This Rough Magic (46 page)

Manfred felt those powerful long-fingered hands squeeze his shoulders. "I understand now. You have been a friend for some time now. I just hadn't understood. If I have sons . . . I will send them to learn this, too. The Clann Harald are loyal to their oath. They are also loyal to friends.
Linn gu Linn."
 

The emotion in that voice told Manfred that his uncle had been perfectly right. Manfred also knew that buying loyalty wasn't his reason for doing this.

Manfred stood up, and put an arm around Erik. He felt emotion thickening his throat and voice, and didn't try to stop it. "Wouldn't have mattered a bugger what Uncle Charles Fredrik said anyway. You need to go. You're going. I've made up my mind."

Erik took a deep breath. "Very well. Under certain conditions, which you will swear to me. First, Von Gherens will become your constant bodyguard. Second, you will not leave this fortress, unless I return or the siege is lifted. You will not make it a repetition of the affair of the Red Cat. You will
not
come after me. Promise me this."

Manfred was intensely grateful that Erik had not been there when Francesca had explained just how insecure the Citadel really was. "If there is a sally, I must lead the knights, Erik. You know that yourself. And this is a siege—God knows what will happen if Emeric breaks through. But within those limits . . . I'll swear. My Oath on it."

"If there is a sally. But don't stretch it." Erik took a deep breath. "Manfred, I didn't think you understood what it meant to be in love with someone. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

That didn't make Manfred feel much better about Svanhild. But all he said was: "Well, let's go and organize a small boat and see if we can find that Corfiote sailor who doesn't know the draft of a great galley."

Sitting under a tasseled awning in front of his tented pavilion, King Emeric regarded the Citadel in the growing dusk. Oxen had proved more of a problem than he'd anticipated. The islanders seemed to rely heavily on donkeys. Unfortunately, the heavy forty-eight-pound bombards really needed teams of oxen to move them. And the cannon of the Citadel and the island of Vidos commanded the deep-water landings for some distance. The carracks had too deep a draft to bring them in the way that those bedamned galleys had run up the beach. The bigger guns were too heavy and too unwieldy to unload onto lighters and bring in. They needed a dock, a quay next to which the ships could tie up.

Unfortunately, the nearest spot they'd been able to find was the village of Patara, nearly a league away. Emeric had had his cavalry scouring the countryside for oxen, or even mules, to move the guns. And now to make matters worse, it looked like rain. He was scowling ferociously when the senior Byzantine captain of the seven carracks that had just come in from Constantinople arrived. The Greek saluted smartly.

"Well, Captain?"

"Sire, the Venetian Outremer Convoy had arrived in Negroponte before we left. They should be on their way to the Golden Horn by now, except for the vessels heading for the Holy Land."

"While that is good news, I wanted to know if you'd brought the supplies Alexius agreed to provide. And why you are late?"

The captain bowed. "Contrary winds, Sire. And this morning we met, engaged and captured a Venetian great galley. I have her captain and most of her crew prisoner."

The captain cleared his throat. "They were carrying certain dispatches addressed to the Doge, the Grand Metropolitan and the Holy Roman Emperor. The captain, one Bernardo Selvi, pleaded for his life, saying he could give you valuable information. He has agreed to cooperate fully with us. I have promised him his life in return, Sire. He told me he was part of a charter for Prince Manfred of Brittany, and some two hundred Knights of the Holy Trinity, going to Jerusalem. They were on board their four vessels when they were attacked by a combined fleet of Dalmatian pirates and carracks bearing your banner. He said the others plan a night landing, perhaps at the very Citadel itself."

"Your news comes a little too late, Captain," Emeric said grimly. "Nonetheless I will see the prisoner and the letters he was transporting. Have them sent up to me."

The Byzantine saluted crisply again. "At once, Sire. And where and when shall I have my men land the food supplies?"

Emeric smiled his thin-lipped, crooked, and utterly humorless smile. "Vessels are discharging about a league away at a village called Patara. See the goods get handed over to my quartermaster there, see you don't get in the way of my cannon being off-loaded, and see I get the prisoner and his letters very, very fast."

"Sire!" The Byzantine saluted and left at a half-run.

