“The admiral is not,” said the captain turning away, and stalking off as if enraged.
The Genovese admiral was, however, a night-bird. He was still drinking when Benito quietly left, having been given a wine-keg’s worth of bitter maundering already. Admiral Borana had enemies and disloyal underlings. Benito started to appreciate Admiral Douro more by the moment.
* * *
The storm they had run before to take shelter here had not spent itself by morning. The wind still howled around the battlements and sneaked in chilly gusts into the stone chapel.
Every church seemed to provide little but shelter from actual rain and snow in winter…and they all were chilly even in summer. The church had to believe that being cold was good for the soul or something, thought Benito sourly. And the Genovese captain had not shown up…
But Benito’s patience, what little there was of it, was rewarded after all. The captain was waiting outside when Benito came out of the chapel, looking even colder than Benito felt. “Just been down checking on the vessels. Nasty wind blowing. It looks like the Santa Bellina has dragged her anchors a bit. If this blow continues I’ll have to get them to row another out.”
“It should start to blow itself out today. But there is another just behind it,” said Benito without thinking.
The Genovese captain looked at him, curiously. “So you do have knowledge of the future. Demonic, the admiral calls it.”
“That’s why I’ve got frozen knees and I’m just leaving the chapel,” said Benito wryly.
The Genovese captain laughed. “My name is Carlos Di Tharra, M’Lord Valdosta. We never got introduced yesterday. Why don’t we go and find a fire for your knees, and my hands and face.”
“Call me Benito. Everyone does. If we find that a fire in the kitchens we’ll be likely to get some hot bread. They were baking when I came down.”
“The idea of raiding the kitchen in person had not occurred to me,” said Carlos, blinking. “It is a good one, now that I smell the bread.”
“That’s the key to good strategy,” said Benito pushing open the door to the castle kitchens, full of warmth and food smells.
“Thinking of something different?”
Benito grinned. “Maybe putting off thinking until the distraction of an empty stomach and frozen knees are dealt with.”
The chief cook was somewhat taken aback by the invasion into his warm noisy domain by two gentlemen, but he did provide them with a loaf so hot they had to juggle it, a bowl of olive oil, and a jug of small beer and a couple of wooden goblets. Pity there was no butter or cheese, but such things were hard to come by in winter, and likely were being hoarded by the locals and not to be had at any price here. They retreated from the bedlam of the morning kitchen to a fireplace in one of the lesser salons, and huddled on a pair of little benches at the hearth. Carlos kicked the smoldering logs into a sullen flame. “The kitchen was warmer.”
“But noisier.” Benito broke off a piece of bread and handed it to the Genovese. He dipped his bread in the warm, fragrant oil. “I think we need to see the crews get some fresh bread too.”
The captain smiled. “I can see why they’ll follow you.”
Benito shrugged. “It takes more than hot bread.”
“But it shows that you know they are cold and uncomfortable, and they believe it matters to you,” said Captain di Tharra. A chill draft tickled Benito’s neck, underscoring his words.
The bread was excellent, the olive oil quite good. Benito found himself liking this man more with every word. “I suppose it does. I have been cold and uncomfortable myself, and they know that too. But I wanted to ask about your experiences with the Black sea pirates, not talk about bread.”
“They’re not pirates,” said the captain, with an uneasy glance. “I’d say that they they’re a navy—not very experienced, but numerous. I wouldn’t sail into the Black Sea without a fleet at my back now. And I’d prefer it to be commanded by a clever admiral—the great Duke Doria, or maybe your Admiral Lemnossa. I developed respect for the man.”
Benito had already heard about it from Lemnossa’s point of view, and that of several of the sailors from that journey. But Di Tharra had survived one more encounter with them. And as he continued his narrative, Benito found him intelligent and methodical. He was, Benito found, a methodical thinker, given to counting things—the number of men, the number of sails, the number of cannon. “My admiral says I sound like a shopkeeper,” he said, a little embarrassed.
