Benito squeezed the thumb. A red drop formed and splashed into the greenish chapel water. Juliette scooped some of it up in a long-fingered hand. Sniffed it. Tasted it. Looked penetratingly at him again.
Her next question startled Benito. "Do you know the child Alessia?"
Benito nodded. "She's on Corfu with her mother. It's where we wanted help to get back to."
Juliette regarded him keenly. "Corfu! You mean Corcyra? Aieee!" The golden eyes narrowed, still unblinking. "Do you care for this child? Do you love her?"
Benito blinked. "I . . . I don't really know her. I do care very deeply about her mother."
The look was now stern. "I ask you again. Do you love this child? Will you guard her and care for her, if she needs it?"
Benito had found the gaze of the Republic's chief Justice less disconcerting, less searching. Alessia was a baby, for heaven's sake. He'd hardly even touched one before her.
He remembered, suddenly and vividly, the warmth of her, the smell of her. She was Maria's kid. Of course he would love her. "Yes," he said, calmly.
Juliette continued to stare at him, but that flat golden stare seemed wary now. Benito noticed she'd edged away a little. "The flame burns steady," she said at last. "But it burns very, very hot. You must see to the child's welfare. I charge you with this. It is your responsibility."
"And will you help us?" asked Benito, a little tired of the orders, the inquisition, the mysterious questions and references.
She nodded. "I must. I will speak with the tritons."
And then she slipped away into the water with scarcely a ripple.
* * *
"Well," said Francesca, with a small, satisfied smile. "I have finally found the link between several of the trouble spots. It's so simple that I am disgusted with myself that I didn't think of it earlier. It's the local black market. The factions all buy extra supplies out of the Venetian storehouses from two men. A nice little link of bribery and blackmail for spies."
Manfred almost fell off the chair he'd been endangering by rocking on. "What? How much of this is going on?"
"I'm really not sure of the extent of it, Manfred," said Francesca. "But from what I can work out most of the Corfiote Libri d'Oro families are involved."
Von Gherens looked grim. "Hang the lot of them. It's treason."
Francesca blinked at the knight. "It's buying food on the black market. Hardly a capital crime."
Falkenberg rubbed the scars above his eye. "What you don't seem to grasp, Francesca"—he'd finally gotten to calling her Francesca—"is that it undermines the military capability of the Citadel to resist. You see it as a chain of blackmail that spies and traitors can use. We see it far more directly as shortening the period a fortress can withstand siege."
"Both apply," said Manfred grimly. "And it has to be stopped. And it is no use just cutting off the supply. Von Gherens is right. We need to make it clear that the buying, too, is a crime."
Francesca made a face. "I see what you mean. But the biggest problem is finding someone in the Libri d'Oro who isn't buying."
"And we're going to have to find out what this corruption has done to the supplies."
"You are going to have to do so quietly, without causing panic," pointed out Eberhard.
"It'll also upset the Libri d'Oro. Make the fomenting of treachery easier for someone," said Francesca.
"Without food, Francesca, there won't be any need for treachery to bring this place down. We've got water until the winter rains at least. I thought we had good rations for a year. It depends now on how far this stupid greed has undermined the capacity of the Citadel to resist. We've got a lot of people here, you know."
"I know. I pointed it out to you," said Francesca dryly.
* * *
"Emeric is on his way back to Corfu." The words coming from Elizabeth's image had, as always, a faintly echoing air about them. "My plans are starting to come together nicely. So it is time for you to begin seriously undermining the Citadel. You have traitors in place by now, I assume?"
"Yes, mistress. I've managed to stall them, so far, although it's been difficult. They're mostly local noblemen. Corfiotes—the Libri d'Oro, they like to call themselves. Headstrong and amazingly stupid."
Elizabeth laughed gaily. "My dear Bianca, all petty noblemen are headstrong and amazingly stupid. If you think your Corfiotes are bad, wait until you meet the piglets who live in my part of Europe."
