Acquel looked at him, unconvinced. “And how do you know that? Your philosophy as Kodoris called it?
“My science,” Volpe replied sourly. “Of which you know nothing. These demons seek to imitate gods, but their only desire is to sow strife and war—which is what they draw sustenance from. As well as from human souls.”
“Will not the Lord help us then?”
Volpe laughed weakly. “I am afraid that God does not intervene in the affairs of men. He empowers others to do that. For us, that was Elded the Lawgiver. Think of it as the Lord giving us a gentle push from time to time. A push in the right direction.”
“Your science, again?”
“No. My philosophy.”
They were interrupted by a white-robed novice bearing an even larger clay pitcher of wine. “About bloody time. Here now, there’s a good lad,” chirped Volpe, seizing it and filling his goblet.
Acquel was growing annoyed with the old monk’s frivolity. “So what are we to do? How do we face these entities as you call them? And all the terrible servants that they seem able to muster. How do we fight?”
Volpe took a long swig and set his goblet down, the wine dripping down his dimpled chin. “You must remember, these great demons need followers—and sacrifices—to gain entry to our world. I don’t believe they have attained enough yet to come into the world entirely, but they must be close. Their lesser servants can come and go, directed by, or directing, their human faithful. Like this renegade canoness of yours, Lady della Rovera. Poor deluded bitch. Something must be guiding her.” He took another drink and shook his head.
Acquel placed his hand over Volpe’s goblet, holding it to the table. “So I ask you again, brother: how do we fight them?”
Volpe grimaced. “She wishes to destroy the One Faith in order to drive our people back to the old ways, thus opening the gates to the unholy trinity from beyond. So, she will seek to destroy us here, on the Ara, the centre of the true faith. Unless we find a way to strike at her first. Either way, young Magister, we will meet her. We must match her, magic for magic, spell for spell.”
Eleven
“WHAT ARE YOU staring at, Captain Cortese?” Strykar asked his second-in-command, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.
Slack-jawed, Cortese was ogling the group of she-mer that had emerged from the stockade gate, all with long hair of the starkest white like the sands of Polzano. “Sir, I have never before seen merfolk. Ever.” He twisted around further in his saddle as two mermen, towering creatures with skin glistening bluish grey, emerged bearing spears. “Elded’s beard, they are taller than I thought they would be,” he muttered. He smiled and turned to Strykar. “Imagine a regiment of those devils in the Black Rose!”
“Well, if we fought all our battles within pissing distance of the sea, aye, might be helpful. But when is that going to happen, eh?” Strykar still could not believe that Danamis had followed through with his promise to the mer princess and allowed a settlement on his doorstep. He was looking forward to hearing from his friend about just how well the enterprise was proceeding. It looked peaceable enough to his eyes, but the thought of the myrra stash that Danamis was still holding for him quickly came to mind. With his new-found liquor—acqua miracula—perhaps he would not need to push the leaf onto the merfolk any longer. He quickly realised that the price they were willing to pay, with salvaged treasure dredged from the depths, was far greater than any soldier could offer for a little flask of his new elixir. Maybe, just maybe, he could carry on with the illicit trade schemes, if Citala could be convinced to see the positive side of things, with the help of Nico’s silver tongue, of course.
Strykar had left his detachment encamped on a ridge overlooking the western walls of Palestro. Two hundred or so of his men, all on mounts, and a few empty gun carriages, ready to receive their shining new pieces of ordnance, courtesy of Admiral Nicolo Danamis. He knew that Danamis had already returned to Ivrea for more orichalcum cannon so the sale of two—perhaps even three, if he was lucky—would be no hardship for the pirate fleet. As he and Cortese passed through the hulking gatehouse and under the raised portcullis they were challenged by four of the town’s militia. These four had been joking and laughing at the doorway to the gatehouse tower but had stopped their slouching and gripped their pole arms when they saw the armoured horsemen approaching.
One of the guards moved forward and raised a hand. “Hallo, friend! What business have you in Palestro this day?”