Benito snorted with thinly-disguised contempt. “I will avoid telling you what your admiral sounds like. But I can say that your habit would make me very wary about attacking Genovese vessels.”
Di Tharra looked a little taken aback, and pleased. “It makes organizing much easier.”
“I will refrain from mentioning this habit to the Council of Ten. They like Venetians to have a monopoly on these habits and I have decided I like you,” said Benito. “I need to know these ships. It makes planning possible, and even successful sometimes. So I am grateful.”
“I will tell you what I can. I make notes in my diary.” Di Tharra tugged at his beard. He tilted his head to one side, took a bite of bread and added tentatively, “In exchange I need to know how you can foretell the weather.”
Benito laughed, and tossed another chunk of wood on the fire at their feet. The flames rose up to bite into it “Here’s the truth. I can’t. But I have reached—with the full blessing of the church,” added Benito, knowing the superstitions about non-humans, but feeling he needed this man’s trust, “an agreement with the tritons. They can speak across great distances of sea. And thus they can tell me what weather is coming.”
To his surprise Di Tharra looked delighted and not, as he’d feared, horrified. “Tritons! Ah, that makes perfect sense! I know that the Hypatians are given to speech with all manner of creatures; I presume that is how you managed to work this little arrangement. They are the bearers of my family coat of arms! All my life I have wished to see one of them. Many people think they are mythical…but I have seen the remains of one. And also spoken to many sailors about them. Too many stories, and too alike.”
“I’ll have to see if I can arrange a meeting some day,” said Benito, rubbing the spot where he’d pricked his thumb to make a drop of blood fall on the water to call Androcles.
The captain looked as if he had almost forgotten the cold, he was so grateful. “Please! I would be forever in your debt. It is…rather why I adopted a maritime career. My father was much opposed.”
“What did he want you to do instead?” asked Benito, curious as ever.
The Genovese captain smiled sourly. “Stay home and run the estate. Chase wild boar. We are landholders in Sardinia. I think our lands had some coastal villages once. But what is left is far inland now.”
They talked for a while about his home, and the problems a ‘colonial’ had in the navy of Genoa. He was very touchy about the ‘colonial’ word apparently, just by the way he said it. He was not the complaining kind, and Benito had to draw it out of him. But it was clear that talent was being stifled here, and that he had far more to be dissatisfied with than the politically and socially well-connected Borana. Di Tharra was however enthusiastic about the new duke of Genoa, who was an ex-naval man himself after all. “Things are changing under Doria. Not fast, because the old order has strong roots, but he is a great man. Sharp enough and experienced enough to cut them clear.”
Benito wondered if the Holy Roman Empire knew just what they were doing when the emperor had lent his weight to the election of Admiral Doria to that role. Venice didn’t need a stronger Genoa, especially in the light of the concessions they’d made for Genovese help in this endeavor. Talk came back around to the current mission. “So given the weather co-operating, you wish to lay siege to Constantinople for the winter?”
“A winter of siege sitting outside the walls of Constantinople would probably have half our men dead of flux and the other half with the malaria. And I don�
��t fancy laying siege to a great city all on my own,” said Benito, easily, stretching out, taking the goblet of small-beer. “Let’s put it this way, Captain Di Tharra. What the men believe…is right some of the time. But we will have to play it by ear at Naxos.”
Di Tharra smiled and shrugged. “I shouldn’t have asked. But when the admiral wants to stick to the island of Naxos like a limpet, I will say that I had heard that was exactly as you had planned it.”
That was quite a valuable prize, Benito thought. “And I will see if I can persuade Androcles to come and speak to you with me one night. No promises, though. They’re wary. It was really only because of my brother that I got to meet them at all.”
“Your brother is less well known than…shall we say your exploits, in Genoa. But I have heard of him. He is a healer, is he not? Anyway, it would be the wish of my heart,” said Di Tharra, “just to actually see a triton, one day. To speak with one…call for me if this can ever happen. Borana can complain about my treachery for that.”
