Still, Umberto struggled to talk about the pregnancy. It had begun to dawn on Maria that it wasn't the mysterious father so much as the fact that, so far as Umberto was concerned, this was an area men didn't refer to. Ever. Babies just happened, and he would much prefer that things stayed that way, thank you.
Maria walked out past the house, looking about her with wonder. She had never in her life seen trees so tall or so—untamed. Beneath her feet, the springy turf felt very different from dockside boards and stone quays, and the cool air was dry. Wondrously dry. In Venice, the air was thick enough to wring out like a dishrag. The loneliness out here was compelling, and pulled her farther under the trees. In short order, she'd very rapidly broken the injunction about going out of sight of the houses. Rossi's stories and Umberto's concern aside, the hills seemed as unthreatening as a kitten.
And she was in a phase of pregnancy where she just seemed to have too much energy. She was over most of the morning sickness now, and although she'd been told she would become heavy and uncomfortable soon, she still felt strong, not needing to be pampered and cosseted.
Still . . . there was maybe less room in her lungs than there used to be. She sat herself down on a pile of leaves with a neat rock backrest just short of the ridge. The rock was sun-warmed, and she'd walked a long way. A canaler's strength, she realized after a moment, really didn't lie in the legs. She'd just rest a while. Just a little in the sun, the warm sun . . .
* * *
She woke with a start—though, out of habit, not moving, not even to open her eyes. Voices, strange voices; near, but not near enough to see her, obviously. She recognized the one: Rossi, the forester who had brought the caretta to collect them.
"—see any problems. The old man they've sent up doesn't look like he'll understand what is going on, Torfini." Rossi chuckled. "I reckon after the wolf, bear and boar stories I told the man and that young woman of his, the two of them will stay barricaded in the house for the next two years, never mind the next two months."
"Even so. I'm sure it was Rudolpho and Marco who somehow got word to the admirals at the Arsenal. I don't want those two to hook onto the fact that we still have timber to move out. Oak that well curved is much in demand."
"So who is buying ship ribs now? Constantinople?"
The other man snorted. "For heaven's sake! I don't care. It's all money."
"Good money, and I want mine, Torfini." There was a threat in that voice that made Maria press herself into the rock.
"You'll get it, all right. Just keep everyone away from the Mello ridges for a couple of weeks."
"I'll find you if I don't get it."
"You'll get yours."
Maria waited a good long while after they'd left; the last thing she wanted was for either of those two pizza de merde to guess she'd overheard them. In fact her descent was more alarming than she'd anticipated, for darkness had come on much quicker than she'd expected. It was twilight when she got down to the cottages, which were already twinkling with firelight.
Umberto was standing outside their house, with the door wide open, beside himself. "Where have you been? I have been so worried! I've got the men out looking for you. There are saw pits . . ."
She patted his cheek, and tried to make him really look at her. "I'm fine. I just walked farther than I meant to. Then I stopped for a rest, and fell asleep. But Umberto, never mind all that now! I found out something very important."
He wasn't listening. "You must be more careful, Maria! This isn't the canals of Venice. It is dangerous out here. You hear me? Dangerous! Rossi told me that before the Old Chief Forester left—"
She tried mightily to keep from snapping at him. She wasn't a child! This wasn't about a new flower or a wild hare she'd seen!
"Umberto, Rossi is a liar. He was trying to keep us indoors. And if the old Chief Forester's name was Torfini, then he hasn't gone far. He was up on that ridge over there talking to Rossi. I heard them."
He wasn't even listening. He led her indoors, patting her. "You're in a . . . a delicate condition, Maria. You must rest. I'll get someone to look after you."
Suddenly she was too tired to fight for him anymore. Maybe if a man told him what was going on, he might actually listen to it. "Very well. I'll rest. If you go out and get two of your men in here, Rudolpho and Marco."
"You really must be more careful Maria . . ."
In this, at least, she would be firm. "Rudolpho and Marco, Umberto. Now. And then I'll rest and be good."
