And as Aretini listened, he realised that there was nothing but silence on the battlements. All catcalls and cheers had ceased, mouths stoppered by the sight of the unearthly creatures before them. Not a single arrow came in reply and he remembered his own reaction at first sight of the beasts: barely contained terror. As if in response to the challenge of Duke Ursino, both griffons let out a screech of intimidation that reverberated off the ancient walls of Livorna. And Livorna was, in return, deathly silent. Coronel Aretini allowed himself a small smile. With one bold act Ursino had taken the heart out of the city.
DEMERISE ABSENTLY PLAYED with a pouch of jangling silver coin as she sat at the long trestle of the High Steward’s kitchen, sipping from a pewter wine cup.
“You still mean for us to leave tomorrow?” asked Bero, seated across from her. “Even after what we saw today?”
She looked over to him and took another sip. Her scarf she had pulled down from her face to nestle at her throat for she had nothing to hide from Bero. Not after all these years. “We’ve been paid,” she replied quietly.
Bero gave a good-natured chuckle. “But we haven’t been here long enough to spend it. The High Steward has given us the run of his household—decent racks for the night. Food and drink. Wouldn’t mind another day at least, despite the siege.”
“We should be on our way to Maresto. We hunt on the way through the Forest of Sospiri. Deliver to the palazzo when we arrive.”
Bero took another drink, savouring the quality of the Milvornan, a wine he rarely sampled. It was late of the evening, but most of the band were still out in low town, making the most of the time remaining before the battle for Livorna began in earnest. “You’ve been moping all evening. I think you’re a little bit torn up. That old knight we found rattled you, didn’t he?”
She set down the vessel and leaned forward, aggravated by his needling. “I’ve told you my intentions. Go find a scullion who will let you mount her—while you can.”
“Easy, mistress. No harm meant.” Bero gave her a well-meaning smile. There was silence between them for a minute or two. He scratched at his nose and ventured more conversation. “Do you think Ursino is the rightful king? Has the Lord really favoured him sending these griffons to his banner? Claiming to have the true Hand of Ursula and all. I pity the people here if the gates fail. They won’t have a cripple’s chance in a game of calcio. Not against the Blue Boar, those giant beasts, and God knows what else they have.”
Demerise leaned back on the bench. “And what would you have us do? A handful of archers in a fight that isn’t ours.”
Bero shrugged. “Just saying.” He raised his cup to his lips and took another long drink.
She was about to give him another reason when two of her men burst in, throwing back their brown hoods. “Demerise!” said one, the lank-haired unshaven Ricardo whom she could smell the wine on as soon as he reached her. “We were down near the east gate. The castellan is there with four of his men and they’ve relieved the watch. The whole of the watch.”
She and Bero looked at each other. “What is that swine up to now?” said Bero. “It’s midnight for bloody sake!” Demerise didn’t reply but instead walked to the corner and retrieved her bow and quiver. “Let’s go, all of you!” Bero’s eyes widened but he jumped to and grabbed his own bow while the other hunters ran for their weapons.
They were not far from the east gate, the palazzo being just north of the square where the great barbican was situated. The moon, waxing but not yet full, cast its glow across the lime-washed houses and shops that lined the square. The band moved quickly, silently—as if on a forest stalk—across the deserted cobblestones. Demerise’s eyes adjusted to the shadows around her, the great wall and towers rising up fifty feet before them. She could see movement near the gate itself: figures shifting there, ghostlike, busied in some task. Coming from inside the base of the gatehouse of the barbican, she heard the clanking of ratchet and pawl: the portcullis mechanism. A figure was at the right side of the tower, just inside, pulling at the chain that was suspended there. She motioned to Bero to move off and approach from the left while she, Ricardo and two other hunters crept closer from the right. The portcullis was already raised up three feet and as she crept forward, she raised her bow, ready to draw. Two figures rolled underneath the rising massive iron grating and clambered up again, disappearing into the shadows of the cavernous tower. A fourth figure heavily encumbered by ankle-length cloak—and obviously less agile than the others—went to his knees and crawled underneath the portcullis.
