But it had been a piece of intense and powerful sorcery, not finely crafted and precise as the names of power he used, not demon-bludgeon strong as Jagiellon used. Precisely, he thought, what Jagiellon was looking for. This magic was raw and primal, elemental—big, in the way an earthquake or a thunderstorm was big.
Dangerous, too, but that was not his problem. His problem was to find it, Jagiellon's to tame it.
He sent his hawks winging north, a part of him seeing through their eyes, eyes that could see a field mouse twitch the grass at five hundred feet. It took him quite some time to realize that the hawks were being subtly pushed away. The thermals slid them off to the west, the winds seeming to buffet against them whenever they tried to fly to one corner of the island. The hawks were becoming exhausted. Worse, they were becoming recalcitrant. Ever since he had tried to use them above Venice, the shaman had noticed that his control over the two hawks was not as it should be.
He was both angry and astonished. It was not possible! He had their true names, which made them his. His absolutely. Yet . . . he could not ignore the fact that they were rebelling. Not in great things but in small ways, in a slow and steady erosion of his control. It must be this vile place's magic.
Well, where they could not go was as good an indication of where he had to go as them actually seeing something. The yellow dog ran on, allowing the hawks to go to roost.
It was midafternoon before he reached the place. He looked at the few burned branches and the evidence of the recently flooded stream and smelled raw magic.
He tried to take a step forward, and stumbled. Grass had grown around his feet, the thin strands intertwining and binding. He kicked his way loose, then moved forward, sniffing. A dog's nose is a wondrous instrument. He could smell the horses as individuals; he could smell the people, the peasants and the others, and know who had wandered where. He could smell the women among them, two of them. He could smell . . .
Achoo! He erupted in a volley of sneezes.
All the flowers suddenly seemed intent on smothering him in their scents. He flicked his ears. A horsefly buzzed about them; then another. One bit him just below the tail on the exposed flesh. The shaman turned and snapped angrily at it, cracking it in his yellow teeth. Another bit his ear as he did so. Several more came buzzing up. One affixed itself to his nose. The shaman pawed furiously at it.
The shaman was one of the greatest and most powerful of magicians. He was proofed against many great magics.
Horseflies made him flee.
Horseflies in those numbers could make anything flee. They seemed immune to his protective spells.
Still, he knew the area in which the magics were being worked now. The master could send Aldanto. It would do the blond puppet good to be bitten by few horseflies.
* * *
"Go away or we'll shoot you," said one of the pair of guards on the wall. He brandished his arquebus in a manner that was more awkward than fierce. "You're not wanted here!"
One of the Vinlanders, the one who seemed to do all of the talking, contrived to look sheepish and apologetic. "It was a misunderstanding, truly. We were running from the invaders, and we were starving. We have money! We want to pay for the animals."
There was a hasty consultation between the sentries. "We'll get someone to call old Cheretis. It was his goats."
The other guard peered at them more closely. "Oh. It's you again, Spiro. I thought we'd gotten rid of you. I see you're in bad company, as usual."
"But I haven't been anywhere near your sister, Adoni," said Spiro with a grin.
The guard glared at him. The other guard nearly fell over the crenellations laughing.
The goat owner, when he arrived, reminded Benito more of a sullen, bad-tempered porker than a goat. Like the ones a few people over on Guidecca had kept on the scraps in those big market-gardens over there. He had the same sparse, bristly beard and pronounced jowls.
But he was as obstinate as a goat, even if he didn't look like one. "They must be punished! Even if they pay for the goats, they must be punished!" He pleaded with the guards, in a squeaky voice. "After all, if you shoot them, I get paid for my beasts from the money they have with them. And you get the rest."
Spiro shook his head. "Don't be dafter than you have to be, you old Malakas. They were strangers visiting our beautiful island when the Hungarians attacked. Where is our famous Corfiote hospitality? Why are you fussing over a few miserable, scrawny goats?"
"Scrawny goats! They killed my best milker! She was the most beautiful goat on the island, hair like silk, an udder as soft as a baby's face and milk, so much milk you'd have thought she was a cow. And as for hospitality: what sort of guests kill your livestock?"
