The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

  "That was Luciano's voice!" exclaimed Rafael.

  They ran toward the noise, which was now an out-and-out riot, involving an influx of students pouring out of the taverns and lodging houses. Half of the Accademia were going to be there before them.

  * * *

  Half of the people in this "Accademia" must be involved by now, thought Erik. What a God-forsaken mess.

  They were supposed to have moved in quietly and seized the entire group. Alive, for questioning. To that end, Abbot Sachs had insisted on cudgels instead of swords. Well . . . as they burst the door open, he'd had half a second's worth of seeing the group busy with some sort of ritual, when the candles had blown out and all hell had broken loose.

  Von Linksdorf had obviously triggered some kind of trap. Not only had the candles gone out abruptly, but a rigged arquebus had proved that steel armor might be effective against pagan magic, but it was damned useless against black powder. Von Linksdorf had been hammered flat by the heavy bullet.

  In the charge and chaos that followed, the Knights had learned two more things. First, there was another exit—which they hadn't known about. Second, the pagans were not intent on being arrested without a struggle. And they were not only armed, but at least two of them were apparently wealthy enough to possess pistols.

  The melee had burst onto the narrow, mostly dark street, and some clever pagan had called for a rescue . . . in a place where attacks and brawls were not uncommon, and students were the frequent victims of attacks. Knights on horseback, in open fields, dealing with lesser armed and less-armored foes were a deadly force. Here, in the narrow confines, armor was perhaps good for stopping knife thrusts and cudgel blows. Otherwise, it simply slowed them down and hampered movement.

  "God and Saint Paul!" shouted Sachs. "Slaughter the pagans! Slaughter them all! God will know his own!"

  A branch of candles appeared on a balcony. "HOLD!"

  The voice was elderly but full of power. "Stand! Put up your weapons!"

  Erik looked up and recognized Michael, the Metropolitan of Venice. Bishop Capuletti was standing beside him, staring down on them.

  In the distance he could hear the rattles of the Schiopettieri.

  Erik sighed and lowered his cudgel. What a mess Sachs has gotten us into. Again.

  * * *

  "What a mess." Petro Dorma, here in his role of Lord of the Nightwatch, was not smiling on anyone. Neither was the Metropolitan.

  "I have forty-three of the scions of wealth, nobility, and gentry—including my own brother-in-law—arrested for affray. I have twelve monks, Servants of the Holy Trinity, involved in the same incident. I have nineteen belted Knights and Squires of the Holy Trinity in custody. I have three dead bodies to explain, as well as a number of injuries. Two of the dead are students of good family. There can be very little doubt that this will come before the Doge in the morning. He is going to ask me hard questions. I want answers, gentlemen."

  "How dare you arrest us?" demanded Abbot Sachs. "We are the Church!"

  Metropolitan Michael looked as if he might just have apoplexy on the spot and add to the death-toll. "You are the Church? In my See!?"

  The old cleric rose to his feet, trembling with fury and speaking between clenched teeth. "Lock this idiot away, Signor di Notte. Lock him away and throw away the key. The Church is no man's! It is God's."

  Bishop Capuletti bleated. "But, Metropolitan! They do but root out witchcraft. . . ."

  Sachs was not so mild. "Petrine son of—"

  "Silence!" bellowed Petro Dorma. "Let us not allow our tempers to betray us. I will remind you once, Abbot—once, not twice—that this is Venice. Here—in this city—I am the authority. Not you. And tonight it is my duty to uphold the law, without fear or favor."

  He leaned back in his chair, bracing himself with both hands clenching the arm rests. "You will be released, Abbot, under your own cognizance, as soon as I have ascertained the facts. And I imagine most of the other Knights and Servants. But three people are dead—and one of them is Andrea Ghiazza, the son of the Count of Lissa. Dead with his head half severed. One of your knights has a bloody sword. At the very least, I must hold him in custody until he can face the judges."