Demerise heard Bero give a whistle and she turned. Two militia soldiers were running towards them across the piazza, bearing torches. Demerise called out to the figures inside the gate. “You there! What are you about? Answer me!” She was met with the continuing clank of the portcullis as it ratcheted up higher, someone still cranking at the wheel. Bero returned to her side, his bow already drawn, as they moved forward. “Sweet Aloysius,” he hissed, “I think they’re opening the gate.” Behind them the two militia men came to a stop, chests heaving. “What’s going on here?” demanded the older of the two. “Someone said the castellan is taking charge.”
Demerise gestured with the nocked arrow of her bow. “Looks like someone has no intention of sitting through a siege.”
“My God!” The man leapt ahead and thrust his torch through the portcullis as Demerise and Bero followed behind. The orange flame of the torch revealed three men heaving at the great oak bars that sealed tight the double gates of the tower. One bar had been raised and set down on the cobbled ground, still lying in one of the black iron brackets of the gate. They had the last remaining one in their hands, straining upwards. A fifth man—the cloaked one—was busy pulling at the two large iron bolts of a smaller door set into one of the gates—the night door.
“What in hell’s name are you doing!” yelled the militiaman as he struggled to get under the portcullis. Ricardo and two other hunters now were standing at the portcullis and looking back to Demerise.
“Demerise?” proffered Bero, quiet urgency in his voice.
“Take them,” she replied.
Bero let fly, his arrow hitting one of the men struggling with the bar. The sound of other whisking shafts followed immediately as each of the hunters took down a man. The cloaked figure sprang away from the door against the stones of the corridor wall, a cry upon his lips, and in the torchlight Demerise saw it was Paolo Voltera. Their eyes met. The castellan was shaking his head, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Demerise hesitated, her drawn bow creaking as she took her bead on Voltera’s chest. “Toad,” she whispered. And then she released her fingers to let her arrow fly. The castellan sagged to the cobbles, still clutching at the shaft buried under his sternum.
A mighty crash sounded against the small door and its hinges groaned. Men were pushing it in from the outside and Demerise saw that the lower bolt had been pulled. A steel-lamed foot stuck through the gap as another crash reverberated in the gatehouse, the door shaking again as shoulders rammed into it from without. The militiaman dropped his torch and rushed to put his back against the door. His companion was soon there to throw his weight into it.
“Help them!” shouted Demerise. Her hunters stooped under the portcullis and ran to aid the Livornans. Ricardo, on his knees, drew his dagger and managed to find a gap in the leg armour of the fool who had it wedged at the base of the door. A scream outside was followed by a hasty withdrawal of the limb and, with the backs of all of them straining, the door was shut and the bottom bolt slammed home again. They hefted the oak plank that had been taken off and set it back on the brackets of the gates even as the enemy outside continued to hammer on them.
Ricardo turned and smoothed back his long, dank raven locks. “Elded’s balls. That was a near-run.”
Bero looked down at Voltera’s still-open but lifeless eyes and shook his head. “Saints’ blood, Demerise. I think you can now say that we’ve taken a side. And you’ve just killed the castellan of L
ivorna. You know, the one who pays us?”
Demerise lowered her bow. Behind her, a dozen militia were running towards them, yelling as they came. She nodded at Bero’s words. “Aye, I know what I’ve done.” She let out a sigh so loud that all of them heard it. “We had better go find the Magister and that Strykar.”
Twenty-Three
“I HAVE SEEN much in your world, Nico, but nothing such as this.” Citala was gazing out over the rail of the Vendetta, out over a thousand yards to a ship that lay anchored far out in the harbour, alone. It was the first Sinean warship to arrive at Perusia, a monstrous vessel, its five masts taller than the highest trees. And it could have swallowed whole five ships the size of Vendetta.
Danamis, at her elbow, scowled in mock displeasure. “What’s wrong with my ship then?”
