"How could you, you bitch! How could you! I'm the laughingstock of the Citadel. I'll be the laughingstock of all Venice when the siege is over. I'll never hold another position of authority you—you— My mother was right! I should never have married you!"
She drew herself up. "Nico, I did this for you. I went to this man to try and see if there was something—anything—I could do to have the heir you needed."
He snorted disdainfully. "Ha. Yes. By turning yourself into a
puttana
! By sleeping with half my officers! Grand. You give me an heir that isn't even
mine.
"
She looked down her nose at him. "Those are absolutely trumped-up lies, Nico Tomaselli! As if I would ever desire another man but you." She sniffed. "I thought it was a fertility rite. Harmless. And they . . . they made out we were having orgies and . . . and all I wanted was a baby for you." She burst into calculated tears. They had never failed her before.
But they did this time. He folded his arms, and not around her. "Even if it were true, it's not what people are going to say. Venice takes a dim view of these things. That new Doge, Dorma, is very straightlaced. Why, he even exiled his own ward for his antics and they were nothing like being paraded through half the streets of the Citadel, screaming and fighting, stark naked. I don't know how I will ever hold up my head in Venice again!"
"Then don't."
"What choice do I have, Sophia?" he demanded. "What choice have you left me?" His weak man's rage was beginning to build again.
Sophia had one last card left to pay. One last token from Morando, which she'd been trying to think of a way to use for weeks. It had come, magically transported, her lover had said. He'd suggested she make a lever out of it. She'd hesitated, but . . .
Now she had no choice.
"I have to show you something. In my bedroom."
"I'm not interested right now."
"You will be. Come." She simply walked up to her room.
By the time he got there, she'd taken out the folded letter. "Here." She handed it to him.
He looked at the address. The seal. "Who opened a letter to me from the Doge?" he demanded.
"I did. Because I love you and look after you. Open it. See how well Venice rewards you for your loyal service after all these years!"
He opened the letter. She watched as his ruddy face turned pale. He looked as if he were about to burst into tears. "Who cares what they think of you in Venice?" she demanded. "Let us go where they will appreciate us!"
He bit his knuckle. "Damn Dorma. Damn him to hell. Leopoldo in my place! After all I've done here!"
It was entirely typical of her husband, Sophia thought contemptuously, that he never thought to ask her how she'd obtained the letter. But, not for the first time, she was glad he was a fundamentally stupid man. She was in desperate straits herself, now—with outright treason as her only option.
"Damn, drat, and blast the man for an interfering busybody!" said Francesca furiously. "I've had a watch on Fianelli for
weeks
—and now, thanks to Lopez's meddling, I've lost him. He was gone before the soldiers got to his shop. Who cares about Morando? He was just a minor player, working for Fianelli."
Manfred patted her soothingly. "There, dear. Look at it this way—you'll have a splendid time finding him again."
If looks could kill, Manfred would have been ripe for burial. "It's not a game, Manfred!" she said, in such a tone that even he sat up straight. "Morando by himself was nothing. Fianelli was
dangerous.
He still may be.
Somehow
he was getting information out—Fianelli,
not
Morando—in a way that none of your clever men suspected, and that nothing you did uncovered. If he was getting information out, what did he get
in
? What
could
he get in?"
Von Gherens looked puzzled. "If you knew who he was weeks ago, why didn't you let us deal with him then?"
Francesca eyed him darkly. "Von Gherens, you are to intrigue what deportment lessons are to a brothel."
The
Ritter
thought about this one for a while. "Useful, you mean? So why didn't we deal with this spy weeks ago, Francesca? I don't get it, like the deportment lessons."
"I'd guess she was planning to start feeding him wrong information," said Manfred, yawning. "She'd have had Morando arrested quietly, and blackmailed him into turning on his former allies."
Francesca smiled on him. "You're proof it is possible for someone to learn even if carrying all that armor starves the brain of blood. That's one reason. The other was I wanted the final link. I wanted to know how he was getting the information out to Emeric."
Von Gherens rubbed his broken nose. "You should have talked to Eneko Lopez earlier, then. You could have helped each other. Each of you had what the other needed."
"What do you mean?"