  Erik, standing with Manfred toward the rear of the crowd, cast a glance at the knight in question. Hans Dussel, that was. The young Saxon was a hothead. Erik hadn't seen it happen, but he was quite sure Dussel had seized Von Linksdorf's sword after the Prussian fell, mortally wounded by the arquebus. The Prussian officer had been the only Knight Sachs had allowed to carry a sword.

  Abbot Sachs drew himself up. "He was a pagan man-witch and would have died in the fire! He was engaged in black magic ritual—"

  One of the students yelled "Rubbish! He was in the taproom at Zianetti's with us. We came to see what was going on!"

  Dorma lifted a hand. "My men or myself will take statements from each of you. Weapons will be confiscated, and returned if they do not show evidence of being used in this civil disturbance. You will all doubtless be appearing before the justices at the Doge's palace tomorrow."

  * * *

  They were taken, one at a time, to speak to Petro or to one of his officers. Not surprisingly, Marco found himself taken in to see Petro. His brother-in-law shook his head. "At least someone I can rely on. Tell me what actually happened."

  So Marco did, omitting the fact that he knew who had called out. "So when we got there, there was this knight, bleeding from a pistol shot in the arm. I stopped the bleeding. Then Rafael and I went on to try and help Andrea. We were too late. The truth is, it would have been too late at any time. His neck was cut half through."

  Petro took his head in hands. "What a mess! Half the Case Vecchie families in Venice caught up in this mess. These damned German fanatics. I've been trying to be evenhanded, but the city would be better off if we could get rid of them. Even witches are less destructive and divisive." It was the first time that Marco had heard Petro express any factional sentiment.

  "So . . ." Marco said cautiously. "Who does Dorma—that is we—stand behind?"

  Petro gave him the first smile he'd seen on Dorma's face that evening. "Nobody. We stand for Venice. If that means we must put up with fanatics, we do. But Venice is not anyone's lapdog. Not Rome's, not Milan's. Not the Holy Roman Empire's either, and I feel they too must be dabbling in this lot. The winged lion stands alone." He sighed. "Anyway. I'll see you tomorrow. In your case, it will be a token appearance. Angelina's due in town overnight. Come to Dorma for the night, at least. I'm worried about 'Gelina. She seems very moody these days—worse than usual."

  Marco held out his hands, palm up, to Petro. "She's unhappy. Pregnancy can cause moodiness. But I am—always—her friend."

  Petro sighed. "Given that you're married to Angelina, I can't say I'm unhappy to hear you say these things. But she's always been unsettled, moody. The pregnancy has just made it worse. But right now I think she needs a friend more than anything else in the world." Petro massaged his temple as if his head hurt.

  "It'll be better once the baby's here," he told Petro earnestly. And then felt a lurch in his stomach, himself.

  Lord and Saints. Me and Angelina, married, even if it's only in name. When I want—now—

  What he wanted would not satisfy anything or anyone but himself. What he wanted was time—to turn time back. Time for himself, and Kat.

  Benito had told him he'd seen her. Marco knew now that she'd written that letter believing that . . . well, he could understand how she must have felt.

  Lord, Kat. If I'd had any choice—

  But he hadn't had a choice. And now it was too late. He couldn't back out of this, not now. Not ever.

  He still wanted to see her. Talk to her. But Benito had said that while she understood . . . she didn't want to see him. Not now. Not ever. A clean break was best. He could understand and respect that. Chains of family and honor . . .

  "I can't say I blame you for staying roommates with that friend of yours over at the A
ccademia," Petro continued, looking up with a wry twist to his mouth. "There are times lately when I wish I could move out of Venice entirely. By the way, those herbs you brought do seem to be helping Mother."

  It was an oblique sort of "thank you," but neither of them particularly wanted to openly allude to Rosanna's addiction to black lotos—and that the only thing that could help the addiction was the substitution of the less potent blue lotos. Hopefully, the addict could slowly be weaned off that.

  "I'm glad Doctor Rigannio was willing to trust me," Marco replied.

