Burdens of the Dead

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Well,” said Benito, as things started to fade. “Start by not listening to demons. They always lie.”

  * * *

  Someone was slapping Benito’s face. Benito opened his eyes and was bitterly disappointed to find that it was Antimo Bartelozzi, not Maria. “Stop that!” he said crossly.

  “Lie still, M’Lord. The physicians are coming. We’ll have some men with a litter here in a minute.”

  Benito sat up. “I don’t need physicians or litters. I’ll tell you what you need, though.”

  “What, M’Lord?” asked Antimo.

  “You need to tell that girlfriend of yours to be a little less gullible, and to check her facts before she jumps to conclusions. She’s all too prone to it.” Benito stood up. “Ah. Just in time for a nice walk back in the rain. Well, that’ll help with the fires anyway.”

  Antimo looked uncertain. “You appeared to be having some kind of fit. Speaking to no-one.”

  “I was speaking to Hekate. Who was very angry, and is, if I am any judge of women who have got over it, and I should be, now very contrite. Ready to be nice to us. She’s got a temper. But Maria at least mostly keeps hers for throwing crockery.” Benito sighed. “I must be getting senile. I even miss that, you know.”

  * * *

  Hekate could, should she so desire, move between crossroads. Right now she felt she stood at one herself. She recalled that the Lion of Eturia had given her his permission to enter his demense and, while she’d shied from it before, it was time to deal with her relationship with her son.

  The Winged Lion of Eturia did not lightly tolerate other ancient powers in his realms, and knew she was there at the muddy cross-roads in between the rushy water-meadows and the tall cypresses. He appeared beside her, looking at her meditatively. He must have approved of what he saw.

  “Walk westward. He’s grazing at the copse down near that mill,” said the Lion.

  So she did. And there he was, cropping the sparse green grass growing in the shelter of the trees. She stood, frozen. He had grown so! No longer was he the leggy colt, but had become a magnificent palamino stallion, coat gleaming, his flaxen mane and forelock long and flowing, with a broad chest with strong quarters…and enormous golden wings folded onto his back.

  She stood like that, watching him until he raised his head and looked her with an ale-brown eye. He turned his head the other way to look at her with the second eye. “Mother?”

  He sounded…Wary.

  “Pegasus. Son. Are you well?” she asked, not moving, voice gentle, her heart full.

  “I am not going back, Mother,” he said, defiantly.

  For a moment she was hurt. Then she remembered the advice she’d been given. “I have not come to take you back, son. You are your own master now. I just…wanted to see you. To see that you were well and happy.”

  He turned his head again to look at her out of each eye. Picked his head up slightly. “Oh. I thought…Yes. I am well.”

  “You have grown so,” she said, admiringly. “You’re beautiful. I was worried; I was worried every moment that you were pent in that stable. I was afraid—afraid you were being starved, or stunted or—well, I was worried. Mothers worry.”

  He stamped a foot, but his head was held high now. “I’m handsome. Not beautiful.”

  She felt the smile grow on her face. “Handsome and beautiful. Spread your wings. Let me see how fine they are.”

  He did, stretching the vast pinions out, each feather gleaming in the weak winter sunlight.

  She held out her arms and smiled. “So very fine! Ready to fly you anywhere. I am so proud of you, boy. You are magnificent.”

  He bowed his head, and sounded…contrite. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come to see you, Mother. I thought…I assumed you’d stable me, confine me. Look after me, and love yes. But keep me. I don’t want to be kept. I have been kept for so very, very long!”

  “I might have,” said Hekate, honestly. “But I think have learned now not to try. There will always be protection, shelter and food for you with me. And love, always love. But never confinement. You will always be free to come and go as you please.” She paused. “Someone who is a great deal wiser than I had thought, told me that the only way you hold an egg safely is not to hold it tightly.”

  Pegasus turned his head again, very like any other horse, assessing. Re-assessing. “I didn’t realize you’d be upset or worried. I just wanted…space.”

  She nodded. “I understand. I’ve done a fair amount of accidental harm without thinking too, and I had less excuse. Being a goddess, it was all too easy to do so. Too much power makes you behave like an adolescent, without the reason.” She sighed. “We should be wiser than mortals. Sometimes it seems that they have managed to form us in their image, and that…well, that has mixed results.”

