Burdens of the Dead

by Mercedes Lackey

  Francisco rose—slightly—to the bait. “Fortunately, that is no longer important, Your Grace.”

  A footman opened the doors and the butler, with an expression that could have curdled vinegar, arrived with two more footmen, carrying a silver tray, with a foaming flagon on it and three tankards.

  A little tension eased from Francisco’s face. “I was somewhat unsure of what sort of reception I’d get, Your Grace. Beer improves most meetings.”

  “I haven’t drunk any for some years,” said Petro. “But Marco has restricted my wine to watered slop.”

  “In this case, I can recommend it, Your Grace. Hops and other bitters are good for the liver and the digestion.” Francisco smiled, and his smile deepened as he accepted a flagon, and took his first drink from it.

  Conversation slipped into politenesses for a while before returning to business. “I make no pretense about Carlo Sforza, M’Lord Valdosta,” Francisco said, with some regret. “He is my commander and I think a friend, but he is neither good nor gentle. He told me himself that he would have killed your mother, had he had half the chance, when she fled to Venice. In open battle or as a matter of state, if Venice was in conflict with Milan, he would regard both you and your brother as foes to be dealt with as he deals with other foes: by force. But your brother exposed another side to him, when he returned his pilgrim medal. For some months, Carlo was under the impression that Benito had taken it, been close enough to kill him, and decided not to. To send the medal back as a warning. That was a dangerous message to send Carlo Sforza.”

  “That was never Benito’s intention—” Marco began to protest.

  Francisco nodded. “Exactly. And then he found out that he was wrong. That Benito had recovered a number of those medals from a fence, knew that one was his father’s, and merely sent it back because he could. It’s the first time I have seen him truly nonplussed. He did not know what to think.”

  Marco passed a hand over his face, and the Doge chuckled. “That is the reaction many of us have to things Benito does,” said Petro.

  “Even so. He began to take a great interest in Benito, and in the woman Maria Verrier.” Francisco coughed. “He said to me that he was afraid that his son was too like him, and that Maria was…too like your mother.” Francisco held up is hand. “He does not hold that opinion of her any more, although he says that there are similarities, in temper and temperament—and I think we can all agree that the lady is one that none of us would care to anger.”

  At that, Dorma laughed, and Marco sighed. “I like Maria,” the young physician said, plaintively. “And Benito—”

  “And Benito would do anything for her,” Petro interrupted. “And she is not one to abuse that sort of bond. Good, honest canal-bred.”

  “Precisely. And my master regards your brother’s virtues as due to her influence. He, um…appears to think very highly of her now.” Francisco waited to see how that was taken. He looked relieved to see both Marco and the Doge nodding. “Remember, Carlo is not nobly born either; he measures virtue by deeds, not birth. He regards Maria Verrier as the saving of Benito, and their child as glue in that bond.”

  “He’s right about that, for both of us, I think,” said Marco. “And Maria has made Benito, well, grow up, and, um, turned his path. And Alessia has been good for him. She steadied him, made him realize that he had something precious he had to protect, and to protect her, he would have to think before he acted.”

  “Which is why I was dispatched to this city. Carlo has long maintained a network of shall we say spies, separate from the Visconti—Montagnard faction.” He coughed. “I think as a result of your mother’s involvement in the latter.”

  “So: you were sent to watch Alessia?” asked Marco.

  “And Maria Verrier, but his primary concern was the little girl. We found it odd that she had accompanied him, and left her daughter here.”

  Marco laughed. “Not half as odd as the truth, my friend. Which isn’t what Carlo Sforza believes, but is a lot more terrifying. He chose the right side this time. Alessia’s well guarded, even though that ex-Dandelo managed to kidnap her. I wish Sforza had rather sent us a message that that was planned, rather than a bodyguard. Not that we’re not grateful because we are.”

  Francisco interrupted him. “M’Lord, I wasn’t sent as a bodyguard, nor had he any idea of that plan. He’d been excluded from Fillipo Visconti’s council for some time.”

