by Aidan Harte
“Ow!”
“Took me along?”
“Sorry! Listen, just follow my lead until I know who we can trust. And, technically, I did take you with me—
“Ow!”
The old priest opened the cage and selected one of the older doves. He covered its head and cooed softly. When it stopped struggling, he snapped its neck with an efficient twist.
A man stood at the flap of the tent, impatiently watching the procedure. He was a little younger than the priest, though his square beard was grayer and his face more lined by years of worry. He was a big man, and the armor on his upper torso and the bulbous general’s cap on his head made him look even larger. If the old bull had passed his prime, it wasn’t obvious.
“I want a name. I want to know what he’s planning next.” It wasn’t a request. The general expected obedience.
The priest ignored him and continued studying a diagram in a tattered book. His old eyes were shadowed by grayly blossoming cataracts, and they wept constantly. He threw the book to one side angrily and turned to an old chest stocked with vials of powder, various roots and dried plants, and a variety of rusted cutting tools.
“I’ve told you before, John Acuto: guts tell no names. Keep the questions broad and you’ll get useful answers. Don’t, you won’t.”
The general bristled but did not retort. Only the priest dared speak to him this way. The general wasn’t the type to seek, cultivate, or keep friends, but if he still had one, it was the priest. They were rocks molded by the same river: both old, where every other face in the Company was young and trusting—young and trusting enough to still believe that Fortune truly did favor the brave. It was a relief to be around someone burdened with the same bitter knowledge: that Fortune was fickle and favored cowards and champions, saints and scoundrels, as the fancy took her. In fact, she favored all but her most devoted suitor, John Acuto—and now it appeared she chose even traitors above him.
“Fine. Should I worry?”
“No point. The dog stalking old men is not outrun.”
“Don’t riddle me, Priest. Is there treachery in my Company?”
The priest wiped away the snail trails pouring down his cheeks, grunted, and set to work.
It began well. It usually did. He deftly ripped out handfuls of chest feathers, then cut away the skin and fat of the breast. Snapping the bones away, he pulled out the irrelevant organs and placed them separately in trays sitting ready.
And then the familiar cloud came over him, and the usual confusion arose to spoil the work. A breeze disturbed the tent flap, and smoke got in his eyes, and John Acuto’s massive shadow covered the light as he paced. The priest rubbed his red-wet hand across his brow and thumbed through the pages of his weathered Etruscan Scripture. The pages concerning divination had been torn, and sewn back together, torn again, stained with dried blood . . .
“What do you see?”
“I see . . .” He pulled the entrails out and picked off the small feathers sticking to them. His heart pounded. He laid them out and tried to dispel the cloud with a distracted wave. Was that blob of flesh the bird’s heart or just meat? He looked at the beaker, at the water swirling in a maelstrom of blood. He swore and tipped the tray’s contents into the fire. They bubbled and spit, filling the tent with noxious air.
“Nothing. I see nothing, John Acuto.”
“Never mind, never mind.” The general put his hand on the priest’s sunken shoulder. “Sometimes Fortune prefers us to stumble in darkness.”
As the general went to leave, the priest raised his head. “General, I may be a blind old fool, but you don’t need augury to know there’s a traitor in the Company. You can smell it.”
Acuto narrowed his eyes; was the priest just telling him what he wanted to hear? No, it was the truth. His own intuition had prompted the question. “Aye,” he said after a moment. “I hoped to be told I was mistaken.”
They rode down into the valley. While Scarpelli brought Levi up to date on the developments since the Tagliacozzo debacle, Sofia took in the camp. She’d been expecting the carousing usual in Rasenna before and after raids—drinking, gambling, and fighting—but the place was as serious and neat as Fabbro Bombelli’s account book. The tents were arranged in straight rows like a Concordian camp. She was amused that the only army in Etruria to challenge the Empire in the last decade did so while imitating its mechanistic efficiency.
“Madonna, is John Acuto Concordian?”
Levi laughed. “The general’s from the Anglish Isles, but we’ve all sorts here—Teutons, Franks, Ibericans, some Russ, Welshmen, even some Hibernian brutes. We condottieri take business seriously.”
