The retainer looked over to Danamis and Strykar, then to the hooded form of Citala. He said nothing to the guards but addressed Danamis directly.
“My lord Danamis, you and your party may follow me.”
The palace, ancient beyond memory, was ill-lit by natural light and torches burned on the walls. Half a dozen other armed retainers met them, all of Leonato’s men wearing tabards of white and burgundy. The structure was like some great spiral and they were led up a wide stone stair to the second level. Here windows provided some dull light and they proceeded down the corridor. Danamis sniffed. The air was tinged with mould from the shabby worn tapestries and a whiff of old damp stone. He watched Strykar take in the surroundings with a soldier’s eye, occasionally turning his head to watch his own men and the three retainers who were at the rear. Two mastiff messengers sat in the corridor, panting with tongues lolling. They watched as the party moved past, attentive but passive.
At length, they turned in toward the centre of the great round tower, through double doors, and were ushered into Count Leonato’s hall. Strykar gestured for the rondelieri to take up station outside and he noticed how an equal number of Leonato’s men did the same, opposite his own.
Danamis took in his surroundings. Three rectangular windows looked out over the city. A heavy black-stained beamed ceiling rose up some twenty feet, and a huge stone hearth on the opposite side surrounded a cast iron brazier filled with burning coals. A round table the length of a longboat stood at the centre of the room, its gilded legs enveloped by carved serpents. It fair groaned under all manner of platters holding roasts and sweetmeats. A great silver wine ewer oversaw all.
“Welcome, welcome to the king’s admiral of Palestro!”
Leonato came practically bounding into the hall from a small door near an immense but hideously discoloured tapestry, bringing two servants in tow.
Danamis and Strykar bowed. “We are pleased that you have been so kind to receive us with such little notice,” said Danamis.
“Indeed, no notice at all,” laughed Leonato. He was neither short nor tall, but well proportioned, of fair complexion with jet black hair and beard, the latter adorned by two plaits at either cheek. Danamis could not tell his age but he had heard the Count was well over fifty. The man before him did not look near so old. He wore a red velvet tunic over which was draped a black houppelande that made him appear big-shouldered and strong.
“Unavoidably so, my lord,” replied Danamis, apologetically. “This is my companion, Captain Julianus Strykar of the Company of the Black Rose.”
Strykar bowed his head slightly, never taking his eyes from the Count.
“And this, my other companion and ally from the south, Princess Citala, of the kingdom of the merfolk in the Sea of Valdur.” He knew he was going too far, but first impressions carried weight. Citala raised her long hands, the colour of pale lilac, and lowered the hood of her cloak.
“BY ALL THE blessed saints!” Leonato’s dark eyes widened and he clapped his hands to his face. “A daughter of the merfolk here in Ivrea. Your people are never glimpsed in these northern waters, my lady. You are indeed most welcome here.”
Citala managed an awkward smile and bowed her head, her long white tresses falling across her shoulders. This was the second time to be so greeted by a great Valdurian nobleman and she was unsure she liked the attention. The Count spread his arms wide and gestured to the table.
“Join me, please.” The servants scooted forward and began lifting platters and pouring wine.
They ate sparingly, enough to show gratitude. The Count too partook little, it seemed to Danamis. Strykar took a good swig of wine, swallowed hard, and smacked his lips; the best of Milvorna. Danamis began to tell the Count of the journey from Maresto and of his desire to source swords and cannon for the fleet. But Leonato’s eyes darted like a ferret’s from Danamis to Citala and back again.
Danamis raised his voice slightly. “And I was hoping for a demonstration of your cannon on the battlements. The ones cast of orichalcum, to be exact.”
Leonato’s head shot back sharply towards Danamis. “Orichalcum guns, you say? So word has already spread to the southern duchies then. And Palestro would be the first to have them?”
“Captain Strykar here has told me of their superiority. And as an honest man I won’t hide the fact that I might like to acquire a few. But we are able to pay. Handsomely.”
