"I guess that leaves me," said Kat. "I'd better go with my grandfather to Della Tomasso."
Petro took a deep breath. "No. Lodovico Montescue is old enough not to need his hand held. You go with Marco. We may all be dead soon. You may as well—" He waved a little feebly. "Be together."
Lodovico looked at Marco Valdosta. Shrugged. "My house is in ruins anyway. Be happy at least, cara mia."
* * *
Marco faced a crowd, a sea of faces. The torches made the planes of the faces stand out. Showed the lines of hard work and poor food, particularly in the clustered caulkers. Hard times and hard faces. Mouths set in a grim line. His stomach turned itself inside out. He looked at Maria. There was the same grimness, the same determination in that square jaw, as there was on the faces in the crowd. And Maria said that he, not she, must tell the Arsenalotti what Petro had said.
He looked at Kat. She reached out and squeezed his hand, and he realized just how right Petro had been. He still did need someone to hold his hand. "Introduce me," he said to Maria.
She stood up onto the marble step. "Arsenalotti!"
There were a few cheers. A number of smiles. A good many waves. Everyone here knew Maria Garavelli. Honest as the day was long, even if she had a temper on her that you could boil a kettle on. "What are you doing up there, Maria?"
"This is Marco Valdosta. He needs to talk to you. He's Case Vecchie, but he has doctored some of your kids. He's a good man and he's got a message for you from the Council of Ten."
Marco got up onto the step. "Thank you, Maria."
There were a few people clapping. He heard his name repeated. He cleared his throat and looked at Kat. She smiled.
"Who has always defended the Doge, the piazza? On whom has the last defense of Venice always rested?" His voice cut through the silence.
No one answered. Then someone in the back of the crowd said "Not Petro Dorma's damned 'militia,' Valdosta!"
"Right," said Marco. "Not the militia. The Arsenalotti. That is the way it has always been. And that is the way it must stay."
The crowd cheered.
Marco knew in his bones that he was doing the right thing. He had them. He held up a parchment. "Dorma made a mistake. He's man enough to admit that. I, Marco Valdosta, have his writ here. The Council calls the Arsenalotti to the Defense of the Republic." A strange power infused his voice. "In the name of the Winged Lion of Saint Mark, you are called to Arms! Will you answer?"
The assent itself was a roar. And to Marco's shock, he realized that they were chanting "VAL—DOS–TA! VAL—DOS–TA!"
He stilled them with a gesture. "This is my brother, Benito. He's the one who is good at organizing and plans. He'll tell you what the Council wants."
Benito, wide-eyed, was pushed to his feet to face the cheering crowd. "I'll get even with you for this, Marco," he said quietly.
"Face it, Benito," said Marco. "You tell people what to do far better than I do."
And Benito went on to prove him dead right.
Chapter 87
Erik stared at the desecrated Lady chapel. Grim. Silent. Pellmann had not run away after all, as his remains testified. But it was the bells that were the most offensive. Made from infant skulls, with a small thighbone for a clapper. The cross was broken. The walls were scrawled with strange and unpleasant symbols . . . scrawled in what could only be blood and excrement. Rusty stains marred the once white altar cloth. Pieces of clothing . . . A cotte. A knitted cap. A richly embroidered nightshirt . . . lay on the floor.
But of the Woden-casket, which had been placed there, there was no sign.
"I think I am going to throw up," said Manfred quietly. "Under our noses. Right under our very noses! Well, Sachs? What do you have to say to this?"
The abbot, defiant, furious, and threatening divine retribution until a bare minute ago, sank to his knees. "My God. My God! Forgive me."
"He may. But I won't," said Manfred, grimly. "Where is it and where is she, Sachs?"
The former abbot looked into Manfred's implacable eyes. Looked around at the desecrated chapel. "Sister Ursula, the casket, and an escort of knights left this late afternoon. There was a chance that the witches could . . ." He faltered. "That's what she said. She said they would try to liberate it. That it would be safer with our friends on the mainland. My God, my God, I have been weak, misled by the carnal desires of the flesh! My God, forgive me."
