“My lord Danamis, it’s best that you seek some negotiation with Tetch. Return to Palestro.” Raganus tried an accommodating smile but it ended up looking like he’d chewed a lemon. “Or… else, seek your fortune in some other place. You’re still a young man, a seasoned sailor and commander. I understand that Captain Polo is putting together another expedition to the east.”
Danamis looked hard at the baron but could hardly focus his thoughts to respond to the patronizing toad. Anger burned in his belly but the wind had fled his sails. He nodded slowly.
“It appears I have much to consider. So… I shall take my leave of you, Baron. And the hospitality of the king.”
But even as he entered the gatehouse and left the palace behind, flanked by guardsmen, Nicolo Danamis was contemplating one last desperate throw of the dice.
Twenty-Four
LUCINDA DELLA ROVERA, canoness of St. Dionei, walked softly into the workroom of the oculist, gently holding the waist of her dress in both hands to raise its delicate hem from the floor. Captain Flauros was barely two paces behind. Three of his men remained at the door of the shop to discourage any further customers, though this was unlikely as Perusians were now gathering like moths to a candle in the central piazza to learn their luck in the royal lottery. The fourth guardsman, Tobias, he had sent to the harbour to keep close eye for the carrack they had been searching for; one captained by the infamous pirate and so-called admiral of Palestro, it had turned out. It was a discovery that worried him and the canoness both, for it was no mere merchant captain that the young monk had joined with.
The oculist looked up from his table as Lucinda entered and he dropped his tools and raised his eyepiece when he saw it was a woman—a woman of quality. He scrambled down from his seat and met her halfway, giving a smile and a bow while pulling the grease-stained brown leather coif from his bald head.
“Dear lady,” he oozed. “What is it that you require? Sure one as young and beautiful as you has no need of spectacles. An aged father perhaps?”
Lucinda’s smile widened further. “No, sir. I am here to obtain some intelligence from you.”
The oculist’s eyes now settled on Flauros, stone-faced, standing behind her. He laughed nervously and proffered her a chair near the table. “What could I possibly have of interest to you?”
“You saw a man and a woman here. The man may have had the appearance of a cleric. They showed you a piece of jewellery. A medallion perhaps?”
The colour drained from the oculist’s face as he begin to stutter like some simpleton. “No… no clerics have visited, my lady.”
She extended her hand, the smile still fixed on her lips. “Please take a seat, sir. Tell me what you know.”
The oculist dropped down hard into the chair. “Many people come here every day. I cannot remember everyone!” he protested, hands starting to tremble.
Flauros slowly walked around the side of the room to take a station behind the oculist. Lucinda shook her head and moved to the work table, absently picking up a grinding tool and a small hand mirror.
“They showed you something very, very old, I think. Something they didn’t understand.” She held the mirror out in front of the oculist’s face. “But you understood, didn’t you? When you saw it.”
The man ran a trembling hand across his mouth. “I told them to throw it away! I swear it! Has the prelate sent you? I did not know it was heresy that they carried.”
Lucinda placed the mirror gently back upon the table, but the smile had now left her face. “Tell me what it was.”
“It was a token… an amulet of sorts. Covered in old script. Very old, as you say.”
Lucinda put a hand on the oculist’s shoulder and she felt him flinch. “You have nothing to fear. Just tell me what it said.”
“Indecipherable,” he mumbled.
From behind, Flauros rested a gloved hand lightly on top of the little man’s head and gave it a gentle pat. “My lady?”
Lucinda raised her eyebrows. “Flauros… have patience.” She turned her gaze back to the oculist. The words came from her mouth slowly and softly but encased in steel. “Tell… me… what it said.”
Flauros noticed that her eyes were not blinking as she looked at the little man. They were boring into the object of her regard like a shipwright’s drill. The oculist went rigid, his head twitching as if some fly was buzzing his face. His throat made a gurgling noise as if his mind was fighting for words. And then it all came tumbling out.
