The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  Acquel reached over and covered her hand in his. “Are you still going to help me? To learn about the amulet?”

  “I told you I would. And if we’re given half a chance maybe we can slip away and do so.” She became aware of their stacked hands and drew away her left. “There is someone I know… a very learned man. I think he may be able to read the script. Have you tried again?”

  Acquel shook his head. “I tried. But I don’t recognize the script and we have not learned anything other than the Middle tongue. Ancient Valdurian is only known by the older blackrobes—if that is even what it is. Who is this man you know?”

  Timandra turned to sit on a barrel next to her on the fo’c’sle deck. “Well, he is what is called an oculist. He crafts spectacles and is an expert at working with glass. But he also has a library and his shop has books everywhere. I do not read well at all, enough to keep my accounts, but these books he has are the most wonderful things.” She smiled up at Acquel. “So much knowledge if one has the key. If anyone can help you, it will be him.”

  “If he will help us. I cannot pay him.”

  “Stop building walls before we’ve even begun. I’ve bought spectacles from him to sell on in Maresto. He knows me. He only need translate what the amulet says. How big a task is that?”

  Acquel stooped down at her feet. “Timandra, you have to convince Strykar to let us go. Let him send some men with us if he must. But we’ve got to get off here.”

  She looked up into his unshaven face, more rugged—even more confident—than when they had first met. “I will speak with him. If anything, he will want answers too about what it is you bear.”

  They heard voices below them on the ladder and turned to see Danamis ascending to the deck. Acquel bounced up from his awkward position as Timandra stood at his approach.

  He smiled as he walked toward the pair, a slightly mischievous look on his face. “I trust I’m not interrupting anything sacred, Timandra Pandarus. A confession perhaps?”

  Timandra eyes flashed a moment but her voice was sweet. “No, my lord. We were only just now speaking of the royal palace and the wonders of Perusia. Wonders that we both hope to see. Soon.” She thought Danamis was vain, impulsive, and by all accounts, a poor judge of men. But she, like Acquel, was chained to the fortunes of the Royal Grace for the foreseeable future. And she resented it with all her heart.

  “Strykar is preparing his men to go into the city to find lodgings,” said Danamis. “Perhaps you might go with him. I would have words with Brother Acquel.”

  “Perhaps I will,” replied Timandra. “But Brother Acquel is in my charge. If I go, he’s coming with me.” Acquel smiled self-consciously and rubbed at his ear.

  Danamis pursed his lips. “Of course. If Strykar allows it I have no say. I merely wanted to ask Acquel about the amulet.”

  Acquel and Timandra blanched. “You know about that?” gasped the monk, unconsciously grasping at the jewel in his shirt.

  “Strykar told me what has happened to you. I have sworn to keep your secret but I would ask that you show me this thing.”

  Timandra closed the space between her and Danamis. “That is most unwise, my lord. Not here.” The fo’c’sle was empty of seamen for the moment but still, thought Timandra, this was dire news indeed.

  Acquel’s voice was quiet and confident. “No, Timandra. I will show him if he asks.” Timandra sputtered her objection but Acquel raised his hand. “Perhaps he can help me too.”

  Timandra’s jaw went slack. Every new person that shared the secret of that jewel put him in further danger. Acquel moved close to Danamis, reached into his shirt, and pulled forth the pendant on the chain. He held it between his fingers as Danamis leaned in to examine it, his eyes unreadable.

  He looked up at Acquel. “From the very tomb. And it… stays with you alone?”

  Acquel nodded.

  Danamis glanced at Timandra, and she could tell he was debating with himself whether to say more or bide his time until she was gone. But he turned his attention back to Acquel, his face now keenly serious.

  “You saw him?” he whispered. “You saw him and you are certain he was merfolk?”

  Acquel nodded again, suddenly reliving the scene in his mind’s eye. Danamis reached out and grasped Acquel’s arm. “Brother Acquel, I have had dreams of late. Confusing dreams that concern the mer.”

  Timandra now stepped in to hear him better.