Von Gherens crossed himself. "I mean Fianelli was the Satanist Eneko was actually looking for. He was using demonic magic to send the information. Eneko and his friends had detected him sending it, but couldn't find him. You found him, but couldn't work out how he sent it. You two should talk."
Francesca gritted her teeth. "I should have. And I will."
Captain-General Tomaselli was not the most effective soldier or administrator. Privately, he knew that. But he'd tried. He had been loyal to Venice. That they should promote that—that—
upstart
Leopoldo into his place was unbearable. It was unfair! And thinking of that unfairness, Tomaselli dwelled more and more on the unthinkable.
He could ask for a great deal, if he switched his allegiance to the Hungarians. He wouldn't have to soldier or administrate any more, things which he was not really good at. And Sophia would be out of jail. He'd been horrified when apologetic soldiers had come to fetch her again. Those damned disrespectful
scuolo
sluts! How dare that woman swear out a charge against Sophia? He'd taken small, but satisfying steps to have some of her family's ration reduced. After all, her husband wasn't working.
Now all he needed was a way to contact Emeric to make a deal.
He would talk to Sophia. She might have some idea how he could do it. She was the only one he could trust. It was clear to him now that the charges against her were all false; she'd been betrayed as surely as he had. And he could take her some decent food and wine again. He went as often as three times a day, anyway. Her trial . . . He'd have to reach a deal before then. They'd conspired against her thus far. The trial would be a mockery, of course, magnifying her small digressions into vast things as a way of getting at
him
. That was what was behind the whole thing, he now understood.
Well, he'd show them.
"What are you
doing
here?" hissed the man who opened the door for Fianelli. The secretary for the podesta glanced over his shoulder nervously, looking to see if there was anyone in the corridor behind him.
Fianelli shouldered his way past him. "Close the door, you idiot, instead of gawping at me."
Hastily, Meletios Loukaris closed the back door, which served as the delivery entrance for Governor De Belmondo's palace. That done, the podesta's secretary started hissing another protest. But Fianelli silenced him by the simple expedient of clamping a hand over his mouth.
Fianelli was not a big man, and fat besides, but the secretary was smaller still—and slightly-built. He had no chance of resisting Fianelli with sheer muscle. So be it. In a former life, in Constantinople, Loukaris had carried out several assassinations. Despite his initial nervous reaction at seeing Fianelli, the secretary knew that he was alone in the rear portions of the palace. He could kill Fianelli, then dispose of the body by—
But, as his hand slid into his cloak and closed over the hilt of the special blade he kept hidden there, he felt Fianelli's other hand clamping onto his wrist. The criminal boss was stronger than he looked.
"Don't even
think
of trying to use that needle on me, Loukaris. Forget those silly Byzantine political games. I'm a lot tougher than you'll ever be."
To emphasize the point, Fianelli hauled the secretary's hand out of the cloak and slammed his knuckles against the wall. The little needle-shaped stiletto clattered onto the tiles. Then, for good measure, Fianelli pounded Loukaris's head against the wall also. Twice, and hard enough to daze him.
When his senses cleared—and to his surprise—Loukaris saw that Fianelli was extending the stiletto to him. Hilt first.
"Here, take it back. You might need it later." Fianelli gave him a piercing look. "
We
might need it. We're still in business, Loukaris. The only thing that's changed is that you'll be hiding me, from now on."
Loukaris took the stiletto. He considered trying to kill Fianelli with it, for just an instant, but discarded the idea as if it were a hot coal in his bare hand. True, Meletios Loukaris had killed before. But his victims had all been aristocratic elderly men, and one woman, none of whom had Fianelli's criminal history and skills. The secretary had no doubt at all that Fianelli would overcome him—and then shove the stiletto into his own throat.
Quickly, he slipped the stiletto back into its special pouch. "This is
dangerous
for me. If anyone spots you—the alarm's out all over the fortress—"
Fianelli was faster that he looked, too. His fat, heavy hand cracked across Loukaris's cheek. "Shut up. You'll hide me in your own chambers. Nobody ever goes in there except you, do they?"
"The maid," complained Loukaris, rubbing his cheek. Fianelli's slap had been hard enough to really
hurt.