Chapter 3
Grand Duke Jagiellon looked at his new shaman with a strange glow in his inhuman eyes. Count Mindaug was sure he understood the thoughts moving in that now-demonic brain: This particular shaman's skin would offer more eating than the last. It was very wrinkled, and the tattoos would give it an interesting color and flavor.
The face, especially, was heavily tattooed. The shaman wore a coat of reindeer hide, the shoulders of which were covered in feathers and the back with small brass bells. He carried a quodba, a magic drum, so large that it seemed to dwarf the wrinkled old man; the drumhead had also been tattooed. There was no expression on the old face. Only the eyes, narrow and slightly up-tilted, showed any signs of trepidation. They darted about, taking in details, faintly shadowed with unnamed and secret thoughts.
Count Mindaug detected the battle of wills going on between the huge, meaty Grand Duke and the scrawny old man. Not a word was said, but the air itself shivered as if with heat.
Eventually the old shoulders slumped. "The haltija is too strong." He bowed to the Grand Duke. "Master."
"Remember that," Jagiellon said coldly. "But you are stronger than my last shamans."
The shaman said nothing. He waited.
Jagiellon turned to Count Mindaug. "This one is not Karelian. Why has he come?"
Pacifically, Mindaug held out his hands with their perfectly manicured and sharpened nails. "I sent emissaries into the north seeking out their most powerful. Your new shaman, the one from Karelen, killed himself some days back. This one is from Kandalaksha."
The shaman nodded. "I am master of many words of power. Many sea words. Many water words. Some forest words. I kill small Karelian. He challenged my power, but I too strong for him." His Lithuanian was good, if accented.
This was talk Jagiellon understood. "You will give me that strength. All of it. And you will only kill at my express command." The dark eyes flared. "There will be plenty of opportunity."
"Who do I go kill?"
The big hands carved a shape in the air. A vision appeared, of a tall, willowy boy. "This one. Marco Valdosta is his name. See him. Taste his magic. He is weak in skill but deep in power."
The shaman's drum seemed to shiver. But other than the faint throbbing that came from it there was no sound or movement for some time. Eventually the shaman shook his head. "Not one. Is two. One human, very strong but no skill. And one big but not human. You no kill this one."
This did not, to Mindaug's surprise, anger his master. Not visibly, anyway. The purple scar on Jagiellon's forehead pulsed briefly. "The nonhuman one is limited to a place. If the human comes out of that, you can kill him."
The shaman nodded. "Eat his haltija. He strong, but not skilled yet."
"Good." A gesture and the vision was dispelled. "Now, this one." Again a shape formed in the air. Reddish hair. An aquiline nose, a single line of eyebrow, and eyes that burned. "Eneko Lopez, this one's name."
The drum-skin shivered. And then, with a sound like tearing cloth, split.
The shaman averted his face, making a warning-sign. "Make it go, master!" he said urgently. "He will see us, too."
The vision disappeared. The shaman shook himself, like a dog ridding water. "Too skilled, master. Not so strong as the last two, but very skilled. And much haltija. Much strength to that soul! More than the skill or power."
Jagiellon nodded. "Then we will work through intermediaries. There are powers in the shadow-world that are mighty—at least within their geographic
al area. And we can misdirect. He must be watched. Watched from a distance."
"Yes, master." The shaman bowed. "I have two watchers at my call. Birds can see a great distance."
"They are not magical creatures?" asked Jagiellon. "He will be aware of magical watchers."
The shaman flicked his fingers against the drum, scowling and muttering. The skin began to knit itself. As soon as it was entire, he began to drum a steady, demanding beat. Count Mindaug could see his lips moving, but despite listening intently he could not make out the words.
Two birds battered at the window. Jagiellon motioned to the Count to open it. The Count pulled open the window and then had to duck as two enormous goshawks streaked past his head to land on the shaman's now outstretched arms. Beneath his reindeer-hide robe the shaman wore heavy leather vambraces of what could only be the thickest bullhide. And well he did so—those powerful talons would have pierced anything less right through.