  Petro smiled faintly. "He was rather dubious at first, but you've convinced him that you know what you're talking about. In fact, he's invented an 'old herb-doctor' to account for the things you brought him, and he's been leaking the information over to the Accademia since the remedy seems effective."

  "I'm glad to hear it. That—stuff—it's still a problem," Marco said soberly. "Nothing seems to keep people away from it, once they start. You'd think people'd have learned by now." He shrugged. Petro shook his head.

  "People never seem to learn—"

  By his face, unguarded for a moment, Marco could read the unspoken words—

  Not even Mother.

  Petro Dorma sighed. "But we've still got to try to help them." He stood up and went to a nearby window, looking out over the Bacino San Marco. Instead of the usual forest of masts it stood near-empty.

  Marco knew a dismissal when he saw one; he stood likewise, edged past Petro to the door, made the right noises, and took his leave.

  * * *

  The justices thanked him for rendering medical assistance to the injured, and dismissed him. It still left Marco shaking inside. Did they realize that he was the child of Lorendana Valdosta, who had planned to give their Venice to Milan? The world changed with one's perspectives. He'd spent years dreading that court . . . those justices . . .

  And now it was "thank you, Signor Valdosta." Dorma's influence was not small, and the Valdosta name itself seemed to be a good and popular one. Well, except with Filippo Recchia. And that woman at the soiree at Gian Cecchi's palazzo. Signora Katerina Montescue, who had turned away rather than be introduced. Snooty. Even the Brunellis were more friendly. Lucrezia to the extent that he avoided her. What did the most courted and supposedly most beautiful woman in Venice find attractive about him? Or did she pursue all men like this? Maybe the stories weren't exaggerated!

  He and Rafael walked back to their rooms, in companionable silence.

  Two bedrooms and a sitting room. And even if it isn't Dorma, it's a world away from anything I've ever had before. Yeah, and I'm earning my way. So, tonight I will be nice to Angelina. Still, Benito and I keep paying the rent for that little pit over in Cannaregio. We need some place nobody knows about. And these days, with the allowance we get, we can afford it.

  He felt guilty about the money. Benito had paid last month. What spare he had, he'd actually spent on food that he'd given to Tonio for some of the children. The trade was thin. And canal-people were getting thinner. The kids were the first to suffer.

  Chapter 76

  Trade was thin. Maria felt her ribs. So was she. Nothing coming downriver. A trickle of expensive food coming in from Fruili. Nothing but some local fish coming in from the sea. There was just no work available. She rowed along slowly. Other boatmen were sitting idle too. She might as well go home. At least it would be cool.

  She pondered over relationships in general, and hers in particular. Lately all she and Caesare seemed to do was fight. It had been different back when they had first gotten together. Even once he'd established a relationship with his protector, Ricardo Brunelli, he been gentle . . . caring. For a while.

  Yes. In those early days, he'd been quite different. Back when they'd been arranging the smuggling chambers he'd been a darling. She sighed. They'd yet to see a profit from that. Her cousins had painstakingly cut the chambers in the keels, had put up the secret Colleganza that paid for the cargo . . . And not one of those galleys had come back. The Garavelli clan were the poorer for it, and . . .

  Well, nobody actually said it was her fault.

  She sighed again. Most of their conflict came down to money, really. Well—except their quarrels about Kat. Caesare seemed to have a real animus against Kat. He'd told Maria to stay away from her, that she was a Case Vecchie bitch. How had he known she was Case Vecchie? She hadn't mentioned it.

  "How's trade?" Tonio had come up alongside while she was in her brown study.

  "Slow, Tonio," she said. "We need to take some kind of action, but the Doge is just sitting on things."

  "He can afford to. We can't. I got some more sick kids for young Marco. Fancy him turning out to be a Valdosta. A good Casa that, in his grandpa's day."

  "He's still seeing kids . . . Why am I telling you this? You know."