Sofia smiled to see how merry Levi was and how proud he was of the Company. He was right, too: no one was idle. Soldiers were tending their horses, sharpening swords, polishing armor, repairing, cleaning—or training as if battle were imminent. In Rasenna, violence was unplanned, coming on like a convulsion. It was intense, irrational, and transient. It was queer to be among men who treated war as profession, not a vocation.
She stared at a man sewing up an arm wound with a bored look on his face. He was almost four braccia tall, with broad oxlike shoulders and a thick neck. He caught her stare as he bit through the thread and threw her a wry half salute and wink. Saluting back, Sofia saw the giant’s smile broaden when he spotted Levi at the horse’s reins.
“Hey, peddler boy!” he called in a thick accent.
“Yuri?”
“We thought maybe you were promoted to Heaven.”
Levi leaped down and embraced the giant. “Not yet, my friend.”
Sofia noticed how Yuri’s easy smile faded when he saw Scarpelli. He embraced Levi again and whispered, “We talk later maybe.”
Levi remounted, telling Scarpelli that the Russ owed him money before changing the subject. “Speaking of money, shock me: Who’s been appointed treasurer in my absence?”
Scarpelli gave him a look. “The Dwarf.”
“Oh. Didn’t know he could count,” Levi said mildly.
Scarpelli laughed. “We’re lucky you’re back in time for the negotiations.”
“The Ariminumese are wary about the Contract?”
“The Contract, the campaign, the venue, seating arrangements, just about everything!”
“They’ve never used condottieri before, so they think we’re criminals.” Levi turned around to give Sofia a preemptive look of reproach.
She politely feigned astonishment.
“That’s the trouble,” said Scarpelli. “They’ve never had to use condottieri. And you know what these burghers are like: insufferably proud of their puny militias in peacetime, but when war comes, they start to have visions of their precious walls tumbling like Jericho’s.”
“Towns protecting their walls? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Sofia asked.
Scarpelli smiled at her, a little more naturally this time. “It’s absurd, Signorina, but that’s how we humble contractors make a living. When burghers get anxious about their property, they pay whatever we demand. Rich towns think it’s the height of sophistication to hire an army to fight for them—they think they’re better and smarter than everyone: nobles, Concordians, and us. Especially us.”
“Well, they can think what they like,” said Levi.
“Because in the end you’ll bleed them dry and move on.”
“Sorry about her, Scarpelli. Anything more complicated than flag-waving makes Rasenneisi suspicious.”
Scarpelli just laughed. “She’s right, isn’t she? That’s how it should work. But wait till you meet these Ariminumese, Levi. They’re practically holding us hostage.”
“Times are changing.”
“Try telling John Acuto,” Scarpelli said with sudden bitterness.
Levi raised his eyebrows. “He’s not involved in negotiations, is he?”
“He was always a better soldier than politician, but since Tagliacozzo he’s been as paranoid as Herod. I’m sure he’ll share his th
eories with you.”
“Acuto suspects treachery?” Levi said guardedly.
Scarpelli was blasé. “Ever know a general who lost who didn’t? The panic started when the Standard fell and they found the Standard-bearer with a dagger in his back.”
“But the carroccio was behind the front line.”
“So they say, but you know how chaotic it was. We lost, simple as that. But since then, the old man’s been consulting Father Blood-and-Guts on strategy and checking for assassins under his pillow, so you’d better get your escape story straight before he questions you.”
“Questions me?” Levi stopped his horse. “Last I checked, I’m a colonel, not a prisoner. It’s not a story—”
Scarpelli clapped him on the back. “Tranquillo, Levi, I’m just telling you what to expect. Follow me.”
At the center of the camp was a large tent flying the Hawk’s banner. On Etrurian crests, hawks were depicted as plump-plumaged patricians; this foreign bird of prey was a clinical killer, sharp and lean, drawn with straight decisive lines.
