The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  “Nico, you must regain what was yours. And that means you will have to muster every last ounce of charm to sway Sempronius. Appeal to his interests, not yours. If I find an opportunity to intervene with the king’s ministers in the next week, I will do so. Be strong and trust in God!”

  Danamis managed a smile. “I will, my lord.”

  Piero Polo placed his hands on the ornate arms of the armchair and stood. Danamis, a little taken aback, followed suit, not sure if the audience was at an end or if the great traveller was just stretching. Polo stepped away from the table and chairs and rearranged his wide-sleeved gown.

  “Oh, and one other matter, my boy. Giacomo Tetch must know you’re alive. And he’s probably guessed already that you’ve come here to get ships and men. He won’t be waiting for that. If I were you I’d keep a sharp watch. It’s cheaper and less trouble for an assassin to deal with you rather than fighting a pitched battle at sea. Actually, the same advice applies to you, if you had the money for an assassin.” And he barked out a laugh as he clapped Danamis’s shoulder.

  As Danamis stood in the wide cobbled street again, looking up at the edifice he had just departed, he was not quite sure if anything had been gained at all. Still, it was better than walking into the palace blind. He sidestepped a gang of screeching boys who ran past, headed down to the market stalls at the bottom of the row. For an instant he was transported back to his own boyhood, to the days of teasing fishermen down on the docks and stealing pies. And just as suddenly he was back, standing there in his fine clothes and near empty purse, his head spinning with worry. It was time to see the bankers and to negotiate a golden thread to keep his hopes alive.

  Nineteen

  TWO HOURS LATER, Danamis entered the tavern at the sign of the golden bowl, where he had agreed to meet Strykar and his men. It was a long and low room that seemed to go on forever, and now, in late afternoon, was near to bursting with drunken merchants, chattering moneylenders, seamen, guildsmen, apprentices, and not a few whores. To Danamis, it almost looked like the orlop deck of some vast ship: cramped, dark, and reeking. The light provided by the few windows was meagre at best and the fat tallow candles melted to the heavy plank tables barely illuminated the sea of sweaty faces that guffawed and yelled across to their companions. His eyes sought out Strykar as he pushed past topers, each staring him down for his insolence in daring to disturb their revelry. He was sweating underneath doublet and woollen robe, the necessary accoutrements of doing business in Perusia. That business had now nearly run its course. So heavy was his heart as he waded deep into the tavern that the sight of a full wine jug on a table filled him with a resigned kind of joy, an anticipation of the forgetfulness that drink would bring. A raised cup of cheap wine would be his fist of defiance to Fortune who had turned on him so suddenly.

  Near the back of the room and near to the open door to the courtyard, he spied Strykar at a table with two other aventuri, a large blue earthenware jug between them. He saw that one of them was Brognolo, Strykar’s grizzled sergeant, and the two were in deep conversation, voices low. Danamis glanced quickly around him and slid onto the bench opposite Strykar. He pulled his hat off his head and leaned on his elbows. Strykar eased himself back on his bench.

  “Brognolo, wait outside with the others. Better yet, get back to the hostel and see that the others haven’t ripped it apart yet. I’ll return presently.”

  Brognolo gave a curt nod and wordlessly signalled the others to get up.

  Strykar pushed Brognolo’s half-filled cup over to Danamis. “I would say from the look on your face that you could use a drink—or a woman. Or both.”

  Danamis’s fingers closed around the earthenware cup and he swirled it a little before raising it to his lips.

  “But,” continued Strykar, “I trust you found out what you needed to know?”

  “I found out that our arrival here is not the biggest news in Perusia this week. I’ll be lucky if the king even bothers to see me himself.”

  Strykar hunched over his wine. “What? Even though you’ve managed to lose an entire fleet?”

  Danamis gave the mercenary a basilisk’s glare. “The ambassador of the Silk Empire arrived here just before we did.”

  Strykar shrugged and pulled a face. “So what? Probably a delegation from somewhere or other every fucking week.”