  Then he came up to her and nuzzled her. “I will come to visit you.”

  “That is all I will ever ask.” she said feeling the warmth of his breath against her cheek. She paused. “The human that freed you. Did he treat you well?”

  Pegsus whickered a chuckle. “He gave me an apple that gave me wind, but other than that, he kept his word. He was very worried about his child. Did he find her?”

  “He did. And I very nearly killed him because I did not know he had been honest.” She sighed. “I do not know what to make of what he said about the tritons. They were Poseidon’s warriors, after all.”

  “They sided with their mother. Poseidon was very angry with them,” said Pegasus. “He held that horn of theirs to ransom, making them work for him. Triton himself fought with Poseidon over the way he had treated Amphitrite. Poseidon killed him.”

  “Oh,” said Hekate, faintly. “I had hoped…the mortal said as much, but I thought he could not possibly be right.” She paused for a long moment, stroking Pegasus’ long, warm neck. He leaned into the caress. “He is not so much a god as a monster. Only a monster would kill his own children.” She paused again. “I would say that I was a besotted fool and nothing good could ever come of him, but you did. There is at least that much.”

  Pegasus nuzzled her as a slow tear dropped from her eye. “The children of Triton fought for him, forced by the horn until some human stole it. Then, they were free.” He snorted a little, and it had the sound of bitter triumph. “I was there when it happened. The humans crept right into Poseidon’s palace and stole it. I smelled them, but I did not give warning. And now, I am more glad than ever. You are right, mother. He is a monster. If there were any justice, he would be as hideous as Cetus, to match the ugliness of his heart.”

  Mother and son walked together for a long while. And when they parted, both hearts were lighter.

  * * *

  It had taken insurrection, riot and burning part of the city to finally inject a measure of common sense into the various factions—the Genovese, the Argonese, the various “Latin” traders, and even a few of the Byzantine civic leaders. They held a meeting in the Grand Palace and decided that the answer was that Constantinople needed a single unitary ruler. A governor to keep it all together.

  * * *

  “If the Bosphorus was solid dung I’d rather burrow through it looking for diamonds,” said Benito. “Gentlemen. I have a wife and a child to get back to. And they are tied to a small island in the Adriatic. I have no desire at all to rule this festering city. It may be the greatest city on earth as far as you are concerned, but I am not fond of it. And I don’t think it is fond of me either.”

  That was true enough. The citizens of Constantinople had, it seemed, been prepared for siege and war. A proud and desperate defense. Not the shameful business of waking up to find that the guard had changed and their emperor—be he never such a wastrel and an ass—was gone. He was their wastrel and ass, and they did not like the Venetians or their attitude. They certainly wouldn’t want Benito Valdosta—of all Venetians—to be their governor.

  “But M’Lord Valdosta. What will we do? You are the only person with governance experience, other t
han Duke Enrico, and he will not stay here.”

  It was all something of a quandary for the conquerors. No one had thought much beyond taking Constantinople. No one had thought that while taking the city might be a feat, holding it might be far harder. Normally, after a bitter fight, the conquered were happy to just have a little respite. Now, instead, with the city taken by stealth without much loss of life and relatively little loss of property, the fleet commanders had a problem. The citizenry were restive. And there were three factors at play here:

  Firstly, it was necessary, when they sailed in spring, that their way home be secure. Secondly: there was temptation and the future. The traders of Venice and Genoa wanted to return, year after year, to the caravan-heads in Trebizond and to the ports of the Black Sea. And finally, this was a rich city. Trade would keep it that way. Venice and Genoa and Aragon all saw it as a plum to be seized. None of the leaders involved showed much forethought about the matter.

  Benito Valdosta, it seemed, was the only person who saw it as a poisoned chalice. More hard work than reward. Which, naturally, was why they wanted him to keep it running for them while they bickered over the loot. Benito wanted to get into the Black Sea, sink Jagiellon’s fleet, and get back home. Before the first day of spring, if possible, or as soon thereafter as he could manage.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I don’t care who you prop on the throne here. Find someone. One of Alexis’s relations perhaps? Personally, I have orders from my Doge to pursue and sink Jagiellon’s fleet. That is what I will do. And that is all I will have to do with it.”