  “Damn you, woman!” spat Danamis. “Am I not allowed to speak in confidence to a holy man?”

  Timandra fixed her green eyes upon his. “Since when did you need the services of a holy man? We all share his secret and there will be no others amongst us.”

  Danamis opened his mouth again to tongue lash her, but quickly lowered his head and sighed. “If truth be told I am plagued by dreams of merfolk.”

  “As am I,” said Acquel.

  Danamis’s eyes widened. “Then you know of what I speak. I do not know if it is because I desire to resurrect the myrra trade, or if something is going to happen to me. With them. Is it a foretelling?”

  Acquel spoke slowly as he recalled his dreams. He spoke of Elded and the children and of the mer in ancient times. He told Danamis how the two peoples seemed to live together as one, in peace.

  “My dreams tell me the mer will drown me. Just as the priests tell us,” said Danamis.

  “What are they like? You have been with them. In my dreams they are like men and unlike men at the same time.”

  Danamis nodded. “They are manlike to be sure. But there is much about them which is not human.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “They do not see the world as we do. The men are ugly to behold but their womenfolk are more comely.”

  “They seem so real when I see them in my dreams,” said Acquel.

  Timandra suddenly felt a stranger among them. She could see how intently Acquel had latched onto Danamis as both of them tried to make sense of what they had experienced.

  “Do they breathe under the sea as fish do?” asked Acquel.

  Danamis shrugged. “I do not know. They must. How else could they delve so deep and so long?”

  Acquel looked squarely at Danamis. “Captain, I must see the merfolk for myself. Why else would the Saint be sending me these visions?”

  “I would see them again too but for wholly selfish reasons, I confess. But they have fled to their lairs under the waves and I do not think I will find them again.”

  “You must. For both our sakes.” Acquel reached around his neck with both hands and removed the amulet. “If you do not believe that the blessed Saint himself is behind all this then I ask you to take the amulet.”

  Timandra pushed in. “Acquel, no!”

  “You know what will happen, Timandra. He must see too.” And Acquel put the amulet over Danamis’s head even as the pirate sputtered his protests.

  “Do not give this thing to me!”

  Acquel pressed his hand to the amulet as it lay on the captain’s chest. “I can’t give it to you. You will see.” He put an arm around Timandra’s shoulders. “Captain, go back to your cabin. Then you will understand.”

  Danamis started to reply, closed his mouth, gave a last look of puzzlement to the monk, and turned away. As he descended the fo’c’sle he felt the eyes of his much diminished crew upon him. He walked across the deck to return to the stern cabin and to tell Strykar of his conversation. The amulet seemed so light as to be insignificant and as he stepped into the cabin his hand went to clasp it, and it was gone.

  ON THE OTHER side of the royal city, at the great south gate, awash in silk banners of red and gold, a tall liveried retainer lifted his noblewoman from the saddle while traders and townspeople gawped. She had slumped over as if dead and nearly tumbled just as they had passed beneath the enormous iron portcullis. The woman’s other retainers clustered around her nervously, facing outwards and pushing away two gawping merchants who drew too near. The tall retainer held her up and rearranged her headdress that had fallen over her
face. And then she recovered from her swoon, awaking in his burly arms. Her eyes fluttered rapidly and she recognised the face close to hers.

  “Ah, Captain Flauros,” she said, smiling as her pale cheeks became slightly less pale. “I am returned, and the one we seek is here.”

  Eighteen

  “YOU LOOK A right fop.” Strykar took a step back from Danamis, shaking his head in feigned disgust.

  Danamis frowned and looked down at his new clothes. “What are you talking about? So the sleeves are puffed, that’s the style.”

  “You’ve stuffed your codpiece.”

  “Fuck off! I have not.” Danamis tugged at the pleats of his short fine woollen robe, black and sleeveless so that the rich satin of his russet doublet could be seen.

  They stood on a busy street of high houses and balconies in the quarter of the city where the wealthiest commoners lived alongside lesser nobility who had fallen on harder times. It was a neighbourhood of impeccable taste and fashion, and Strykar felt distinctly out of place. He looked past Danamis and up at the villa of Piero Polo. It was every bit as grand as Danamis’s house in Palestro and at least as large. He reckoned the glass panes in the enormous rectangular windows of the house, three floors worth, would have alone cost a fortune.

