Chernobog fled. She was there in more than just spirit. She could certainly hurt, if not destroy him. And now he recognized the weeping woman of his dreams. She looked different in the between-worlds.
Constantinople
Vestarch Kasares lay on the floor. He did not recall how he had come to be in such an undignified position. Worse than that, there were dogs on either side of him. Dogs! And not proper little house-dogs, but huge things better suited to hunting. What were they doing in here? They should have been in the kennels. The two great hounds sniffed at him, teeth bared. A strange woman in a dress of a style he had never seen before—but made from remarkably fine linen—stared down at him. “Get up,” she said, coldly.
She seemed to have no idea of rank and station! But there was a king’s ransom worth of gold and jet that she wore at her throat and in her ears. Some foreign princess perhaps? But why did he not recognize her? He would have known about her, surely, been advised as to how she should be quartered, arranged for her household? Why did he not remember?
“Who are you, lady?” He sat up. He wondered, again, what he was doing on the floor.
Her eyes made him shiver. Those were not eyes that belonged in a human face. “I am Hekate. Now take that binding off.”
Binding? Had he been a prisoner? “What?”
“Around your wrist.” she pointed and he looked.
There was a ragged thong of parchment-like skin around his arm. Not something that he would ever have dreamed of wearing! He was always an elegant and well-perfumed official. Except by the smell of himself and the look of his robe, he wasn’t right now. What had been happening to him? How had he gotten in this state? And why, in God’s name, did he not remember?
He pulled at the disgusting object, at first gingerly, and then urgently. It did not break.
Next thing he knew, the woman had thrust a long sharp bone spear under it. He yelped at the nearness of the sharp object, but she paid him no attention. It split and fell to the floor. Kasares felt a weight lift from him, and a fog lift from his mind. The woman was blurred, as insubstantial as smoke. He crossed himself.
Her voice came to him from a great distance. “You were almost among the dead, taken there by evil binding you. This too was my place once. I will not tolerate the thing of northern darkness here.”
Kasares had a fine classical education, as befitted one of the eunuch vestarches of Byzantium’s administration, no matter how low that status itself had fallen. And now that he could think again, he knew who and what it was that faced him, that had freed him. The sudden urge came upon him to throw himself to the floor again, this time to prostrate himself.
He knew who Hekate was, and of her dogs. And he knew what gateways and cross-roads of life and death she guarded. He knew, believed, and was very afraid.
Men should not have to face gods in this life. Or goddesses. Her eyes bore into him, and he knew that she knew all that he knew. He remembered now getting the order to put that…disgusting thing on his wrist, from the emperor himself.
An honor, he had been told.
To be possessed? It was not an “honor” he cared to be given a second time. And for some reason, unfathomable, Hekate had saved him from this thing.
He shivered. First he was going to get clean. Then he was going to dress and go to the Hagia Sofia itself and pray. He’d been, well, less than religious before.
And on the way he would offer a libation and some ancient Greek respects at a cross-roads. He was deathly afraid of Hekate, but he certainly respected her now. She had saved Byzantion once, myth said. That was why her crescent and the star she had used showed on the old coins.
But before he did any of that, he gave in to his urge and went down on his face before her. “Lady of the Crossroads, Lady of the Hunt,” he mumbled into the paving-stones. “I do not know why you saved me from that darkness, but I thank you and I will give you all honor for as long as I live. I am not worthy.”
“True. And it was not for your sake,” she said, blunt, as a goddess was like to be. “It was because I will not tolerate that filth in my domain. But…the honor is good. That is as it should be.” She sounded faintly pleased. “I shall accept your worship.”
He made a private vow that the libation he poured would be the finest money could buy. And he did not look up from his prone position until a certain absence told him that the Goddess was, in fact, now walking other paths.