“My business is with your lord and master. I am Coronel Strykar of the Company of the Black Rose. Escort us up to the mount or over to the Royal Grace—wherever he is. Just let us be on our way.”
The guard nodded while his comrades admired horse and armour. “I’ve heard of you, Messere. You’ve voyaged and fought alongside the admiral. But I will have to call for an escort before you and your companion can go on up the hill. The Lord Valerian would insist on it.”
Strykar leaned forward in his creaking saddle. “I am here to see Admiral Danamis, not the High Steward.”
The guardsman pushed up his rusty barbute with one hand and leaned on his halberd. “Aye, well, he ain’t here no more. You missed him by a day. Sailed off again.”
“Sailed off to where?” asked Strykar, his voice lowering in annoyance.
“He’s gone to Perusia, sir. Two ships.”
Strykar looked over to Cortese, who toyed with his reins and gave a shrug. “Suppose we’d better see the old man, then.”
Strykar cussed under his breath. Perusia? And then, like a cold bucket of water thrown on his face, he remembered his friend’s short but fiery romance. Sweet Elded’s beard. The king’s dead, the queen’s in trouble and Danamis is back in Perusia. That will put the cat among the pigeons.
AFTER THEY HAD been announced through the iron grating on the ship-timber gates of the Danamis palazzo, they waited, and waited.
“I’m sweating like a pig in this armour,” grumbled Cortese. “Least they could do is give us some water.” And it was light armour at that: brown quilted gambeson and only a breast and back plate plus his sallet helm. Strykar was dressed similarly though his body armour was far more elaborate, a lavishly wrought and tooled piece that portrayed a battle won in the distant past of Valdur. He was hot but not yet irked. The delay, which he knew was no unintended slight, at least gave him time to think about how to make his requests; requests put to a man he had seen only twice before and that more than six years ago.
They suddenly heard the bar being lifted on the far side of the double gates, an iron peg being pulled, and then the gates swung inward. Liveried attendants, armed with curved Darfan blades at their hips, took hold of the bridles of the visitors’ mounts and guided them into the large courtyard of the great house. They dismounted and were ushered inside to the cool of the palace, a leafy loggia at its centre, a fountain tinkling contentedly off to one side.
Footsteps on the wide marble staircase focussed the attention of the mercenaries and they watched as Valerian Danamis descended in long velvet robes of crimson. He was flanked on either side by lanky, taciturn mermen, each armed with the same Darfan steel scabbarded at their hips. They wore loose fitting tunics of blue silk, their long feet unshod. So that’s how old Danamis is keeping the merfolk busy, he thought. He’s pressed them into service.
“Captain Julianus Strykar. I remember you, sir. From long ago.”
Strykar gave a court bow. “My lord, thank you for seeing us unannounced. I have been of late promoted to the rank of Coronel of the Black Rose. This is my captain of rondelieri, Giovani Cortese.”
Valerian bowed in return as he reached the bottom of the staircase. “I welcome you to Palestro. It is a shame that my son has left the city, he would have been very pleased to have seen you again.”
“It is unfortunate, my lord. For I have urgent business to discuss. Duke Alonso sends his fraternal greetings to you.”
The voluminous sleeve of Valerian’s robe waved as he gestured for them to take a seat in th
e loggia. Already, the mercenaries could see silver wine ewers and goblets being set down near the ornate gilded table and chairs.
They waited until the High Steward had seated himself before they took their own. Cortese grasped a goblet, a bit awkwardly since he was still wearing his riding gloves, as it was proffered by a retainer. He smiled, awkwardness leaching out of him. He couldn’t but help keep his eyes from the mermen who had taken up station behind Valerian. He found them oddly man-like though they were clearly not men at all with small, almost under-formed nose, lips, and ears, but overly large and glassy eyes the colour of lapis stone. As if God’s hands had left their clay unfinished.
Valerian had noticed the object of Cortese’s intent. “You have not seen merfolk before, captain? These are my bodyguards brought back by me from the islands of Atlcali in the South Seas. They are Xosians.”