  Tonio shrugged. "Si. I'll go there this evening. But likely enough he'll say 'they need more food.' And that's what I want to talk about, Maria Garavelli. He's the only Case Vecchie we know to talk to. You know him special-well. He's tied in with Dorma. They're a good house; look after their people—and Petro Dorma was the only one who stood up to the Dandelos. Dorma's got influence now, lots of it. You tell him the popli minuta want the Doge to stop playing with his toys and sitting on his ass. Boats are only going as far as Ferrara . . ."

  Maria snorted. "You're behind the times, Tonio. Ferrara is being attacked by condottieri from Bologna and Milan. Nothing's going up the Po at all."

  "Merda." Tonio spat into the canal. "Why don't we at least go to the help of the Old Fox? The Duke Dell'este was a good friend to Venice, back before we argued about the salt pans. What's a few salt pans? We need trade."

  Maria laughed wryly. "We need you on the Council of Ten, Tonio."

  The lean Tonio acknowledged a hit. "Yeah. Well. You tell Marco, huh. His grandfather. He should listen."

  Maria pushed off. "You tell him, Tonio. You'll see him before me."

  Tonio looked uncomfortable. "Si. But he's got respect for you, see. You and that fancy man of yours. Tell him."

  Maria sighed. "I'll tell him, Tonio. But I don't think there is much he can do."

  She rowed on up the canal, heading home. She'd tell Marco when she next saw him. She'd promised, and a canaler's word was always good. But she'd also tell Benito. He came to see her more often.

  She smiled for a moment, thinking of Benito. He was quite a boy, although she wouldn't tell him that. Effective. Not like Marco, who might be a saint, but would still be seeing good in people while they slit his throat.

  The canal by the water-door was limpid, with not even a ripple around the floating bits of garbage. She tied up quietly. Maybe Caesare would be home and they could spend the afternoon in lovemaking . . . like they used to do. The idea was attractive. Distracting.

  She went in quietly.

  And it rapidly became apparent that an afternoon's lovemaking had been on someone else's mind too. The panting and begging said they'd been at it for a while.

  Her mind in a furious turmoil, Maria went up the stairs three at a time. Threw the door open. She'd . . . timed her entry well. Caesare was so preoccupied in thrusting up into his kneeling mount that he didn't even realize Maria was there for a moment.

  Maria took in the white body, slightly pendulous breasts, the long elegant neck and perfect face complete with tiny mole above her mouth. The face was flushed and prim mouth wide. It was a double shock. The last time Maria had seen her, she, Maria, had had one of the woman's Spanish combs in her hair. Seeing Kat's sister-in-law here . . .

  Maria—having got this far—suddenly realized she didn't know quite what to do next.

  She picked up the ewer and flung it at them, as one might at a pair of dogs.

  The water had the same effect.

  "My hair!" shrieked Alessandra.

  Caesare abruptly parted from her, grabbed for his rapier. "Maria! What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I live here, remember? Or maybe you forget. L
ike your promise that you were faithful to me? That you loved me?"

  The woman, now with a sheet around herself, snapped. "Get out, you little dockside puttana! He's my lover. He's been mine for years! Long before he met you."

  "Get out, Maria. We can deal with this later." Caesare's voice was dangerously even.

  Maria's reply was not. "For you and me, there is no later, Caesare Aldanto! We're finished. Finished, you hear me? FINISHED!"

  Caesare advanced on her. Stark naked except for his sword. "Get out. Get out now."

  "Or what!? Or you're going to kill me?" She snarled back. Right now she didn't care.

  She'd forgotten how fast and strong he was. He grabbed her arm and spun her round and pulled it up behind her back, his sword arm around her throat. He hauled her painfully, half off her feet, down the stairs, ignoring her struggles and screams. "Shut up, you bitch. Or I'll give you something to scream about." He took two fingers off the sword hilt and put them around the chain around her neck. With a sharp, flesh-tearing jerk he snapped it, tinkling the keys to the apartment onto the steps. He pushed her past the steps, thrusting her into the barred gate. He picked up the water-door key.