She put her arm in his. “Yours is a fine vessel. Royal Grace too. But it’s just that the Sinean ship is so vast. As if out of some dream.”
“Probably slower than an old cog.”
Gregorvero joined them, having just supervised the loading of supplies in advance of what would be an unannounced departure. “Now that is a ship,” he said.
“You too?” said Danamis. “Well, the Sineans are our friends of a sort—for the moment at least. What are they mounting?”
Gregorvero leaned over the railing, eyeing the black-hulled monster. “I hear they have guns of bronze. Elded knows how many. Muzzle loading like our orichalcum pieces. There’s no one in Valdur casting bronze that big.”
“So that will give them long range, like us. Let us hope it doesn’t come to a fight.”
Gregorvero chuckled. “We’d need a few more ships to even those odds, Nico.”
Danamis rubbed his eyes. “How soon can we weigh anchor?”
“By morning if you wish it. Bassinio says the Grace is provisioned and all her men back aboard. We have all we need.”
Danamis nodded. “Good. We may only have a day’s notice when the time comes.”
“Do you see the queen today?”
Citala lifted her head, her violet eyes blinking.
“Aye,” said Danamis. “And I pray she agrees to my plan.”
“I would accompany you to the palace,” said Citala. “I may be of some help to you there.”
Danamis smiled at her. “Help? In convincing Cressida to leave with us?”
“That. And if things get dangerous. With the Sineans, or others.”
Gregorvero laughed. “You better let her come along! I know that tone well.”
Citala shot him a look of annoyance. “You both know how I fight. And I may be able to help convince your queen if she falters in her resolve.”
Danamis shook his head, half in exasperation and half in admiration of the she-mer. “You’re a formidable warrior, my love. But I’m not as sure about your skill in diplomacy.”
“When we enter that place we will never know if we can get out again,” she said. “What if her palace guardsmen turn on her?”
“Unlikely,” replied Danamis, leaning in. “And if it did happen, you wouldn’t be able to make it back to the sea. But, I don’t think that prospect will dissuade you, will it?”
“You know the answer to that, Danamis son of Danamis.”
Gregorvero rolled his eyes and looked out over the railing. “And while you’re both away I shall have a think about just how fast that floating island of the Sineans can make way under full canvas.”
CAPTAIN CALURO MET them with folded arms after they had cleared the gatehouse into the first courtyard of the great palazzo. His eyes quickly took in the dozen men that Danamis had with him, armed with side-swords and studded brigantines. Some other fellow, tall and looking like a priest in a long hooded robe, stood close by the Palestrian. “Captain Danamis!” he said with a curt bow as he blocked their progress. “You may take two of your bodyguard with you into the apartments. No more.” He gestured to the robed figure. “And who is this then?”
Citala pulled back the hood of her robe and Caluro’s woolly eyebrows rose. “What is the meaning of this, Danamis? You bring merfolk here into the royal presence?” He addressed Danamis but could not take his eyes from the mermaid standing right in front of him. The first he had ever seen in his life.
“This is Citala. Of royal blood herself. The princess of Valdur’s merfolk.”
Citala gave him a slow bow of her head and then pulled her hood back up over her snowy braids. Caluro pursed his lips, frustrated, even as he drank in her strange beauty and the liquid intensity of her eyes. He finally managed to tear his gaze away. “Eh, very well, my lord. But the queen does not like unannounced guests and she expects only you.” He motioned to his own guards to bring up the rear.
They walked into the redstone keep, the temperature dropping as soon as they set foot inside the halls. Danamis felt Citala reach for his hand. He quickly grasped it, gave it a squeeze, and then released her. They followed their guide, their swords and harness echoing in the immense corridor as they made their way deeper into the maze-like pile of ancient stonework. The foremost part of the palace was a series of great octagonal structures joined by corridors. As the party passed through the connecting passageways, bright sunlight shone through high narrow stained-glass windows, casting coloured reflections upon the pale flagstones.