Leonato smiled. “An honest pirate lord? After seeing this noble mermaid, my second surprise of the day. Of course we are willing to sell you swords and guns, Lord Danamis. Orichalcum possibly. The forgemaster has only just perfected his process he tells me. Much trial and error. And a few… accidents.”
Danamis returned the smile as the game began. “As some already sit on your battlements one would assume they are ready.”
“Oh, I believe that Master Alarbus is confident his casting formula is perfected. But as you can imagine, such a metal affords a new kind of power—and influence. I would not want to see these weapons in the hands of an enemy. Or a potential one.”
Danamis nodded. “Indeed. Which is why I would propose an alliance between our two cities. As part of any arrangement we might come to.”
Two knocks of a halberd announced a retainer and behind him, a dog padded in, the leather satchel at its neck swinging. Man and beast stopped a few paces from them and Leonato motioned to the retainer. He retrieved the note inside the satchel and handed it to the Count.
As he read its contents, bushy eyebrows beetling, Danamis and Strykar exchanged glances. So far, not an outright rejection. It would come down to the price then.
Leonato’s hand closed slowly about the note he grasped. He held it aloft between two fingers as if it were a soiled snot rag. “I am sorry, but I must attend to this.” He was addled, Danamis could see it.
“Please, enjoy more food and drink,” he continued, folding the parchment again, roughly, his annoyance obvious. “Do you have irritations with your Council of Decurions in Palestro, my lord? Daily vexations from mine. Questioning me, demanding explanations.”
Strykar tried not to grin. Danamis nodded in sympathy. “From time to time, my lord.”
“Do they forget we are the king’s representative—his very arm and hand—in these cities?”
Citala noticed that the mastiff was staring her down and it occurred to her that the creature had never seen one of her kind before. She directed a calming thought towards it, as she might to a dolphin. It licked its lips once and kept watching. Disappointed, she focussed instead on the exchange between the noblemen.
“My lord,” said Danamis, “please attend to your business as needs require. We are content to wait upon your pleasure.”
Leonato gave a slight bow and turned towards the door he had come through. He stopped after a few steps and turned back to Danamis. “And after I reply to the timewasting Council I will send word to the forgemaster to receive you later this day—for your demonstration.” He smiled and then waved his hand towards the retainer who led the dog away.
When the Ivreans had left, Strykar turned to Danamis. “I don’t like him,” he growled. “Thinks he’s clever.”
Citala folded her arms. “That is of little importance. He holds what you want and you will have to make a bargain to get it.”
“Bah!” grumbled the mercenary. “Where is everyone in this decrepit palazzo? Has he no contessa? No family?” He tilted his head and looked at Danamis. “An alliance? What will Duke Alonso have to say about that?”
“I’ll worry about the consequences later. I need those guns.”
They waited. Strykar amused himself by throwing almonds across the table at the gaping mouth of the giant sea bass that was arranged decoratively, if bizarrely, at the centre.
Citala turned to Danamis, who was staring into the middle distance. “What will you do if he says you cannot have them?”
Danamis started a little and turned to her. He grinned mischievously. “Then I will need another
plan.”
“Everything depends upon this. For both of us.”
They turned as the door near the tapestry creaked open and Leonato appeared, apologising profusely for his delay. He strode across the room and bellowed for his retainers in the corridor outside.
“Get these out to their destinations!” he ordered, shoving his letters into the retainer’s hands. “And do make sure you give them to the correct animals!” He wheeled and returned to the table, his hands on the facings of his gown which gave him the look of some oversized magpie.
“Now, Lord Danamis, we must continue our conversation.” He stood next to the pirate and looked out over the feast. “I have been thinking on this matter. If you decide you want the orichalcum guns, I shall let you have them. But only four. As a gesture of my goodwill.”
“I need eight,” replied Danamis, his voice measured and assured.
