Shadow of the Lion

But she had no real difficulty suppressing the giggle. The situation was now on the brink of utter carnage, almost a dozen knights ready to hack each other into pieces--with herself right in the middle of them.

The young knight named Manfred whipped out his own great sword and brandished it. "Dia a coir!" he shouted. Then, took two steps toward the abbot and commanded him: "Unhand the child, Sachs!"

The abbot, through all this, had been paralyzed. Kat realized, now, that he was a man whose authority had always come from his position--not respect gained from his subordinates in action. It was obvious that Sachs had absolutely no idea what to do, now that he was faced with open rebellion.

Neither did any of the other knights, for that matter. But it was also obvious, even to Kat, that they were about to react the way fighting men will when faced with such a naked challenge. These men were cut from the same cloth as the bravos of any great house of Venice--but were far better trained, and more deadly. In open combat, at least, if not in the subtler skill of the assassin.

The hands on swords were clenched now, not loose. And two or three of those swords were beginning to come out of their scabbards. Frightened they might be, at Erik's savagery and Manfred's incredible strength--but they were not going to crumple under it. Not men like these.

Suddenly, one of the other knights thrust out his hands, his arms spread wide in a gesture commanding peace. A somewhat older knight, this one. Most of them were men in their early twenties. His face, though not creased with middle age, was that of a man in his thirties. A man accustomed to command.

"Enough!" he shouted. "Enough! No weapons!"

His voice seemed to calm the situation instantly. Kat thought he must be the knight in command of the party. The hands on sword hilts loosened; some were removed entirely. Even Erik and Manfred seemed to settle back a little.

"Erik is right," the older knight said forcefully. "Quite right! And every true Knight here knows it!"

He turned to Sachs and glared at him. "You have completely exceeded your authority here, Abbot. Abused it grossly, in fact."

The abbot gaped at him. "But--Von Gherens . . ."

"Shut up," growled the older knight. "You disgust me, Sachs." Seeing the abbot's hand still on the child's shoulder, the knight reached out his own hand and flicked it off as he might flick off an insect.

"My family has held the frontier in Livonia for six generations. Unlike you, Sachs, I have faced real demons--not figments of your fevered imagination."

Stolidly, the knight examined the still-trembling boy. "Had you ever seen a child's body on a pagan altar, Abbot"--the term was a pure sneer--"you would understand the difference."

Von Gherens. Erik. Manfred. As always, Kat found northern names harsh and peculiar. But for the first time in her life, she began to understand them better also. Harsh, yes; rigid and intolerant, yes. Yet . . . sometimes, at least, names which rang clear. Clearer, perhaps, than any of the soft names in fog-shrouded Venice.

Oddly, for a moment her mind flitted to old lessons of her tutor Marina. Lessons in theology she had not understood at the time. There was a reason, child, that Hypatia compromised with Augustine, if not Theophilus. And treasured Chrysostom, for all his rigidity and intolerance. There is such a thing as evil in the world, which cannot be persuaded, but only defeated. And for that--harshness is needed in the ranks of Christ also. Neither Shaitan nor his monsters will listen to mere words. She remembered his lips crinkling. Even a Strega, you know, does not doubt the existence of either Christ or the Dark One.

The gray-cassocked abbot looked as if he was about to have a stroke--or faint. Even in the candlelight Kat could see his face was suffused, simultaneously, with rage and--fear. His lips trembled as he groped for words; words which, apparently, he was unable to find.

Yet another knight had no such difficulty. With a slight clashing noise, he thrust his sword firmly back in the scabbard and removed his hand from the weapon.

"Von Gherens is right--Hakkonsen and Manfred also. We cannot take them out of here, by Church law. The law which, as Knights of the Holy Trinity, we are sworn to uphold."

The knight's eyes glanced at Kat, then at the children. His lips peeled back in a half-snarl. "And my name is Falkenberg--also a name of the frontier. And also one who can tell the difference between brats and devils."

Now there were nods and murmurs of agreement all around the circle of Knights. The tension was draining out of the scene as rapidly as water through a broken dam. All danger of physical violence was past. Whatever might be left would only take the form of words.

Words which Sachs was still quite incapable of uttering, it seemed. Only one of the two monks who accompanied him seemed disposed to argue the matter any further.

"We cannot let witches go free," he protested, almost squeakily. "God has guided us to this evil. We must root it out!"

"Didn' do no evil," whimpered one child. "Just came to get outa the rain."

Finally, Abbot Sachs tried to salvage something from the situation. He cleared his throat noisily.

"If we cannot take them away, we will put them to the question here." He essayed a sneer of his own; a feeble one. "Or do you deny my ecclesiastical authority for that also, Ritters Hakkonsen and Von Gherens?"

The blond knight's cold eyes did not waver for an instant. "Yes, Abbot Sachs, I do deny you the authority."

Von Gherens's words rolled right after: "The right to afford sanctuary, without arrest or violence, is inviolate. And by Church law, they may only be expelled by the priest of the parish."