Like most nobles, Mindaug had flown falcons. There was something wrong with these birds. Those eyes were red insanity. Goshawks were always a little mad, but these two . . .
It was said that a goshawk with a threatened nest would attack anything short of an elephant. Mindaug had the distinct impression that these two would not hesitate at the elephant, with or without a nest under threat. Most birds of prey killed only enough to feed on; goshawks and their kin sometimes went into killing frenzies if the opportunity presented itself. Mindaug sensed that this pair would create the opportunity if one didn't already exist.
"Feel them, master. Feel them with your power."
Jagiellon looked hard at the birds. "Hmm. It is there. But very, very light. Just a hold."
"Just their names, master. But I can see through their eyes."
Jagiellon turned to the count. "You served me well with this one, Mindaug. I am pleased."
The Count bowed, his fingernails digging into his palms. The shaman was a very valuable tool to give up to his master. But the Count had one thing that the Grand Duke did not have.
He had the shaman's own name of power.
Mindaug wasn't too sure how he'd use that, yet. But treachery was, after all, the core value of his world. His researches into magical creatures had stretched a wide net away from the Polish-Lithuanian power base that was his master's realm. He'd looked far, far back. What he'd found was this old one. The shaman was not entirely human any more himself.
But then, in the Ionian islands was something far, far older; quiescent, but far from dead. Jagiellon knew it had been a powerful place once, but actually he knew very little that was verifiable about the island once referred to as Nausicaa, an island which was settled before Etruscans came to the Venetian lagoon. Mindaug wondered if this was, at long last, the moment that the Grand Duke had overreached himself.
Chapter 4
It was bitterly cold down here in the water chapel below St. Raphaella. Marco felt it, even through the thick coat and fur collar. Brother Mascoli still wore his simple light-colored habit. The fringe of gray hair about his ears was, if anything, thinner than it had been when Marco first met him. Old people were usually touched more by the cold than the young, but the priest's faith seemed to keep him warm.
Warmer than Marco, anyway. He shivered.
"You are afraid, Marco," said the Hypatian Sibling gently. "Don't be. God's will is God's will."
"I know. But I still question the rightness of what I am doing. I do it for someone I love especially and dearly. This is not just a deed done out of love for my fellow man, or to serve a greater cause." Marco shook his head. "Kat and her grandfather must have been praying for the return of her father for years, and if it is God's will that he not return, so be it. All I want to do is find out where he is. If at least they knew what had happened to him, and where he is—or was—it might give them . . . not comfort, exactly, but . . ."
He groped after the concept that he wanted, but he might have known that a Sibling would know very well what he was getting at.
"I understand," Brother Mascoli said, soothingly. "Remember, Marco, there is nothing unChristian about asking creatures that are not human for their help, just as it is not unChristian to help them when they come to us for healing." He smiled. "Of course, no evil creature would ever approach us for help; their very natures would prevent them coming anywhere near here. And since you helped to heal one undine, all of the unhuman creatures are kindly inclined to you."
Mascoli put a hand on Marco's shoulder. "If a stranger had asked this of you, you would have tried?"
Marco nodded.
Mascoli smiled. "It is not right to deny the same help to those one loves dearly. That, too, would be a sin. He who judges these things knows the intents of the innermost heart, and He is not fooled by the shallow and their pretences. In the presence of men it may sometimes be wise not to show favor to an especially loved one. In the presence of God . . . well, He knows already. And since He is Love incarnate, He will always look kindly upon a deed done out of unselfish love."
It didn't seem quite so cold down here any more. Marco took a deep breath, and began to ask the blessing of the four great archangels.
The warded corners glowed. Heaven would forfend any attempt to venture evil here. Remembering Brother Mascoli's instructions, he intoned, "In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, fiat pace."