Spiro turned to the Vinlanders, Benito, Erik and Thalia. "See? I told you how they felt about their goats in Paleokastritsa!"
The laughter might have infuriated the goat-owner, but it decided the two guards that they were obviously no threat. "Have you got the money to pay the old bastard?" asked one guard.
"In gold," said Bjarni, curtly.
Not much gold came to Paleokastritsa. Even the goat-owner looked less sour. "Such fine goats as mine are worth a great amount of gold."
"Let us in and we can argue about it," grumbled Benito, "before some Hungarian troopers come along because of all that smoke. And they take all the gold instead."
Benito reached into his own small pouch and hauled out a silver penny. "Here, Spiro. I owe you this for information. I promised him a ducat from you, Erik."
Erik dug in his pouch. "Here are two." He handed them over with a flourish carefully visible to the gate. "I'm in your debt for finding and helping my friends."
Guards and goat-owner had developed eyes like saucers; the goat-owner's were full of greed.
Spiro looked at the coins, beaming. "I'm rich!" He walked over to the gate and pounded on it. "Let me in. I need a drink."
"You'll have to leave your swords and guns in the gatehouse," said one of the guards. "And you owe me a cup of wine, Spiro."
Spiro grinned. "I'm buying, so you might as well get yours before the money's all drunk up."
"After you send some goat-boys to look for that friend of yours," said Benito. "The fisherman."
Spiro nodded. "Sure. But I intend to be already hung over and broke before Taki Temperades gets here." Then he elbowed Benito in the ribs. "Trying to rob you was the smartest dumb thing I ever did, eh?"
At the moment, Benito was inclined to agree.
Chapter 47
In the darkness, up on the landward wall of the inner curtain, Manfred paced. Von Gherens, as a bodyguard should, paced alongside him.
"It was a mistake. I should never have let him go." Manfred stared over the cannon-flash in the darkness. Emeric's heavy guns were being maneuvered into place and the first of the forty-eight-pound bombards were already in action.
"It's early days yet," said Von Gherens. "Erik won't be easily caught. And even if the boat sank, he swims like a fish." He looked pensive. "You know, there's something very wrong about that. A good knight should have the decency to avoid learning how to swim. After all, if you're in the water with armor on, what is the point?"
Manfred ignored him. He gnawed on a knuckle, and welcomed the pain when he bit a little too deep. "He and Benito were too valuable to risk like that. What the hell was I thinking of?"
Von Gherens didn't reply. Perhaps he realized that Manfred didn't really want an answer. Presently Francesca came up to the battlement, and took him by the elbow as he stared off into the hills. Reluctantly, he turned to face her. "It's time to come down, Manfred. Perhaps tomorrow night . . ."
"Look. Look, Manfred!" Von Gherens pointed. Manfred whirled and followed the direction of his finger.
On the far hills a bonfire had blossomed, a tiny pinpoint of yellow and red. Now another. Then a third.
"You're hurting me, Manfred," said Francesca quietly.
Hastily, Manfred let go of her shoulder. "Sorry, dear." He took a
deep breath, then let out a long sigh of relief. He should have known; and he should have trusted that those damned Vinlanders were as hard to kill as his Icelander. "And he's even found the girl! Come on, Francesca. Now, I really will sleep. Not even Emeric's damned guns will keep me awake."
"About time, too," grumbled Von Gherens. "Keep him under lock and key, Francesca. I'm going across to the hospital to see how Falkenberg does."
Manfred smiled. "I'm too tired and, to be honest, too relieved to gallivant tonight, Fritz. How is Falkenberg, by the way?"
"He had some fever and infection. But Father Francis, one of Eneko Lopez's companions, has been treating him. It looks like he might mend, Manfred. He swore at me this morning, at least. That was a relief after all the 'I-am-about-to-die' piety when I visited him the time before. He must think he has more time to make his peace with the Lord."
"Well, we can use another knight-proctor. I must go over and see him tomorrow morning, and get him used to the idea."
