Eneko nodded. "A pair of what I should guess were goshawks, although I am not an expert on birds. Are such things common over Venice?"
"Well, I've seen hawks in the reed-brakes and barene close to the fringes of the marsh, but not really out here," Marco temporized. "They don't belong here. The gulls will see them off."
The gulls will kill them if they can.
"I have seen two hawks in the sky rather often of late. They appear to be hawks, at least," said Eneko. "I have attempted to scry them. Birds are difficult to connect with, and raptors most particularly difficult. They think mostly of hunting and killing, and not a great deal else."
Well, this was the opening Marco had rather wondered how to make. "But if you were scrying and it turned out they were not hawks . . . wouldn't you be very vulnerable?" He took a deep breath. "Brother Mascoli said I should ask you for help with magical defenses for protection against evil."
He felt the eagle gaze again. "Mascoli is a good man. But he sees only good in everything. If he thought you should consult me on this, I must conclude that something particularly evil happened. Tell me about it."
So Marco explained.
Eneko Lopez's eyes narrowed when he came to the part about the undines and San Raphaella. "I was aware of this. I was also aware that the undines that live in the Lagoon have a great deal to do with the Strega mages. In particular with the late Luciano Marina." Something about the way he said it filled in the word "unlamented" before "late."
Marco nodded, but innate honesty forced him to defend Chiano. The Strega mage might have intended to kill him to save Venice—but . . . he'd also saved Marco's life before that. And been a friend when a terrified boy needed one.
And it was entirely possible—
Probable, chuckled the voice in his head.
—that the knife had been intended for some other purpose in the ceremony.
Bloodletting does not mean killing. Some ceremonies require the spilling of a token of blood, given freely. Ask your black-robed friend. He knows.
"Luciano was a good man, even if he was not a Christian," Marco said with more firmness. "And he helped the undines and they liked him, yes. Brother Mascoli said it was not wrong to aid nonhumans. No evil creature would come to the sanctified water, and no evil creature would ask help."
"We differ in levels of trust and points of theology," said Eneko, dryly. "But continue. I accept that you are a Christian soul, even if you are bonded to a creature about which I am less certain." He smiled. "And I do not mean your wife, whose Christianity I know well enough from the counseling booth of St. Hypatia. She gave me a lesson in honesty, once, when I was her counselor."
Marco took a deep breath. "Well, according to Brother Mascoli, it was only the strength of that 'other' that saved me. I got the fright of my life, señor. It was like being thistle-down slapped around by a maelstrom, just for an instant. The ward candles nearly burned up completely in that instant. Whatever it was, it was waiting out there for me when I went looking for the triton. It was . . . lying in ambush, so to speak, waiting to kill me."
Eneko pursed his lips. "The power of the Lion is very much tied to the area of the old marshes is it not?"
Marco nodded.
"And you were scrying outside of this area, and you were attacked."
Marco nodded again.
Eneko stood in thought, his heavy brows hooding his eyes. "I conclude that Chernobog still retains an interest in you. I cannot see why any other creature of power should take such a risk with a mage. You see, as much as you are vulnerable, so is your attacker. I should imagine that Chernobog uses an intermediary or a lesser servant, rather than direct intervention. Still, that servant is likely to be one who is himself—or herself—very powerful and dangerous. There are defenses. The first one however, is 'stay home.' Without you the Lion of Saint Mark would be somewhat less effective, am I correct?"
"Well, in times of crisis one of the four families must direct the Lion's power," agreed Marco.
"And if I am correct, all that remains are three Montescues and two Valdostas of the old blood?"
Marco bit his lip. "Well, Benito . . . He's my half-brother, Sir. We had different fathers."
Eneko nodded. "That is easy enough to guess without even seeing him, just to judge by his behavior. So: In fact it is only yourself and the three Montescues, one of whom is away, and one of whom is very elderly. This is a good reason to want you dead. And it is a good reason for you to keep scrying as the aspect of mage-practice you use only in dire emergency. However, I will teach you to attack when you are attacked, and how to best defend yourself—if you will agree to restrain your scrying to matters that are vital to your survival."