Flushing furiously, Sachs turned on the terrified-looking old sacristan. "Fetch me your priest, then! I'll have these hell-spawn. So help me God--I will have them."

The sacristan left with as near to a run as the old man could muster, and never mind the rain.

Sachs turned on Von Gherens. "As for you--I'm going to make an example of you!"

Von Gherens barked a laugh. "For obeying the oath of the Order? I think not!"

"And who will enforce your 'example,' Abbot?" asked the blond knight. The question was posed quietly, but grimly. The war hatchet was back in the scabbard, but his hand was still perched on it.

"Yes--who?" demanded the big one called Manfred. Quite a bit more loudly, if not as grimly. The tone was almost mocking.

Kat saw the Knights clustering together a bit more closely. One order closing ranks against another, she realized--and realized, as well, that the identity she had always assumed existed between the Knights and the Servants of the Holy Trinity was not as solid as she'd thought. Which, she remembered vaguely, was something else Dottore Marina had once told her.

* * *

Silence followed, for some time, while they waited for the sacristan to return with the priest.

The silence was so thick with hostility between the knights and the monks that it could almost have been cut with a knife. The only movement during that time was the slow and painful return of Pappenheim to consciousness, stumbling back onto his feet from the splintered pew where Manfred had sent him. He seemed too dazed to really comprehend what was happening; simply collapsed on another pew, leaning over with his head in his hands. His helmet had apparently come loose in the force of the impact. Kat was a bit amazed that he had no broken bones. Manfred's strength was genuinely incredible. He had not so much tossed the knight into the pew as he had hurled him down upon it.

Finally, the sacristan returned, the priest close on his heels. The priest was a young man; who, like the two bridge-brats, looked as if he could have used a few more meals himself. It was a small church.

He looked in puzzlement at the scene, and then bowed to the abbot. "I am Father Ugo, and this is my parish. Why have I been called here?"

"We have called you to throw these evil miscreants out. They were defiling your church with satanic practices."

The little priest blinked, taking in the steel, and the "miscreants."

With a start, Kat realized she knew the little man. Of course, he'd been smaller and plumper then.

"Ugo Boldoni?" she said, incredulously.

The priest peered shortsightedly at her; then, gasped. There were some advantages to her distinctive carroty-colored hair, even if it was not fashionable.

"Kat--Milady Katerina! What are you doing here?"

Kat shrugged. "I was caught in the rain and came in to take shelter."

"She was practicing satanic rites!" shouted one the monks, waving a threatening finger at her.

"I was sitting on a pew!" she snapped back at him. "Quietly sitting, getting some shelter from the rain--when you came in--like demons yourselves!--and grabbed those children who were playing up there. They were fooling around with one of the candles. I assumed the sacristan would come out and give them both a clout. Instead this--"

She glared at Sachs. "This foul man who calls himself an abbot came in and behaved as if they were having a black mass, instead of just fiddling with the candle wax."

The priest looked puzzled. "But . . . but where was old Giovanni?"

"They bewitched me into sleep!" said the old man hastily. "Demonspawn they are. I'm allus chasing them out of the church. Allus up to mischief."

The big young knight named Manfred snorted. "Smell his breath! Unless the children magicked him a bottle of wine--and if they could do that, they'd have magicked themselves some food. They don't need questioning. They need a square meal and a place in a household."

The priest nodded. "Alas, sir knight. This is a poor parish. There are many such souls."

Sachs, glaring back at Kat, attempted a commanding sneer. The expression failed of its purpose; seemed more childish than anything else.

"These are mere lies! And the poor you have with you always. It is their souls, not their bodies we must deal with. Now, as your senior in the church I order you to put them out of here, Father--ah--"

The priest's name had obviously escaped him. "Priest. I will have a word with Bishop Pietro Capuletti, and see you are moved to a more worthy station. We'll have the truth out of them. The Servants of the Trinity have ways of dealing with the most hardened servants of Satan."

A look of pleasure came into the abbot's hooded eyes. The kind of pleasure that comes to a man when he finds himself back on his own ground after stumbling into a marsh.

Kat shivered. The knights, she suspected, would obey the abbot--however reluctantly--if the priest who had actual authority here denied sanctuary to her and the children. And how could once-fat, timid little Ugo Boldoni stand up to this?

"Yes, servants of Satan have no place demanding sanctuary," put in one of the two monks unctuously. "Such rights should be denied the likes of them. And the abbot is your superior!"

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to Ugo Boldoni. His spine straightened. "You attempted to remove them from the sanctuary of the Church? You? You had no right!" He glared at the abbot. "Nor is he my 'superior.' In this see, that is the Metropolitan Michael--no other! In this church I am the final arbiter."

The little priest's anger was peppery hot. "Get out of this church! Get out right now. Go."

