This Rough Magic (58 page)

Lately, she'd begun to realize that he had less of all of them than she'd thought.

He smiled rather abstractedly at her. "What are you doing up at this time of night, Sophia?"

"I might just ask you the same question, husband," she said archly, gliding toward him.

He yawned. "I've given orders that the guard are to call me when this prince goes wandering about. I don't trust him. He's undermining my authority among the men."

That won't be hard,
Sophia thought sarcastically. Her trafficking with the guards who let her in and out of the fortress, unofficially and for small bribes, had given her an insight into his real prestige.

But all she said was: "And?" with an enquiring tilt of the head.

"I was called to say he was up on the inner battlements." He looked furious, in the petty way of a child. "The fellow
just happened
to be there when a huge explosion went off behind enemy lines. And he says he knew nothing about what his man there was planning. Ha!"

He rose, came over, and put his arm around her. "So what
are
you doing up, Sophia?"

Dangerous moment. The truth—

I sneaked out of the fortress to see a Satanist with whom I sacrificed a black cockerel, and then he painted fertility sigils around my nipples and vagina, before I performed certain acts on him with my mouth and then later on myself with a polished piece of vine-root in a pentacle pointed with black candles. 
 

—was not going to be well received.

"I heard the explosion." She hadn't noticed it, but he plainly had. "I was worried, so I dressed and came looking for you."

"It's fine, dear," he said, patting her reassuringly. "Just some saboteurs attacking the Hungarians."

Best to distract him. "It's so comforting that you're in control," she murmured, leaning into him. "You're so manly!"

She felt his chest swell under her hands. "Yes, there's nothing for you to worry about." His own hands were starting to wander.

Sophia stroked his chest, calculating for a moment. Her cloak was dropped just in front of the cabinet in which the brandy decanter stood. She certainly didn't want him going that way for a nightcap!

No help for it, then. She successfully managed to lead him to her bedroom. She blew out the candles in the fancy girandole, making everything dark, since there was no way to remove the insignia now.

The painted sigils felt hot, and so did she. For the first time in at least two years, she actually enjoyed sex with her husband. Not the sex itself—Nico was as clumsy and oafish in bed as the cavalry captain Querini—but what surrounded it. The knowledge of her duplicity, her sin, inflamed her.

Afterwards, as they lay in the warm darkness, she realized she could take further advantage of the now-rare moment.

"So why are you so suspicious of this prince? He could further your career."

Her husband snorted. "He seeks to ruin it, more likely! He is close friends with Petro Dorma. You know my father was a close friend of the late Doge, and also with Ricardo Brunelli, who was seen as the Doge-in-waiting.
Casa
Dorma's ascension has been a severe blow to us. The prince controls a sizable cavalry force, but the Knights will not take orders from anyone but him. He's refused to hand them over to me."

"Refused?"

"In the politest way. But refused nonetheless. And he's meddling in the defense of the Citadel." He patted her derriere. "Anyway. Why am I boring you with all this politics, eh? Some things it is best a woman doesn't know."

"You don't trust me," she pouted, tracing patterns on his chest. The sigil Ogerda, which Master Morando had told her was the sign for control. He'd also asked her for inside news on the siege. She was determined to find out something for him.

"Of course I trust you dear, but it is quite confidential."

"You're teasing me." She started teasing him, quite a bit more physically.

"Don't stop." His voice sounded somewhat breathless.

"Only if you stop keeping all these secrets from me!"

"Very well. If you go on . . . Well, you remember the prince's bodyguard?"

"Erik Hakkonsen. Handsome, blond, worried-looking."

"As handsome as me?"

"Of course not! Go on." To encourage him, she began applying some of the new skills Morando was teaching her. Her husband gasped a little, then:

"The prince lied to me about the Icelander being landed before they came here. I remember him. And now, he has somehow left the Citadel and started a campaign in the countryside, trying to rally some of the peasants. Silly business! War should be left to regular soldiers, not mules pretending to be men. But what's even worse is that"—Tomaselli's voice grew heavy with indignation as well as passion—" he sneaked out of here without my permission. Didn't even consult me! He's out there with that snotty Vinlander woman who tried to come and stay here in the Citadel."