Leonato, still staring at the sea bass, pouted. “Eight? Well, hardly enough to equip a fleet, I suppose. But still more than I am comfortable to part with.” He turned and faced Danamis. “Shall we say six? A thousand ducats apiece?”
Danamis watched Strykar’s eyes visibly widen.
“Five hundred each,” replied Danamis.
“Eight.”
Danamis placed his silver goblet back on the table. “Six hundred ducats, my lord.”
Leonato said nothing for a moment. He smiled thinly and sniffed. “I would have thought if you had journeyed this far for these guns you would be willing to pay any price.”
“Even pirates have finite purses, my lord.”
Leonato turned slowly and walked part way across the chamber before spinning back towards his three guests. “I can agree to your offer. But only with one further condition.”
“That being?”
Leonato looked towards Citala. “That the mer princess remain here as my guest.” He held out his hands. “Only for the time it take you to fit out your ship and resupply. What could that be? A few days?”
Citala moved closer to Danamis and he shot her a glance before answering the Count. “That is a bold and, some might say, most improper condition.”
Leonato laughed. “Nothing improper. She will have her own handmaiden that will accompany her everywhere. I will never have another chance to learn of her people—their history.”
Danamis’s voice was cold. “To what purpose, my lord?”
The Count dropped his arms. “To a very good purpose indeed. My history of Valdur. I have laboured on it for years. And it is sadly deficient in regard to the days, long past, when the merfolk lived among men. Citala could teach me much.”
Danamis looked to the mermaid. He still found it difficult to judge the facial expressions of the mer. And now, her face displayed something resembling surprise and curiosity. “Citala is not some commodity to be bartered. She is in my charge. Let us keep to the matter before us. The money.”
“Good my lord, the gold is quite secondary to me.” His visage had now changed its cast, his eyes gaining an intensity where before there was playfulness. “My last condition is not negotiable.”
Danamis felt Citala’s strong hand wrap around his forearm. Her voice was quiet but insistent. “Danamis, I choose to remain. We both must play our part.”
Strykar was shaking his head in silent objection. Danamis looked into Citala’s eyes, liquid lavender and without trepidation. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”
She inclined her head and her lips parted slightly. “I do.”
Danamis turned to Leonato. “And I too place a condition. That two of my rondelieri will remain as her bodyguard.”
Strykar turned his head in surprise.
“Of course,” said the Count. “I would expect no less.”
Danamis leaned in close to Citala. “Is it possible for you to remain out of the sea for such a time? Can you do such a thing?”
“You should have asked me that before now. But, yes, I can.”
“Then I will agree,” he told her quietly. “We will be back for you in no more than three days.”
“I know that you will.”
He lifted her hand in his and turned back to the Count. “Then my lord, I deliver her into your good care. Until a few days hence.” He beckoned for two of Strykar’s soldiers to enter and then told them to accompany Citala. They both cast their eyes to their commander and Strykar nodded.
The Count walked forward and took her hand in his. “Come, my lady. We have centuries to catch up with!”
Citala pushed her shoulders back, swallowed the doubt that welled inside her, and let him lead her away.
Danamis’s eyes followed her as she left the chamber. Deep down he was uneasy with the request and his conscience was already stirring within him. But he plucked at the sleeve of a distracted Strykar and turned to leave. As they reached the entrance, Strykar turned to look back into the room.
“Did you not see that big rat—or maybe it was a black cat? It went from under the table and scooted after them as they left for his apartments.”
Danamis shook his head. “I saw nothing.”
Strykar rubbed vigorously at his head as if trying to shake off the fug of too much wine. “For a moment—just a moment mind you—I thought it walked upon two legs.” He looked again at Danamis and then snorted at his own foolishness. “Bah! Let’s get back to the ship.”
Thirty-Three
HE HAD TREKKED northwards for two days, always upon the road unless a group of horsemen were approaching. When he did spy others approaching, he would hurry into the high grass and hide until they had passed. He avoided every village and town, preferring to eat his meagre provisions and to sleep rough under the stars. But now his feet ached such that his mood had turned from cautious hope to self-pity borne of discomfort and loneliness.