  “You don’t know our king like I do. It’s going to be feasting and games for a week—or two weeks. The whole blasted court will be in knots trying to impress the Sinaens. I won’t even get a look-in.”

  Strykar dragged the wine jug across the table and refilled Danamis’s cup and then his own. “You must demand an audience,” he said. “The king has no guarantees about what Tetch will do now with Palestro.”

  “We’ve had an unusual alliance, you and I, these past two years.”

  “Pah! Unusual? Like a bad marriage more like. And it’s one that I can’t walk away from.”

  “Maybe you can now. I am sorry that I dragged you into all of this. Should not have happened. But God knows, I wouldn’t have been able to cut us out of Palestro without you and your men at the tower. I am grateful for that.”

  “And the corsairs?”

  Danamis gave a weak smile. “And the corsairs.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Strykar, his voice low. “Especially for the men I left behind at Palestro. But this is the life we’ve chosen. I just wish you had some better choices now.” Danamis reached inside his doublet and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. He slid it across the damp table.

  “What’s this then?”

  “I have just come from my father’s moneylending house. That is a letter of credit made out to you alone. It gives you access to one thousand ducats. You are free to take them when you choose.”

  Strykar broke the wax seal and opened the parchment. His face split into a grin. “You have done well by me, brother!” He hastily refolded the paper and pushed it into his grease-stained leather doublet. “Seems like you underestimated your powers of persuasion.”

  “They would not give me my father’s gold. It was not left to me—or anyone else, so it appears.”

  Strykar tapped his breast where the parchment now lay. “Then, how? You took all your own gold?”

  Danamis looked down into his wine cup, empty once again. “No. I have no gold in their vaults. I had to give them ownership of the Grace.”

  “Blood of the saints! You gave them your ship?”

  “Could have been worse. At least they will let me captain it.”

  Strykar, who rarely ever felt a twinge of guilt, was now feeling the stirrings of a conscience somewhere deep inside him. “Shit—Nico, my friend—that is sore hard news.” He could feel the thick parchment poking against his breast. He reached over, grasped the blue jug and poured out another measure for Danamis. There was silence between them even though the tavern roiled with good cheer and bawdiness. After a few moments, Strykar gave a low rumble.

  “I remember when I was a lad. My mother would tell me stories from the holy book. There was one about a righteous man who lost everything. All his wealth, his family, his respect, taken away by God. And he did not know why he was tested so. But you see, God does not need a reason.”

  Danamis looked at Strykar, his eyebrows raised. “Are you trying to cheer me up?”

  “Bah! I’m just saying that sometimes the only thing to do is to be mean enough to keep on living, despite the shit from God, and not give in. Besides, that there cove in the story held firm and got back his wealth and his health.”

  Danamis nodded and wrapped both hands tightly around his cup. “That monk of yours and the tale he tells—do you believe what he saw? Can it be true? What that little trinket can do surely lends credence to what he claims he saw.”

  Strykar answered in a whisper. “Do not talk of such things here. But, in truth, I do not know. I only know what I saw—what you have now seen—and that I cannot explain.”

  “But if it is true… my God if it is tru
e, then what does it mean for all of us? That all we were taught is a lie?”

  Strykar shook his head slowly. “I am long past caring about such things as the ways of the Faith.”

  Danamis looked at him, an expression of deep sadness and resignation both. Strykar cleared his throat. “Aye, well, time I went back to the men. And you will want to get back to the ship I expect. Fear not, the king will see you. He’d be a fool not to give you aid.”

  Danamis chuckled. “Like I told you. You haven’t met him.”

  Strykar stood up. “Let’s be off.”

  “I’m staying to finish this jug.”

  Strykar began to protest, paused, and then pushed the jug over to Danamis. “I will come by the ship tonight.”

  When Strykar had left, Danamis sloshed more wine into his cup and studied the men around him. It was a curious mix but Perusia was a curious place. It was as if everyone from the known world ended up here eventually, thrown into the hurly-burly of the royal enclave. At the table across from him, four artisans played at cards. One had a small monkey perched on his head, chattering as if to provide advice. Danamis looked towards the bar where a very drunken patron was fondling a whore, his unshaven face buried into her neck behind her ear. Her hand was buried in his belt purse. Feeling his bladder beckon, Danamis stood up and made a move to the rear door.