He said that last with a smile. “I would rather he did not know that we met, otherwise. I will send a sailor I trust to collect my diaries, and let you have a summary at church tomorrow. But otherwise, like the rest of the admiral’s staff, I will keep my distance. Much politics there, you understand. But we have good captains and good crews.”
Benito left, well pleased with his early rising. It had been worth cold knees, and that was better than the bruising he would have had from riding out with the Old Fox that morning.
But of course, the first thing he would have to do would be to explain his absence. He doubted the Old Fox would mind once he heard what Benito had to say.
Enrico Dell’este was back in his chambers, peering at maps again, when he got there. But there was the unmistakable scent of horse around, as well as a much warmer fire than the one he had just left. The Old Fox’s chamber was smaller, and tighter, than that drafty reception room. It was as cozy and comfortable as a visitor could expect here.
“I have a sore head, as I was left to keep that buffoon company last night,” said the duke grumpily. “I doubt if Venice, or the Empire or Christendom appreciate what I have done for the sake of this alliance. And I wonder if it is worth it, considering the leadership they have.”
Benito grinned a little. Fishing for information already? “It’s worth it, Grandfather. They’ve got some good vessels, and at least one exceptional captain. You would hire him as a spy. He has Bartelozzi’s habit of putting figures to everything.”
Dell’este looked up sharply. “Di Tharra? I saw you speak to him last night. I wondered what you’d done to offend him. He’s in some disgrace back in Genoa for co-operating with Venice, and for parting with some of their cargo. And for losing some vessels.”
“I didn’t offend him; it was his way to keep from getting pulled into a reprimand for speaking to me at all. The Genoese admiral doesn’t want his folk being friendly with us, and he himself is under a cloud for saving the fleet after their defeat. Is Genoa populated by idiots, or is it the entire world?” asked Benito, shaking his head.
“Oh, some of the grandees that lost money were all for making an example of him. But all the other captains spoke for him—putting themselves at risk. That says a great deal about the respect his fellows hold for him. Also, he was not in charge of the fleet when they put out from Theodosia. He merely took control when their flagship was lost, and it was borne out to the nobility of Genoa that he stopped the losses from becoming a total disaster by doing so. And when word got out…the crews threatened mutiny, and the refugees from Constantinople got very vocal—some of them are well connected too.” The Old Fox waggled his eyebrows knowingly. “Duke Doria knows well enough that he did exceptionally well, and saved far more than could have been expected. But that does not stop the stay-at-home warriors from winning wars with their mouths, and fat purses. So he came on this mission to try and retrieve his honor. I gather Admiral Borana does not like being saddled with a second-class colonial noble like that.”
“I see,” said Benito, now realizing just how the captain had understated his problems. Not a complainer, then; that boded well, so far as Benito was concerned. He pulled up a stool without being invited. “Well, despite that, he’s disposed to like and help us.”
“Good. Because Borana is not. It’s to be hoped that we can pull the same trick in Naxos. With anyone more intelligent, or less fond of wine, I would say, impossible. But the admiral is a good example of breeding and money making for a poor choice of leader.”
* * *
And indeed, they were able to do something very like that at Naxos. That included convincing Admiral Borana that the status of Genoa meant that sailing up the Hellespont under his flag would be something the Byzantines would treat with respect, given all their treaties and historic links to Genoa. Once convinced, it was child’s play to lead him to think that this was all his idea, and that the Venetians had immediately seen his brilliance and fallen in with the plan.
Borana readied his part of the fleet in a happy, slightly alcoholic haze of self-congratulation. His brilliant diplomacy would succeed where the Venetians had failed. He would personally repair all the damage that had been done. After all, the fleet arriving in Constantinople beneath the Genoese flag would naturally restore the balance of the emperor Alexis’s mind, and they could overwinter there before their mission against the pirates in the springtime.
