The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  “No,” said Acquel. “They were here for me.”

  FLAUROS DIDN’T STOP running until he was sure there was no pursuit. He and Lucinda had ducked down into the network of small alleyways on the far side of the piazza, no idea as to where they were headed. After a few anxious minutes, he slowed his pace, his hand still gripping her wrist, his sword in the other. He stopped with his back against a house and twisted her around to face him, gripping her upper arm tightly.

  “You said he would follow you! That you could master him!” Flauros shook her with each outburst. “That nearly got all of us killed. The whole pirate’s nest emptied into us, woman!” For a moment he saw her haughtiness crumble, self-doubt rising up. But she rallied, both arms flailing up to knock away his grasp.

  “It was working!,” she spat back. “But something broke the—” she was about to utter charm but the word stuck in her throat. “The monk has some protection from my gift.”

  “Tell that to my men lying dead back there. And now we’ve lost our chance. Lord knows where they will go next.”

  Her face grew hard and confident. “I know where he will go next. And so does my sister. He has questions. Questions for where there is only one place to get the answers.”

  Flauros growled and seized her arm again. “You’re going to tell me everything, my lady. I shall not risk my neck again until I know the truth of it all.”

  She didn’t pull away from him even though she could feel his grip crushing her bicep. She looked into his face. “You may not like where that truth leads you.”

  Flauros pulled her to his chest and kissed her hard. She did not resist him. The wound below her collarbone tingled slightly, a murmur only she could hear, and then was still.

  Twenty-Five

  THE LANTERNS BURNED all night upon the Royal Grace. The gangplank was drawn up, netting strung along the sides, bowmen set to pace the decks, and two seamen who’d drawn short straws crouched miserably in the crow’s nest. A heavy, discomfited anticipation settled upon the ship. Danamis, sitting in his cabin, grey-faced and drawn, had demanded answers as to how and why. Answers that Acquel did not readily have. Danamis believed that the Temple guard might return in force, a concern bolstered by his new knowledge that the priesthood had conspired against him because of the myrra trade. How they could have possibly tracked Acquel so quickly he could not fathom, but he knew this business of the tomb and the amulet was at the heart of it. And why not just publicly arrest the monk and take him away by force? Why such a ruse as kidnapping by stealth? To his mind, it meant they feared what Acquel knew about the long-dead saint, and what he might tell others.

  As for Acquel, as much as he wanted to share what he and Timandra had discovered about the amulet, he held his tongue, as did she. Strykar cursed himself for letting his guard down and wondered aloud who the blonde woman was and how she seemed to have almost bewitched the ship’s master into wandering towards her. That was, if Acquel’s account of the woman was to be believed. Poor Gregorvero was little help, for he had no recollection of even leaving the vessel, just lashing out as he awoke like a man from a deep, drunken stupor. At length, a tired and fractious Danamis announced that he would make sail in the morning light and that Perusia—and the king—could go to hell. The night wore on, the moon set, and those who could slumbered away the short remaining hours.

  Shortly after dawn, Acquel awoke with a start from his thin horsehair mattress in the fo’c’sle, its peculiar nasty odour his first sensation of the new day. A few sailors snored around him, those from the last watch of the night he assumed. As with every morning, his damp clothing clung to his body. He rubbed his hand over the stubble of the tonsure and swallowed hard, his throat dry and sore. More dreams had plagued him through the night. Dreams that were now taking on a strange sort of narrative, almost making sense. Leading him.

  As he emerged onto the main deck, eyes squinting in the brightness of the new day, he could see the final preparations being made for departure: men in the rigging making sails ready, the lateen spar being hoisted into place by half a dozen grunting sailors, the last few supplies being tossed and stowed below deck. A few of the crew gave him dark looks: they knew now he was at the centre of the fracas on the quay and they wanted to know why. After a few minutes, Acquel spotted Timandra emerging from the stern cabin and he went to her.

  “We must speak,” he said.

  She looked to have slept badly, her eyes red, and she pulled up her shawl to cover her head. Acquel placed his hand on her arm.