"Oh, no." Von Gherens shook his head. "When he's up, he's coming to run alternate bodyguard shifts with me. Erik ordered it. And now that we know the mad Icelander is alive out there, do you really think any of us are going to take a chance on him coming back and finding out we didn't do exactly what he said?"
* * *
Taki looked at the boy. Looked at the silver on the battered table. Looked back at the boy.
He could easily be one of Taki's usual crew. Curly black hair, olive skin, old clothes, bare feet. Short, but broad of shoulder. Taki looked at the silver again. There was quite a lot of it, but Taki could count a table-full of coins with a single glance.
Finally, deciding, he nodded and reached for it.
The youngster put his hand over the coins. "Not so fast, Captain. One quarter when I get to your boat. One quarter when I get over there. And one half when you give Erik a note I write for you when I'm safe."
Taki eyed the man called Erik. A scary one, that. Nothing would get past him—and nothing would stop him if he felt the need to do something. Except maybe death, and Taki wouldn't bet on that. "How do I know he will give me the money?"
Spiro chuckled. "Taki, take it from me, the Case Vecchie isn't trying to cheat you. He just doesn't trust your ugly face."
Taki did his best to look affronted. "Me? You can trust me. Ask anyone!" he bellowed, gesturing theatrically.
"Except about the freshness of his fish," said one of men in the tavern with a gap-toothed grin.
The tavern's occupants laughed.
Taki scowled and waved a fist vaguely. "You want to lose some more teeth, Adoni?"
Spiro shook his head. "He's all right, Benito. One of the best skippers on the island. Even if his fish . . ." He ducked.
Benito grinned. "I'm not that fond of fish anyway."
"Ah, but do you like cheap wine?" grinned the gap-toothed one.
"I only know one person who is fonder of it," snorted Erik. He shook his head, dubiously, studying Taki and his crew. "I think I should ration all of you. Between the lot of you, you'll end up sailing off to Vinland instead of across the Strait of Otranto."
"I sail best when I'm drunk!" insisted Taki, belligerently.
"At least he thinks he does," said Kosti.
"Has he ever tried it any other way?" asked Benito. This fishingboat's crew were beginning to give him a pleasant feeling of nostalgia for his days as a rooftop thief. They were as crazy as Valentina and Claudia had been in the early days.
Kosti shook his head. "Not so as anyone has ever noticed. But to be fair, he hasn't sunk us yet."
"Let's hope he can keep that up." Benito put the silver back in his pouch. "When and where do I see you, Captain?"
"Tomorrow night. We'll have to go and fetch the old boat, and get her round here. But there's a cove a couple of miles beyond Paleokastritsa we can lie up in. If you don't know the coast, it doesn't look like it's there at all. We should be there sometime before tomorrow, and we'll sail on the windrise after dark. Spiro can get one of the local kids to guide you over there. We've got a fishing boat to get off an island."
"And we've got to get over to the islet," said Kosti, suddenly glum. "Yani's boat is still underwater, I suppose."
The captain grinned evilly and slapped him on the back. "And guess who is going to be swimming out there."
* * *
Trudging up the hill carrying Alessia, Maria felt ill at ease about her destination. In the background she could hear Emeric of Hungary's cannon pounding away at the outer wall, reminding her that things weren't normal. But that wasn't what was making her nervous. She was going to the governor's palace in the Castel a mar. The Castel a mar was not nearly as grandiose as the Doge's palace in Venice, but it was somehow more intimidating. As imposing as it was, the Doge's palace in Venice had been the property of the people of Venice by sheer familiarity.
The guards at the gates also thought she didn't belong here.
They barred her way with their pikes. "You can't go in here, woman. His Excellency only has public audiences on Wednesdays. Come back then." The guard who spoke looked at her without much interest, his tone of voice more bored than anything else.
"I don't want to see his Excellency. I want to speak to Prince Manfred. He will see me."
The guard snorted. "And no doubt you've brought his baby with you! Go on with you, get lost."
"Maybe she's a Teutonic knight in disguise," said the other, chuckling at his own wit.