It was nearly mid-day on the third day of his journey to Livorna. He assumed he was perhaps halfway, maybe more, and he could see ahead, in the rising landscape, scattered pockets of woodland, and the undulating grain fields of the northern reaches of Maresto. Further ahead, hazy and purplish, he could just make out the high hills around Livorna, beyond which the lands of Ivrea lay, a string of snow-capped mountain peaks forming a formidable border. Looking behind him as he trudged on the dusty rutted road (which he did every so often so as not to be taken by surprise) he saw a lone mounted figure leading another horse behind. Whoever it was, they were not even at a trot, just ambling. No doubt a trader bound to Livorna. As the hour went by, the figure drew nearer until he heard the rhythmic pound of hooves close behind him. He turned off the road and crouched in the tall grass, angling his head to get a look as the stranger passed him.
The rider was dressed in a dark cloak and hood and mounted not on a horse but on a mule, another in tow. As the person drew even with him, he slowly stood up, recognizing something oddly familiar about the small rider. Acquel raised a hand in a tentative greeting, one follower of the road to another. The figure reined in the mule and stopped. The hood fell back and there was Timandra, grinning. Acquel cried out and ran across the road. He reached up and threw one arm around her back, the other gripping her forearm.
“Timandra! Sweet God above I cannot believe you’re here!”
She grasped his wrist and squeezed. “I’m here for you, greyrobe.” She then jerked her thumb behind her. “And this one is yours, so climb on up so we can be on our way.”
They rode on until the sun was low and blooded in the west. Timandra told him of her defection from the Black Rose, stealing away in the dead of night. Strykar had set sail with Danamis the day before. She had said farewell to her cousin, the parting markedly more poignant for what she was about to do. She also knew that Poule would no doubt be in an uproar when he discovered her gone, but she had left him a note saying the wagon and all her goods were his to do with as he pleased until she returned. As the light failed, they found themselves with a great wood on their left, rolling open fields on their right. Timandra suggested they make camp a short way into the
trees and Acquel nodded, trusting her field skills. He had not even bothered to make a fire the previous night and had shivered himself to a fitful sleep.
Soon, he had his fire, a small blaze to nurture some hot embers to keep them warm but not large enough to draw attention. He swung his side sword across his lap as he sat underneath an old beech, still unaccustomed to wearing a blade. It did not suit him. Timandra threw some more wood onto the blaze and joined him. They faced the road, and watched the sun die, twilight throwing its shadows through the wood.
“Why did you come for me?” Acquel asked as she sat next to him, back against the smooth silver bark of the tree.
“Because I had to. You ended up with us for a reason… with me—for a reason. It wasn’t right to let you return on your own.”
Acquel gave her hand a squeeze. “You befriended me when I had no one. I am sorry if I rewarded that with… baseness, in Perusia. It’s only that I care for you so deeply that it has shaken me to my core.”
She gently turned his cheek towards her. “And I care deeply about you. But our love must remain a chaste one. You are a monk still. And I, a sinner. I can’t return your love.”
“Why?”
The hurt in his eyes made her look down. “Because… it might endanger your soul on the path the Saint has chosen for you.”
Acquel glanced down at the amulet in his shirt. “I am glad you came for me, just the same.”
They ate some bread and dried ham that Timandra sliced with her dagger, but as darkness fell their conversation grew less and less. It was almost as if what was unspoken had become a wall between them. The moon had risen and Acquel found himself nodding off, his head leaning against hers, the sound of hissing embers and the occasional cry of a night bird coming to his ears. And then, he was aware of another sound: breathing; slow long breaths. He lifted his head. It was not coming from Timandra. The high-pitched whinny of the mules brought him to his feet. They had ripped their reins from a sapling and were tearing through the trees towards the road.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 32