  He stepped into a largish courtyard, open to the sky but enclosed by buildings on all four sides and laid with uneven paving slabs. At one side was a long stone latrine with a pump at one end to sluice it out. Two men stood over it now, swaying as they pissed. He walked to the far end, yanked his sword belt around to clear his hilt, and started to unlace the points securing his codpiece on one side. The two pissing downstream shared a laugh and stepped back, weaving a bit as they returned to the tavern. Danamis felt warm, the wine filling his head. As he relieved himself, his mind drifted to other times when he had riches and women. What had happened to Kassia and Talia? Were they part of Tetch’s stable or had Escalus saved them? It all seemed an age ago. Behind him, he heard the latch of the door to the tavern make a metallic clink. He stuffed himself back into his braes and threaded a lace back into his codpiece.

  A moment later he was shoved forward by a blow to his right shoulder, sending his face into the stuccoed wall and crashing his shins into the stone trough. At the same instant, he felt a sharp pain spread across his left ribcage. Even as his left arm flailed behind him to strike back, he knew he had been knifed. The blade had skidded over his rib, cutting into flesh and muscle, but it had not gone into his back. The choice of a full woollen cioppa with a dozen heavy pleats had disguised the target and the assassin had misjudged his thrust.

  As Danamis turned, a cry on his lips, he heard the assassin’s blade ring as it landed on the paving stones—it had been caught in his robe. He looked at the man: nondescript with short black hair. He could have been anyone. The man bounded backwards as Danamis lashed out, and moved to draw his sword. As he drew his falchion from the scabbard, he kept the hilt high and caught a full-speed side-cut aimed at his head. He was nearly off balance but even so, as his opponent’s blade clanged and ran down his falchion, he managed to convert his guard into a downright blow at the man. But this creature was no bumbler, despite his first misjudgement. He was an adept. He recovered fast, blocking Danamis’s cut as he side-stepped and then throwing another blow of his own. Danamis pushed the hilt of his sword across to his left side and just managed to ward the blow. He back-stepped furiously to give himself some distance. That was when he saw the second assassin moving forward, sword in hand.

  Danamis felt as if he had a stitch in his side but the spreading dampness inside his doublet was a reminder that it was more than that. He held out his sword and began to move to his left to keep the other from flanking him.

  “Bastards! Who sent you?”

  Neither man was in the mood for conversation and they remained expressionless, stepping towards him, sword legs forward and rear closing, keeping their balance as they prepared to attack again. Danamis could not for the life of him understand why in a crowded tavern no one else had the urge to piss at that moment. He moved his falchion to the centre and gripped the pommel with his left hand. His wound would slow him in another minute or two and they would finish him with a joint rush forward. That meant no time to hesitate. He gave a stamp with his right foot forward, a feint, and then sprang forward off his rear leg at the first assassin. The man raised his blade as Danamis’s falchion swung down. Danamis moved past the man to keep his comrade behind. Danamis’s blow, intentionally slow, was blocked and his sword driven down. Danamis slipped his sword by bending his wrists, and gave a mighty backhand as he pulled the blade up again. A spray of bright red spattered him as the top third of his falchion’s back edge, keenly sharp, cut across the man’s neck. The assassin’s eyes went large and his left hand grabbed at his throat.

  The other was on Danamis without pause. An awkward block by Danamis and the man’s blade bounced off and struck him on his bicep on the flat. Not as painful as the searing bite in his side. The wine and blood loss was making him light-headed. He raised his sword again as another blow fell. He blocked it, but it was converted into another blow at his other side. Danamis staggered back. The man came forward, faked an overhand blow and then shot forward a thrust to his gut. Danamis parried but as he twisted away, a paroxysm of agony made him nearly buckle. This opponent looked much like the other, who now lay writhing on the stones. Short hair, black doublet and cloak, dark green hose, fine, almost delicate featured face and small eyes.

