Shadow of the Lion hoa-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  "I must have food," hissed the grand duke, in a voice almost hoarse from screaming. "Now."

  Glancing toward the great stove against the wall of his master's private room, the shaman could see that the fire was already burning in its belly. Drops of blood spilled from his master's head wound were sizzling on the side of the huge fry pan. The cleavers and flensing knives were ready on the butcher's table nearby.

  The grand duke seized the half-drowned sailor by his golden hair and lifted him up, as easily as he might an infant. But then, seeing the man's face for the first time, he paused.

  "Him," he muttered. Despite his fear and exhaustion, the shaman was fascinated to see the way the grand duke's forehead wound was beginning to close up. Much more slowly than one of his own wounds would heal during a shape-change, of course. And the shaman could only imagine the agony the grand duke was suffering. No wonder that the master craved his . . . special food. It would speed the healing immensely, and alleviate the pain.

  The shaman was so fascinated by the sight that he didn't pay attention to his master's odd hesitation. It wasn't until the grand duke lowered the golden-haired head back to the floor that the shaman tore his gaze from the wound and looked at the eyes below.

  He wished he hadn't. Even before he heard his master's next words.

  "I may have use for this one. I can get another shaman."

  The grand duke's giant hand seized the shaman by his long hair and dragged him toward the butcher table. The shaman fought in a frenzy along the way, but he might as well have been a toddler for all the good it did. Once on the table, a blow from the grand duke's fist ended his struggles.

  Which was perhaps just as well. The shaman was too stunned to really feel the blade which began flaying him. His screams didn't start again until much of the skin was already gone. But, by then, the master was ready to prepare the blood sauce. A quick slice of the knife ended the screams.

  * * *

  When Caesare Aldanto finally returned to full consciousness, he discovered himself sitting at a table. A man he didn't recognize was working at a stove nearby. Huge man, he was--inches taller than Aldanto himself, and perhaps twice as broad. Adding in the walrus fat so obvious under the heavy robes, he probably weighed three times what Aldanto did.

  When the man turned around and approached, Aldanto hissed. Partly because of the wound on the forehead, the likes of which he had never seen except on the body of a corpse. Mostly, because of the black and inhuman eyes under the heavy brow.

  The man--the monster?--shoveled something out of the fry pan directly onto the table. "Eat now," he commanded. "There is no time for platters."

  Caesare stared at him, then down at the food before him. When he recognized what it was--the tattoos alone made it obvious--he hissed again and began to draw back. A savage blow to the head half-dazed him. Then, a hand with the strength of an ogre seized him by the hair and shoved his face into the food.

  "Eat it like a dog, slave. I have no use for fancy table manners. Neither do you, from this time forth."

  THE PIAVE RIVER ---------------

  "I think it would be best if I were escorted into Venice by your troops instead of my own, Enrico." The Emperor scanned the countryside along the Piave, the muscles working in his heavy jaws. "Bad enough I've brought them this far. But so long as Venice itself doesn't get its back up, I'm not too concerned about the reaction of the rest of Italy. Not at the moment, at least, when the bastards are cowed."

  The Duke of Ferrara nodded. "I agree, Your Majesty." He hesitated a moment; then: "But I urge you not to be too cautious, either. The Scaligers of Verona have managed to infuriate just about everyone by now. Venice, Ferrara, and Rome by their actions; Milan and the rest by their failure."

  Charles Fredrik's lips parted in what a shark might call a smile. "You think the time is ripe to take them down a peg or two?"

  "Break them in half, rather," growled the Old Fox.

  "Well said," snapped Baron Trolliger, riding to the Emperor's left. Unlike the Emperor, Trolliger was wearing armor. He seemed as annoyed by the martial equipment as he was with the state of the world in general. Trolliger was a courtier, not a soldier. Or perhaps it was simply that he detested travel.

