This Rough Magic (64 page)

"One of your grandfather's emissaries. He's away right now, by the way. In Verona. A matter of a treaty."

"With the Scaligers? But they're our enemies."

The man shrugged. Benito recognized the gesture. He had indeed seen this man before, but until he'd seen that shrug, he'd been less than certain about it. "In the politics of princes, expediency is the key. At the moment, Verona leans away from Milan—and in uncertain times like these we need allies, even unsavory ones like the Scaligers."

Benito made a show of examining a blade. "What's uncertain? I thought things had stabilized nicely after the Holy Roman Emperor let it be known that Venice was his friend in the region, if not formally an ally. Or isn't this true any more, Signor Bartelozzi?" He said it in a tone that would suggest the merits of a so-so blade being discussed.

Antimo Bartelozzi allowed him a flicker of a smile. "Not since the Holy Roman Emperor fell suddenly and very seriously ill. A problem with his heart, they say. Now, I think we will part ways and you will go to a nearby inn, just up the road a ways. The Mandoril, it's called. The food's good, and your follower can be dealt with. I'll be there to talk to you later."

Walking to the inn near the gate, Benito looked for followers. Now that he was aware of it, he spotted the fellow fairly easily. He was good to a Caesare-fit sort of level. It took him some time to spot the second one, Bartelozzi's man, who was even better at it.

Knowing Bartelozzi's reputation, Benito made no attempt to shake them off. That problem would soon be solved. He went to the Mandoril, asked for a room and some dinner. After washing up, he went down to the tavern's main room and enjoyed a solitary supper of
risotto con finocchi
and a bottle of Venegazzù from Treviso. He reveled in the pleasure of familiar, simple, northern food again.

When he returned to his room, Antimo Bartelozzi was sitting there, waiting.

"The fellow marking you is following someone out on the road to Venice. He won't be returning," said the spymaster with grim certitude. "Now. What brings you to Ferrara, Milord Benito Valdosta? Your grandfather believes you to be in Corfu."

Antimo Bartelozzi was, Benito knew, the operative his grandfather used for family business. The best and most trusted; an exemplary assassin, too.

"I'm here
because
of Corfu. The island has been invaded. I've just come from there—via Sicily and the west coast of Italy—because the Byzantines and Dalmatian pirates are blockading the Adriatic."

Although Bartelozzi was not likely to let fall any expressions that might betray his feelings or his thoughts, his eyes did narrow, just a trifle. "Byzantium has attacked Venetian possessions? Alexius must be further gone into debauchery than we had thought. But he has been having dealing with emissaries out of Odessa."

"He's allied himself with Emeric of Hungary."

Bartelozzi showed no surprise. "We have had reports of emissaries going to and fro. But we assumed that it was for mutual cooperation against Iskander Beg. The mountain chief controls quite some part of Epirus that Alexius lays nominal claim to." Bartelozzi's voice grew very dry. "The duke said that if Alexius was fool enough to prefer Emeric for a neighbor to Iskander Beg he deserved what he would undoubtedly get. Giving Emeric a foothold on Corfu is sheer insanity. But we have suspected for some time that Alexius is unwell in the head."

"Well, Emeric is there all right. You can see his pavilion from the Citadel. All gold and crimson. His Magyar are pretty recognizable too." Benito sucked his teeth. "I've been instructed to relay this to the Imperial embassy in Venice. But if there is someone I could speak to here, it might save days."

"Unfortunately
Ritter
Von Augsberg has gone with the duke to Verona. All of Italy north of Naples has been in something of a turmoil since word came that the Emperor has fallen gravely ill. For all that many people disliked him—his policies, if not the man himself—the truth is that Charles Fredrik has been a pillar of stability in Europe for decades. If he dies . . ."

Bartelozzi shook his head. "I will of course prepare a full report for your grandfather, but I think the best would be for you to proceed with all speed to Venice. In the last two weeks, Doge Dorma and the Imperial embassy appear to have had a cooling of their former warm relations. The news of Charles Fredrik's failing health has allowed all sorts of rumors to spread. We are in for some turbulent times, and the Montagnards of Milan are sensing the change. That was one of their men who followed you. I think you should travel onward to Venice somewhat more circumspectly."