  “I had another dream.”

  She looked up at him. “And you wish to share this with me?”

  “You need to know what I am… seeing.”

  She nodded, reluctant or resigned, he couldn’t tell.

  “I dreamt of the Ara back in Livorna,” he said, his voice quiet as he lead her to the side of the stairs and out of the way of bellowing seamen. “The great cellars below the Temple and cloister. I have been down there many times but never too deep. But there is a door in my dream. A huge door of black oak, studded with iron and bound with bars and locks. Somehow, I know I must unlock this door, but I don’t know how. I watch and the iron studs begin to glow red hot, each becoming a letter of script. I want to read what it says but the door recedes and I wake.”

  “Acquel,” she said, shaking her head, “you could have summoned that up from your memory. How do you know it is a vision?”

  “Because I had it three times last night. And then there was a fourth dream. I saw him again. So real…” The words halted in his throat as he struggled to express what his mind had unveiled; an unwelcome gift.

  “Who?” said Timandra, gripping his hand.

  “The saint of saints. Elded. He was on the beach where I had last dreamt of him. He had with him a wooden chest. He wanted me to open it.”

  Timandra felt a shudder of apprehension run through her. “Did he speak to you?”

  “No. He gestured to the wooden chest… with that hand... such long fingers.” Timandra watched Acquel’s face contort at the recollection. “He smiled at me and beckoned.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Acquel lowered his chin and shut his eyes. “I knelt down and reached out. And then I woke.”

  “It must be just a dream,” she whispered.

  “But what the amulet can do. What we found out yesterday. Can’t you see? The great saint is working through me. I don’t know what to do anymore!”

  Timandra raised her two fingers rapidly to her forehead and then down to her chest in a blessing.

  “I am part of this now,” he said. “His spirit is guiding me towards something. Something I must do. Can’t you see?”

  “Come to Maresto,” she pleaded. “Stay with the company. With us.”

  “Timandra, they will never leave me alone. They’ve hunted me all the way here. They will not give up. They will come to Maresto. I can’t just wait for them to find me. I have to do something.” He held her by her shoulders. “I need you with me—wherever I have to go.”

  She pulled his hands down, tears welling. “I can’t follow you in this. I am a sinner… I’m—tainted.” She swept past him and bounded up the stairs to the stern cabin.

  He started to follow, her name on his lips, but a commotion had erupted on the deck and he turned to watch the crew pointing to something coming towards the ship along the quay, down from the piazza. He saw a grand palanquin borne by ten liveried men and an armed escort of halberdiers front and rear coming to a halt just opposite the Royal Grace. In an instant, fear washed over him. Could they be here to take him?

  Gregorvero pushed past him and fair leapt up the stern staircase to alert Danamis and Strykar. Acquel felt as if his feet were nailed to the deck. The halberdiers, all giants it seemed, were dressed in the slashed multicolour fashion of Perusia, some wearing hose with each leg a different colour of fine wool. Every man wore a floppy black felt bonnet that sat at a rakish angle over one ear. As they stood, unmoving, two of the bearers, wi
th practised skill and speed, deployed the wooden legs of the palanquin. Gently it was set down and the heavy curtain opened at one side. Two bearers moved closer to assist the occupant as they emerged.

  At that moment, Danamis came down the stairs, his eyes wide at the small pageant on the quay. Acquel heard him muttering a well-known prayer as he reached the main deck, still fumbling with the buttons of his doublet. Strykar and Gregorvero were right behind. Their faces told Acquel that this was an unexpected visit and not one likely to be welcome.

  A high-born woman was lifted out of the palanquin by her retainers. She wore a full court dress of saffron-coloured satin, slashed at the sleeves to show the fine pure white silk of her chemise. At her breast a set of golden necklaces adorned with pearls shimmered in the morning sunlight. Her white silk gauze veil dripped with pearls, all along its hem, each sparkling and vibrating as she took a few slow steps towards the ship. The veil was held in place by a circlet of gold, the crown of a queen.