  "See to it, Hans," murmured Charles Fredrik. "Use Wilhelm Gneiss and his Bavarians. You can leave the military details to him. But make sure the Scaligers are bloodied. You needn't besiege Verona, I don't imagine--but tell Wilhelm not to hesitate if necessary. I want the territory under the control of the Scaligers shrunk--in half, as the Duke of Ferrara says. Spread the pieces around as seems best to you during the negotiations." He glanced at the Old Fox. "Make sure Ferrara gets the biggest slice."

  "I've always been partial to Legnano," said Dell'este, almost idly. "Pretty town."

  After Trolliger trotted off, riding his horse about as awkwardly as a man can and still stay in the saddle, the Emperor glanced behind him at a figure who was riding her own saddle with considerably greater ease and skill.

  "Would you allow us a moment in private, Enrico?"

  "Certainly, Your Majesty." The Duke of Ferrara trotted his horse away with the same superb skill that the old man handled a sword or a hammer. The Emperor waved Francesca forward.

  When she drew alongside him, Charles Fredrik glanced at her manner of riding and made a face. "How do you manage that, anyway?"

  Francesca smiled. "It's the fashion in the Aquitaine for ladies, Your Majesty. I learned to ride sidesaddle when I was barely old enough to walk." She plucked the dusky folds of silken lace-trimmed twill covering her thighs. "I could hardly wear something like this straddling the horse."

  "It's quite a costume," agreed the Emperor. His tone was . . . meaningful.

  Francesca gave him a sidelong glance. "I did not think Your Majesty would appreciate it much, if I were seen in my usual costume. Discretion and modesty seemed . . . well advised."

  "Smart woman. Not--" The old man gave her a sidelong glance of his own. For a moment, his eyes seemed those of a much younger man. "--that I wouldn't have appreciated the other, I'm quite sure."

  Francesca said nothing. Her smile was almost that of a Madonna.

  Charles Fredrik cleared his throat. "And why didn't I see that other costume, Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc? Since your arrival at Innsbruck, you've both dressed and behaved as a most modest and chaste demoiselle. In my experience--which is considerable--most courtesans would have cheerfully pitched over a prince for the sake of snaring an emperor."

  Francesca hesitated, a little play of subtle emotions running over her face. Before she could speak, the Emperor continued.

  "Three possibilities come to mind. The first is that you have a rigid sense of honor, which would preclude that course of action on the grounds that it skirts incest. But since you are Aquitainian, I think we can dismiss that possibility out of hand."

  "We do have a reputation." Francesca's accompanying chuckle was soft and throaty. "Indeed, I agree. We may dismiss it out of hand."

  "The second possibility, then. You have formed an attachment with my nephew which transcends the obvious bond between a courtesan and a young nobleman." He stopped abruptly, cocking an eye at her.

  "Um. I am fond of Manfred, Your Majesty. Genuinely so, in fact. But--"

  Charles Fredrik heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I'm not dealing with a madwoman."

  Francesca's chuckle, now, was neither soft nor throaty. Indeed, it was almost an open laugh. "Please. Manfred is charming, vigorous, good-humored--often genuinely witty--and far more intelligent than he likes to pretend. His company, more often than not, is quite delightful. Far more so than that of most of my clients. But anything more serious . . ." She shook her head firmly. "There's nothing in it, neither for Manfred nor myself. Although I'm good for him now, Your Majesty. That I do believe."

  The Emperor nodded. "I also. I have no objection to a continuation of your liaison. Actually, I'm in favor of it." He cleared his throat. "You do understand, of course . . ."<
br />
  "Yes, yes--certainly. Now that Manfred's identity is in the open, he can hardly remain simply one of my clients. A rich young knight can share a courtesan. A prince requires an exclusive mistress."

  It was her turn to clear her throat.

  Before she could speak, Charles Fredrik snorted. "Yes, yes--certainly. I know it'll cost me." He examined her briefly, spending more time on the modest but expensive clothing than on her well-covered but intrinsically immodest figure. "Plenty."