Benito swallowed a sense of urgency. "I don't care how I travel, so long as it is not by horse. I was thinking of a passage on one of the Po barges. Would that be circumspect enough?"

"Passengers will be watched. But as one of the crew of a cargo vessel, excellent. You may leave it to me, milor'."

Antimo took a long bundle out from under the bed. "The duke wanted to give this to you himself. But, I think he will forgive me for doing so. He has always said that expediency is more important than sentiment, in politics." He handed Benito the bundle. "It is your father's sword. Your grandfather had Marco De Viacastan repair it. Of course, being De Viacastan, he did a bit more than that."

Of all the swordsmiths in Ferrara, the Spaniard was rated the best, by far. His blades were for generals, princes and kings—and wealthy ones, at that. "I'm honored."

Antimo smiled in his wintry fashion. "It was one of his weapons in the first place. I know your grandfather wanted to reforge it himself, but he did not let sentiment stand in the way of practicality. He gave it to the man who could do the best job of it. But he took a hand in the work, so that any virtue in the Dell'este tradition might pass to this blade. You may need it. The Wolf of the North has been south lately, to the Kingdom of Naples."

Benito savored a moment of knowing more than a man who was plainly a master of his trade. "Actually, he's been further. He went to Jerusalem. I crossed his path, in a manner of speaking." And he related the story of the pilgrim medal.

An unholy glint lit up in the spymaster's eyes. "Not for a moment will he believe you were not stalking his footsteps. Interesting. This may prove useful to us."

Benito unwrapped the hilt first. It had been refurbished with tassels of Ferrara crimson.

Antimo saw Benito fondle them. "At your grandfather's express order. When you carry this blade openly . . . he wants everyone to know you are under his hand."

The tassels were worth a great deal more than mere silk to Benito. "The Fox's colors . . . on the Wolf's sword . . ." he mused. "I've had my birth thrown at me here, Antimo."

The spymaster's smile grew more wintry still. "This sword will throw it at your enemies instead. Reputation is a weapon, and wars are won and lost on reputations. Let them see that. Let them know fear."

Benito nodded, and continued to peel away the swaddling to reveal the sheathed blade. He drew it out. The steel trapped and shivered the candlelight into the myriad oyster-shell folds in the steel. "Saints! It's beautiful."

Bartelozzi nodded, his eyes glinting with appreciation. "And deadly. There is more than just fine craftsmanship in that blade, however. It has been a-journeying on its own, you see. Your grandfather took it to Rome. He said it was time the sword of the Wolf was rededicated to more wholesome purposes. I know only that it was thrice blessed."

Benito looked at the sword, so graceful, so deadly, almost hypnotized by it. It was no dress-sword with gilt and filigree. From the sharkskin hilt to the tip, it was a weapon. Benito picked it up. The balance was perfect. It felt like an extension of his arm.

"A killer's weapon."

Antimo shrugged. "A tool. A spade can be a killer's weapon too. A sword used for ill is an evil thing, a thing of oppression. But always remember there are also evil things that need killing."

Benito grinned. "You know, Eneko Lopez said something of the sort. Why is it that people are always preaching to me? Is it something about my face?"

Antimo Bartelozzi looked long and hard at him, as unblinkingly as a cat. Eventually he nodded. "Yes."

By morning, Benito was a deck-hand on a downstream-heading barge, piled full of hides. The smell was quite enough to discourage anyone examining its crew too closely. It could have been worse, though. They passed downwind of one laden with onions.

Benito Valdosta returned to Venice without pomp or ceremony, but with a great deal of bouquet. Some of the hides were definitely not well cured. Normally one got used to a smell, and stopped noticing it, but it had been hot and the bright Italian sun had ripened this one past ignoring. Even the familiar canal reek seemed positively perfumelike after that. And the sight of Venice stirred him. How grand! How . . .

Small.

That came as a shock. He stared, calculated, examined, trying to work out what had happened. The buildings were no smaller. Nor the canals. Benito realized abruptly that what had changed was himself. He felt a pang for the old Venice. The Venice that had been his whole world.

Hopping off the barge at the Fondamenta Zattere Ponto Lungo, Benito looked about for a familiar face, especially among the gondoliers. He didn't want to waste time.

