The dead body shivered. "The Casket . . . the black nun . . . the servant and voice of Chernobog. She will deal with the forts. I warned Lucrezia. Danger, danger, danger. It hears me speak its name."
"The black nun?" Petro fumbled for the sense of this.
Luciano spat. "Sister Ursula. That 'nun' who travels with the Knots. Ask your next question."
Dorma licked his lips and didn't look as if he relished the taste. "How does Sforza plan to overcome Venice's defenses?"
Aleri's corpse answered. "Fires. Many fires."
Dorma had more stomach for this than Marco did. "How?"
"Gunpowder. Laid charges. Lucifers in amulets in some of them. Spellcasters in the Casa Dandelo will begin to trigger them, when the fog comes. Agents will light the others."
"How do we stop it? What order must be given?" A good question, milord! How the hell can we be everywhere at once?
"Can't be stopped now. We made sure."
Petro sighed, then tightened his jaw, deciding, evidently, to focus on what he could do. "Where are the firebombs?"
And Aleri began listing place after place, scattered across the Rialto Islands
Petro frantically tried to write. "I'll never get them all. . . ."
"I will," said Marco, finally feeling that here was something he could do.
Petro nodded; that was the genius of the man, to know who and what he could trust and not worry about what he had handed off to others. He turned back to Aleri. "And who can Venice not trust? Who are your hirelings, your agents?"
Once again Aleri began listing. Marco found he recognized many of the names of Mama's sleepers that he'd written down so carefully for Caesare. And Count Badoero and the Tiepolos—the black lotos smugglers with their partisans, who would be coming across from the mainland. They were locals, they knew the lagoon and the city. And then . . . and then . . .
"Caesa . . . aaaahhhhhh!"
The scream was a horrible one; the more so since it came from the throat only. And it was echoed by Luciano.
The lamps went out, and so did the light from the ritual circle. The silence and the darkness were worse than the corpse-light. Kat's fingers tightened on his arm, and she whimpered a little, deep in her throat.
In the darkness Marco heard Luciano say, in a trembling voice: "The black one silenced him as soon as he tried to say that name. Chernobog has claimed his own."
Somebody kindled a light. A candle flame only, but it was still a beautiful sight, in Rafael's hand. That hand shook, and Marco couldn't blame him in the least. There were some things no one should have to witness.
Then, with the light, came the stench.
Marco backed up, gagging, dragged from what was left of the circle by Kat. Dorma staggered to the wall. Rafael covered his mouth with his hand and turned convulsively away.
Something had made sure that no one was going to reanimate Aleri's corpse again. There wasn't going to be enough of it left. It seethed with maggots. The stench of decay was enough to send them all fleeing, gagging, out the door that Rafael opened for them. Rafael had to help Luciano, as the man was barely able to stagger. He slammed the door on the horror in what had been his rooms, and they all leaned against the wall, Luciano included, with shaking legs that would not carry them further, at least for the moment.
First to recover, Petro turned to Marco. "I need you, now, to come and write down those lists." He took a deep breath. "And then we're going to have to decide how to deal with Caesare."
Marco nodded. His laced fingers released themselves from Kat's hand. "Yes. But Luciano looks like death warmed over. . . ."
Kat giggled, faintly—but in a tone that said in a moment she might go from giggling to screaming.
"Ah . . . er . . ."
"That—" Luciano somehow managed to wheeze "— was a poor choice of words."
Marco patted Kat's shoulder comfortingly. "Look, anyway—we ought to take him over to Zianetti's. It's just across the campo. I'll see you there in maybe twenty minutes."
Petro nodded. "If you see any Schiopettieri, send them here. I'd say we should all go there but I left word for Benito I would be here, and in that message that I sent to the Council, I asked that Schiopettieri be sent here."
Luciano nodded; Marco wondered where the old man found the strength. Spiritual and physical. "I'd like to get away from this place. But I must speak to you again, Dorma. The others of the Strega arm militant should be watching around here. I need to send them off to prepare defenses—and to eliminate two traitors. Lucrezia Brunelli was once a neophyte, who wanted to learn the Strega way. She was rejected at the rite of purification, but it seems that she'd found out enough to corrupt some of our people."
"Grand," Dorma said grimly. "Well, I'll leave that in your hands. Mine are over-full as it is."
* * *
Reluctantly, Kat parted with Marco. As they walked out of the lodging, one of Luciano's group emerged from the shadows. A hasty, whispered conversation followed and the nine watchers left at a run.
Slowly Luciano, Rafael, Maria, and Kat proceeded down the curving calle, between shuttered houses. They turned the corner. Two candles burned in a wall-sconce shrine to the Virgin, lighting the narrow alley.
They nearly walked smack into them, and there was certainly no avoiding Senor Lopez and his two companions. The Basque grabbed her shoulder. "This time you will not evade me, girl!" His dark line of eyebrow lowered heavily.
Kat reached into her reticule and produced the pistol, which she pressed against his stomach. "I have you, Lopez! You turn up like a bad penny every time there is evil about. You were there when that monk was murdered magically. You were there when Bishop Capuletti was killed. You're here now when Luciano has had this encounter with Chernobog."