"Really? This Erik broke out after the siege started? A likely story. He must be in league with the Hungarians. I wouldn't be in the least surprised to find this prince in league with them too, the way he openly consorts with that woman of his. Rumor has it she was a
cortegiana
. No morals at all."

By now, her husband's mind was addled enough by what Sophia was doing not to find anything amiss in the utterly illogical conclusions his wife was advancing. Sophia filled her mouth again just to keep from laughing. Addling Nico Tomaselli's mind was not much of a challenge.

"Yes, mistress, I think all is going well."

The image of Countess Bartholdy floating over the blood-bowl frowned a little. "Make sure it doesn't go
too
well, Bianca. I want this siege to drag on and on. It'll take months of frustration before Emeric will finally be willing to come to me for help."

"I understand, mistress." Casarini hesitated. Then, decided that risking Bartholdy's immediate displeasure was less dangerous than risking eventual failure. "But it would help me—considerably—if I had some better idea of what you are specifically seeking."

The frown on the countess's face deepened. Bianca grew tense. Elizabeth Bartholdy was less concerned than Bianca herself with the way in which grimaces could, over centuries and millennia, permanently distort her face. But she was not oblivious to the problem. To see such a frown on her face was . . . frightening, to anyone who really knew her.

Thankfully, the frown eased, replaced by that silvery little laugh. "Very well. I suppose I have kept you a bit too much in the dark. You needn't concern yourself with my final goal, Bianca, but . . . Let's just say that I need to inveigle my great-great-nephew to release some magics on the island which will advance my purposes. In order for that to happen, however, he will need to leave the siege and come visit me in my castle near the Carpathians."

Immediately, Bianca understood the point. Emeric of Hungary was one of those kings who insisted on meddling with the military details of his campaigns—much to his officers' despair and, often enough, grisly punishment. It would not be easy to get him to leave the siege in order to make the long journey from Corfu to the Carpathians.

A
long
siege, then, stretching through the summer and autumn and well into the winter.

Bianca had no control, of course, over the military side of the matter. Although—

"At a certain point, mistress, it may be necessary to have Captain-General Tomaselli removed. He's such an incompetent commander that, with him in charge—constantly interfering, rather—it may be impossible to prevent Emeric from simply taking the Citadel by force, before winter comes. The defense would be far stronger if it was fully in the hands of the garrison commander, Leopoldo—especially with Prince Manfred and his Knights here. They seem to get along well with Commander Leopoldo."

Elizabeth pondered her words, for a moment. "True. But keep in mind the opposite risk. I
do
also want Corfu to fall to my great-great-nephew, eventually." She cocked her head slightly. "You understand that if the military defense is capable enough, everything will eventually depend on treachery. Well . . . treachery combined with what I will unleash on Corfu. I will provide the magics—but will you be able, when the time comes, to provide the treason?"

This was no time for hesitation. Bianca nodded firmly. "Yes, mistress. I will."

"See to it, then." The image of the countess began to fade. Within seconds, it was gone.

For the next hour or so, after cleaning up all signs of the ritual, Bianca sat in her room simply thinking. She'd gambled, making her claim to the countess, and now she had to make good on it.

By the end, she'd reached two conclusions. One pleasant, one not.

She'd already reached the tentative conclusion anyway, once the siege began, that she'd have to have her "uncle and aunt" killed sooner or later. It was already cumbersome, the way she had to sneak around and keep her activities a secret from them. Over time, the needs of her work would be impossible to hide from people living in the same house—especially the assignations she'd have to begin with one of Fianelli's men.

That was the pleasant conclusion. Betraying those who had given you their trust was always enjoyable to Bianca—not to mention spiritually profitable. Casarini, like her mistress, hoped to cheat Satan out of her soul. But doing so required emulating the Great One in all respects. She was already doing quite well in that regard, she thought. Killing her "relatives" would enhance her progress further.