  Behind them, the crash of wood and clattering ironmongery sounded as the door was finally gained by those on the other side.

  “Danamis!”

  Strykar stepped through and took in the scene. He roared and rushed forward, not even taking the time to draw his weapon. The assassin shot past Danamis and made for an open door on the opposite side of the courtyard. Fleeter than the heavy-footed rondelieri, the assassin was gone before Strykar had made it even halfway there. Danamis sank to his knees, and seeing Danamis fall, Strykar turned back to help.

  “Elded’s balls! You’re a bloody mess.” He lifted Danamis off the flagstones as the pirate managed to throw an arm around the mercenary’s neck.

  “Who sent them!” rasped Danamis. “Ask who sent them! Set me down.”

  The courtyard was fast filling with patrons all jabbering away and beginning to crowd around. Strykar leaned over the grey-faced man, blood pooling about his gory neck and shoulders. He was gurgling still, just. Strykar pulled him up by his hair.

  “You heard him. Who paid you?”

  The man’s eyes rolled upwards, bubbles frothing across his throat. Strykar dropped his head back to the flagstones with a sickening crack and turned back to Danamis.

  “Well, looks like you fucking well cut his throat. He’s not telling anyone anything.”

  The landlord came forward, shoving the ogling crowd away. “What’s all this, then!”

  Strykar had an arm around Danamis’s waist, raising him up. “What’s all this? Your fucking drinking hole is a nest of assassins!” He gestured down to the dead man. “Do you know him?”

  The landlord blanched and shook his head. Strykar swore under his breath. “You better get this filth taken away.”

  Danamis somehow managed to hold himself up, his legs weak but his sword still in his fist. “Strykar, get me back to the ship.”

  And the tavern crowd parted, silently, and let them pass.

  Twenty

  LYING WEDGED IN the tight berth in his cabin, Danamis managed to push himself up onto his elbows. The high-sided wooden bed reminded him of a coffin. He winced as pain seared his left side. Timandra stepped back and put her hands on her hips.

  “If you move around too much, Captain, you will ruin my beautiful needlework. And stop playing with the bandaging!”

  “Seems you can’t even have a piss safely in this city anymore,” Danamis mumbled. He had passed a bad ni
ght, the wound throbbing. When Strykar had dragged him back to the ship, Timandra had cleaned him and stitched him, first pouring on some acqua vitalis to prevent rot setting in. She had told him he better pray that the blade had not been poisoned as any assassin worth his salt would have taken that precaution to ensure a kill. But he had been lucky. The dagger had sawn him straight across a rib, cutting into skin and muscle but no deeper. The bleeding had stopped thanks to Strykar tying a waist sash about him during their awkward journey back to the docks. He had yanked it from a merchant’s window sill and thrown him a few coins with a growl. The man had not argued.

  Timandra looked over to Strykar and Gregorvero. “He’ll be stiff as an old man for a few days and you ought to have one of your crew find a cookshop and get him some meat. He’s lost blood and a good chunk of roast would do him good.”

  Strykar nodded. This latest turn of events had changed the situation somewhat and he calculated that he should keep some of his men on the Grace for protection. Danamis’s crew was small and recruitment had only just started. And Danamis, he thought, had lost a lot of his pride in the last few days. Now he was quieter and more reflective, each new travail sobering him further.

  “How could Tetch have gotten his men here so quickly?” said Strykar. “It is as if they had wings.”

  Danamis shook his head. “They could have followed close behind us by ship. More likely overland through Torinia. It is possible.”

  Strykar scratched his beard. “Aye, reckon that they could have. Hard ride, but possible. What about any other enemies in Perusia? Any unpaid debts?”

  “No. Nothing. And the only person I’ve met with is Piero Polo.”

  “And you trust him? Maybe he has some unfinished business with you you’re not aware of.”

  “I couldn’t believe that for an instant. He’s an honourable man. I’ve known him for years, for God’s sake. A confidant of my father.”