  “If you weren’t sent as a bodyguard, what were you?” asked Petro.

  Francisco took a pull of his beer. “I am soldier first, of course, but I have been Carlo’s personal physician for some time. He was mostly worried about the child’s health in this city.” He raised an eyebrow to Marco. “He didn’t know much about your medical studies and ability, Marco, but many years ago—as a young man—he came to Venice and got the bloody flux and nearly died of it. He, er, describes Venice…well, the filth in the canals, very unflatteringly, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Of course the filth in the streets of Milan is so much better,” he said, with a disarming smile. “He does fixate on certain ideas to the exclusion of others.”

  “I would take care not to mention that Carlo Sforza thinks La Serenissima is a noisome city to anyone else,” said Petro Dorma, dryly. “They’d probably make us go to war over the insult. Half of the Casa Vecchi leave the city for high summer because of the smell, and go to their estates on the mainland, but criticism of the city is strictly reserved for her citizens. And right now I am in his debt, though I am not sure the Council of Ten would allow me to publicly acknowledge that. I owe him both for Di Lamis and your help in keeping me alive.”

  “Not to mention your part in rescuing Alessia. I and my family are forever in your debt,” said Marco, seriously.

  “Carlo is still half-convinced that I helped him to survive a cunning double feint, M’Lord. He says he nearly fell over backwards when he met Benito fighting his way out of the Villa Parvitto. We were sure, at that stage, that the fleet was in Corfu or possibly already laying siege to Constantinople, and that Benito was with them. It put rather a different light on our spring plans.”

  Petro smiled thinly, not showing his teeth, and then said: “Do convey to your master that discretion is the better part of valor when interpreting the strategies of the Republic of Venice.”

  “Well, he told me to tell you that his interests lay to the southwest—as long as he didn’t have to deal with a direct challenge. Forgive me being so blunt. I’m not a diplomat. I’m a soldier first, and tactful later.”

  “You’re a doctor first,” said Marco firmly. “And I am going to need your help in setting up a new medical school.”

  “And for that reason,” said Petro, “I think we will be able to persuade the Council of Ten that support for the various factions who claim legitimate inheritance of the ducal coronet of Milan should be encouraged to bicker with each other. A sudden outbreak of good relations with an old enemy would be difficult for them, or the people of Venice, to swallow. But a gradual thaw would work. Perhaps culminating in our sending a representative to Sforza’s wedding. Who is going to be, by the way? The betting is long on Eleni Visconti-Faranese. But I suspect the Medici cousin is in the running.”

  “Is nothing secret in Venice?” asked Francisco, looking both admiring and appalled.

  “Venice has a great many secrets. It’s just that people are bad at keeping them from her courtesans. Eavesdrop in certain discrete houses and you can learn nearly everything,” said Petro. “Or so I have been told.”

  Francisco took another pull of his beer. “Then I believe that I will be sharing my bed with the Scholar’s Mistress, and not a flesh-and-blood one, while I am here.”

  Chapter 53

  The Black Sea

  The fleet set sail from Constantinople on the twelfth day of February, taking advantage of a brief spell of advantageous wind to make their way along the Bosphorus and out into the Black Sea. Benito Valdosta knew that there was no way that Jagiellon did not kno
w they’d sailed, but hopefully most of Jagiellon’s fleet-in-preparation would still be trapped in the ice on the Dnieper. If so, they would only have to deal with the fleet-at-sea, who were mostly now based at Odessa.

  Benito had one serious advantage at sea: if it could find them, the roaming eye of Jagiellon could only observe the sea around them. Without referents, it had no idea where his fleet was. On the other hand, Benito knew where and how far off the enemy were. The tritons could speak at a distance across the wide ocean and knew just how far off that voice was.

  Even so, the news was not encouraging

  “They’re moving in squadrons down the west coast. And they outnumber your fleet by two to one,” said Androcles, hovering aside the ship as Benito leaned over the prow. “Mostly galleys under oars and sail. The round ships—I think they wait for their human cargo up on the Dnieper. We do not venture into those waters.”