Strykar took a sip of his wine. “I thought they were perhaps from the settlement beyond the gates, my lord.”
Valerian smiled tolerantly. “No, Coronel. They are not.”
One of the mermen slowly folded his arms across his chest as he watched Strykar, eyes unmoving.
“My son was manoeuvred into a rash promise to the merfolk outside the city gates. But I think you were aware of that situation, were you not, Coronel?”
Strykar took another sip of the cool wine before replying. “I was. It was how he won his freedom. A debt owed, I believe.”
The old pirate changed the subject. “I thank you for the tidings from Maresto. But what is it that brings you here? My son has again not controlled his impulsive nature and has gone to Perusia, despite my protestations. He seeks to meddle in the unfortunate affairs of the throne. So, I am afraid you will have to make do with me.”
Strykar nodded and set down his goblet. “I have come at the request of the Duke to enquire of the orichalcum guns. The guns that I told Nicolo about last year. The guns that I helped him negotiate out of Ivrea.”
Valerian smiled broadly, his big yellowed teeth showing. “I wasn’t aware they were borrowed from you.”
“My lord, the Duke would ask that you sell him a few of these guns, at a price I negotiate. We fight the same enemy, allies in a war that Torinia has thrust upon us. I have seen these guns fire in anger. They would serve our army in the field a hundredfold better than the artillery we now possess.”
“Then why not procure them from Ivrea yourself? The guns that my son has bought equip the fleet that defends Palestro, and the port of Maresto I might remind you.”
“With respect, my lord, Palestro is much closer than Ivrea. We only ask for three. Which we will compensate you for handsomely. As friends.”
Valerian shook his grizzled head. “Ah, the problem is that we are forbidden from selling orichalcum to anyone else. That was the terms of the agreement with Ivrea.”
Strykar swallowed and nodded. He could feel the anger welling. Nicolo had not exaggerated. His father truly was a bastard. “Then an agreement between friends. To let us borrow the guns, until we can come to an arrangement with Ivrea.”
“The Ivreans do not wish to spread these weapons further than Palestro. If Duke Alonso had but written me I could have saved you the journey.”
“This is an insult to Alonso and to the Black Rose!” Cortese spat, leaping to his feet.
He was barely out of his chair, before a merman forcibly pushed him back into it and held him there. The other merman’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword, poised to draw.
“Cortese, hold!” shouted Strykar. He turned back to Valerian, eyes flashing. “Release him, my lord.”
Valerian raised his left hand and gestured. The merman lifted his hands from Cortese but remained half a pace behind his chair. Captain Cortese’s face had gone deep red with embarrassment and rage. “This is my goddamned house,” said Valerian quietly. “I demand respect of my guests. From my friends and my allies. The guns are not for sale or loan, Coronel. Nor would I seek to undermine the admiral of Palestro in his absence.”
I’m sure you’re really concerned about that you fucking old sea rat.
“If you have made up your mind, my lord, I will not remain to trouble you. And I will tell Duke Alonso what you have said.” Strykar rose slowly so as not to alarm the vigilant mer. “There is one more thing though. There was a shipment of myrra leaf. Myrra that is mine until I am paid for it. Nicolo was holding it for me here. I would take it now.”
Valerian’s brow furrowed as he shook his head. “Myrra? Leaf that was yours, you say? I know only of one bundle of myrra in the city. That was in my son’s keeping and I have been told he has taken it with him aboard ship. Something about keeping Atalapah happy.”
Strykar sucked his teeth. He was not used to leaving anywhere empty-handed but this time he been truly plucked and trussed.
STRYKAR WATCHED FORLORNLY as the horses were hitched up to the thick-wheeled and iron-shod gun carriages: all still empty. The beasts didn’t know how lucky they were. The encampment above Palestro was being broken up, the small force readying for the trip north to rejoin the main company of the Black Rose: mounted lances, spearmen, bowmen, and rondelieri. Every last man.
Cortese joined him, buckling on his harness. “This won’t go down well with Malvolio. He was counting on you and the pirates being as close as brothers.”