She reined in her temper, and remained polite. "Can't you send a message to him? Tell him Maria Verrier would like to see him. Please?" She hated her own voice, so subservient—but angering them wouldn't get her anywhere.
"Hark at her!" One of the guards jerked a disdainful thumb at Maria. " 'Please!' Listen, dearie. We don't run a messenger service for Scuolo women to have chats with princes. He'll send for you if he wants you."
Maria flushed with anger, and was just considering whether it would be worth the consequences of pushing her dagger through his ear when the guards suddenly jerked themselves out of the slouch and came to attention. The frail, white-haired podesta's wife was coming down.
For all the attention that Contessa Renate De Belmondo paid the guards they might as well have been statues, except one does not nod to statues. She did, however, greet Maria with every sign of pleasure.
"Maria Verrier, is it not? Have you come for our little chat? I am so sorry! I have to go across to the garrison in the Castel a terra right now. Would you mind coming in and waiting for me?"
Maria realized that Marco's efforts on her behalf had borne fruit after all. She did her best to curtsey, which, as she'd never been taught and she had a baby in her arms, was not a success. But Lady Renate was real quality, certainly as far as Maria was concerned, and ignored the awkwardness. Such things were only important to Case Vecchie curti, new money that still had to try to establish how important they were. For the Lady Renates of the world, it wasn't important how you looked—money could buy looks—it was what you were.
Lady Renate smiled. "I see you've brought your baby up, too. I wish I could see my own grandchildren. Or Lodovico Montescue trying to be a good great-grandfather, ha! Mind you, hooligans usually turn out to be very strict with their offspring . . . but it is impossible to think that he might be a great-grandfather soon."
She touched Alessia's cheek gently. "So soft! I love them when they're this age." She smiled again. "What I love most, of course, is that you can give them back when they cry!"
"Actually, milady, I came up to see Prince Manfred, about a friend. To be honest, I hadn't come to see you at all."
Lady Renate pulled a severe face, with just trace of a betraying dimple in her lined cheek. "And why not me, Hmm? Young men have, as a rule, no liking for babies. They don't know how to hold them."
Maria blushed. "I was . . . embarrassed to come and see you, milady. I'm just a Scuolo wife."
Lady Renate shook a finger at her. "And a friend of my old flame's granddaughter! Close
enough a friend to have stood as her maid of honor at her wedding. That is an honor for anyone, for it means the Casa Montescue holds you in very high esteem. As ancient a house as there is in Venice. And if Lodovico thought I was good enough for him, then you must be good enough to keep me company. Come up and see me—and soon. What about Wednesday just after Terce?"
Maria settled for a half-bow rather than trying to curtsey again. "Thank you, milady. I will come."
Lady Renate laughed. "You'd better! I look forward to it. And now I must run. The women from Kérkira have come in a delegation to see the captain-general. I shall go and prevent bloodshed." She waved and walked out.
"No escort," said the one guard disapprovingly. "And not riding."
The other shrugged. "There isn't a person in Corfu who would dare hurt her, and riding makes her sore these days." He nodded to Maria. "I made a mistake. Come on, I'll take you up to the prince's quarters myself. You won't report us, will you?"
Maria tempered the sharpness of her retort with just enough amusement to let them know that she wasn't really joking. "Not this time. But next time I'll pull your bottom lip over your ears. And don't tempt me to show you how it is done. You came that close." She showed a gnat-sized gap with her fingers.
The guard chuckled. "If they had women in the army you'd make a good sergeant major. Sorry, Signora Verrier. I'll pass the word around so you don't end up stretching too many lips around here."
"You tell them to watch cheeking the Scoulo people," she warned him. "We've got short tempers and long memories."
The guard led her up through the castle, around enough passages and up and down enough staircases that she was thoroughly lost, before finally knocking on an ornate door.
"Who is it?" asked a woman's voice.
Maria knew that voice well enough to answer before the guard could. "It's me, Francesca. Maria."
The door opened immediately, and the guard ushered Maria and Alessia into a sybaritically appointed chamber, vanishing prudently and closing the door behind them as soon as they were well inside. Manfred was sprawled on a heavy oaken settle, grinning cheerfully.
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