Vilna
The Black Brain roiled not only with the contact, but also with fury that some of its complex plans were going awry. Chernobog had ambitions, for reasons of its own, for extension of power over certain areas of human geography. If Venice was here, so fast, that could only mean that the human who had thwarted his design on Corfu—a cunning trap he’d been lucky to escape, true—must have contrived it so. His spy in Venice had told him who headed the expedition for the Venetians, under the convenient fiction of the commander of the marine f
orces.
He knew too just what Poulo had been setting in place with the connivance of his ex-slaver contacts from the Casa Dandelo. They were involved now with the trafficking of black lotos and children. He knew of the arrangements with Milan and Fillipo Maria, of course. He had eyes and ears in Milan. He selected a messenger—a minor sprite and a slave. Now was the moment and now was the time. The sprite would die in contact with the Lion, belike. But that would be all the Lion knew.
Humans had an irrational attachment to their young. It would be possible for this Valdosta to be drawn from the siege, along with his forces by such a hostage.
Once the Earth-Shaker had used that against the Goddess of the Gates, after all. He’d lied to her, but by the time she’d realized that it was too late.
Valdosta would abandon the siege and by the time he returned, it would also be too late.
Venice
In some shadow-world of the ancient marshes of Etruria, the heart of which became the Venetian lagoon, the Lion roared. The echoes of that roar were felt even in Marco’s Venice. Marco had been at Petro Dorma’s side, as he had for most of the last three days. The Doge had slipped for a while into a shallow coma, from which he had awoken occasionally. His heart had raced and then slowed and slowed more, until Marco had been forced to intervene with a stimulant, and then later with small quantities of the leaves of the bloody-finger plant. That too was a poison and the last thing he wanted to add to Petro’s system. But it had worked. The patient’s heart-rate had settled and had been approaching normality. Now he was wide awake and so was the exhausted Marco.
“What was that!” asked Petro Dorma, fearfully.
Marco had gone very still, as he heeded the thoughts of the creature that half-inhabited him. “The Lion of St. Mark. Some sending of Chernobog made an entry here.” Petro knew of the magical connection between the Valdosta family and that ancient power, of course.
“In this room?” asked Petro, warily.
Marco shook his head. “No. Venice. The Lion destroyed it. But not before it made some entry into the city. Cannaregio. We’ve felt dark magics there before.”
Petro leaned back against his pillows. He was pale—but he had been pale for days now.
Marco paced. “You’re doing a bit better,” he said, abruptly. “I—we—aren’t easy about this. We have a foreboding. I had better go and have a look. Have another talk with the Streghira. This threatens them as much as the rest of Venice. I’ll be back soon.”
Petro put a hand on his sleeve, halting him before he could leave. “You will need some rest too. I am not unaware of what you have done, my boy. How many days has it been?
Marco reckoned it up in his head. Nine meals. Three dawns. “Three.”
Petro grimaced. “It felt longer. You’ve not had any rest in that time.”
“Not much. I dozed for a bit while Francisco kept watch. Just after Katerina brought me food. She refuses to trust anything from your kitchen.” Marco smiled, thinking of how she had tended to him without fussing over him
and without rebuking him. She knew this was something he had to do; if he did not spend himself like this to save this man who was so important to them, to Venice, he would not be the Marco she had married.
“Francisco?” Petro asked, a little sharply. “This is not someone I know. Who is he?”
“Francisco?” Marco scratched his head. How to sum up such a complicated man in a few sentences? “My Arabic teacher. He was a slave once, he tells me, in their hands. A very knowledgeable man. He knows a great deal about medicine and other matters. I think he was also once a mercenary.”
“We must look to a suitable reward and place for him. It sounds like he could help these fools who want to bleed me,” said Petro, relaxing a little again.
Marco gave a tired crack of laughter. “He would ‘help’ them all right. He very nearly ‘helped’ them into the canal with his boot to their fundaments. Anyway, I must go. I will give strict instructions that no one is to bleed you.”
Marco set out—to be met in the hall by Patriarch Michael and his retinue, and several of the Council of Ten. The old Patriarch took Marco by the arms. “Tell us the worst. Is our Doge dead?”
