Burdens of the Dead

by Mercedes Lackey

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say that it would take more than a weeping woman to stop Benito, but Maria held her tongue. She was the bride of Aidoneus for these four months. And he was a kindly if cold lover.

  “I have seen enough for now,” she said instead, and put her hand in his, and let him lead her away.

  Chapter 25

  Milan

  Carlo Sforza paced, ten paces up the hard stone floor of the room he had taken for his command post, ten paces back, feeling somewhat like he should be re-named the Caged Wolf of the North. From time to time he looked out the window. The view hadn’t changed. Nor did his mood.

  Fillipo Maria, the duke of Milan, was the driving force of the Montagnard faction in Italian politics, which supported the Holy Roman Empire when it came into conflict with the Church. That was the origins and still the stated official cause of the faction, at least. In reality, for at least the past two hundred years the Montagnards had had little support if any from the Holy Roman Emperor on whose behalf they claimed to act. Their true purpose was to provide the duke of Milan with political support in his various maneuvers against the other Italian city-states and the Patriarch of Rome.

  The duke had gradually but steadily distanced himself from Sforza, who had once been one of his deepest confidantes. Fillipo Maria was a conniver and plotter to his very core, and that had not changed. But since Venice had defeated the forces of Milan under Sforza, he had withdrawn from talking to Carlo. He could not, Carlo knew, afford to easily dismiss him. That would weaken Milan further, and could easily turn Sforza and his forces against the duke. So, instead he was eroding Sforza’s reputation: A mercenary commander’s troops followed for money and loot. Sforza’s men had been unusual in that they followed him because he won. But money and loot had been factors.

  And now he was being allowed to nibble at little towns. Barely worth looting as far as the mercenaries were concerned. They were in one of those little towns. He was in the best house in it. There had been so little to loot that he’d simply taken the entire place over, using it as a bivouac for his men. At least they had shelter that wasn’t tents; a little less for them to grumble about.

  Fillipo Maria was planning something. It could only involve Venice. The duke had always handled intrigue, plotting and murder himself. Sforza had been the military might. But in years before he’d at least listened to Carlo Sforza. And right now they could probably sweep southwest and take Pisa and Tuscany. Both were in political and military disarray. Instead Fillipo Maria wanted Venice, which had its strongest and most astute leader in decades, and whose finances were in far better shape than Milan’s.

  Whatever Fillipo Maria Visconti planned this time, Sforza hoped the consequences of it were not going to be dire, at least not for him or his soldiery. He had a handful of men in Venice, reporting back. Men who could take decisive action if need be.

  He hated the uncertain waiting.

  He hated not knowing even more.

  And he hated this town.

  Vilna

  The Black Brain was well pleased, right now. He’d turned his gaze on the lands of the Ilkhan Mongol, and seen how his stolen minions worked for him. Died too, but that was unimportant. The important thing was that the maneuver had worked just as planned. It had taken a great deal of heat off the Byzantine Empire’s borders. That fool emperor could recall ten thousand troops from the provinces in Asia Minor and by spring, hold the Hellespont, let alone Constantinople, secure and safe from any attack. And that would give the Grand Duke’s proxies in the Lands of Golden Horde time to assemble and march south, and his fleets time to finally be ready to sally out and take the soft underbelly of Europe.

  There were some untied ends in the Lands of Golden Horde, but soon those too could be dealt with.

  Milan

  Fillipo Maria Visconti, the duke of Milan, sat in council with his new favorite, Count Augustino Di Lamis. He had found a good co-conspirator there. And it amused him, still, that the count was sometimes taken for Carlo Sforza. Of course, the difference was clear enough to anyone who knew the men. Count Augustino Di Lamis was the master of sartorial elegance with brightly slashed clothes, and Sforza was conservative in dress. Manners, too.

  The count displayed those manners, and that deference, to perfection, as he stood in an attentive posture before the duke—a posture that said without words, whatever you require of me shall be performed without looking even remotely servile. The tilt of the head, the slight rounding of the shoulders…art. It was art.

  Even the way he had placed himself so as not to stand between the duke and the welcome sunlight from the nearest window, was artful.

  “It appears,” said Count Di Lamis, “that we have found the chink in Petro Dorma’s personal armor. As you ordered, his habits have been studied. His food is, of course, carefully tasted, and the staff of the Doge’s palace are carefully vetted and selected. But he is inordinately fond of fish. And not just any fish. He has a weakness for his namesake fish, pesce San Petro. They are not always abundant. The Doge’s agent has an arrangement with several fishermen. And we, in turn have one of them in our pocket.”

  Fillipo Maria nodded. “And we can put a slow poison in all of the catch. It could work.”

  The count smiled a thin-lipped smile. “Ah, but it does not end there. I have uncovered yet another habit that will ensure your desired conclusion without alerting anyone to how it was done. Petro Dorma is something of an epicure, your Grace. He likes the fish broiled in wine, whole. And he loves to pick out the little nugget of flesh from behind the pectoral.”