  The way in which Francesca smoothed the fabric of her dress was demure propriety itself. "Perhaps--"

  "Which brings us to the third possibility," said the Emperor loudly. The gaze he now bestowed on Francesca was almost angry. "Every now and then--not often--a whore becomes truly ambitious. And--if she's smart enough--realizes that the ultimate coin in this sinful world is trust."

  Francesca meet the fierce eyes with calm ones of her own. "Trust which would be quite shattered if I abandoned the prince for the emperor. For the one as much as the other."

  The Emperor nodded. "Good. Now--it is time to speak honestly. I will allow you two lies. No more. What do you want, Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc? Tell me all of it."

  She grimaced. "First of all, I don't want that name. Francesca is now--"

  "That's the first lie. Be careful, woman."

  For the first time since he'd met the courtesan, her aplomb was shaken. Francesca almost jerked in the saddle.

  "It is not a lie," she hissed. "I am simply--" She broke off, staring at the countryside with eyes which clearly saw a different one. "My God," she whispered, "it is a lie."

  "Of course it is," snapped Charles Fredrik. "The mistake your mother made, Marie-Francoise, was settling for revenge. She should have bided her time, and waited until she could triumph."

  They rode on in silence for a bit. Then Francesca shook her head, as if to clear it. "Yes and no, Your Majesty. Oddly enough, I find that I like Francesca de Chevreuse rather more than I did the girl she was. So I believe I'll stick with the name--within, as well as without." Again, that soft throaty chuckle. "But . . . yes. I will keep an eye out for the possibility of triumph."

  "Good. What else?" He waved a thick hand. "Wealth, ease, comfort, all that. Naturally. But what else?"

  Francesca seemed to be groping for words. The Emperor clucked his tongue. "Well, it's time you did start thinking about it. Clearly, for a change." He twisted a bit in the saddle, until he was facing her almost squarely. "Let an old man provide you with some assistance. The 'what else,' I'm quite sure, is power and influence. Your own power and influence, not that which you derive from befuddling a man's wits with your--no doubt magnificent--legs and bosom."

  Francesca hesitated. Then, nodded abruptly.

  "Good. That ambition an emperor can trust. For the simple reason that it cannot be achieved without trust." His smile was almost that of a cherub. "And I must say you're doing quite well, for such a young and innocent girl."

  Francesca began that soft throaty chuckle again; but this time she choked it off almost before it began. "Good God! You're serious. Um--Your Majesty."

  "Of course I'm serious." The cherub smile was replaced by something infinitely grimmer. "Take it from an emperor, child. What you know about sin is pitiful; what you know about wickedness . . . almost nothing."

  Again, they rode on in silence. After a time, the Emperor spoke again. "I'll be sending Manfred off, soon enough. It's time for the next stage of his education--as well as the education of the Grand Duke of Lithuania."

  Francesca's eyes widened. "No, girl," said the Emperor softly, "I am not sending him off to war. Not directly, at least. The time isn't right for a war with Jagiellon. Not with Emeric on the throne in Hungary, still unbloodied, and now this rot in my own--"

  He broke off. Then, cleared his throat. "Never mind that. But I do think a demonstration is called for. Since that Lithuanian bastard chose to use a demon from the Svear, against the Svear it shall be."

  Francesca seemed to wince. The Emperor grinned. "Oh please, demoiselle! I do not expect you to traipse around with Manfred and Erik in the marshes and forests of Smaland! But I will expect you to accompany them as far as Mainz. And then, possibly, to Copenhagen."

  The Emperor's grin widened, seeing the eager light in the young woman's eyes. "Yes, yes--intrigue with the Danes against the Sots, all that. You'll have a splendid time of it. But there's something else, more important, we need to discuss."

  "I am all ears, Your Majesty."