“No. In fact he is showing some signs of recovering,” said Marco.
“But, I…we felt some great spiritual roaring…”
So, it seemed that he and the Doge were not the only ones sensitive to the Lion now. Interesting. “Yes. Venice has had, and seen off, some form of magical attack. I am trying to go and investigate. Why don’t you all make a brief, and I mean brief, visit to the Doge’s chambers? I have left instructions with the guards that they are to evict any visitors after three minutes, regardless of who they are. Try not to get him excited or upset. That means not suggesting bleeding him.”
Marco went out, with a small escort of Schiopettieri and agents of the Council of Ten, to Cannaregio. All along the way, people called out to him. Marco got very tired of yelling back that the Doge was doing a little better.
They take heart from that, you know, said a leonine voice from within him. Well, of course they did. But couldn’t they at least pass along word and not have to hear it directly from him? But he already knew the answer. Of course they did. They knew that he would not lie to them.
So he resolved not to be irritated by it. “Good. Now where are we going?”
Somewhere on the Rio di san Alvise. Close to the Campo Ghetto.
It was a poor quarter, that. An area of secondhand shops and crowded tenements. Marco tried to think of who he knew around there. Several of Maria’s cousins, caulkers and boatmen. The priest who had brought Marissa to him. Quite a few of the Streghira. Being there in body may help me to narrow it down. the great Lion informed him.
“I’m barely here in body myself.”
You need sleep. I will watch. I always do.
“First we’ll have a look around Cannaregio. Then I’ll check on Petro again. Then, if possible, I will sleep.”
But the prowl around Rio di san Alvise yeilded nothing. Just as the searches for the source of the black Lotos coming into the city had yielded nothing.
That too had roots somewhere in the area.
So Marco went back to the Palazzo Ducale and looked in on his patient. “You are looking worse than I feel,” said Petro. “Go and sleep. Your wife is here. I think in all the rooms here you might possibly find a bed. One without an occupant, even.”
Marco smiled. “Your sarcasm is returning. Good.”
Petro managed a genuine smile in return, though he was so flat to the pillows that he looked as if he had been sculpted there. “Yes, but you need rest. Stay here. Tell Katerina it is my order that she does too. Lodovico can hold the fort at the Casa Montescue without you.”
“There is also Benito and Maria’s daughter,” said Marco, thinking of the innocent havoc the little thing could wreak if she thought Marco and Kat were avoiding her. She would insist on a personal examination of every room, including looking under furniture and turning out closets and wardrobes.
“She has nursemaids, surely?” asked Petro. “My stomach says it is nearly midday. They must be at work at such an hour.”
That was a very good sign. “If your stomach is speaking to you again, Doge Dorma, then I can rest a little. It is only mid-morning. But I must make sure of what you eat.”
“More burned bread?” asked the Doge, plaintively.
Marco laughed. “It may have been what worked. But I think we can allow something a little more to your taste now.”
The look of gratitude on Petro Dorma’s face made Marco smile again. But he wondered just how grateful Petro would be to discover that he would be dining on broth and barley for a while yet.
Chapter 34
Venice
Francisco Turner made his way to the Casa Montescue, walking along the Fondamenta, rather than taking a gondola. He needed to get to the mainland again, and take himself for a decent run. Few people were about. It was a rainy, wet morning. He passed one woman so wrapped up in a large shawl that he almost didn’t recognize her. She was the nursemaid from the Casa Montescue.
That was odd. Perhaps his pupil was back and Marco had given her a bit of time off. In Francisco’s opinion, sooner or later everyone needed a respite from a child, and with that lively little girl, probably more often than most.
That would mean that Marco Valdosta was home and awake. Francisco wouldn’t mind getting first hand news of the Doge’s present condition. To think that he had been instrumental in advising the physician who kept Petro Dorma alive! Francisco didn’t know if his master would be too amused by that. His master’s master certainly wouldn’t. The assassination attempt had had all the hallmarks of the duke of Milan’s operations.