Bianca wondered if that was a promise. She'd visited the countess in her castle before, twice, but only for the brief periods of time needed to advance aspects of her training. At some point, though, it would be necessary for Bianca to take up residence with Bartholdy for an extended period. That would be a time that would be simultaneously exhilarating and extremely dangerous. Acolytes of Elizabeth, Countess Bartholdy, did not typically enjoy a long lifespan. But Bianca was determined—and confident—that she would be one of the few exceptions. Ultimately, the only exception.
The laughter having faded away, Bartholdy looked thoughtful. "I would have thought you'd be concentrating on the Venetians, though. The Libri d'Oro, when all is said and done, are simply parasites on Corfu. The real power is with their Venetian overlords."
"I have infiltrated the Venetians also, mistress," said Bianca hurriedly. "In fact, the wife of the captain-general is now my creature, and through her—if and when the time comes—I can subvert him. But that poses certain obvious risks, which I don't think we need to take at the moment."
She hoped Elizabeth would let pass the fact that the "we" in the last sentence really meant "Bianca Casarini." Elizabeth was hundreds of miles away, after all. If Bianca's schemes and manipulations backfired, she'd be the one to pay the price, not the countess.
But Elizabeth seemed in a good mood. "Oh, yes, I can understand that. Very well. Try your Corfiotes first. There's actually no great hurry, Bianca. I simply wanted to alert you, not have you start rushing about frantically. If your Corfiotes fail, you'll have time to develop your plots with the Venetians."
After the image faded away, and Bianca finished cleaning up the signs of the ritual, she examined the man lying naked on her bed. Paulo Saluzzo's face was locked in the same expression of stuporous satisfaction that she'd placed him in before she began the ritual. Although his eyes had been open the entire time, staring blissfully at the ceiling, he'd been oblivious to the satanic practices she'd undertaken in the very same room.
He was completely under her control, now. Bianca didn't usually bother to exercise that degree of magical control over her bedmates. She certainly hadn't bothered to do so with Aldo Morando. There was no need, as a rule. Sex itself, with most men, was enough to disarm them. But since Saluzzo needed to spend considerable time in her own house, unlike Morando or any of the Libri d'Oro with whom she'd copulated, Bianca had taken the time and effort to exercise the needed rituals on the man.
Besides, although those rituals were draining, they saved effort on the other end. She hadn't actually copulated with Fianelli's thug since the first few days after she'd murdered her "aunt" and "uncle" and seduced him. Saluzzo just thought she had. Indeed, he had the most vivid memories of wild and fantastic sexual activities, none of which had actually happened.
She laughed, softly. Deceiving Saluzzo was a small thing, of course. Once Saluzzo disposed of Fianelli for her, when the time came, she'd dispose of Saluzzo himself soon enough thereafter. And before too long, she knew, Bianca would have almost forgotten him entirely. Given the lifespan she intended to enjoy—eternity—she'd eventually forget him altogether. Still, she was discovering that she took increasing pleasure even in such small manipulations, deceptions and betrayals. Murdering the beggar boy had been almost ecstatically thrilling.
Such was the nature of her training and ambitions. She was very confident that she'd survive Elizabeth Bartholdy's regimen. Indeed, she intended to survive the countess herself.
Now, that would be a betrayal to cherish. Bianca even took the time, for a mome
nt, to consider the ways she might use Elizabeth's corpse profitably. There had to be something immensely valuable to be squeezed out of that flesh.
Again, she laughed. No point bathing in the blood, of course. The one thing Elizabeth Bartholdy was not, was a virgin. Not in any sense of the term.
Chapter 70
Maria had taken to joining the Corfiote women in the weaving. After the incident in which she'd been arrested and hidden among them, she was accepted. And, she had to admit, now that Alessia was slightly older and sleeping through the night, staying indoors and being the good scuolo wife, shopping, gossiping, cleaning house, caring for the child . . . was far less active than she liked. It wasn't as if the house took much cleaning. Yes, Alessia did take a lot of time, and generate mountains of washing, but with Umberto working all hours and Alessia being a relatively easy baby—by comparison to Stella's children, who didn't sleep through the night until they were about four—Maria found herself wanting to be out, doing something.
Doing something to fight back. Weaving sailcloth would do.