Marco nodded. "If you will extend that to 'what is vital to the survival of Venice,' then I will. You see, the Lion is Venice, in a way. So by defending it I defend myself, too."
"A fair caveat," agreed Eneko. He took Marco by the elbow and turned back to the chamber. "Come. Let us go inside. The gulls appear to have driven the hawks away. Gulls are less formidable than hawks, but gulls are certainly more numerous."
Marco watched with interest as Eneko Lopez laid out a few very simple objects. Four ward-candles, which he placed in each corner of the room, a silver mirror, and, of all odd things, a sharp needle stuck in a cork. With the mirror on a low table between them, Lopez invoked the four wards as Marco had learned to do, and set up the circle of protection around them. It was all done very quickly, neatly and efficiently.
"Now, your first and best protection when you attempt to scry when you do not know if something is watching for you, is to arrange so that you are not noticed."
"But how do I do that?" Marco asked.
"By finding some other thing that is in the area, and concealing 'yourself' within it. Those gulls, for instance. Scry for one of those gulls over the Lagoon just now."
Obediently, Marco bent over the mirror, and easily called one of the gulls into its silver surface, which was silver no longer, but reflected the blue sky and white clouds.
"Very good. Now move in closer," Eneko instructed.
In the mirror, and in his mind, the gull loomed nearer, nearer, until he was looking directly into its black, bright eye.
"Closer."
He couldn't imagine how he could do that, but then that familiar warmth inside him gave him a nudge—
And now, he looked down on the Lagoon, felt the wind in his feathers, adjusted the tilt of his wing for better lift in a thermal—
Good, said a voice from very far away, as he went very still and quiet. Now, don't actually do anything. Just sit, and watch, and when another gull comes near, make that same jump to it.
It wasn't long before a second gull joined the first, and the two locked gazes long enough for Marco to make that "jump."
Practice this for a while. Move from gull to gull. But don't try to interfere in what they do. Just observe.
It was a little—a very little—like being the Lion. The gulls didn't have much on their minds but food and flying. He made the jump into four more gulls, when Eneko's voice came back.
Now think about flying toward the piazza and landing on one of the piers.
But the gull didn't want to do that; he felt the resistance.
You could make him, but that would make you noticed. At the moment, unless a magician was aware that you were riding this particular gull, there is no way that you would be detected. This is how you can scry and not be seen. So, find another bird and see if you can jump to one that will do what you ask.
It took two more birds, not one, before he found one that felt that landing on the pier would be a good thing. This was a big, strong bird who often managed to snatch food from lesser gulls down there. With a tilt of its wings, it made a dizzying plunge down toward the water, skimmed along the surface, and made a graceful landing on the stone.
Good. Now reverse how you got to the first gull. Pull back. See the gull in the mirror—
And before the voice was done, Ma
rco was looking into the eye of a fine, bright-eyed gull, then watching it strut nonchalantly along the stone walkway of the piazza. . . .
He was startled to see that Eneko Lopez had his left hand firmly in the grasp of Eneko's own, with the needle poised over it, as the mirror went to ordinary silver again.
"Excuse me, Father, but what are you doing?"
"A precaution," Eneko replied, immediately letting go of his hand. "In case you got lost in the gull's thoughts. A sharp reminder to your spirit that it still has a proper human body would swiftly recall you back."
"It would?" Marco was impressed by that; he could think of any number of ways that he could practice this trick with Kat's help, if this was the safeguard he needed to take.
"Oh, yes, indeed." Eneko smiled. "How are you feeling?"
"Um . . . tired." He was, suddenly. But he knew why, now; this leaping about from gull to gull was something that had all come out of his own reserves. "Can I draw on some other power to do this, next time?"
"Only at the risk of being noticed," Eneko warned. "You will make the gull look different to another mage if you start drawing on more power. Just as, if another mage was to try to scry the bird you were riding, he would notice you unless you take care to be very still and not draw attention to yourself."