He spotted someone. Carlo Zenetti was not a man Benito knew that well, but at least he knew him. He climbed down into the gondola.

Zenetti nearly dropped his oar. "Valdosta! Benito Valdosta! Saints! What are you doing here? We all thought you'd been sent to Corfu." It was plain that however well his disguise might have worked elsewhere, here among the
popula minuti
of Venice they knew the face of their prodigal.

Benito put down the small hide roll he'd used to camouflage the sword. Doing so gave him a moment to think. The last thing he wanted to do was start a panic on the canals of Venice. And he knew the speed at which gossip ran on those canals. It wouldn't do to have the news of Corfu's invasion arrive with a clamor of people in the Piazza San Marco before he'd even gotten to see Petro.

"I'm traveling on the quiet, Carlo. Let's get out of here before someone else recognizes me. Please."

"Sure." The gondolier cast loose. "But I reckon you're chasing a lost cause," he said with a grin. "I'm sure before Vespers tonight, good men will already be locking their daughters up. Where can I take you to?"

"The Doge's palace, I suppose."

Afterwards, Benito came to regret that decision. But at the time it seemed like a sensible one. After all, he had urgent matters to attend to there. Best discharge his duty as soon as possible, before he went looking for Marco.

"So how are things in Venice?" he asked idly. Might as well pick up on the news before he was having his news demanded of him. Perhaps his war tidings had already gotten here.

It appeared not, by the gondolier's reply. "Trade's a bit slow. Plenty still coming in from the north. But nothing much recently from the Adriatic side."

Well, that was hardly surprising. He fished further. "No wars to speak of? Is the Philippo Maria of Milan finally getting to accept that the Venetian Republic is here to stay?"

"I reckon the Milanese might start one soon," said Carlo, grimly. "They're used to being dominant."

"They'll
try
again," said Benito with a grin. "And get the same again."

Benito climbed ashore at the Piazza San Marco. The great winged lion of Venice gazed sternly down from its pedestal. Benito gave the statue a fond wave, and turned to the palace with its Swiss mercenary guards.

Benito's chest swelled a bit. It had been a tough task, but he'd done it, and here he was, alive and undetected. Emeric would pay for his sneak attack on Venice. He walked up the shallow steps to the guard commander. "I need to see Doge Dorma on a matter of extreme urgency."

The guard commander was not one of the
populi minuta
of Venice. He was from a small village in the Alps. He plainly did not know this scruffy barefoot youth with a dirty face and an impudent grin. "And then you want to see the Grand Metropolitan, I suppose. Go on. Get off the stairs before I have my men throw you off. The Doge doesn't see common sailors. Not even on matters of
extreme urgency
."

Benito sighed. "I'm in disguise, you ass. I'm Benito Valdosta. The Doge's ward."

Never call an officer an ass in front of his men, even if he is one. The man swung the butt of his pike in an arc designed to bring it into contact with Benito's crotch. Benito jumped back. Unfortunately the hide-roll under his arm slipped in the process. The contents fell to the steps.

"A concealed weapon! Seize him, boys!"

Benito found himself again in a position he was all-too-familiar with: being sat on by a number of large representatives of the forces of law and order. Knowing that resistance—normally the only enjoyable part of the exercise—would only make things worse, Benito did his best not to. Very shortly he was being led down to the cells, his Shetland knife and the reforged sword of the Wolf of the North seized for evidence.

According to the charge list, he'd been clumsily attempting to assassinate the Doge before being arrested by alert guards.

"Look. Can I just get a message either to Marco Valdosta or Petro Dorma?" pleaded Benito. "This is a misunderstanding. Corfu has been invaded."

Snorts of laughter came from the guards and jailors. "It's not a dungeon that this one will end up in. He's for the madhouse." The jailors were new, both of them. No one recognized him.

Benito realized it was hopeless. Well, he'd be hauled up in front of the Justices shortly. Then they'd laugh on the other side of their faces.

By late that afternoon, he realized that "shortly" was a word that applied to the cases of the
Case Vecchie
. For a common—and mad—felon, the period before being charged and sentenced could be a long one.

It was at the changing of the guard at nightfall that Benito thought his luck had finally changed. The new guard coming on duty took one look at him and swore. "Lord and Saint Mark! What are you doing here, Valdosta?"