Besides, she got on well with the Corfiote women. Most of the colonial Venetian women, even the scuolo wives, employed one or even several Corfiote girls in their homes. It was the largest difference in the way a Venetian scuolo wife lived in Venice and here. It also kept a gap between them and the local people. Working with them, Maria found she was absorbing the language in equal proportion to their respect. Here she wasn't a canal-girl who'd married a scuolo husband and gone up in the world. Here she was someone who they looked up to and who had earned their respect.
One of the women tickled Alessia. She gurgled. "She is a lovely child, Maria," said the woman wistfully. "I lost my first baby. The fever took him. I go to the temple to hope for another. But it may be better to only be blessed after this siege is over."
Maria lifted an eyebrow. "I think keeping your Spiro sober would be more worthwhile than the church."
The woman laughed. "Church, yes. But not the temple."
Maria was slightly puzzled. She'd seen them all at the chapel, at the Sunday communion. But she said no more.
* * *
"I accept that what you say is true, signorina," said Commander Leopoldo, a wry smile plucking at his lips. "But while it is true that a single young man like myself would seek you out and flirt with you . . . most people would assume that the prince would not take kindly to it."
Francesca lowered her lashes, smiling slightly. "Which is why you are cautious about it. Meeting me only occasionally and then keeping a safe physical distance, and well in sight of multiple witnesses. Believe me, I know men well. Not one of those watching will think anything more of these meetings than that you are brave philanderer."
The commander raised his eyes heavenward. "A stupid philanderer, more likely. Anyway. Just what does the prince want to tell me about?"
"The storekeeper. And a small coterie of clerks and guards. At first I thought it was just two of the guards, but we've pinpointed six now. They're running a black-market ring, selling extra rations to the Libri d'Oro families. Keep walking. You're supposed to be flirting with me."
His face was pleasant, but his voice was grim. "It's a hanging offense. I need names, Francesca."
"You need to go into this like a bull at a gate as much as a tavern keeper needs to give a drunkard a spare key to his cellar," she said sharply. "Eberhard pointed this out to us: If there is one thing we need even less than a shortage in the supplies, it's panic. Emeric has spies inside the Citadel, too. We don't need him to know, either. We want this quietly and efficiently done."
The young commander blinked. "I see I am in the hands of true professionals here. That sort of intrigue is not my forte, to put it charitably. All right. What do you want done? And can you walk a little slower? This hill is playing hell with my knee."
"Very well." She laughed—a musical sound, one that she had, admittedly, practiced. "This is my daily exercise too, Commander. In my former line of work, I could not afford to get fat and unfit. I probably still can't, for that matter! But even if I could, I've developed certain ingrained habits. One of them is walking a lot, and the other is walking fast. I apologize."
Again, the commander blinked. Like many people, she thought, Leopoldo found Francesca's bluntness about her former status as a courtesan—even a whore—more than a little disconcerting. Especially coming from a woman with such a close personal relationship with an imperial prince. But—also like many people—that same straightforwardness produced a certain level of trust and confidence.
She smiled faintly, watching the quick interplay of expressions on his face. "Now, today at about Vespers a cart will be taking extra food to various buyers. It will be going to Count Dentico's lodging—among others. The Count is the head of the pro-Byzantine faction of the Libri d'Oro. Among other things, his 'volunteers' have been making their way onto the guard on the north postern, by the Little Arsenal gates. No, we don't think it is a problem yet. But it would be a good idea if they were unobtrusively split up. Anyway, that's another matter. For now I think you want to work on catching the count's staff, and the troopers, red-handed. If you play things right you should be able to get the clerks, too. I doubt very much if that will net the real traitors—these things usually have layers within layers, like an onion—but at least it'll put a stop to one immediate and major problem."
She paused. "Falkenberg wants to know why you haven't established a curfew, and night patrols. I agree with him about this one. It makes dark doings much more difficult, if not impossible."
The commander took a deep breath. "I tried. The captain-general said they were unnecessary. However, while he is on the back foot with this, we'll institute them."