"Name not that evil!" snapped Lopez. "And lower your weapon, girl!" His companions moved forward.
"Stop!" cried Maria. "I'll shoot at least one of you others!" The canaler was holding her own pistol two handed. She stood feet apart, weapon raised, looking like Nemesis.
The Basque priest seemed to be almost grinding his teeth. "Madness!" he hissed.
Chapter 85
"Thank God you've gotten back," snapped Erik. "We've been summoned to assemble in the courtyard. Every one of us, in full armor. Something is happening."
Manfred nodded. "We need to talk to Petro Dorma. I think it's time to shed pretenses."
"It's time to dress in full armor," said Erik, grimly. "I have a feeling we've left talking too late. But when this assembly is over we'll go and find Count Von Stemitz, and get him to authenticate you, and go and see Dorma. I tried to get out to fetch you earlier. This place is sealed tighter than water-damageable deck-cargo. They must have let you in, but Sachs's trusties are not letting anyone out. No one. Now move it."
Fifteen minutes later, they stood to attention in squads in the courtyard. The knight-proctors inspected them, reported back to the abbot, returned to their squads.
The abbot stood in front of serried rows of steel-clad men. He held up a wad of parchment. "These are a final and complete list of the Jews, Strega, Mussulmen and other ungodly ones in this pesthole," he announced in a triumphant voice. "I have addresses and maps. We will be arresting the ringleaders tonight, Ritters, just as soon as the tocsin bell in Saint Mark's square is rung. Tomorrow a full contingent of our Knights will be arriving from Trieste to help restore order in what will be the new southern frontier of the Holy Roman Empire."
Erik heard Manfred, standing next to him, draw a deep breath. He waited for the bull-like bellow. It didn't come.
Sachs had paused, as if he too had been waiting for something. Then he continued. "Knight-Proctors. Step forward and collect your orders. Squads are to remain together, at their assigned posts, until the tocsin bell rings. Then you will move out, with your assigned group of Servants of the Holy Trinity, to protect you from whatever magic these ungodly ones may attempt to unleash at you. Fear not! God and the holy Saint Paul are with us!"
&nb
sp; Erik and Manfred found themselves assembled in a front salon along with some twenty knights, under the command of Knight-Proctors Von Welf and Von Stublau. Many of the other knights had been kept back in the courtyard.
He and Manfred walked up to the two knight-proctors.
"Who said you could break ranks?" snapped Von Welf.
Manfred took a deep breath. "We need to take you to see Count Von Stemitz, Von Welf. There is something he's got to tell you."
Von Welf smiled a particularly unpleasant smile. "We'll be seeing him soon enough. As soon as the bell in Saint Mark's Square begins to ring continuously. His name is on the top of our list."
There was a moment's silence. Erik heard footsteps shuffling behind him; quietly, as if heavily armored men were trying to move stealthily across a tile floor. Two or three of the knights in the salon were coming up behind him and Manfred.
He was quite certain of their purpose, and had to fight down a savage smile.
In the distance a bell began to ring. "That's early," said Von Stublau, quietly, almost conversationally. "But it's the signal. Such a pity that Petro Dorma ordered you killed. The evidence and report are on their way to the Brenner pass right now."
But Erik was moving before the Prussian had finished the last sentence. He knocked Manfred aside with a thrust of his right arm and spun to the left, dropping to one knee as he did so. The poignard in the hand of the knight assigned to stab him in the back passed overhead harmlessly. An instant later, the Algonquian hatchet sheared through the knee joint in the knight's armor.
The knight screamed and toppled forward. Erik rose up beneath him and added his own thrust to the topple, sending the armored man crashing into the two Prussian knight-proctors.
Erik glanced at Manfred. The prince had been expecting treachery also, of course. And if Manfred did not have Erik's lightning reflexes, he could move much faster than anyone would expect. Erik's shove had sent him out of immediate danger, and by the time the knight assigned to murder Manfred had reached him . . .
The prince had his sword out. A sword he had learned to use extremely well over the past year. His assailant attempted a feint, which Manfred countered by the simple expedient of lopping his arm off. The knight went one way, the arm another. Blood poured over the tiles.
For a moment, Erik studied the remaining knights in the salon. They were still frozen in place, immobilized by the sudden and unexpected violence. Clearly enough, none of them except two had been directly involved in Von Stublau's plot.
Von Stublau and Von Welf were struggling back onto their feet—no easy task for heavily armored men sent sprawling to the ground. Von Stublau was on Erik's side, Von Welf nearer to Manfred.
Von Welf never made it up at all. Manfred's sword, in a backswing, shattered his helmet and the skull inside it. Von Welf sprawled back onto the floor and lay there motionless.
Erik disarmed Von Stublau with a quick hooking motion of the hatchet, a maneuver the Prussian neither expected nor had ever encountered before. He was still looking more puzzled than anything, when his attention was riveted by the razor edge of the hatchet—three inches in front of his eyes.
"Make any move and I'll take off your face," said Erik cheerfully. "That nose guard might as well be a lady's veil, as much good as it'll do you."