  Bassinio was now moving amongst the sailors crowding the starboard side of the deck, pushing them back and demanding their silence. Danamis quickly met Gregorvero’s eye. The master gave him a stern look and toss of the head, telling Danamis to get down the gangplank. Slowly, he clambered up and then down the wooden board, his booted feet bouncing on the creaking wood of the dock, and he rapidly ascended the small set of stone steps up to the quay. He stopped and looked at the woman. She in turn gave a near imperceptible nod, motioning him to come forward. When Danamis reached her, he knelt down on one knee, his arms spread wide, palms upwards.

  “My queen! We are honoured by your presence.”

  “You look terrible,” she replied, like an amused mother trying to scold a precocious mud-caked child. “And do get up, Nico. I can’t converse with you down there.”

  Danamis drank in her beauty, still as glowing as when he had first met and flirted with her as a boyish and brash commander when she was still just Cressida of House Guldi, the daughter of the Duke of Colonna. Not the queen of Valdur. And although she was six years older than he, a secret dalliance had ensued, one swiftly snuffed out by the duke’s castellan, and luckily no one—not least the Duke—the wiser for it. She extended a ringed hand, which he gently grasped and kissed, and then he stood, somewhat inelegantly.

  “That’s better,” she cooed, nodding. “I was anxious to come as early as possible as I had an inkling you would be departing rather soon. And I have learned of this attempt on your life. You were wounded. Does it trouble you? The royal chirurgeon should have been summoned for you but it appears my fool of a husband didn’t think to offer it.”

  “The wound heals, my lady. It was a poorly aimed blow.”

  She clasped her hands. “Thank the saints for that, at least. I wanted you to know how very displeased I was by your treatment at the court. If he’s trying to teach you some lesson about self-reliance it’s… well, it’s disgraceful given the service you and your family have given to the crown.”

  Danamis’s gaze moved quickly to the retainers and guards. “I am most moved, my lady. But I am not sure it was politic to greet me in such a way.”

  “You mean so publicly? That was my main intent. I want the king to know I am displeased with how he treats his best commanders. And I don’t want anyone to think I’m scheming behind his back. He’ll damn well know I am displeased.”

  Danamis smiled, remembering her fearlessness and wondering how the fickle Sempronius dealt with her headstrong nature. “But I have no wish for your actions to bring down trouble down upon you, my lady.”

  She laughed, eyes crinkling, and Danamis could still see her as he had known her eight years before; full of life, wit and possessed of a generous soul. “I can deal with trouble, Nico. Have no fear on that account. Besides, he is fixed on these dealings with the Silk Empire. That unctuous Raganus and Captain Polo also… filling his head with notions about alliances and trade. What can we offer the Sinaens? Our wine? Some wool?” She shook her head in disgust. “They’re just having a good look at us.”

  Her scepticism and mistrust resonated in his own mind.

  She hesitated a moment before continuing, her voice lower. “Do you know where you will go? I would understand if you do not wish to share that here... and now.”

  “I have few places left to go. But I know where I will end up eventually. Back in Palestro.” He winked and she smiled again.

  “I know that you will. And to further that particular end…” She gestured to one of her men who reached into the palanquin and withdrew a heavy linen sack before handing it to Danamis. “I want you to take these. Three hundred ducats for the cause.”

  Danamis felt a lump in his throat as he took the jangling sack and gave a bow of thanks. “My lady, I cannot express my gratitude enough. Not just for this. But because you believe in me.”

  She looked into his eyes and her voice took on a tone of silk-wrapped steel. “Teach him a lesson, Nico.”

  Danamis swallowed and nodded, not quite sure whether she meant Tetch or the king. “God willing, my queen!”

  She smiled and signalled to her men. “Fare you well, admiral!” she called as she was escorted into the luxurious cocoon that would transport her back to the palace. He glimpsed two curly-tailed brown monkeys dressed in little blue doublets leaping about on the cushions inside, golden collars and chains around their necks. He took a few steps backwards and bowed low until she had disappeared inside, the curtains drawn. The bearers rapidly hefted the palanquin, the signal was given to the halberdiers, and the royal party wheeled out along the quay and back up into the city as it had come.