"But could I scry, say, a bird over Cremona, and ride it?" he hazarded.
"Yes," Lopez said. "But if there was anything watching for you, it would find you. Your risk would be less, once you began riding the bird, but it would still be there."
Marco nodded. "But what about defending myself?" he asked, quietly.
"That will be the next lesson; I want you first to learn how to make yourself so inconspicuous when riding a bird or a beast that a mage will have to be very skilled to find you." Eneko softened his stern look with a little smile. "After all, the very best defense is not to need to defend yourself at all."
Chapter 22
The ships made their way, cautiously, under oars, the leadsman calling depths as ship by ship the first great spring fleet rowed around the sand-spit at the end of the Lido. In the deeper water of the Adriatic, something watched.
If the shaman had been in his own white sea he could have named many of the denizens of the cold deep and sunk all of the vessels above. Here the massive eellike creature that was his sea-form was restricted to watching. He was eighteen cubits long, but that was still not large enough to take on ships. As always his body-shape dictated his appetites. Ships were full of food that would be nice to suck dry.
He flicked his powerful tail, and began swimming southward. Best to see if the other fleet and army was well hidden.
This water was too warm. And the monk seals weren't worth eating.
* * *
The galley had a number of its berths taken by the Vinlanders that Kat had rushed over to see. Maria had watched them for a few days now, and she was fairly certain that the two men who looked like a pair of giant warriors were really nothing much more than boys, not much older than she was. They were very happy to be at sea, and she had the feeling that although they probably were quite fond of their sister, they were also just a little tired of having her fastened to them all the time. Back in Venice, no doubt, they'd been able to get out and about on their own, but here, they were forced into each others' company with no chance for privacy.
Maria came out to put the wicker crib on the deck. Other than the helmsman, the poop deck was empty except for the blond woman—who was dripping tears over the stern of the ship. It looked to Maria as if she might join them, to splash into the water amid the kitchen peelings the cook had just tossed there.
Maria bit her lip. She'd better go over and see what the matter was. After all, the Vinlanders were Kat's grandfather's business partners. And Alessia, looking like a particularly plump and pretty cherub, was fast asleep.
Maria walked over, quietly, moving easily with the rolling of the ship.
"What's wrong?" The Vinlander woman nearly fell overboard.
The woman sniffed, hastily scuffed a sleeve across her eyes, and turned to Maria with a fake smile plastered over a face that still had tear-streaks running down the cheeks. "Nothing. I thank you," she said. "I am well. Truly."
She looked as if she was going to dissolve into tears in the very next moment.
Fine. You and I are the only two women on this ship, young lady. And we're going to the same place. I think we had better be friends.
One thing she had noticed about the Vinlanders was that they seemed to be very direct, in a way that suited Maria's canaler sensibilities. So she decided to be direct, herself.
"No, you aren't well," She put an arm over the blonde's big shoulders. "I'm not blind," she continued, feeling a hundred years older than this poor young thing. "You can tell me what's wrong. I'm a friend of Kat's."
That earned her a look of puzzlement from the woman. "Katerina Montescue. I mean Katerina Valdosta."
"Ah. Ja." The girl sniffed again, and bit her lip—but a tear escaped anyway. "You were with the bride. In the beautiful crimson dress—you are the bride's friend, ja? Such a pretty girl, and such a fine husband. I did not recognize you in those clothes."
It was plain this meant a huge leap in status to the Vinlander, and thus in acceptability as a confidante. "You know them well, then?"
"Kat's my best friend," Maria said, and was a little surprised to realize that it was true. "And her husband is very, very good to my people in Venice." Any more would be too complicated to explain at one sitting. Maybe later.
"I know that your—" she searched her memory for the word that Erik used "—your clan is going to be trading partners with Kat's family, and I know that Kat wouldn't want to see you so unhappy if there was anything she could do to help. So, can I help?"
"I cannot see how," the girl replied mournfully.
"Well, why don't you just tell me about it?" Maria said, reasonably. "That can't do any harm, and it's better than crying here all alone over the turnip peelings."