Von Stublau froze. The Icelander's thin smile was as friendly as a wolf's.
"You made two mistakes, Von Stublau. The first one is that bell. You see, that isn't the one from Saint Mark's Square. That's the Marangona, the bell they ring every morning at the Arsenal. It goes on for half an hour every morning, so you should know it. As this isn't morning, and as the Arsenal is working right now, I imagine someone has found out about your plot."
The knight-proctor looked startled. Then, began to pale.
"And the second one is that you shouldn't assume everyone is as stupid as you are."
He raised his voice. "Prince Manfred, Earl of Carnac, your uncle His Imperial Highness, Charles Fredrik, Holy Roman Emperor, has given me orders to kill any man who threatens your life." Erik grabbed the lower edge of Von Stublau's helmet and jerked him forward, kicking the knight-proctor's legs out from under him and driving him back down. The Prussian grunted with pain as his knees smashed into the floor.
"Kneel, traitor. May he be shriven first, My Lord Earl?"
Everything was moving too fast for the remaining knights to understand what was happening. Most of them were still slack-jawed with surprise. But at least two thirds of them, out of training if nothing else, had drawn their broadswords.
The doors at the back of the salon opened. The entry of soldiers or other knights might have simply made the situation explode into violence. Outnumbered sixteen to two, Erik and Manfred would have been hard-pressed to survive long enough for any kind of rescue.
Except . . . by an unarmed, haughty, imperially-dressed woman, accompanied by an elderly gentleman in court clothes. The woman looked like a princess. She certainly wore enough jewels.
Francesca smiled at them from under her tiara. The knights parted like the Red Sea before Moses, opening up to allow her and Count Von Stemitz to walk through.
She curtsied to Manfred. The count bowed low.
Manfred behaved as if he had, not a few moments back, been in a fight for his life, and didn't have a bloody sword in his hand. "Princess." His mind raced for a suitable address. Well. There were enough little principalities in the Empire. Let the Knots guess. "How may we assist?"
She smiled regally. "Your imperial uncle has asked me to deliver certain warrants to you." She handed him the sheaf of parchments he'd left with her not an hour before.
Manfred took them and leafed through them, as if he hadn't written them himself. "Count Von Stemitz," he said calmly, "Who am I? Please explain that to these assembled Knights."
Von Stemitz bowed again. "You are Prince Manfred, Earl of Carnac, Marquis of Rennes, Baron of Ravensburg. You are also Privy Emissary Plenipotentiary for his Imperial Highness Charles Fredrik of Mainz. He has invested you with the full and independent power to act for the imperial throne."
Manfred cleared his throat. "I have a message from Emperor Charles Fredrik to read to all of you. He says to remind the Knots that he holds their charter, the deeds to all their monasteries—and that they are perilously close to his displeasure. And that he has more than sufficient military forces to crush the entire order of the Knights of the Holy Trinity, should they persist in defying him. And to remind any confrere knights that he is their sovereign and their estates are his to dispose of."
The salon seemed to chill by many degrees of temperature. Charles Fredrik was known to be reluctant to use military force except when he felt it was necessary. He was also known to use it with utter ruthlessness when he did so.
The threat was particularly shaking, obviously enough, to the confrere knights who made up perhaps half of the force assembled in the salon. Not one of the confrere knights in the salon doubted for an instant that the old Emperor would make good his threat to kill all of them—and expropriate their families in the bargain. As surely as a farmer will butcher a hog for a feast.
Erik cast quick eyes around the salon. He could see at least four—no, five; then six—of the confrere knights start shifting their stance. Moving, now—and none too subtly—to be prepared to subdue the two regular knights who were most prone to religious fanaticism. And then saw the other regular knights sidling away from the two zealots. The sudden shift in the balance of forces was as palpable as a lead weight.
Count Von Stemitz coughed in the tense silence. "May I remind you further, Ritters, that standing in the presence of the Emperor's nephew and Privy Emissary Plenipotentiary with drawn weapons is—ah—dangerously close to treason."
Weapons were sheathed, hastily. With the naked blades absent, the tension began to ease.
Manfred, meanwhile, had been sorting through the bundle of parchments as if he had not a care in the world beyond scrupulous attention to the Emperor's co
rrespondence.
"Here, Erik." He handed one to the Icelander, who still held the kneeling Von Stublau. "Show him that."
Erik held the parchment in front of the knight-proctor's eyes.
"See that seal, Von Stublau?" said Erik, coldly. "Your life, your lands, and your family's lands are forfeit. You and they are landless peasants. You are shortly going to be a dead landless peasant."
The big Prussian's eyes widened. He had been afraid of the axe. This—to the Prussian—was worse. "I . . . I didn't know . . ."
"You knew," said Manfred scathingly. He looked down on Von Stublau. "You and Von Welf both knew. Now, you must pay the price of treason. Your lands are confiscate to the crown. I will, however, temper justice with mercy. I will not act against your family's holdings—if I am told the full details of your plot. Should it emerge, later, even twenty years hence, that you didn't tell us all you knew . . . then your kin can join the Polish peasants on your lands."
The Shadow of the Lion Page 83