Fortunately, his captains were not so sanguine, and on seeing the preparations the Venetians were making, copied them. Of course, the little hints that Benito had dropped to Di Tharra might have helped…
Naxos Island
One other thing happened at Naxos. Something that might—or might not—have consequences in the future. Good consequences, but…consequences, nonetheless.
Benito had had a conversation with Androcles—in his usual fashion, leaning over the bow, strictly alone. The crews respected his desire to think and commune with the water. Whatever he was doing, it had the blessing of the Church, and he was somehow able to read the weather. That was only a little short of a miracle. Maybe it was witchery, but it was sanctioned witchery. He kept them safe. If he had wanted to hang upside down from the bowsprit and talk to the waves, that would have been fine by them too.
In fact, he was communing with something in the water. Riding the curving bow-wave, Androcles swam along easily. He was the color of seawater himself, with his long fishtail and human torso with broad barnacle-crusted shoulders, and spume and spray colored hair. “And now, Benito Valdosta? What do you want this time? The lost conch of the waves? The route to my grandmother’s palace?”
Benito blinked. He’d never heard of either of these things. “Um. Not at the moment, thanks. Maybe later.”
Androcles chuckled. “Now is your chance. It’s down there somewhere in these waters. But it’s only fair to warn you that we’ve looked for it already.”
Benito blinked again, feeling no less baffled than before. As the spume sprinkled his face with icy droplets, he allowed himself to be distracted for a moment from his actual intention. “What? This conch, or your granny’s palace?”
“Well, both, though the way to my grandmother’s hall is probably a bit more interesting to you, given your other adventures.” Androcles grinned, looking entirely too much like a shark at that moment. “Except in truth she’s a little further back than my grandmother. The story goes that she came from here. She had a fight with Poseidon about another woman, and the Earth-Shaker—the father of all tritons—shook the place down. So the place was buried along with Triton’s horn, which is the conch I mentioned, because he dared defend his mother. We’ve found a fair number of wrecked ships but no sign of a palace. But besides triton myth, what do want of me, Benito Valdosta? The weather continues good for this time of year. There are no Byzantine naval vessels about. There are a few fishing boats. There is little else I can tell you.”
Benito pursed his lips; he had to phrase this carefully. “I wan
t you—no, that’s not right. I am requesting, asking you, to please greet another human. As a favor.”
“No.” Androcles shook his head. “We’re not some rare-beast show for you to display to some drunken captain.” He turned to go.
Benito called out quickly. “His coat of arms has two tritons as supporters. And he is a captain in the Genovese fleet, from Sardinia. He says his family has old tales of friendship with tritons, but he has never met one, and wishes to more than anything. He is a good man, in a crucial position, and I need his help, Androcles. Please.”
Androcles paused in the very act of diving, but Benito had the feeling that his “please” had very little to do with the triton’s hesitation. Androcles’ next words confirmed that. “Sardinia. Hmm.”
“Even letting him see you would be appreciated,” said Benito, in his most wheedling tone.
Androcles laughed at that. “Tell him to fall overboard, then.”
“To see a triton?” Benito smiled wryly. “You know, judging by his reaction when he knew I had seen you, I think he might just do it. Even in these seas and this cold.”
Androcles plainly had thought it over while Benito was speaking and it appeared that the Sardinian’s eagerness was the last thing he needed to make up his mind. “We have ancient ties with Sardinia. Very well. I will see this captain of yours.”
“Thank you. This will be something he has wanted for all his life. I think it will make a bond between us, and you are doing me a tremendous favor.” Benito tried to sound as grateful as he felt. He was remembering everything that Marcos had said about showing these creatures that aside from the bargain, you valued them for themselves. “I’ll take him for a stroll along the sea-wall at Naxos. It would have to be late in the night or early morning.”
Androcles grinned, showing his exceedingly sharp teeth again. “You love the early morning. So that would be good for me. Before Aurora’s red fingers scratch away the night.”
“What?” Benito asked, startled. Red fingers scratching? The image that came to his mind was someone clawing at…something…till their fingers bled.
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