  “It does have the finest flavor,” said Fillipo Maria, who lived in fear of poison himself, and who resolved to give up on enjoying this particular morsel thenceforth.

  The count nodded deferentially. “And we can insert several slivers of poison into it. They will not poison the whole dish, just he who eats that part.”

  Fillipo Maria forgot himself enough to pat his count on the shoulder. “Well done. There will considerable rewards for you for this.” The count would have to die, of course. But he would enjoy the rewards of his success, briefly. After all, it was almost criminal to have to take such an artist out of the world. “And of course steps must be taken to see that the fish-seller dies, without any link pointing to us.”

  “But of course, Your Grace,” said the count. “His hours are numbered.”

  And so are yours, Count Augustino Di Lamis, thought Fillipo Maria Visconti. But all he said was: “And how goes the other affair?”

  The count sighed, and the corner of his mouth dropped a little. “I believe they have an agent close to the target. That is all the information I have at this time. It is difficult working with outsiders.”

  Fillipo Maria drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair a moment. “Hmm. I think we will proceed with our plan to deal with Petro Dorma first.”

  The count gave a hint of a bow. “Arsenic can be…”

  Fillipo Maria shook his head, interrupting. “The Council of Ten have employees with keen noses. Arsenic can be smelled, especially when heated. No, I have recently obtained some gum of oleander from the Barbary lands. It should serve, and is less well known.”

  The count gave a real bow. “As you say, your Grace. All will be as you require.”

  Of course, Fillipo Maria thought sardonically. Because anyone who fails me dies.

  Venice

  In Venice, Poulo received a package from one of his regular couriers. The Black Lotos was coming from Barbary, but it was coming in through Trieste, and thence to Milan. And then overland, to the Villa Parvitto where his couriers fetched it. The Council of Ten’s agents were intensifying their searches of all the vessels coming in, trying to stem the tide.

  The courier handed it over to him with some trepidation. “Here. They even searched some people on the ferry today.”

  Poulo smiled, a horrible sight on his damaged face, a smile that never spread to his eyes. “They never search a priest, do they? And they
know you go to minister there.”

  The priest shook his head. Probably, beneath his robes, far more was shaking. “I want out of this.”

  Poulo laughed, cruelly. “I know your wants. I’ve seen them served in the past. They won’t go away. So you will do as I order you. And I’ll see you get…what you need.”

  His courier licked his thick lips. He was nervous, scared, but still driven by his desires. And for now, his desires overcame his fears. “I got the snatcher in place for you. Isn’t that worth something?”

  “When she has done her job,” said Poulo. “When she has done her job, then you get a reward. Until then…well, do what your told and you’ll get a taste. Fail, and you’re someone I can replace.”

  Chapter 26

  The island of Cerigo

  After running before the storm for a week, the fleet had had to take shelter at the Venetian possessed island of Cerigo for ten days, barely beating their way into a sheltered anchorage at Kapsali on the southern end of the island. It was a slightly battered and tired fleet that waited out the sheeting autumnal rain, in the safety of the half-moon bay, under the Venetian fortress high up the hill. The sailors had to make do with what entertainments the small huddle of houses on the isthmus between the two bays offered. They put some security measures in place with the local Captain-General, as Benito had a feeling there might be more fleas than wine or women there, but it seemed, right now, that making landfall was good enough, especially for the crews of the Great Galleys. It was cold wet work on them. Benito, Enrico Dell’este, Count Alfons and Admiral Douro…and at the request of Admiral Douro, prompted by Dell’este, the Genovese Admiral Borana, and several of senior officers, and also Count Alfons of Aragon were offered lodging in the fortress. It was a far smaller and less important Venetian possession, and Benito had the misfortune—as far as he was concerned—of being obliged to ride up there. But it did let him meet and get to know the Aragonese and Genovese commanders. The Old Fox told him this was an advantage.

  Benito was less sure. Count Alfons of Valderobes was the model of a tall slim aristocratic gentleman. He had poise, distinction, charm and an a la modality of dress. He also had not the vaguest idea of just how a ship sailed, let alone of how to run a naval operation. His idea of strategy was a frontal charge. And he was, in Benito’s assessment, the better of the two. Admiral Borana alternated between being submissive and aggressive. It was hard to tell just how he might respond next.

  It became apparent that was at least partially due to the fact that his dignity was affronted, and that he was, at the same time, very afraid. Some of the reasons started to come out during dinner, while Count Alfons was busy examining his reflection in the little mirror facets in the Murano glass goblets, Borana had drunk enough out of them to start talking. It came out in a frothy rancor. “I am supposed to be admiral of this fleet. Supposed to lead. To decide.”

  “Admiral,” said Enrico Dell’este.”Indeed you are supposed to lead. The fleet flies your flag as well as their own. We sit here as guests of the Venetian governor. Did you not hear yourself announced as we came in?”

  It had been, indeed, an impressive recitation of titles and honors. The admiral’s chest swelled a bit, and he sat slightly straighter. “But…but…”

  “Your contribution to the leadership is vital to our cause,” said Benito, responding to his grandfather’s kick.