Erik hit him. "Enough time for self-pity and remorse later, you stinking swine. Where have they gone?"
Sachs whimpered. "I don't know. She said something about forts to Aldanto."
"The Polestine forts," said Francesca.
Erik turned to Manfred. "She's going to turn the Woden loose on the forts, presumably to clear the way for a fleet from Milan, which will be coming down the Po River."
Sachs nodded wretchedly. "Sforza is coming. But we didn't know . . . I thought—she said it was Christ's work. . . ."
Manfred pointed at the chapel. "Well, now you see whose work it really was. What is this about Trieste?"
"A thousand two hundred of our knights, the Chapters from Greifswald, Landsberg, and Schniedemühl, are ready to embark to restore order and seize the Arsenal. They wait for our message."
"So," said Manfred, sardonically. "You stripped the northeastern frontier for this adventure. The Grand Duke of Lithuania must be very pleased with you. What do you think, Erik? Shall we turn them loose to make a demonstration on the border against Emeric of Hungary? That'll keep him out of the mess, anyway, and them away from here."
"Yes." Erik nodded. "And we will need local guides. If we ride hard, we may get to the Woden-casket in time."
Manfred nodded. "Francesca and Count Von Stemitz—with an escort of Knights—can ride for the Brenner pass to reassure Uncle Charles Fredrik that I am still alive. Now we'd better go and look for Petro Dorma."
A knight ran in. "There is a huge party of Venetians disembarking outside. Looks like some mercenaries too. And cannon. Knight-Proctor Von Dusbad and Etten are readying defense." He stared at the horror in the chapel . . . "What is this!"
"Sister God-damned Ursula, is what it is. Hell's teeth! Let's see if we can stop this. You—" Manfred pointed to one of the knights. "You see to it that the Servants are marched in here to see this abomination." He pointed to the kneeling Sachs. "And take him and lock him away."
"Open up in the name of the Holy Church and the Republic of Venice!" demanded someone outside.
"Let us out the wicket door. You can prepare a charge in case there is a problem." Ducking, Manfred, Erik and several of the senior knights came out to face the Venetians.
Erik felt his heart lift to see Petro Dorma out there in the torchlight. Petro may have felt similar relief, but he didn't let that show on his face or stop the mercenaries lining up the small cannon. All he said was "Where is Abbot Sachs?"
"I sent him off to be locked up," said Manfred. "We don't want trouble, Dorma. In fact I need to talk to you . . ."
"Ciao, Petro," said Francesca, sweeping forward with her hands outstretched, as if greeting an old family friend.
Dorma's mouth fell open. His face seemed to flush a bit.
Francesca smiled at him. "You look like a catfish with your mouth open, Petro. Close it, dear. You really do need to talk to them. They've just foiled a plot against you—and the Holy Roman Empire. This large young man is the Emperor's nephew, as it happens. Who would have thought it? And, I believe, also his Emissary Plenipotentiary."
Having obeyed Francesca's first injunction to close his mouth, Petro Dorma then did an even better catfish imitation.
"You'd better come inside," said Erik. "We have found out who has been committing those murders."
"Do you have her prisoner?" asked a slight man with an aquiline nose and a solid single dark line of eyebrow. "I am Eneko Lopez, a Legate of the Grand Metropolitan of Rome. We demand to speak to 'Sister' Ursula."
Erik shook his head. "Too late. We've found her foul chapel. But she's go
ne. Come."
The doors were opened. Dorma and some of his party were escorted to the desecrated Lady chapel. One of the priests gagged immediately and clutched his nose. "Chernobog!" he gasped. "The stench is horrid! Fierce!" Even under the circumstances, the man's broad Savoyard accent was unmistakable.
Erik looked curiously at the fellow. He'd heard of witch-smellers, but had had no faith in them in times past. Now . . .