  “If they try to enter the Bosphorus, they’re going to meet fireships and cannons.”

  “They’re behaving as if they seek ships, not as if they plan invasion, Benito. I think they wait for the fleet to be free from the ice for that. In the meanwhile, you have maybe three days before the next storm.”

  Benito sighed. “Next storm? It’s nearly spring!”

  “There are always a few real monsters to finish off the winter,” explained Androcles.

  Benito made some mental calculations. “Three days of good wind and hard work will see us to Sinope,” he said, as the bow-wave tossed a little foam at him. “Will we have that?”

  “Hard work? Well now, that’s difficult to tell. I’m no judge of how ready oarsmen are for that.” The triton laughed at his own wit. “But the weather feels settled.”

  Benito chuckled. “You leave me to see to the hard work then.”

  The crews were nervous enough to need little or no urging towards it. From what Lemnossa had said, the Bey of Sinope might be less than pleased to see them. On the other hand, this was a large fleet. Big enough to make him see sense.

  The weather was good enough for him to see the flags of the Ilkhan’s tarkhan. The Ilkhan, ultimately, was not to be offended. All things considered, Benito doubted they’d have trouble, and he was right.

  In fact. the Bey was pathetically eager to be on good terms with Venice and Genoa, and of course, the Ilkhan. Fleets of foreign northern style ships had been sighted offshore. Fishermen had not come home. Bygones ought to be bygones, rather than a return to the old days of the Brodnik pirates raiding from the rivers in the north.

  Then came the storm that Androcles had warned them about. It was, indeed, a monster, and they had got into a safe port just in time.

  They had to lie at anchor—and three ships dragged theirs and one was lost, before the weather abated. Then, with the galleys of Jagiellon’s fleet reported barely a day’s sail away, by the tritons, they set off into the open water, out and away from land.

  Jagiellon had no truly maritime people in his confederation. His captains and crews were river-men, scared by the open sea. Driven out to search—as best they could. They’d been relatively successful at patrolling the western and northern littoral.

  Now, according to the tritons, a large part of the fleet that was in the water was split into three, searching.

  Searching, naturally, the coastal perimeter.

  The round ships could do six knots with a good following breeze. Benito’s big war galleys could move much faster, for short periods. The galleys and the galliots moved under sail too, when the wind was usable. Under sail, the galleys were slow and clumsy, but their rowers could rest. This was a gamble—the wind was for a brief while in the right quarter. They had a brief window in the tumultuous weather that heralded the changing of the seasons. The tritons thought it might hold for three days.

  Of course, there were other problems. Mixed fleets always struggled; it was difficult to match speeds. Benito, none-the-less kept the ships together, using Di Tharra’s flotilla of light galliots amd the tritons to herd in the strays. They needed what help they could get, sailing both day and night.

  “It’s insanity!” protested one of the captains.

  “It’s Valdosta insanity,” said another. “Which means we do it, or our crews will toss us overboard and do it anyway. They trust him, and I do too.”

  The wind was feathering the clouds and coming across the water in icy squalls and flurries that seamen knew heralded a big blow when they sighted the Genovese towers on the cliffs of Cembalo.

  In the fringe of rain and sail-ripping gusts the fleet negotiated the narrow entry to the harbor to reach its sheltered water under the guns of the Genovese fortress. There they hid from the howling northerly winds and the last anger of winter for three days. They were greeted by the small Genovese trading colony there as if they were the second coming. The colony had not seen a trading vessel from home for nearly six months. They had seen the first ships and assumed this was Jagiellon’s fleet. They’d had expected to be a target for it, and prepared their guns and food, until some keen eyed fellow had picked out the flags on the vessels.

  * * *

  “There’ll be spies here, M’Lord Valdosta,” said Captain Di Tharra, as they conferred on the deck of Benito’s flagship. It had been barely possible to send a rowboat over. Di Tharra might have to overnight here. This was going to be an ugly blow.