The tent flap was suddenly thrown aside, and a short man, dark-skinned like a Moor, scurried out between the two guards. He was followed by a large angry man brandishing a scroll like a general’s baton.
“Tell your Signoria that if that’s all they have to offer, they’d better swallow their pride and make terms with Concord. This is the Hawk’s Company!” He threw the scroll at the notary. “This isn’t a Contract, it’s an insult!”
“You’re not the only contractor in the peninsula, John Acuto.”
Acuto slapped the notary’s hat off and grabbed him by the collar. “Then hire them! Throw your money away. Just don’t be surprised if you wake up one morning with your palazzi burning around you.”
Scarpelli leaped down to pry the notary from the general’s grip. “What the general means is that we need a few days to digest this and prepare a counteroffer,” he said, picking the Contract out of the mud.
“Take your time,” the notary said. “We’re in no hurry.”
Scarpelli helped the notary mount his sumptuously decorated mule and escorted him out of camp.
Acuto glowered after them. “What’s wrong with cities these days? Used to be we only had to show up outside their walls and bang a drum to get cooperation.” Finally noticing Levi, the general cut short his rant and glared at him.
Levi dismounted, gesturing to Sofia to follow his lead. “General,” said Levi warmly, extending his hand.
The general looked at Levi with much the same hostility he’d shown the notary. “How did you secure your release?”
“I escaped, General,” said Levi, awkwardly dropping his hand.
“Escaped. Not the first time you’ve left a Concordian prison in one piece. Not many are so fortunate. Come in, Colonel. I wish to congratulate you privately.”
Levi swallowed. Telling Sofia he’d be back in a minute, he turned and entered the tent just as an old man shuffled out. Distracted, hugging a book to his body, he stumbled. Sofia caught the book and held his arm as he regained his balance.
“Good catch, Sister!”
“I’m not a nun, Father,” she said quickly as she handed him the book, but he barely heard as he hurried on his way. Sofia remained outside the tent for an hour. She wasn’t eavesdropping—the general’s roaring was impossible not to hear. She was pleased to hear Levi defend himself at last.
“Concord killed Harry, General, not me—and not you, though I see you’re still intent on blaming us both.”
When Levi came out with a red face and set mouth, Acuto called after him, “Colonel! You’re coming to the negotiations tomorrow. I need that clever tongue for once.”
Levi saluted frostily.
John Acuto’s glare fell on Sofia.
“What are you looking at?” she said.
“Colonel, who’s this?”
“My name is Sofia Sca—”
“Nobody. She escaped with me.”
“Another spy, then? Nice to know I’m important enough to merit two.”
“Say that again, Methuselah—” Sofia put her hand on her dagger.
Levi rested a restraining hand on her shoulder. “I can vouch for her.”
“That’s supposed to comfort me?” said Acuto. He looked down at Sofia. “What can you do?”
“I’m good with a knife. I’ll show you if you like.”
Levi saw the guards watching Sofia; she hadn’t taken her hand off her dagger.
“She means she’s a cook, General.”
Acuto snorted. “Fine, fine. But you taste everything she prepares first. If I’m to be poisoned I want to take my assassin with me. Best teach her manners too.”
As Sofia and Levi made their way to the mess tent, she saw that the soldiers weren’t in the same condition as their neatly arrayed and polished equipment. Every man bore scars from past campaigns as well as wounds still fresh from Tagliacozzo.
“I’d like to teach him some manners,” she fumed.
“I hope you can cook,” said Levi.
“Don’t worry; I grew up looking after myself. But why not tell him who I am?”
“Sofia, if you wanted to be that person, you would have gone back to Rasenna.”
She was stung for only a moment. “Answer the question.”
“Condottieri aren’t knights, they’re businessmen,” said Levi, still tense. “Your name could make you a commodity.”
They found the giant hard at work in front of a range of boiling pots.
“Yuri, got you a new assistant. Sofia, everybody’s sick of Russky food. Maybe you can mix it up a little.”
Yuri wagged a spoon in Levi’s face. “The peoples are loving my cookerys. I get many compliments to it.”
“I thought you were a soldier,” said Sofia.