Erik sniffed experimentally himself. Yes. It was the same odor he'd smelled in Sachs's study that one day. He'd thought it was sister Ursula's perfume—and how odd it was for a nun to use perfume. It was . . . sort of sickly sweet. Confined in Sachs's room it had made him want to sneeze. Perhaps Sachs himself had been the victim of a powerful amount of magical manipulation.
Manfred was talking to Petro Dorma. "—three parties. Ten will remain here. The message to Trieste should stop the Knights. If not . . . well, those who remain here can pass on Charles Fredrik's orders. The rest are split into the party going to tell Emperor Charles Fredrik that I'm not dead yet, and the bulk of us are riding after Sister Ursula."
"Take us with you," said Lopez. "She is what we seek."
Manfred looked him over. "We want to leave as soon as we can get a boat to the mainland. Mounts may be a problem." He hesitated. "And it'll be a hard chase. Even for soldiers."
Lopez snorted. "I was a soldier once, lad—and longer than you've been, I venture to say. You think I got this limp from the stairs in the Vatican? Nor have I led what you'd call a soft life since."
Dorma interrupted. "I can solve one of your problems. We have remounts on the mainland at the landing at Chioggia. I'll send Capi D'Strozza with you. He's from Chioggia, and will see you through to the forts. And, as he says, Senor Lopez was once a knight. Despite the limp I think you can still ride, no?"
Lopez smiled. "Better than any Ritter, I suspect. We'll find out." The last sentence came out almost gleefully. Holy the man might be now—but, clearly enough, there was still that Basque truculence lurking somewhere within his soul.
* * *
Over on Saint Mark's Square a bell began to ring, frantically.
Petro looked despondent. "The alarm tocsin! Now what?"
Erik smiled. "Part of this conspiracy that we have partially unraveled, I suspect. Give us your Capi and we'll be moving, and you can get back to Saint Marks." He peered into the darkness, at the hazy, haloed moon. "Looks like you're in for fog. I hope your Capi is a good navigator."
Petro smiled back. "The best. He was a smuggler before I recruited him. Fog was one of his favorite kinds of weather."
* * *
Down on the water, on the mainland side of Rialto, Benito could have told Erik the fog was thick enough to cut with a knife already. It smelt . . . odd. Marshy. Not the usual wet-wool and smoke smell of Venice fog. Benito wasn't going to let it worry him. Giaccomo was enough to worry about.
The heavy, balding man was not the type to be impressed by Case Vecchie clothes or orders. Money would talk, however. Benito hoped he had enough. They'd picked up Valentina . . . Claudia was off somewhere. The way Valentina said "somewhere" meant: Strega stuff, don't ask.
"Your eyes almost seem to be glowing," said Maria, looking at him curiously.
Benito knew he could get killed doing this. So could Maria . . . So could other people. It didn't stop him loving it all. He was feeling brave, so he put a hand on her forearm. That was gambling with your hand, with Maria.
"It's in my blood. My grandfather . . . And my father."
She flicked the hand off. But almost gently. "Your grandfather I've heard about. Dell'este is a legend. But the Valdosta . . . I asked. They're like Marco."
Benito pulled a wry face. "We're half-brothers really, Maria. I think my father was Carlo Sforza."
She stared at him, wide-eyed. Sforza. The Wolf of the North. She shook her head. "So. Just what are we going to do to get into the Casa Dandelo? There are probably up to thirty Dandelos and their slave overseers. There are God alone knows how many Montagnards there too. We have thirty men and one thief."
"There must be three hundred slaves," said Benito. "And the way out is going to be through the Casa."
Maria nodded. "True. And having been in there myself, killing a few slave-masters might be sweeter than freedom to a lot of them. Well, keep it simple. Clever plans go wrong."
"I'll do my best."
* * *
"You want thirty empty casks?" Giaccomo looked at Benito. Then at Maria. "What for?" He went on polishing glasses.
"And your small barge." Benito ignored the question, and began counting out gold coins onto the counter. He noticed that Giaccomo had stopped polishing glasses.
"You're with Dorma nowadays," said Giaccomo. "Quite the young Case Vecchie gentleman. With a brother who once tried to sell me fake relics. I want to know why, boy—or no deal. Not for twice as much."