"That's a good boy. Let me have passwords and chits or whatever system you use, please. And I think you'd better leave the Knights as above challenge except for a password. When they're in full armor, that is, since it will be rather difficult to counterfeit or steal that armor. I think Falkenberg wants a patrol or two of them. He's worried about mines. And now, farewell, my admirer. That same sergeant will bring you word when I need my exercise disturbed again."
* * *
"They're going to be cracking down soon on the black-marketeering, I hope you understand," Bianca said to Saluzzo, stroking his chin. "And there's never any guarantee that treason will work."
The Florentine thug, lying next to her in the bed, smiled lazily. The feline smile had a very self-satisfied air about it. Saluzzo was firmly convinced that he'd just enjoyed an hour of sweaty, energetic and very enjoyable sex.
"Don't worry your pretty head about it, Bianca. Fianelli's about as charming a guy to work for as a slug, but there's a good brain under that ugly exterior. He's had it set for quite a while that if the black-market business goes sour, somebody else will take the blame. Nachelli and his two little cousins have been the go-between with the greedy Libri d'Oro, instead of us directly. Besides, not even Nachelli's dumb enough to get caught in a black-market sweep. He'll still be around afterward, to take the blame if the betrayal of the north postern doesn't work."
She frowned slightly, still stroking his chin. "What's to keep them from fingering you, if they're caught? Us, I should say."
Saluzzo's smile shifted from lazy to something equally feline, but far more savage. For a moment, Bianca felt the muscles in his arms and chest moving. The Florentine was quite a powerful man.
"Like I said, don't worry about it. I'll take care of the problem. Might have Papeti give me a hand. Won't take more than that, not dealing with Nachelli. The rent collector and his two goons-in-name-only won't be talking to anyone, trust me."
"Still . . ." Her hand moved down, beginning to stroke his chest. "There's Fianelli himself. I really don't trust him, Paulo—and neither do you, don't try to pretend."
The Florentine's eyes rolled sideways, to examine her face. The look in his eyes was not suspicious, so much as simply cautious.
"Ambition's a dangerous beast, woman
. If I learned nothing else in Florence and Naples, I learned that much. That's why I'm living here, on this misbegotten little island in the middle of nowhere."
She chuckled throatily. "It's not that misbegotten, Paulo. Lots of potential here, actually—especially once the Byzantines or Hungarians are running the place. Their notions of accounting are a lot sloppier than Venetian ones, to put it mildly. In the right hands, run by somebody less narrow-minded than Fianelli . . ."
* * *
"It is a both a civil and a military matter, your honors," said Commander Leopoldo. "Which is why I asked if both of you could come. I am sorry to summon you so late and so urgently, but it is I think of importance that this be dealt with quickly—and as quietly as possible."
"You can't do this!" protested a stout, florid-faced man. "I am one of the Libri d'Oro! Governor, this man"—Count Dentico pointed an accusing finger at Commander Leopoldo—"charged his troopers into my home and seized me. All for some imaginary infringement about some goods my staff—without my knowledge—bought in good faith."
The commander's face was bleak. "We have a cartload of grain from the Republic's granaries. In bags labeled 'property of the Republic of Venice.' We have seven ducats in gold seized in the act of changing hands between Count Dentico's steward and the soldiers from the granary. The steward confessed to doing this on the count's express orders—and, besides, such amounts of money can only have come from Dentico himself. Pursuant to these findings, my men took trooper Dorte at gunpoint and drove the empty cart back to the granary. Storemaster Capi Tapani demanded the money. We have arrested him, too. My men have seized the records and are examining the stores of grain and other foodstuffs. As a preventative measure, we have kept all the capi's staff in custody."
He looked at the captain-general and the governor. "This is treason. Both buyer and seller endanger the fortress. But we don't want to create panic."
Captain-General Tomaselli looked excessively uncomfortable. Count Dentico was something of a friend of his. "These soldiers need to be dealt with harshly, according to military law. But the Count . . . well, my dear Commander. He's a nobleman and a loyal friend of Venice. One of the Libri d'Oro, as he says. We simply can't hold him accountable for the actions of his servants. Nor can you trust their testimony."
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