  "Thought you would be. Have you ever given much thought to finance, Francesca de Chevreuse?" After a short pause: "Didn't think so. Time you did. More than anything else, girl, wars are fought with money. Don't let any one ever tell you different, especially generals. And--take it from an old emperor--organizing the finances of a major war is even more complex and difficult than organizing the supply train. Takes even longer to do it right, and it's far more treacherous. To begin with--"

  On they went. Across the Piave, now, heading west toward the city of the winged lion. The Emperor never stopped talking--

  "--great financiers, especially with war looming, are always old men, you see. It occurs to me that a gorgeous young woman--especially one with a disreputable past and a flavor of scandal about her--especially a smart and witty one--"

  --and Francesca was all ears.

  VENICE ------

  It was easier, Kat was learning, to triumph over evil than to explain it.

  She and Marco, holding--no, clutching--hands openly, were spared having to repeat what had transpired in the magic chamber over and over again, only by the intercession of Petro Dorma. With an efficiency that was almost terrifying, he'd sent them straight to the Doge's palace, where they'd been fed and allowed to rest--rest, not sleep, although both of them were swaying with exhaustion.

  They hadn't gotten much past the first few mouthfuls when Marco's Strega friend Rafael joined them. He didn't look any better than Marco. Both of them had huge, bruised-looking circles around their eyes, and both of them must have been existing on nervous energy alone. Heaven only knew she was, and she must look much the same. Here they were, three tattered and stained vagabonds in a room that usually entertained the most prominent folk in Venice--and often, in the world. The murals on the walls alone were stunning works of art worthy of the Grand Metropolitan's palace in Rome, and the amount of gold leaf on the carved woodwork didn't bear thinking about.

  It could serve to repair Casa Montescue five times over.

  "What are they going to do with us?" Rafael asked dully.

  The answer came from an unexpected source; Petro Dorma himself, who entered the sumptuous dining room behind a servant bearing a gold pitcher.

  "Ah, my weary young heroes," Petro said, quite as if he was not as weary as any of them. "I want you to eat and drink while my messengers round up everyone who has any interest in what went on in that chamber where Dottore Marina's body was found. Then I want you to tell your stories, answer questions for a reasonable length of time--which will probably be quite a bit shorter than usual, given that we are all rather the worse for wear. By that time, you won't be able to walk three paces without staggering, so you will all be escorted to comfortable bedchambers here in the palace, where, I suspect, you will probably sleep until this time tomorrow."

  Unbelievably, terrifyingly, efficient. If Petro became the new Doge, which was the rumor Kat had been hearing, he was going to be something to be reckoned with.

  Petro joined them, thus making a tableau of four tiny figures who were dwarfed by the chamber and humbled by the crimson-and-gold trappings. Mostly gold, Katerina couldn't help but notice. She thought Casa Montescue's desperate financial situation had probably been somewhat alleviated by the recent events. Surely the money-lenders won't harass us for a few weeks. But, maybe not . . .

  They ate slowly. Katerina concentrated on every bite, not least because the food was delicious--out of all expectations, considering the conditions of the last day and ni
ght. When did I eat last? she wondered. It seemed a year ago or more. Whenever it had been, she was as hungry as she was weary. But hunger, at least, could be easily remedied. They were only just finished and nibbling in a desultory manner at sweets, when a servant in Dorma livery arrived and Dorma rose.

  "We seem to have collected everyone we're going to find," he said. "Come along; the sooner this is over, the sooner we can all sleep." The three of them got slowly to their feet--Kat, at least, was aching in every limb--and Dorma escorted them all out.

  Both grandfathers were there, Montescue and Dell'este--sitting side by side, for a wonder. Nine men who, Dorma had whispered briefly as they entered, represented the Senate--but Kat suspected were really, along with Dorma himself, the entire Council of Ten. And Metropolitan Michael, of course.

  All these Kat had expected--but not the cluster of priests surrounding Michael, nor the horde of secretaries seated at tables running the length of the room behind the notables. She felt uneasily like she was falling into the hands of inquisitors.