  “Precisely!” said the Old Fox. “You show that you understand the greater and wider view. It shows the wisdom of your duke in choosing you to lead Genoa’s fleet.”

  No one could believe that, thought Benito. But it was plain that Borana did. He stuck out his pigeon chest still further. Yet the injured dignity refused to give up. “But, you did not even consult me about sailing eastward. It’s contrary to my instructions. And, well, the common sailors on my vessels are saying that you have magical means. That we only survived the storm because of you. That this…you, Milor’ Valdosta. The braggartry among the Venetian sailors about you is just insufferable. They’re affecting my discipline.”

  In other words they’re looking to some unknown young Venetian for a spot of leadership and not you, you old blowhard, thought Benito. And somehow that’s all our fault.

  The Old Fox looked grave. “We’ll have to do something to affirm your status. Only…There is a problem.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Canea. If your vessels with your flag led the fleet into Canea, well they’d probably bombard us. Genoa really doesn’t enjoy a good reputation there.”

  “Which is exactly why we must return to Corfu. Or remain here!”

  “I’m afraid return is not an option M’lord Admiral,” said Benito, humbly. “Weather. And I promise you, the weather-knowledge I have is completely sound. If you wish to risk your ships of course, I can’t stop them, and I certainly would not dare to contradict your orders. But as we’ve displayed, we have…information. It would be unwise. This little garrison doesn’t have the food for us to spend the winter here. And it’s not a good anchorage in the face of wind from the south, which will be coming, and very soon. Too shallow and not sheltered enough.” Benito hoped saying this confidently would work. He really had no idea.

  What he had said was certainly true about the food, and even the admiral could see that.

  “Of course,” said the Old Fox, as if the idea had just come to him, “We could push on for other Venetian possessions. Say…the Cyclades. Maybe Negroponte. If you gave that instruction as opposed to going to overwinter in Crete, where you’d have to pretend to be vassals. And stay on your vessels because the local resentment runs high.” The Old Fox sighed. “It is irksome to see someone of your dignity being forced to play such games, but as you well know….politics.” He shrugged. “It’s a pity that the Duchy of Genoa has arrangements with Byzantium about port facilities, or we could use your possessions.”

  “That would be seen as an astute piece of leadership by all our crews,” said Benito, staring pointedly at the fish-mouthed Admiral Douro—who knew where they planned to go next, which was not Canea. Not for the first time, Benito wished they could have had Admiral Lemnossa instead. But Venice had elected to keep the old man home. He claimed to be too old, but Benito had reason to suspect that certain parties had worked very hard to keep him as a last reserve if La Serenissima needed it. He couldn’t blame them. If he himself needed a wily old shark for a last-ditch defense, Lemnossa would have been his first choice.

  Admiral Borana nodded.

  Enrico smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “That’ll show them who is in charge!”

  “Yes. Real leadership,” said Admiral Douro, catching on at last. “Even the common sailors will recognize it.”

  Benito did his best to scowl and look irritated. “But…I have told people we are going to Canea.” That was not strictly a lie, but the only people he’d told that to were listening to him at that moment.

  Admiral Borana beamed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell them you now have fresh sailing orders from me. Let’s have some more of this fine wine.”

  Count Alfons having examined his countenance from every angle leaned in and said to Benito thoughtfully. “What I want to know is…was it really true about the bridge? And where did you find such a woman?”

  And so Benito was obliged to tell tales that did nothing to convince Borana that he was a sober and responsible fellow these days.

  However the evening did have its positive points. There was a Genovese captain in the admiral’s entourage who had headed the fleet that had returned from Theodosia, and had after a run in with the ‘pirates’ of the Black Sea, been lucky enough to encounter the Venetian Eastern Fleet and Admiral Lemnossa. Benito questioned him on the finter points of the engagement, while the Old Fox alternately flattered and coached Borana. He was plainly disappointed that the Doge and the Council of Ten had not sent Lemnossa out again. “He was a gentleman, and a great strategist. I…I had assumed Venice would send him.”

  “I’d
have preferred it myself,” admitted Benito. “Politics, I am afraid. That and fear, I think.”

  The captain nodded. “Which is why we have Admiral Borana.” He looked uneasy. “Forget I said that. I am a little puzzled, though. My men said you had no intention of going to Canea for the winter and were planning on kicking Emperor Alexis’s door in before he closed it.”

  There really were no secrets in any military force, Benito reflected. And this was an officer who listened to his men. “It seemed a good idea to let the admiral believe it was his idea,” he said with a shrug. “I would like to talk more about those pirates…”

  The captain nodded. “But perhaps not now. The admiral is looking at us, and he still considers Venice the enemy.”

  Benito laughed, as if he thought the captain had told a joke, and the admiral looked back to the Old Fox. “Tomorrow morning? My grandfather likes to get up early to ride. I would like any excuse to avoid it.”

  There was a small snort of laughter, carefully bottled. “I’d heard. I am going to turn away looking angry, as if I had taken offense at that laugh of yours. I will see you tomorrow…after Matins?”

  Benito groaned. “Not another early riser.”