“Heresy. New commandments of the Saint. Ten commandments not seven! Beware false prophets! Treat the children of the sea as you would one another!” His head fell down and she seized his chin and pulled him up again.
“Write them down. Write all of it!” She motioned for Flauros to fetch the quill and paper.
The oculist sobbed. “I can’t… can’t remember!”
She clapped both hands on either side of his head, her face close to his. “You will remember!”
Flauros raised him by the scruff of his doublet and set him in front of the paper, the quill extended. The oculist was as if drunk, head lolling, but he wrote rapidly. Lucinda watched as he scratched ten lines of text deeply into the parchment, the goose quill squeaking. She stepped back and Flauros pushed the oculist back into the chair.
“Lastly, sir,” said Lucinda, “look at me!”
The oculist raised his head, his mouth quivering.
“Who else knows? Your apprentices? Friends? Who?”
“Not a soul! I swear it! No one knows!”
She concentrated on him, digging deeper into his mind, delving past the fear that poured from him. He began to gibber, his eyes losing focus and rolling up. She broke her gaze.
“Good,” she said.
She picked up a long workman’s knife, the sort using for carving horn and wood. She placed it in his right hand. “Now you must save the Faith from heresy.” Again she looked at him, eyes wide and unmoving. And again, the oculist went rigid, his hunched form sitting up straight in the chair. Flauros watched in wonder at her skill, and admiration. His lips parted slightly in anticipation of what she could accomplish.
His hand shaking, eyes locked onto Lucinda’s, the oculist raised the knife to his throat. It lay there, motionless for a moment or two, and then pressed deep against his neck. Lucinda, never breaking her gaze, moved back a few steps. The oculist’s eyes went wide as he looked past her into the middle distance, into nothingness. He quickly drew the blade across his flesh. A fountain erupted, spattering his chest and the chair. The oculist slumped forward, blood dripping around him onto the wooden floor, the knife still locked in his grasp.
Lucinda seized the parchment and scanned it rapidly. Flauros thought, just for a moment, he detected something in her face he had not seen before. Amusement.
“My lady!” he called.
She turned to him.
“I too now know that secret,” he said, the trace of a teasing smile on his face. “Would you give me the same medicine?”
“Oh, Flauros!” she said, dismissing his concern. “You and I are of the same mind—and heart. We shall do great things together.”
Flauros stepped around the crumpled body. “The greyrobe didn’t kill the other monks, did he? He found out this—maybe something more besides. That’s why Kodoris wants him found, and found without a fuss.”
Again, a curious half-smile crossed her features. “What are you saying, captain?”
“Kodoris had them killed. And four of my men went missing before another day had passed.”
She folded her hands in front of her, opal-blue eyes staring into his. “And what if I was to tell you that your surmise is correct?”
Flauros nodded. “I never believed you were doing just Kodoris’s bidding in all this. There’s more to this quest than that.”
She smiled at him and extended a lithe arm for him to take. Flauros kept his gaze upon her as he slowly closed the distance between them. Lucinda’s long-fingered hand slipped in over hi
s forearm and she squeezed.
“Bring me inside, my lady.” His words were spoken like a lover’s plea, honeyed, but demanding. “Share all of this truth you possess. Let me be your sword.”
She reached up and stroked his bearded cheek playfully. “We shall see, Flauros. We shall see.”
THE HARBOURMASTER’S LADS strolled along the mole with torches, lighting the braziers as darkness fell on Perusia. Groups of men came and went: fisherfolk, sailors, lightermen, most heading to the hostelries and taverns that littered the quayside streets. Acquel and Timandra stood in the fo’c’sle, both wrapped in cloaks to stave off the chill damp air blowing up from the bay. They had shared little of their thoughts the remainder of the day. They had, however, spoken with Strykar since the return from the palace. The latter had arrived back with Danamis in a terrible state, and they had seen the dark despair written on the face of the pirate. Strykar had told them of the king’s refusal to offer aid. It was now back to Maresto and, for Danamis at least, an uncertain future.
“I for one won’t be sad about leaving,” said Timandra, leaning over the railings. “Even if the admiral didn’t get what he wanted.”