The girl's face worked for a moment, as if she was trying to hold herself back, but it all came out in a rush, anyway. "I am so unhappy!" she wailed softly, in tones of such anguish that they imparted a sense of heartbreak to the banal words. "I will never see him again!"
For one, sharp-edged moment, Maria was tempted to join her in her tears, for the words called Benito's stricken face up in her own memory. I will never see him again—
But she was older than this poor child—in experience, if not years—and she held onto her composure.
The moment passed. Maria patted the blond woman's arm awkwardly. What the hell did you say to a cry of pain like that? She settled for: "There, there . . ."
Even this provoked another flood of sobbing. "He was such a nice man. The nicest we have met here in all Europe. And so tall, too." How could something that sounded so silly also sound as if the girl had lost her first and only true love?
Tall? Well, that counted out Benito. "Didn't he, I mean, couldn't you . . . ?" Maria floundered. She really didn't know how to deal with this. "What happened? Why won't you see him again?"
"I did not want to go. But Bjarni said Mama would never allow it. I know Mama would not be happy. But his eyes are such a beautiful blue-gray. And his chin is so . . . so square-cut and manly." She sniffed; and then, obviously overcome by the vision she'd conjured up, began to cry again.
"I cannot sleep for thinking about him!" she sobbed.
From the tone of her voice, that was nothing less than the truth, and a great deal less than she felt.
"Why won't your mama approve?" Maria ventured, cautiously. "Is he married or something?"
The woman mournfully shook her head. "Erik is not married. But he is just a lowly bodyguard. We are the Thordarsons. We are one of the wealthiest families in Vinland. I cannot just marry a Nithing. Mama wants me to marry a man of position. That would help the family. But . . . but he was so wonderful."
She began to hiccup, and Maria patted her back.
Good Lord. How long has she been crying like this? Hours? Days?
She knew all too well what the girl felt like. She'd been there—before she learned just what a scum-bred bastard Caesare Aldanto was.
Cogs began to turn in Maria's head, though. And if this Erik was the Erik she knew, he certainly wasn't a scum-bred bastard. "Who was he guarding?" she asked.
The Vinlander girl shrugged, as if anyone other than Erik was of no importance at all, and pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve. By the sodden look of it, she had been crying for hours. "I do not know. A guard is a guard."
Maria bit her lip again. "You don't know the rest of his name do you? Erik what?"
"Hakkonsen. It is a good family . . ."
Maria almost choked. Just a bodyguard! "Ah. Well. Have you heard of Prince Manfred?"
Svanhild nodded. "Of course. The heir to the Emperor. The son of the Duke of Brittany. He was at the wedding." Her tone turned bitter. "It is very good for business, these connections that Katerina brings to the Thordarsons, ja."
"Well, he's actually not the heir. That's his cousin, Conrad. Manfred's next in line after him. That makes him the third most important person in the Holy Roman Empire, which is the most powerful state in Europe. Maybe in the whole world."
"Ja," the girl said, indifferently. "And also the Duke of Brittany has great standing in the League of Armagh. He is a very important man. If only my Erik could have such friends—" She began to sob again.
Maria shook the woman's shoulders, just a little, although it was like trying to shake one of those Teutonic warriors that had come into Venice among the Knots. Mostly, she was trying not to laugh.
"Listen to me! Erik Hakkonsen is Prince Manfred of Brittany's personal bodyguard and master-at-arms. Only bodyguard is the wrong word to use to describe him. It's more like—"
She scrambled for some phrase that might describe what Erik did besides "keeper." Or maybe, "nursemaid." And if Benito only had someone like that to knock some sense into him—
"He's a sort of teacher, or companion, and—well, he keeps Manfred from getting into too much trouble. Being a bodyguard is just a small part of it. Kat's friend tells me they are really much more like friends. What he certainly isn't is a—" Again she searched her memory for what the girl had said. "—a Nithing. I suspect if you asked Manfred, he would say that Erik is very important to him."
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