She began considering the ways to accomplish that. But then, guided by years of rigorous self-discipline, put the matter aside in order to ponder the other conclusion.

Not pleasant, that one. For some years now, sex had stopped being anything for Bianca Casarini other than a means to an end. Still . . .

Eventually, she was going to have to betray Fianelli also. And the surest way to do that was to form a liaison with one of Fianelli's three chief goons. Between the pleasures of her body and the lure of taking his boss's place, Bianca was confident she could manage it.

Paulo Saluzzo, she decided. That won't be so bad. At least he's Florentine and takes a bath more than once a week. 

The next day, Bianca began both projects. At midday, by wearing a rather provocative gown when she went to meet Paulo Saluzzo in order to pass on further information to his boss Fianelli. Bianca was normally careful to wear nothing but modest attire whenever she met Fianelli or any of his goons.

Saluzzo noticed—immediately—but was suave enough to do nothing more than give her a fairly subtle ogle, and a leer that could charitably be called a friendly smile.

Bianca did not return the smile. Moving too quickly would make Saluzzo suspicious. He
was
Florentine, after all. This needed some finesse. In any event, Bianca was in no hurry.

"And make sure you stress to Fianelli that we need to start setting up a sacrificial lamb," she said sternly. "That whore of the prince's—the one who calls herself 'de Chevreuse'—she's a canny one. My informants tell me she's already more or less running the Citadel's countertreason work. There's no way she won't spot something, sooner or later. When that time comes, we need to have made sure that someone else's head goes on the block."

Saluzzo grunted. The sound was mildly sarcastic. "Don't teach double-dealing to double-dealers, Signorina Casarini. Fianelli's already got the man picked out, and Zanari's starting to work on him. Nachelli's his name. He's a small-time loan shark and rent collector. Too greedy for his own good. We'll cut him in on just enough to make him visible, without letting him know enough to lead anyone to us."

Bianca had her doubts. How could you "cut someone in"
without
the man knowing your own identity? But . . .

Fianelli was direct, after all, and not squeamish in the least. Presumably, when the time came, he would see to it that the Venetian authorities would be trying to interrogate a corpse.

She'd leave that to Fianelli and his thugs. Bianca had her own plans for getting rid of them, when the time came. They'd be her sacrificial lambs, just as this Nachelli would be theirs.

She left the hidden alley where her meetings with Saluzzo took place. They couldn't afford to be spotted, so the meetings were always very brief. On her way past him, she felt Saluzzo's fingers brushing her hip. But it was a tentative thing, more in the way of an automatic reflex to the gown and what it suggested than anything serious. Saluzzo was not actually stupid, and he would understand as well as she did that there was no safe place for them to pursue any affair. They might be able to find a place hidden from public eyes, to be sure. But they'd also have to keep it hidden from Fianelli—and that would be a lot more difficult.

The knowledge would frustrate Saluzzo, and for weeks to come.
Good.
After she arranged the killing of her "relatives," Saluzzo would be that much more eager to pursue Bianca, now that she had a house of her own in which to meet him.

When she'd arrived on Corfu, the year before, Bianca had brought several large pieces of luggage with her. There were secret compartments in two of those valises, where she kept her grimoires hidden along with her magical tools and ingredients. After pleading a headache to her "aunt" and "uncle," she spent the afternoon in her room studying the texts. By nightfall, she'd decided on the method she would use.

It required the blood of innocents, of course—and no mere animal blood. Not for that ritual.

Bianca rose and put away the grimoires. Then, moved to the window in her room. Looking down, she could see the narrow street of the Citadel which her room overlooked. As always, these days—even in this relatively prosperous area of the fortress, set aside for Venetians—the street swarmed with people. Children, many of them, and most of those beggars.

A little boy, perhaps five years old, looked up at her window and gave her a big smile. It was a beggar's smile, seeking aid from the fine lady.

Not all
that
innocent, to be sure, not with that trace of calculation which had no business on the face of a five-year-old. But . . .