“I feel for him,” said Acquel quietly as he looked out into the sea of masts in the last purple light of the dying day.
“We don’t have any business being here. Never did. It was just blasted luck.”
“But I have found some answers here,” replied Acquel. “Not comforting ones, but answers nonetheless.” He suddenly remembered their brief embrace earlier that day. He found it difficult to understand how she had buried that so quickly.
“Well, Strykar says we sail in the morning, ready or not. Danamis is determined to get out to sea.”
Acquel nodded. He had watched them late in the afternoon loading wine barrels into the hold and taking on more provisions. So too, had he observed Gregorvero and Bassinio putting the new men through hell as they instructed them in the traditions of the Royal Grace. Bassinio in particular had become a harsh taskmaster since his maiming, half his face a mass of pink and white scabs, his head shaven. His eyes moved to the deck and railings that had been mauled in the escape from Palestro and the duel with the Southland corsairs. All as if never damaged, the new dark green paint still smelling of oils. Now most of the crew were below deck, eating or making final preparations for the voyage. Below where he stood, on the main deck, a few of the pirates joked and conversed while a contingent stood guard at the gangplank amidships. A light appeared across from him on the sterncastle. Someone had lit the great lantern at the rail. He watched as Master Gregorvero came down the steps to the main deck and ambled to the gunwales, staring out at the beacons blazing on the mole.
“We should go down now,” said Acquel.
Timandra brushed back red locks from her face. “Yes, I’m growing cold.”
Acquel let her leave the fo’c’sle first and he followed down the staircase and then again down to the main deck.
Timandra turned back to him. “I will go in and see how Strykar fares. Probably ought to tend to Captain Danamis’s wound too. Will you come?”
Acquel forced a smile. “Yes, I will join you shortly.”
Timandra touched his arm and moved off towards the stern stairs. Acquel sighed and walked over to Gregorvero, who was staring off over the quayside, obviously in a contemplative mood. He gave a greeting which was not returned until he repeated himself.
“Ah, young monk,” Gregorvero said, almost as if he’d been dozing. Acquel had not heard him use that phrase before. He was always being shouted at as “brother monk” or “useless”, but never that. The master kept staring out and Acquel followed his gaze. A large gang of seamen were ambling and laughing across the quay just before where the piazza began. And closer, standing around one of the flaming braziers, was another group, closely clustered and unmoving. It was these that Gregorvero was observing. And as Acquel started watching them, so too did he feel the amulet weighing against his chest, growing warmer. He reached inside his doublet and shirt and grasped it. It felt as if it had been lying in strong sunlight, not too hot to hold, but warmer than his body. And then he became aware of a sensation in his mind, not particularly sinister, but it was as if he was being observed.
“Come with me for a walk,” said Gregorvero. “It is a fine night and I have a mind to stretch my legs.”
Acquel looked at him. He still had not lifted his gaze from the shore. “A walk? Now?” He gave an awkward laugh.
“Come with me for a walk,” Gregorvero repeated, his tone unchanged. He moved around Acquel and stepped up onto the steeply sloping gangway that connected the carrack to the dock. He thumped down the plank. Acquel knew something wasn’t quite right but he was also curious and confused by the master’s manner. He grabbed the opening in the gunwale, hopped up, and followed Gregorvero down to the dock.
He followed the rotund master and his rolling gait up the rickety dock and onto the stone quay and mole. They were heading to one of the braziers, the one with the men gathered around it.
“Master Gregorvero, where are we going?”
No answer followed. Acquel could now see those ahead: four men and a smaller figure that on closer view he saw to be a woman. As he drew near, he saw the men spread out, one coming towards him, the woman at his side. She drew back the hood of her cloak and he could see her long pale face illuminated in the firelight. He had never seen her before but somehow her expression made him believe she knew him. She was looking him straight in the eye—and nearly into his soul. He found himself sinking into her gaze, transfixed. A calming confidence settled on him like a warm blanket. He took a few hesitant steps towards her. Did he know her?