  “I hope so,” said Benito. “Jagiellon—or the thing that drives him, seems to have no idea of the frailty of ships or the strength of the sea. Or how unused to it his sailors are. He’ll drive them after us—and this weather will get worse.”

  Di Tharra looked at the swaying topmasts even in this very sheltered harbor. “A lot worse. And those galleys of his are less seaworthy than yours. They’ll have to seek shelter or sink.”

  Benito’s smile reminded Di Tharra of the triton’s. His grandfather’s, of a shark.

  “Never let an enemy choose his time, conditions and ground,” explained Enrico. “We are three days or less sailing from Odessa. He will work that out too, and send some of the fleet back there. But if they try to hug the coast, that adds considerable distance. It’ll take the forward elements of their fleet—those that do not try to cross the open ocean in the storm—five days to reach Odessa from Sinope. And those who sail directly can barely get there—if they survive at all. Rowing both day and night—no rest, no fresh food—fighting the storm? They’ll be in a poor state to face us.”

  “And our crews will be rested and ready,” said Di Tharra.

  “Ready maybe. But the town of Cembalo is not doing much for their rest,” said Benito. You could hear the sound of revelry through the tower walls. Still, it was rest of a kind, if only from fear.

  On the fourth, day, the Venetians and Genovese fleets put to sea in rough conditions but with a fair following wind.

  * * *

  Jagiellon had had his vessels all make for the Dnieper or sail for Crimea—regardless of conditions. And now he had little idea of where they were, or how much force he had to attack the Venetian fleet with, or to defend his shipyards.

  But that was by no means all. His attention was seriously divided. For now, he had problems with the Golden Horde on land.

  PART VII

  March, 1541 A.D.

  Chapter 54

  Hades

  “The time has come, mortal bride, to return you to the sun and light,” said Aidoneus. His voice was filled with regret, but just possibly also with a touch of relief. “It is to be hoped that Hekate will allow us to pass the gates.”

  “She’d better. I need to hold ‘Lessi and I need Benito.” Maria realized this was possibly not the most tactful thing a woman had ever said. But there was a growing certainty in her mind, and she decided to test the waters. “You’re a good man, King of the Shadow Halls.”

  Aidoneus looked at her curiously. “I am not a man, my mortal queen. I do not think anyone has ever called me good, either.”

  She stalled for time, trying to read him. It was hard, ev
en after months of being with him. “You might not be mortal, but you’re a man. I should know. And you do your work well. The dead are your trust and you keep it.”

  He smiled. “Not many would see it that way. But, yes. I have my responsibilities. The kingdom of the dead is not without that. I have a duty to my dead, and also to those who will fill my halls in the fullness of time.”

  Maria saw deeper than that by now. “You protect the living.”

  “Yes. The boundary must be maintained. A few would wish it otherwise for a while, but not for long.” He sighed.

  She steeled herself. Now was the time. “You need a queen all of the time, not just for a few months. The way it was in the old days.”

  He regarded her oddly.

  “And—I can’t keep doing this. I thought I could, but I can’t.” She said that as firmly as she could. “What happens the next time my daughter is in danger? It will keep happening, you know. She’s a target, and not even you and I can keep her safe.” Before he could say anything, she kept on. “And Benito… You are a god, and you might be used to this sort of divided living, but I’m just a mortal woman, and…and it feels wrong. It pulls me apart.”

  His brows furrowed. “You intend to go back on your bargain?”

  “I intend to make a new one,” Maria replied, more sure of herself now that she saw he wasn’t angry. “The bargain was that you could have a mortal queen, just as you had in the long ago. I intend to find you one. No, that’s not true, I intend to find you many.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” he asked, carefully.

  “The Strega,” she said. “They follow the old ways. And they’re poor, most of them, crushingly poor. I think I can found a new branch of your worship among the Strega and the swamp-folk, you and Hekate, and as the reward, lift some of their poverty and give them protection.”

  Now he looked interested. “Would the Lion permit this?”