The criminal boss grunted. "We'll figure something out."
A horrid thought came to the secretary. "What about your men? I can't—"
Fianelli waved his hand. "Don't worry about them. It'll just be me. They've made their own arrangements, whatever they are." He grunted. "Not that I care. If they get caught, they have no idea where I am since I never told them about you."
He jerked a thumb forward. "Now show me the way to your chambers."
By the time they got there, moving carefully through the corridors of the palace, Loukaris had already figured out the solution.
"She only comes in once a day. Always in the early afternoon." Sullenly, he went over to a very large freestanding dresser and swung the doors open. The dresser was full of clothes, since the secretary to the governor fancied himself something of a dandy. "You can hide behind the cloaks and stuff. There's room in the back, and the lazy slattern never looks in here anyway."
"Good enough." Slowly, Fianelli's eyes scanned the room. By the end, he had a crooked smile on his face. "You'll have to share the bed. Unless
you
want to sleep on the divan. No way I'm going to."
The secretary grimaced. The bed wasn't really that big, but . . .
He'd already more or less resigned himself to the inevitable.
By the end of the evening, his resignation had become complete.
Fianelli forced him to watch the ritual he used to conjure up the image of their mutual master, King Emeric of Hungary. Loukaris had never known that Fianelli was a sorcerer, in addition to everything else.
"Still in business, like I said." Fianelli seemed very satisfied. He'd also forced Loukaris to clean up the traces of the ritual. "I get the wall side of the bed."
"You can have all of it." Loukaris almost gagged on the words. It had only been chicken blood, but he felt like he might vomit. "I think I'll sleep on the divan."
"Smart man," murmured Fianelli. The squat criminal boss gave the podesta's secretary a look that combined menace and complacency. And well he might. To Loukaris, he looked like the King of the Frog Demons—contemplating a fly.
"The Barbary corsairs and the Genovese are uneasy allies, Grand Duke," said Count Mindaug. "They're traditional enemies. Of course, both sides hate the Venetians like poison but still . . . It is a fragile alliance. Alexius may be a weak reed, but he is being a very effective stopper to the Dardanelles."
"And what news have you from the Holy Roman Emperor, Mindaug?"
It didn't surprise Mindaug at all that Jagiellon knew of his secret messenger from Germany. His communications with Hungary were far more carefully orchestrated. "The Emperor is worse. He took the news that his nephew is trapped on Corfu by Emeric's men as reason to find more energy, to organize things. But now he is sliding again. His campaign against Emeric is a measure of the man."
"Why? It seems quite a small campaign."
"It is meant to be. The Emperor knows he is dying. He doesn't want his heir to take over with a huge war on his hands. A conquest of Hungary would be an immense war, even for the Empire. This one is designed to cost Emeric a great deal—but it will do so only if he doesn't react to it. The Emperor knows that Emeric simply cannot leave such an incursion alone, when it becomes clear what ignoring it will cost him. Frankly, in my opinion, because Emeric believes himself the greatest commander alive, he would be unable to ignore any challenge, however insignificant, that threatened what he holds. The effort, I should guess, is to get him to withdraw from Corfu to protect assets closer to home."
Jagiellon's black eyes stared into nothingness. Then he turned to Mindaug again. "And have you progressed at all with your researches into the magic of Corfu?"
"In one respect, yes. I have been investigating the works of one Trigomenses Commensus. He has recorded various nonhuman interviews, attempting by virtue of their long lives to piece together early history. It appears that, back when Corfu was part of the mainland, it was the center of a fertility cult, long before the area was overrun by invaders—perhaps the Dorians. The nonhumans he questioned—dryads, undines and satyrs—regarded the place as sacred, too. It is an old place."
"I know that it is an old place, once regarded as being of great power. I can feel no trace of any great power there now, myself, though. Yet my slave and the shaman are not succeeding in their quest there. They are being magically hampered, but I do not know by what or exactly how. It is like wrestling smoke! I need to find the source of this and know if it can be harnessed. This began as an exercise in attempting to flank the Holy Roman Empire. It has become a search for whatever it is that can even thwart the magic of the shaman. He is an adept of great strength."