Emeric, for the first time since the galleys had arrived that morning, felt something akin to pleasure. He enjoyed seeing Byzantines run. And the fact that the Holy Roman Empire's best troops were here purely by accident, caught up in this because they were on their way to Jerusalem, was excellent news. He must tell his spymasters to stop searching for the leak in his security.

Four men-at-arms from the Byzantine vessels and a prisoner, shackled neck-and-legs, arrived shortly thereafter. The prisoner was an elderly, slightly stooped man with a wattled chin. He fell on his knees before Emeric. "Spare me, Your Majesty. Spare me, I beg you," he wept.

Emeric stood up, put his hands on either side of the man's head, and forced him to look him in the eyes. He hardly needed to do anything; the Venetian was already crying with fear. Still, there was more to exerting his power than simply the need to cow.

"But of course, my dear chap. Provided you tell me what I need to know."

He blinked, and released a spell. A bolt of searing pain shook the captive. His back arched and he fell over backwards. The Venetian captain lay there on the ground gibbering, whimpering and crying. Emeric ignored him and held out his hand to the escorts. "The letters."

Hastily one of the men fumbled open a leather message pouch and handed the king the three letters. Two were sealed with the Imperial seal of the Holy Roman Empire, and addressed to Emperor Charles Fredrik and Doge Petro Dorma, respectively. The other was addressed to the Grand Metropolitan in Rome. Emeric walked to his desk, a particularly fine ivory-inlaid escritoire, pulled a stiletto out of a drawer and carefully cut the seal away. He walked closer to a multi-wicked lamp and read the letter, his smile growing more feral all the while. A prince of the Empire, no less—now, within Hungary's fist.

The king turned back to the Venetian captain still kneeling on the floor. "You will explain the purpose of this voyage. You will also tell me about this prince, or I will give you more pain. If you do well, I will reward you with my mercy."

When Selvi had done, Emeric called to his guards. "Take him out there and crucify him next to that fool who brought me news of the lost troop."

"You promised me mercy!" screamed the captain.

Emeric shrugged. "I lied."

Sophia Tomaselli looked nervously about. Despite the hooded cloak and the lateness of the hour, she really didn't want to be found here. The address, given to her in the strictest confidence by Bianca Casarini, was not a part of the Citadel she'd ever visited before. The poorer houses down inside the outer curtain wall were not in a place she would have admitted knowing even existed.

But she'd try anything. Now, especially, with her husband Nico's status likely to rise because of the siege.

Anything. She'd already tried at least twenty potions. All that they had done was to make her sick. She'd tried everything from saints' bones to amulets that made her clothing smell faintly of dead rat. She'd even, on Bianca's advice, tried a different man. She snorted at the thought. The young cavalry commander Querini thought he was the world's greatest lover. His breath smelled of onions. Then there'd been the long, nervous wait, to find her courses ran as normally as ever. And now she had to put up with a stream of lewd suggestions from the fool Querini.

She knocked on the dingy door, glancing hastily around to see if there was anyone in sight. The street was deserted, as far as she could see anyway. She knocked again, slightly harder.

The door swung open. At first glance the man standing there was not very impressive. She'd expected robes, not ordinary clothes. He was tall and stooped, and framed against the light his hair was sleeked and perfectly ordered. The most occult thing about him was a rather neat beard. "S . . . signor Morando?"

He nodded, cocked his head inquiringly, and said in a voice which was just faintly sibilant. "You have the advantage of me. Who are you and why have you come here?"

"S . . . signorina Casarini said you might be able to help . . ."

Bianca Casarini's name acted like a magical talisman. The man beamed. "Come in, signora." He ushered her forward respectfully, closed the door behind her. "And how may I help you, signora? Potions to draw a lover? To inflame passions? Perhaps to deal with some unfortunate consequences?" He rubbed his long hands.

"I want something to assist fertility. Not quack potions."

He looked at her thoughtfully, but didn't say anything.

"Please!" she said. "I'm desperate. I can pay well."

"There are certain rituals. You understand, they are frowned on by the Church?"

She laughed bitterly. "The Church hasn't exactly helped me so far. And they're a lot richer for not helping."

He nodded slowly. "Very well. Wait here. There are certain preparations I must make."

By the time he returned he looked far more like her idea of a practitioner of the black arts, right down to the robe. His eyebrows flared satanically and his beard and mustachios were now waxed to sharp points.