  THE WINDS IN the white-capped expanse of the Bay of St. Blasius blew contrary all that day. Gregorvero, more grumpy than usual since his brush with the Temple guard, stomped about the poop ordering changes of sail at almost every hour. Their course zig-zagged south, not at the best of speed, but at least to the relief of Danamis and the rondelieri, they were rid of Perusia. Once out at the mouth of the bay, they would again enter the Sea of Valdur, sailing west across its length until they reached Maresto. If winds continued fickle, it might take them more than a week to reach their destination.

  The visit by the queen, while not guaranteeing success, had at least bolstered Danamis’s reputation aboard his ship. Especially among the new hands taken aboard, the send-off by Queen Cressida had raised his star to new heights, a token of changing fortune. Even Strykar had been impressed by her support—and the sum. It also made Strykar feel slightly less guilty for having taken what remained of Danamis’s wealth in payment for debts incurred. But, knowing Fortune’s wheel for what it was, as did any soldier or sailor, circumstances could change yet again and it was usually best not to worry one way or the other. That was how he had lived his life, taking his pay from the Count and enterprising what he could on the margins. Which is how he had met the Palestrian pirate, a man who was more prone to self-doubt (and now ill-luck) than any he had ever met.

  That first night they dropped anchor in some shallows, barely cannon distance from the Torinian shore. It was an isolated stretch of coast where the wind ripped across sparse grassy dunes, devoid of any ports and where only poor fishermen eked out a living bludgeoning wolffish and giant seabass when not bludgeoning each other. But without a squadron to support them they were still on their own. They had to be wary: no pennon or standard flew from the mast and lookouts would stare all night into the darkness with bleary eyes, searching for tell-tale lantern lights on the water.

  Danamis broke bread that evening with his ship’s master, Strykar, and Bassinio, his spirits better for the visit by Cressida and her gift. Maresto was going to be another dice throw, he knew that full well. But he had survived an assassin’s blade, a king’s scorn, and a banker’s claws all within the last week. He poured out the wine to each as they ate their meal of smoked fish in a watery stew, cheered up by some bread slops just two days old.

  Strykar noisily swallowed a prodigious mouthful of gravy-soaked bread and then
gulped some wine. “You talk of the need for more men and ships,” he said, wine running down his chin, “but why can’t you just avoid closing with an enemy and blast away until you sink them?”

  The two other seamen exchanged smiles as Danamis waved his hand and again attempted to explain their situation to the mercenary.

  “Ship’s cannon is only accurate at close range,” he said, “even a weapon such as a murderer or a curtow. We can’t fire and reload fast enough to prevent them from getting their hooks into us and boarding. Understand? And then it is all about billhooks and swords and crossbows.”

  Strykar wiped his beard and then absently swiped his hand across his leather doublet. “Bollocks! Just fire them all at once into the enemy’s hull, bugger off, and let them sink.”

  Gregorvero and Bassinio erupted into laughter and Danamis shook his head and grinned. Even Strykar began to chortle, seeing how he had amused them all.

  “Have yet to see a piece of stone shot hole a ship enough to sink it,” said Gregorvero. “Take out mast and spars… sweep a deck of her men? Of course! But rarely sink a ship on its own.”

  Bassinio, recovering, if still of ruined looks, nodded his agreement. “Stone shot breaks and scatters when it strikes a hull. Might as well be seagull shit.”

  Strykar threw up his hands. “Well! Use iron shot instead! Any blacksmith can cast that for you.”

  “Rare as hen’s teeth,” replied Danamis, beads of sweat running down his temples and cheeks. “And more likely to blow up our barrels than come out the muzzle.”

  “Bollocks,” repeated Strykar, annoyed at being taken to task for his ignorance of maritime war. “I’ve seen cast iron shot made—and cast guns too. I’ve even seen one made from cast orichalcum being fired. A big beast of a gun with range to match.”

  The others looked at each other, grins of doubt blossoming.