He was greeted respectfully at the Casa Montescue. “Come in M’Lord. M’Lord Marco is still up at the palazzo. So is M’Lady Katerina.”
“What is the point in my coming in then?” asked Francisco, amused.
“M’Lord Marco gave very strict instructions that if you came you were to be given a mug of our best ale and taken to the library. With a fire. And I think M’Lord Lodovico wishes to speak with you.”
Francisco had briefly been introduced and spoken to the redoubtable Lodovico Montescue. It was not something he sought to pursue. Lodovico was a lot more worldly-wise than his grandson-in-law. But it was raining harder now, and the idea of the fire and the ale sounded worthwhile. He hoped that that nursemaid of theirs had got home before the downpour started.
The ale and the fire were both marvelous. And, somewhat to his bemusement,. so was the company. Lodovico was pleased to see him, and not inclined to ask the sort of probing questions that Francisco would rather avoid. “I saw Marco this morning. He asked if you had been in. He had some good words to say about your advice, sir.”
Francisco felt oddly flattered. “He is an exceptional physician, that young man.”
“Indeed!” said Lodovico, eagerly. Marco, it seemed, despite the heir that the boy worried about, was still a prime favorite of the head of the Casa Montescue. “I think his skill goes even beyond the natural and is a God-given thing. He’s worked miracles on my hands. And I truly thought our Doge was a dead man. And I hear he’s back to cursing anyone who threatens to bleed him. I’m a great believer in bleeding myself. But Petro has always disliked it, and Marco positively refuses to use it except in the rarest of cases.”
“I do not believe in it myself.”
They talked for some time about the merits of bleeding. Francisco held back from telling the old gentleman that he thought it was probably more a case of the bled patient believing it would help. He’d seen belief work often enough. But somehow a mention was made of Rome and Florence. And very soon the two of them were locked into an amicable argument about the architecture of the rival beauties. Francisco could understand now why Carlo had always said that old Montescue could have been the Doge had he not been so wrapped up in the vendetta against the Valdosta. He was exerting himself to be a pleasant host, possibly because he fel
t Venice and his grandson-in-law owed this particular mercenary a debt. He had a charisma about him, that would draw men and hold their loyalty.
They were laughing when a servant knocked at the door. She came in without waiting, wringing her hands. “M’Lord. M’Lord have you seen little Alessia? I can’t find her, nor Marissa, and it’s time for the poppet’s bath.”
Unease stirred in Francisco. “I saw the nursemaid—Marissa, isn’t it?—on my way here earlier. Near St. Marcoulo’s.”
The nursemaid shook her head violently. “Oh, no, sir. She’s not due to go off until it is time for Vespers. She can be so dreamy, but she’s good with the tot.”
Lodovico got to his feet. “We will organize a search, Maria. My friend, sit. It cannot take long to find a child even in this house.”
The initial unease Francisco had felt when the nursemaid came asking for the child escalated into full-fledged alarm. But he wasn’t going to show it. Lodovico would want to know how he knew what he knew and that…could be bad. “Thank you, M’Lord. But I had better go. Convey my respects to Marco Valdosta.”
Francisco left, while the household was searching for Alessia. He flagged down a passing gondola. “Cannaregio. The Campo Ghetto. And as quickly as you can, man.”
He could run across from there to the Fondamenta del Riformati the rest of the way, it would be faster than going by water. He checked his blade and his main gauche. If he was right, it could be ugly. He was one man and they would not be. He took a deep breath and made a decision. Marco was popular among the populi minuta of Venice. He took out a piece of parchment and wrote with a stick of charcoal he kept in a little bag in his pouch for just such emergencies. He didn’t have much time, or much space on the parchment.
“When you drop me, I need you take this note to the Palazzo Ducale,” he said to the gondolier. “They won’t let you in, but tell the guard to tell M’Lord Marco Valdosta you have an urgent message from Francisco. That may work. Otherwise can you take it to the Casa Montescue. And here is gold ducat for the task. It is important.”
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