  Benito would come to regret that decision bitterly, later. But it seemed a reasonable idea at the time. He had enough to do, making sure that he still had crews when he sailed. All he needed was a break in the weather. And that was all they weren’t getting. Winter had arrived with a vengeance.

  He wanted away from here. At first the city had been more stunned and confused than anything else. But they had too few people to control a city of fifty thousand souls by brute force. And the countryside around the city was turning hostile too, a sign that someone was organizing for Alexis, somewhere.

  People were amazingly stupid, Benito thought. The city had once supported nearly half a million people. It had been in a decline for a while, but had shrunk further under Alexis’s misrule from seventy thousand to its present fifty. Public works were decaying. Sewage and garbage lay in the streets—and they wanted Alexis back?

  But there were always those who had done well under the oppressor. He’d seen that in Venice, and again on Corfu. And there were always camp-followers and fools ready to deny their senses and follow them.

  Chapter 49

  Constantinople

  The Mongol tarkhan Qishkai arrived in considerable state, with a small army of Mongol guards. There was no doubt whatsoever in Benito’s mind that this man was a shrewd and skillful politician. He was also a man of immense affability and fondness for wine, for which, it appeared he had a hard head.

  The banquet with which the Ilkhan was greeted had taxed resources—finding delicacies, or even decent food, in a city that had been under siege, and then sacked, was no easy task. Benito had had an idea, though, and quietly put out the word that there was a bounty to be had—so-and-so much for a bottle of good wine, much more for a barrel, so much for a fat sheep, so much for a sack of fine flour, so much for eggs. And no questions asked. Provisions appeared at the Palace kitchen doors, silver flowed out of it. The cooks were set to work. They didn’t much care who the master was, so long as they were paid and had decent supplies to work with.

  The banquet was a success. And the tarkhan got great enjoyment from the wine; it did not appear that Mongols had the same prohibition against spirits that Moslems did. Benito was feeling half awash and had begun quietly limiting his input half way through the banquet. Tarkhan Qishkai was large and plump and showed no signs of needing to do so. The Mongol was an expert at getting others to talk, and far from showing Mongol stand-offishness he seemed to relish the company. He spoke impeccable Greek, and better Frankish than most Greeks. He was also very good at dredging information out of polite talk, Benito noticed.

  “You mentioned,” he said, signaling to the servitors to pour more wine into Benito’s goblet. “That I had a very different manner to the last envoy you’d met. And where would that have been, my good young fellow? In Venice? I didn’t think we’d sent a tarkhan that far in your lifetime, to be honest.”

  “This was on Corfu. A Tarkhan Borshar.”

  If the plump indolent-looking Mongol had suddenly been transformed into a rat-hunting terrier, and Benito’s doublet had skittered and squeaked, he could scarcely have got more of a reaction. The tarkhan stared intently at his face. “You…will interest…the Ilkhan…extremely,” he said pausing between each word. “Borshar is no tarkhan. The Ilkhan has set a price on his head.”

  Benito swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “What? But he was vouched for! He came from the Bashar of Jerusalem! And he has gone overland with Prince Manfred to the lands of the Golden Horde!”

  “You are certain of this?” asked the Mongol ambassador.

  Benito wondered what hell he had sent Manfred walking into, all innocent and unwarned. “As certain as I am of sunrise tomorrow. I organized it. I was the Acting Governor of Corfu. I even know that they reached the lands of the Golden Horde and had made contact under the truce flag with what Iskander Beg said were members of the Raven clan.”

  The Mongol tarkhan hissed between his teeth. “We had heard rumors. Young man…I see I have made some mistakes because of your age. I am empowered to offer various inducements and considerable reward to reach the lands of Golden Horde. Or, if you have the contacts to arrange this, the Ilkhan has offered a reward of one hundred thousand golden talents for the head of Borshar. He is not only no tarkhan but he is an outcast who has brought embarrassment to the Ilkhan Hotai.”