"Come," he said. "The sacrificial chamber is prepared. You must now be prepared. I must blindfold you."

Part of Sophia filled with fear at the idea of "sacrifice." But there was a guilty fascination too.

Stepping out into the cold street, Sophia wasn't too sure what time it was. Her head was still mazed from the liquid in that chalice—or perhaps from the smoke in that room. She would have to wash her hair to get rid of the smell of it. Next time . . . and she felt the compulsion to admit there would be a next time—she must make sure she was dressed in something easier to remove. She would have to undress herself until the symbols he'd painted on her washed off. She could feel them. They seemed to have a heat of their own.

She stumbled. It was very dark, and a fine rain had begun to fall. She put out a hand to keep in contact with the wall. She heard the sound of footsteps. A number of people. She shrank back against the buildings, until they passed. At least six men. One, even in the darkness, loomed huge. They were carrying something between them, and they didn't notice her.

After they were well gone, Sophia continued hastily on her way home. Whatever those men were up to it was bound to be no good. But there was no way she could report it, without implicating herself. Thank heavens for Bianca's wild ways. She had told Sophia which guards were susceptible to bribes.

Sitting back in a comfortable chair, the black robes thankfully tossed off, and a glass of ouzo in hand, Aldo Morando grinned sharkishly. He'd hooked a big one tonight. A very big one. Did the wife of the captain-general think, honestly think, he wouldn't recognize her? Even if his accomplice Bianca Casarini hadn't told him she'd be coming, he'd have recognized Sophia Tomaselli.

Morando had been many things in a long and varied career. Pimp. Spy. Procurer. Seller of "saints" relics. Seller of shares in
Colleganzas
that were remarkably lacking in substance. And latterly . . . magician.

He would never have believed the number of wealthy idiots just dying to pay over good money for some wicked thrills. Particularly women with too much money and too much time on their hands. With husbands who had long sought mistresses, or were much away. Of course things could get a bit hot with the Church, and with injured husbands, from time to time, which was why he had been obliged to leave the Italian mainland. Corfu, he had been sure, would be far enough away. He'd been dismayed, at first, seeing Bianca Casarini here, but she was proving to be a remarkably good accomplice for him.

He put down his glass and gazed cheerfully at the stack of ducats on the table. Besides that, Sophia Tomaselli would be a mine of information. Very valuable information in the right hands, and he knew where to find those hands. To think he'd been angry about the siege. Well, he was now sure that he wouldn't go hungry, and the opportunity for pleasure as well as profit—she wanted to get pregnant, after all, and she wasn't bad-looking—was considerable.

A tall graveyard poplar grew flush against the cliff that was topped by the old Byzantine fortress. The cliff beside it was too high and too steep to make the tree any threat to the integrity of the fortress. The tree itself was, in the fashion of the plant, densely packed with small branches. Attempting to climb it would have been folly, anyway: The thin branches would cascade the climber down again.

About twenty-five cubits up, the branches masked a narrow gash of an opening into the cliffs. If you ascended the ladder, and then walked back along it, the cave widened considerably into a labyrinth of passages. Once, many years ago, these would have acted as one of the defenses of this place. Now you just had to follow the most worn path in the stone. It had taken the passage of many feet over many long years to wear away the stone, to round and smooth the steps. The sacred chamber was lit by a small oil lamp. Right now all was silent except for the steady slow trickle and splash of the fountain that fed the holy pool between the two altars, the great Goddess's altar and the smaller, darker one.

The white half-almond lay on the black stone. Waiting, for someone to come and take it up, and all that it represented. Behind the larger altar, half-hidden in the shadows, was the image of the Goddess Herself. It towered over the altar and it was old, old—older, some said, than the island itself. It did not look anything like the graceful statues of the great Grecian sculptors from the island's glory days. It was not even anything like those earlier images, stiff and rigid, with fixed, staring eyes and jutting breasts like twin mountain peaks. No, this was more like a pile of boulders, round-headed and faceless, with the merest suggestion of hair and of arms and legs, and enormous, sagging breasts and belly, the hallmark of fertility and plenty. And there was, if you looked at Her long enough, the suggestion of a faint haze of gold about her, and the feeling that She was looking back at you, out of her eyeless face.