“Why do you think this?”
She pointed to an old scar on his neck. “That’s an arrow wound, so is that, and you didn’t get those”—looking at the fresh stitches—“from peeling vegetables,” she said.
“You have smarts like Levi,” said Yuri, “but not to be so sure of vegetables, especially asparagus, very sneaky!”
“Everyone’s a soldier here,” said Levi. “Cooks, surgeons, even priests. John Acuto runs a tight ship.”
“I am hearing he’s giving you some welcomes.”
“The old man’s gone crazy!” Levi exploded. “He’s seeing conspiracies everywhere—”
“But maybe there is one.”
“I know there’s one—but I also know the real problem: times are changing; things are getting harder.”
The giant nodded. “Maybe.”
“Acuto said you’d escaped Concord before,” said Sofia.
“He’s just being sarcastic. I was a hostage for a time, about five years ago, when the Hawk’s Company still worked for Concord, when Concord still returned hostages.”
“Back home, they said John Acuto betrayed Concord.”
Yuri slammed a tomato into mush. “This is big lie!”
“Relax, Yuri,” said Levi. “That’s what all Etruria thinks. It wasn’t like that, Sofia. Concord double-crossed us. We had a Contract with them, so at the start of each season we’d provide hostages—pretty standard; contractors don’t have great reputations for fealty, after all.”
“You don’t say?”
“Anyway, that year I was one, and so was Harry.”
“That’s an Anglish name.”
“Harry Acuto. John Acuto’s son.”
“Brave fighter,” said Yuri.
“And a good friend,” said Levi quietly. “I was released. Harry wasn’t—Concord’s way of canceling our Contract, I guess. Since then, the Hawk’s Company only takes Contracts from Concord’s enemies.”
“Was good policy, for a while,” said Yuri.
“I bet. Dying men spend freely,” said Sofia.
“Now everyone’s broke, and the general’s still wary of me just because I lived and Harry died. I told him that Concord had known of our
plans, and it just made him more suspicious.”
“That’s how condottieri think, all twisty like noodle.” Yuri dangled a string of pasta.
“Concord wants you to fight among yourselves. That’s how the swine work,” Sofia said.
“Well, it’s working,” said Levi. “I’m beginning to think we should have stayed and taken our chances with the buio.”
CHAPTER 56
The first official day of Contract negotiation was something all condottieri looked forward to. Most towns, relieved to have secured champions, would hold celebrations at which the Contract brokers could play at being chivalrous knights to the rescue. The company could also expect lavish quarters for the duration of negotiations.
Strange, then, said Levi, to find Ariminum’s gates closed that morning, and stranger still, after they were grudgingly opened, to ride through streets that were empty but for barking Strays—empty, though Ariminum was a busy, wealthy town. The reason for this shabby reception was obvious and disconcerting—their hosts were telling them they were unwelcome.
The Sala dei Notari, a lofty chamber of wood-carved dignity, had been built on an inhuman scale, with everything a few inches too high, all a little too large for the stony-faced Signoria, men who faded beside the decorative banners, shields, and ribbons covering the walls. John Acuto and his colleagues felt, as was intended, out of place and inferior, like petitioners begging for debt relief rather than the city’s saviors.
Before the session came to order, Acuto glanced over his negotiating team, appraising his three wise men’s loyalty, a game he played with everyone these days.
Scarpelli’s face was, as usual, a mask, polite and blank. The Dwarf, now treasurer, was innocent and guilty both at once—he owed his inglorious title to his obvious ambition as much as to his strange proportions. He always did what was asked of him, but still Acuto distrusted him—maybe it was the covetous way he stroked a banner that hung within reach or the way his yellow skin shone like old fruit. Hardly good reasons not to trust the man.
That left Levi, whom Acuto had once considered a protégé. Since Harry’s death the distance between them had been insurmountable, though Levi had attempted to bridge it. Acuto followed his gaze and saw Levi was studying the carved town mascot looming over the proceedings; the griffin looked about as sympathetic as the beak-nosed doge of Ariminum glowering down at them beneath it.