"I'm not Marco," said Benito calmly. Giaccomo flustered Marco; Benito knew you just had to keep calm around him. "Have I ever done you wrong, Giaccomo? I brought coin for you once."
"Yeah. But I still want to know. And nobody else has barrels enough."
Benito shrugged. "Dorma wants me to blow up Casa Dandelo. Destroy the place. We had a dead certain tip-off"—he couldn't resist the pun—"that it's full of Montagnards. They're due to cause trouble when the invaders come." Benito smiled. "And we all know how Maria loves the Dandelos."
A small corner of a smile touched Giaccomo's face. "She ain't your tip-off?"
Benito knew that Giaccomo regarded even a whiff of magic as bad news. So he chose his phrasing carefully. "Party called Aleri. Heard of him?"
Giaccomo's eyes narrowed. He nodded. He didn't look friendly. "You can't trust him."
"Ah. Let's put it this way. He was answering certain questions for the Signori di Notte in an . . . involuntary fashion."
Giaccomo actually smiled. He pulled three of the stacks of coin towards himself. "I'd lend you some manpower . . ." He paused. "This has nothing to do with Aldanto, has it?"
Benito shook his head very firmly. Giaccomo pushed one of the stacks of coin back. Benito pushed it over again. "It's Dorma's money. And it's only right to tell you that if things go wrong you won't see your barge again."
"Aldanto's got money from Ferrara sitting here. Been coming in ever since you and that brother of yours showed up. You see him, you tell him there's two lots here." The expression on Giaccomo's face said: and I don't mind if he doesn't fetch it. "The barge is round the back. Jeppo will help you get the barrels loaded."
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Giaccomo's barge was heading for the Casa Dandelo with a cargo of "wine." Benito hoped that Valentina had the gunpowder in position. When they'd cased the joint, picking up the guards on the roof, she'd said that it would be easy. He hoped she was right, because they'd need the distraction.
The cargo wouldn't get into the Casa proper, but there was an enclosed loading bay into the stores and slave quarters. He, Maria, and Maria's cousin Luigi poled the barge, little more than a floating flat-bed full of barrels, around to the front of the Casa. Benito went and pounded on the door.
"Who is it at this time of night?" demanded someone, far too quickly.
"Wine delivery. From Giaccomo's!" yelled Benito.
"Go away!" bellowed someone within. "We didn't order any wine."
Benito yelled back. "Party by the name of Aleri came in and paid for it, special delivery, tonight."
There was the sound of talk, as if a small argument were going on. But Benito was relaxed, confident. No one behind that door was going to turn down a cargo of wine. And the deliverers were not exactly a threat. A ragged fifteen-year-old boy, a seventeen-year-old girl, and an older bargee. Odds on, the "extra guests" had already worked their way through most of the Dandelos' wine stock—and with the war on, heaven knew when they'd see more.
The door cracked open. An eye appeared, examining Benito for a brief moment and then, for a much longer moment, t
he cargo on the barge. "All of that for us?"
Benito laughed. "You wish! Five casks. The rest are for Barducci's. The boss won't let us do 'one person' deliveries. And Barducci's is running dry. Gotta have it there inside the hour. Party there tonight, with everyone going off to war. You goin' to accept this load or do we take it away again?"
That dire threat brought the final decision. "Bring it round the side. Some of the men will come down and open up."
"Send someone to offload, too."
"Cheeky little sod. Does your master know you're so lazy?"
"Ah, come on—"
"On your way! The men will see you there."
On his way down the side canal, Benito whistled loudly, tunelessly. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen a glimpse of Valentina on the opposite roof, grappling hook ready. She wasn't going to swing across, herself. But the small barrel of black powder was going to pendulum across. Valentina reckoned it'd smash through those shutters like a knife through silk. It didn't matter whether it did or not, just so long as there was fire and trouble in the main residential part of the Casa. Still, Benito wished he could watch. He also hoped like hell Valentina didn't stay to watch.
The Shadow of the Lion Page 85