  “I will leave you to your meeting, then,” he said, suppressing a chuckle over the little felt hat that perched on the pirate’s immaculate black ringlets, glistening with olive oil. “You can meet me down the road at that tavern where we left the lads.”

  “Very well. A few hours then.”

  Strykar raised a forefinger. “And then to your banker.”

  Danamis clenched his jaw, put hand to sword pommel and made for the doorway to the merchant’s house. He had earlier sent a messenger from the ship to announce his arrival and, luckily, Polo had returned two weeks ago from across the eastern sea. More importantly, he had sent back word of his joy of the arrival of Nicolo Danamis and his desire to see him forthwith.

  The household retainers that greeted him bowed and led him into the cool of the high-ceilinged villa, its salmon-coloured walls and golden trim giving the halls an exuberant lightness. He was led past the great receiving rooms of the ground floor and taken up to the apartments of the merchant adventurer and fabled explorer. It would be an informal and very private audience. As Danamis reached the top of the marble stair he was greeted by two huge wolfhounds, their tongues lolling. They amiably followed a few paces behind him as he walked with the houseboys down the painting-lined corridor and to a doorway with an intricate carved lintel in the old style: all angles and egg-and-dart friezes.

  “Come in! Come in! King’s Admiral Nicolo Danamis!” The voice was deep and powerful beyond the half-opened door. Piero Polo was standing in the centre of a large anteroom to his personal closet, a massive fireplace at this back. He was wearing a long green velvet robe that reached his ankles, long-toed red slippers peeking out from underneath. Danamis approached, spread his arms and gave a deep bow. But Polo rushed forward and enveloped him in an embrace of friendship, and in an instant all of Danamis’s worries dissipated in the genuine warmth of the man.

  “What brings you to Perusia, my boy? Have you cleansed the southern sea of every last Southland corsair?”

  Danamis looked into a face he had not seen for two years. A little more lined perhaps but the same large, slightly protruding hazel eyes, the high noble brow, aquiline nose and clean-shaven square chin that he remembered well. He tried not to look sheepish as he answered.

  “In truth, my lord, I have fallen on ill fortune and calamity. I need your advice.”

  Polo frowned. “And you’ve come all the way from Palestro to seek me out. That does sound serious. And that calls for some wine.” He clapped his hands twice and his retainer appeared from the corridor outside.

  “Fetch us wine. None of that Milvornan rubbish, mind you. Bring up that Colonna zorzalis I just brought back.” He ushered Danamis into his chamber; a modest canopied bed in one corner, the remainder of the room filled with shelves of books and curiosities, and a long table near the windows covered in maps. He beckoned for Danamis to seat himself in one of the two high-backed and throne-like chairs.

  They sat and Polo leaned back and crossed his legs and bade Danamis to tell him what had happened. Danamis didn’t wait for the wine to delve into the particulars. He was relieved to be with someone who might understand—even offer real help—and it loosened his tongue mightily. He told of the myrra trade (but Polo knew about that going on) and of Tetch’s mutiny having stirred up the fleet for weeks if not months. He recounted how they cut themselves out of Palestro with but one ship and how only by the luck of the royal galleys stumbling on them they avoided defeat by corsairs. The sole detail he left out was what he had just learned from Strykar. The astonishing tale of the monk and former thief who was now cursed by Saint Elded. Or chosen by him. That he had sworn to keep secret and with good reason.

  Piero Polo sat with his hand in front of his mouth as Danamis relayed the sorry story. Having finished his tale Danamis now felt a deep sense of shame as the retelling only made his failings more manifest. The retainers came in with wine and Danamis paused as the drink was poured for them into silver goblets. When the servants had departed, Polo took a sip and spoke.

  “That the world has sunk so low as to see this level of treachery by one so close. Nearly blood even. I am heartily sorry to hear your tale. I don’t think I have to ask whether you mean to take the fight back to him.”