The largest chamber followed, a huge octagon with flying buttresses of ancient oak and enough gilding for ten temples. A wistful smile came to Danamis’s face as their steps echoed across a floor chequered in red and white marble. It was here that he had first met Cressida as the courtiers played human dama, men against the women, in a large as life version of the table game. Instead of jumping a piece to seize it, the capturing player would exchange a kiss with the opponent and then occupy the space beyond. He was still a boyish man then and he remembered his heart pumping in his chest as the beautiful lady from Colonna drew closer, square by square, directed by the old king, Sempronius the First. It was the only time before or since he had ever wished to be captured.
Citala felt slightly ill at ease, the dark memory of the castle at Ivrea still fresh in her mind. These cold, hard human structures filled her with a sense of dread, of impending entrapment. Captain Caluro looked over his shoulder. “She will see you in the gardens today, my lord.” Citala felt relieved at the prospect. They turned left and down another great corridor lined with marble walls and floor, the ceiling a riot of criss-crossing rafters shining in gold leaf. At length they came to a large studded oak door. Caluro turned to them and stopped. “Only you, my lord—and your guest.”
Danamis nodded and turned to reassure his two guards, men he’d sailed with for so long they had beards of salt-and-pepper and brows as lined as an old chart. “Stay here, and don’t pinch anything.” He winked and they grinned back at him, ever the Palestrian pirates. The door squealed on its hinges as Caluro hauled it inwards and he and Citala passed through, Caluro at their heels. The brick-walled gardens were immaculate: dark green box hedge, cut in ordered geometric patterns, tall palms gently sagging, beds of tall foxglove of sensual purple and poppies the colour of fresh blood. Stately acanthus spread out along the gravelled pathway. Danamis saw the queen near a white marble fountain, her head down as if in thought or prayer. She was alone.
Caluro increased his pace and she turned as he approached. Danamis held back, placing his hand on Citala’s forearm. At length, Caluro beckoned for them to come forward. Danamis went first, making a deep bow, knee bent, his cap swept off as he did so. She nodded and gave him a smile. As he stood again, he took her in. Beautiful as ever but her face showing clear signs of worry and lack of sleep as when she had sat at council. She wore a dress of dark wine damask, cinched tight and high-waisted, a drape of ivory linen over her shoulders to shield her from the sun. Her long blonde hair was coifed and braided, wound into a whorl pinned at the back of her head.
“Good my lord, Nicolo!” she said softly. “I have eagerly awaited your visit. And I thought it better to speak out here, away from pryin
g eyes and eager ears.” Her gaze settled swiftly on the hooded figure a few paces behind him. “And who else do you bring with you?”
Nicolo extended his arm toward Citala. “My queen, this is Citala, daughter of the chieftain of the merfolk.” Citala stepped forward and threw back her hood. Cressida’s lips parted in astonishment but that was the extent of her surprise. She smiled and extended her hands. Citala bowed her head and silently accepted the queen’s welcome.
“You are welcome at my court. Would that Lord Nicolo had given me warning that you were to accompany him and I would have prepared a repast for you.” She glanced over to Danamis, a look of reproach on her face.
“I am sorry, my queen. It was rather a hasty decision.”
“No matter. I have heard tales of your adventures upon the sea with Nicolo. Perhaps we may have time to talk further.”
Citala bowed her head again. “I wanted to meet you. To tell you how much Nicolo has risked to serve you and the prince.”
Danamis nearly choked as Citala’s well-intentioned but presumptuous words met his ears. “My queen, the mer are not used to our customs. Please—”
Cressida raised her hand to stop him. “Do not apologise for her.” She smiled broadly. “She is a loyal friend to you... and she believes in you. As do I.” Cressida looked down at Citala’s hands that she still clasped in her own. “I have not ever seen a mer before today. Your hands are cold, even in the heat of the day, my dear. Is it always so?”
Citala nodded.
“Your race is like ours and then again not like ours. So many stories over the years. I feel remiss in not having met your kind before. Perhaps we can change all that. Let us walk.”
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