“You’re lucky you’re still here standing next to me. You realize that merman could have ripped your head off your shoulders as easily as you’d wring the neck of a rabbit?”
Cortese chuckled. “I’d have had the fishman before he got the chance.”
“I’ve seen these mermen in a fight. Believe me, you would have been killed. And I would be talking to my new captain of rondelieri at this moment.”
Cortese pretended not to hear. “Saw that you did well in the city with that acqua vitalis compound of yours. Your camp servants sold more than a few I heard. Folk coming to blows over the last few bottles was the story.”
“Acqua miracula,” corrected Strykar. “Now, get your men into the saddle, captain. I’m ready to leave.” He pulled himself up onto his mount and adjusted his reins as he surveyed the scurrying soldiery. Malvolio was going to rip into him when he told him the news. He knew that the Count was no great admirer of artillery—more trouble than it was worth he often carped—but the Duke’s expressed desire to possess the new guns was reason enough to push for them. Danamis might have been cajoled into giving up a pair, but never the old man. At least he had nearly two days’ ride to come up with a convincing explanation.
The drivers whipped up the horses pulling the gun carriages and the whole force began its slow march north, up the rising grassy fields and towards the ancient road to Maresto. Strykar kicked his horse off from the main body of rondelieri, shields slung over their backs, and took one last look at the walls of Palestro.
Fucking Nico. Of all the times he could choose to run off and play champion to the queen it had to be now. Showing up in Perusia now would only stir the cauldron even more.
He shook his head. Below him he saw a lone horseman riding full tilt towards them. He whistled and signalled to a few of his mounted men before trotting to intercept the newcomer. It was a merchant, sweating profusely on an old palfrey, a brace of baskets slung over its cruppers.
“Good soldiers! Your captain please!” he cried as he pulled up near Strykar.
“What is it you want?” bellowed a sergeant who put himself between the merchant and his commander.
“I would buy more of that efficacious medicine what was sold in the market by the men of the Black Rose. It is all gone already. Sold like it was mother’s milk! Have you got more before you leave here?”
Strykar gave a sly smile. “See the man who drives that wagon over there,” and he pointed it out.
The merchant nodded vigorously and jangled the big leather purse that hung from his neck. “I have the money, good captain!”
Strykar nodded and turned his horse northwards. He reached down to the small leather bot
tle at his saddlebow and retrieved it. He took a judicious sip of the acqua miracula and replaced the stopper, letting the flask dangle again. A surge of quiet elation went through him, a joyous confidence that filtered through his body down to his toes. “By Elded’s own cods,” he muttered, “that is fine spirit indeed.” And rather than thinking about his report to the Count of Malvolio, he began dreaming about making more of his marvellous liquid.
THEY SAT SIDE by side in the bower of the palace’s most private garden. One reserved for the Duke of Torinia alone. Lucinda della Rovera looked again into the intelligent dark eyes of Ursino and reached to touch her lips to his. When they met, she felt a desire that had been long in abeyance. One that surprised her. She gently pushed him away, though he was still eager to taste her.
“I have a gift for you, my lord”
He smiled and tilted his head. “A gift? It is I that bestow gifts upon you.”
She pulled out a large square of folded linen that she had concealed in the slashed sleeve of her green brocade gown. “A gift before we ride north tomorrow. To victorious battle.”
Ursino took the cloth and opened it. An approving noise rumbled from his throat. He held up the embroidered square to admire it. On it were two golden griffons, their details embellished with black thread. “You have a talented hand for needlework, my lady. And the royal beasts of Valdur as your subject. Are you trying to make a point?”
Lucinda laughed lightly. “You already know my counsel, your Grace. And I think you have made up your mind. It is to attack Maresto first then pursue the crown.”
“Then you know my conscience. But do you know my heart?”
She knew that too. But worryingly, she was starting not to know her own. She reached over and gently grasped his hand. “I believe our hearts share the same beat.”
“My love for you grows each day. You know that, do you not?”
She nodded. “Then you will be by my side as we ride north on the morrow. And I wish you by me in my bed.”
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