Standing now within the veil of light lying weightlessly on the chapel walls, Marco dipped the wine cup into the cold, murky canal water. Discipline and concentration were called for, here. Marco held the wine cup until the water was mirror-still.
He began scrying, building up an image in his mind, calling by their true names, the triton Androcles and his mate Althea.
The images and response came quickly. Wait. We come.
An image of winter waves curling and foam-lines danced across the wine cup . . .
* * *
And a brief moment of a circular suckerlike mouth full of long needle-sharp teeth. And a terrible roaring.
The wards flared to an incandescent brightness, briefly, and there was a sense that something had impacted against them. Hard.
The tall candles were now merely burning wicks in a dripping pool of wax.
Marco nearly dropped the wine cup. He turned to Brother Mascoli. "What happened?" he asked, afraid and angry at the same time. "What was that?"
The Hypatian Sibling was already kneeling, ignoring the fact that the stones were wet. "Join me," he said hastily. "We need to strengthen the wards. Now."
One thing Marco had learned: when a magician said "now" in that tone of voice, it was no time to ask questions.
"What happened? Are Androcles and Althea all right?" Marco asked as soon as Brother Mascoli had finished leading the invocation. Marco's heart was in his mouth.
"Describe exactly what you saw," the Sibling said, his usual calm considerably thinner.
Marco did.
Brother Mascoli nodded. "Yes." He let out a gusty sigh. "In my opinion, your merfolk are probably all right. In fact, they're probably completely unaware that anything happened. They were not the target of what you encountered."
He blinked. "They weren't?"
Brother Mascoli shook his head, and looked very grave indeed. "It is clear to me, Marco, that we need to work on your focus, and your defenses. You are very vulnerable when you are scrying like that, and I fear that this time only your bond with the Lion saved you. Part of you was outside the wards—and your ability stretches the window of vision. It is rare that one person can do that sort of scrying alone and unaided. As a consequence, you can see much more than, say, I can. Unfortunately, it also means you are then visible to anything lurking, waiting for the sign of your magic. You are at your most vulnerable under such circumstances."
"And something attacked me."
The information that he, and not the merfolk, had been the object of an attack made him feel a moment of relief. At least he had not been the cause of two innocents getting in harm's way.
&nb
sp; Brother Mascoli made the sign of the cross. "Something is definitely out there," he said quietly. "Something that dares not venture within the ancient boundaries of our current Venice, but knows what Marco Valdosta's mage-work feels like. Something that is so evil that the wards were called on to guard your very soul."
Marco's relief evaporated, and he felt as if he had been doused in iced water. And now that he came to think about it . . .
There'd been something very recognizable about that image, a feeling that he'd met it when they'd fought Chernobog's minions. He could almost taste the magic, foul beyond measure and polluted, yet with an edge of seductive sweetness—seductive, at least, if you were not aware that it was the sweetness of corruption.
"But . . . I thought the Lion had defeated the evil that attacked Venice?" he whispered.
Brother Mascoli was the gentlest and kindest of all the men that Marco knew. Right now he did not look gentle. "We have won a battle," he said quietly, sighing. "A battle, not the war. We need to go on being vigilant. And we need to remember that in this war it is love and care that are our weapons, as much as swords or magics. Our foe can match us sword for sword, magic for magic. But love and care are ours and ours alone. Our enemy cannot give those. They would destroy him if he tried."
It was Marco's turn to sigh; he had given so much already, and now that things were settling down for him, he had hoped for a respite. "I'm just so sick of fighting. I thought . . . I thought we could give peace a try."
The Sibling shook his head. "I am not a man of arms. But it is no use simply calling for peace when our foe takes our desire for it to be an opportunity to conquer brutally without meeting any resistance. We need swords, aye, and magic, beside the love and care. You and I and the Hypatian Order want to serve the latter. But we need the former, also. We need to support them."
The still canal water, greenish in the pale light, was suddenly ringed. The mermaid and the triton popped up.
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