  Benito took a deep breath, trying to work out what his next move had to be. “Tarkhan, I need to discuss this with my grandfather, first. But we need to meet and discuss this, all of us together, and soon. Very, very soon. Manfred is the Holy Roman Emperor’s nephew. He is second in line for the throne of the empire. If this Borshar has…”

  Qishkai narrowed his eyes. He had not drunk from his goblet in all this time, which was probably a very bad sign. But, from his next words, not for Benito, the Venetians, or the Franks. “This too is the grave concern of the Ilkhan himself. It appears Borshar was tasked with fomenting war against the Ilkhan. He has abused our reputation and the integrity of our diplomats. All I can say is that the Ilkhan is deeply embarrassed by this and we will make what amends we can.”

  “I hope that that’s good enough for Charles Fredrik. He’s fond of Manfred…and he and Erik are good friends of mine,” said Benito in a voice just above a whisper. “And I made it possible. They had a letter of safe-conduct from your Ilkhan.” His mind was full of foreboding. He had not heard from, or about, his friends since they met with the Raven clan.

  Qishkai nodded. “We know of this. It was the genuine article, and bore the seals of the Ilkhan. Surely no one would dare to over-ride that. I believe…I hope that the Golden Horde would respect it, young Sir.”

  There was one thing he could do, and it would accomplish two things—first, impress the tarkhan that he was telling the truth; and two, maybe get some word as to what was happening. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll need to get word sent to Iskander Beg as soon as possible. Tonight, actually, it is still possible. Antimo will have contacts. Excuse me.”

  So Benito left, hastily, to find Antimo Bartelozzi, who had been put to ferreting out the source of the riots and insurrection.

  He found him at the Milion, looking forlornly about. He turned that forlorn gaze on Benito. “I have not been able to get her to speak to me again, Benito. Did you offend her? Drive her off?”

  Benito didn’t pretend not to know who the spy-master was talking about—and if Antimo was not a love-lorn man,
then he didn’t know what one looked like. “I’m sure not, Antimo. She said she was in my debt, as I remember it. Listen, I have a serious problem. The tarkhan has just told me that the fellow who went to the Golden Horde with Manfred was a fraud. An imposter and an assassin. The Mongols want him dead, badly. We’d better send word to Venice and to Iskander—if there is any chance of his getting a message to Manfred.”

  Antimo shook himself visibly. Maybe that was why Hekate liked him. He was rather doglike in some ways—a poacher’s silent lurcher, rather than a lady’s doe-eyed spaniel. “Iskander. I assume you set up contact points. It is snowing up there, Benito Valdosta. But we will do our best. Venice…we will need to make very sure that such a message goes as far as Venice, to Doge Dorma and not any further. The last thing they want is the Holy Roman Emperor aware that they knew, and didn’t tell him, but they also should wait with bad news until we are sure. And that is difficult.”

  Benito shrugged, helplessly. “We’ll just have to do our best. In the meanwhile can you think of any way of getting this tarkhan and his half a regiment of escort to the Golden Horde?”

  “Er. No.”

  Benito felt a weight descend on him. “Me neither.”

  * * *

  Tarkhan Qishkai was also occupied in writing letters that evening, after leaving the banquet somewhat earlier than he had planned. Some traffic would, inevitably, go southward. He could if necessary, simply hire a vessel and put a messenger on it. But first he needed to formalize and refine his thoughts, and writing everything down was a good way of doing that.

  He began the letter several times. How did he explain that the Ilkhan’s worst fears about the impact of the traitor Ambien and his sending Borshar were likely to be correct…tactfully? Eventually he gave up on tact and settled for factual. No matter how he tried to put it, it wasn’t going to be good news. At least the Venetians seemed just as keen to see him complete his mission as he was. He had also been actively considering the impact of the capture of Constantinople on the Asia Minor Themes of the Byzantine empire. At the moment it was an empire without an administration and an emperor on the run. But in reality for years now the Themes had run themselves and contributed to a parasitic empire for little benefit, rather than the empire running the Themes. It was a situation that suited the Ilkhan better than an aggressive and a successful Byzantium. It was in the Ilkhan’s best interest to help Alexis back on the throne in Constantinople, and that would normally have been his advice. Funds were plainly wasted on the man, but Constantinople was relatively weak. The Ilkhan could provide troops, or have one of their proxies do so…