad looking, is he? Although I prefer more rugged men, myself. Still,
that Angelina Dorma seems pleased enough with her catch."

  "WHAT!?"

  Alessandra prattled on. "They say she's getting married to the Valdosta boy. Lucrezia said it has to be pretty soon, because she's already carrying his baby."

  The roaring in Katerina's ears refused to be stilled. Even Alessandra noticed. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." Lead was lighter. "I feel sick."

  "Are you pregnant?" said Alessandra, eager for more fuel.

  This was enough to penetrate Kat's armor of confusion and misery. "No!" she snapped. "But if I left it to you, half the town would say I was. And I'll bet all this gossip is just as true as my pregnancy."