An instant later, burning pain lanced across his breastbone as if the amulet that dangled on his chest had become red hot. He bent forward, clutching at the jewel, his forward movement abruptly halted. Gregorvero stopped in his tracks, and shook his head as if he’d been punched. They were still about ten paces away. To Acquel, it appeared as if Gregorvero had been drugged or sleepwalking.
He heard the woman yell, “Take him!” and watched as the man next to her moved towards him, hands outstretched. Acquel jumped behind Gregorvero and drew his dagger. The amulet had now cooled as suddenly as it had heated. Another message from Elded delivered. He glimpsed a second man moving on his left and making a lunge to grab his arm. Acquel lashed out and slashed the assailant’s wrist. The man fell back with a yell and a curse. The first man, tall and with features made sharper in the firelight, moved on him again. Acquel shoved Gregorvero with all his might, pushing him into the attacker. Gregorvero was coming out of his stupor and Acquel heard him swear an oath as the big seaman shoved the tall man backwards and then took a swing. The tall man in turn ducked the punch and made for Acquel again, drawing his own dagger as he moved.
Acquel went into a crouch, dagger forward as he heard the woman cry out again, “Don’t kill him!”
The ship’s master was now lashing out and careening into them all as if he had woken up in the middle of a street brawl.
Acquel cried out as loudly as he could. “Murder! Murder! Strykar!” Never losing sight of the man in front of him, he could still just make out the woman in the corner of his vision. He knew she was watching him, calling him. His eyes were desperate to follow her, pulled by her presence as if he were the needle to her beautiful, living and breathing lodestone.
His assailant shot forward, knocked Acquel’s dagger to the side and tried for a kick to pull out his leg from under him. Acquel pivoted left, lashed out again at one of the other attackers who was trying to flank him, and then back-pedalled. He heard a woman scream somewhere behind him—Timandra he thought—and then the ship’s bell was set to clanging.
The man was at him again, and this time, at this range, Acquel’s memory ignited and he recognized the face of the man who had demanded his life on the road from Livorna: Flauros, the captain of the Temple guard. He parried a thrust and sidestepped again. Two of the attacker
s had now drawn swords and Gregorvero, having regained his senses, raised his hands and began backing away. Flauros yelled to his men.
“Get around behind him, damn you!”
Acquel roared and lunged at Flauros, straight for his throat. It was easily parried and he felt a fist slam into his cheek, sending him reeling. A yell sounded to his right and he saw a figure hurtle past, straight into the swordsmen. It was Strykar. Another soldier from the ship flew past Acquel and thrust through one of the attackers. Strykar took on two opponents at once, his sword swinging with such ferocity it sent the two reeling backwards. Acquel saw Flauros break off and dash over to the woman who herself was backing away from the fray. Flauros seized her arm and the two ran headlong for the piazza and the streets beyond. The other assailants, perhaps unaware that their captain had fled, redoubled their efforts and came on again, despite their worsening odds. Strykar parried a high cut which slammed down into the quillons of his sidesword but instantly gave a blow of his own with a snap-turn of the wrist, biting deep into his opponent’s collarbone and nearly severing his head. The last attacker turned and made to run for it but the bolt of a crossbow brought him down, shot through the back.
Acquel sank to his knees, still clutching his dagger in his fist.
Strykar clasped Gregorvero by the back of the head. “Are you whole? Unhurt?”
The master nodded, rubbing his forehead.
Strykar looked down at Acquel. “By all the devils of hell, brother monk, what in the blessed Saint’s name was that all about?”
Acquel hauled himself up off the stones. He was shaking. More of the crew had now appeared, surrounding them. He saw Timandra push her way through, mouth agape.
Strykar wheeled around and scanned the piazza before looking again at the dead men. He put a toe into one of them who lay sprawled on the blood-slicked cobbles. “Too well dressed for ruffians. They must have thought Master Gregorvero was Danamis.” He cursed again, and turned back to Acquel. “They were having another go, damn them.”
The Guns of Ivrea Page 24