  Danamis fingered his goblet and took a long swallow of the light, slightly sweet red wine. “My lord Piero, I have but one ship left and half a crew. If my father’s bank does not see its way to lending then I fear I am done for. And without the aid of the king there will be no other ships and crews.”

  Polo leaned forward, caressing his cup. “The king? Well, the fates are truly aligned against you I fear. His concerns are elsewhere in the next month. Have you not heard of the great delegation arriving?”

  “What delegation? Ambassadors? From where?”

  “He is hosting the Sinaens and this is the first time they will have set foot on these shores. Not their proxies. They themselves. They will leave half the delegation here. Surely you saw their great ship when you sailed up the bay?”

  Danamis shook his head slowly. “We did not.”

  “What? As long as two great caravels and with four masts. My boy, you have been far too long playing in that lake of yours you call the Sea of Valdur. There is far more happening across the Mare Infinitum—which I myself have shown is nothing of the sort. Do you not keep up with any intelligence from Perusia or Milvorna?”

  Danamis sank a little. “Not of late, my lord.”

  “Much has happened. The kingdom of Partha has now sworn fealty to the Silk Emperor and I suspect that neighbouring Scythiana will eventually follow suit. That gives the Sinaens a direct sea route to Valdur; they are formidable sailors and shipwrights.”

  Danamis set his cup on the table and ran his hand across his damp brow. “Palestro will be the last of the king’s concerns now.”

  Polo nodded. “I’m afraid so. He plans a great tournament and a feast, and will lead the hunt in the royal wood himself. All in the coming days.”

  “Then I am finished.”

  Polo placed a hand on Danamis’s knee. “Hold on there. That is not the scion of Valerian that I have known these past ten years. If you want Palestro back you will have to be cunning—and be willing to fight for it.”

  “Then what is your counsel?”

  “You must seek an audience with the king immediately. It is your duty as his admiral to report the seizure of the Palestrian fleet. That is your first task. And you must make it clear to him that treason unpunished only encourages further treason elsewhere. That should get his attention—and more importantly, that of the king’s chamberlain, Raganus. How many ships would you need to take on Tetch?”

  Danamis thought about this. It depended on how many of his fleet w
ere still loyal to him. He knew that some ships and crews had resisted the mutiny. “With six ships, including the Grace, if I can lure him out of Palestro—or catch him on the sea—I can defeat him.”

  Polo nodded his leonine head and tapped his goblet. “Hmm. You might scrape together six but the Perusian fleet has only galleys. We might find a caravel or carrack for hire in Colonna, with a good crew of mercenaries…”

  “There is one problem though,” said Danamis. “Tetch might have entered into an alliance with Torinia. Which means that shit Duke Ursino could come to aid him.”

  “True. But your bigger problem is getting the king to open his purse. I do not have the sums required to give you a fleet, would that I could. You will have to convince him to support your house.”

  The abrupt sound of a creaking bedframe made Danamis twist about in his chair.

  A woman was waking and extricating herself from the sheets. She sat up, naked, the colour of pale ochre, and smoothed back her long black hair. Danamis looked over at Polo who in return gave a small grin.

  “I forgot she was still there, Nico. My apologies. But have no fear, she does not speak Valdurian.” Polo spoke to her in a foreign tongue and she quietly stood, wrapped herself in a sheet and padded out of the room. Her eyes seemed to drill into Danamis as she passed him.

  “She is from the East?” said Danamis. “Sinaen?”

  Polo nodded.

  “So you are an ambassador of sorts as well, my lord.”

  “They’re an interesting people… in many ways.” He picked up a map from the pile on the table before him. “So much has changed in the world since I was a younger man, Nico. And we here, in the middle of these petty squabbling principalities—Torinia and Maresto, Milvorna and Colonna—we forget that the world beyond Valdur is growing, changing. I have seen this with my own eyes.”

  “My supper plate has enough upon it without worrying about Partha or any other land over the sea. My world is here and it has shattered like weak crystal in just a week.”