And that was enough--more than enough--to end the whole affair. The knights were entirely in support of the priest, not the abbot. Within a minute, all of them were gone, the abbot and the two monks scurrying ahead of the knights as if afraid that if they didn't move fast enough they would be manhandled out. Which, Kat suspected, was not far from the truth. On the way out, Manfred seized the still-groaning Pappenheim by the scruff of the neck and, using only one hand, dragged him out of the church as easily as he might drag a sack of onions.

* * *

When they'd gone, Father Ugo turned to Katerina. "Just what are you doing here, milady? The Casa Montescue is a long way from here, and it is late."

Kat shrugged. Boldoni's father had been a sailing master. A good one too, apparently. And it showed in the son's manner, she reflected. "About my father's business," she said quietly. She knew that he'd know that Carlo Montescue was long overdue back from sea. Missing; presumed, by nearly all, dead.

Ugo nodded. He knew perfectly well that the Montescue might be Case Vecchie, but they were in financial trouble. All of Venice knew quickly enough whenever one of the famous old houses fell into difficult times. And knew as well, that there were some tasks only family could be relied upon to do.

"You swear that there is no truth in what that abbot said? Your soul is clean?"

"I swear by all the Saints and upon the holy cross that it was a complete lie." Her conscience twinged slightly. "These two children are naughty, but were not practicing any kind of witchcraft."

She took a deep breath and turned around, so that Ugo could not see. She reached into the pouch and took out one of the ducats. The Casa Montescue was in a desperate state, but not that desperate. Not compared to those two children, still wide-eyed and frightened. She returned the bag to its warm nest and turned around.

"Here." She held out the coin.

Father Ugo's eyes bulged slightly. Ducats didn't come his way often. But he was of iron principle. "You cannot pay me to free you of sin, Katerina," he said, sounding extremely doubtful.

"It's not for you. It is for those two children. A small thank you to God for sparing me from the Servants of the Holy Trinity."

His voice was troubled. "They do God's work, Katerina Montescue."

"That one young blond knight did God's work. Had it not been for him, that abbot . . ." She shuddered. "Anyway, forget it. I'm grateful. So is Montescue. So take this for those two children you also saved."

He took the warm ducat. "I'll buy a candle."

Kat shook her head. "Food. They'd only play with the candle!"

It was the ragged little girl's turn to shake her head. So fiercely that it looked as if it would come off her skinny shoulders. "Never play with no candles no more." She looked earnestly up at the priest. "Promise!"

A smile lit Father Ugo's countenance. He patted the children's heads gently. "Do you both promise?"

They both nodded, eyes still wide with fright.

"Good! When the rain is over I will go and check that the Servants have really left. Now, I think we will go to the altar and I will lead you all in some prayers. Tomorrow I will go to speak with Monsignor about this. Be easy, Katerina. He is Venetian, you know."

* * *

As the party of knights and monks trudged through the rain, Erik and Manfred bringing up the rear, Von Gherens paused to allow them to catch up with him. Then, walking alongside, spoke softly.

"I am forever in your debt, Hakkonsen." His square, solemn face was creased with worry. "I fear I have allowed myself . . ." The next words were almost hissed. "Damn the Servants and their witch-hunts, anyway! They're twisting my mind. Sachs sees a witch under every cobblestone in Venice."

Manfred snorted. "Witch-hunts! What witches? So far all we've 'uncovered' are a few quacks selling charms as magical as a brick."

Von Gherens nodded. "Who then took the holy test of faith before Venice's Metropolitan without fear." He sighed heavily. "I miss Father Maggiore. He was often a bit obnoxious, true, but--far better than Sachs. And he was familiar with Venice. He had knowledge of the city, spies who knew something instead of Sachs's absurd gaggle of informers. Since his horrible death, the Servants have blundered about like hogs in a salon."

Erik's words were clipped. "We're doing nothing more than spreading fear and mayhem, Ritter--and for no purpose. If Sachs were trying to, he couldn't damage the reputation of the Knights worse than he has. This is the most gossipy and intrigue-filled place I've ever seen. Everything we do is spread all over the city within a day."

For the first time since they'd entered the church, Von Gherens smiled. "True. But I daresay what you did tonight will spread just as fast--and go a long way to repairing the damage."

"What we did," insisted Erik quietly.

Von Gherens shook his head. Then, placed a thick hand on Erik's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "No, Erik. What you did. Had it not been for you, the rest of us would have allowed Sachs to drag us further into the pit. I will not forget it."

The knight raised his eyes and glared at the dim figure of Sachs in the rain ahead. "I will not forget," he repeated. "Von Gherens is a proud name. Respected by all. Feared by none save demon-ridden pagans. My family is in your debt as much as I am."

He said nothing further and, a short time later, quickened his steps in order to resume his rightful place beside the abbot.

Manfred watched him go. "Odd, really. He's also Prussian--yet so unlike Von Stublau."

Erik said nothing. Manfred sighed. "And me too, Erik. I will not forget either."

Finally, a touch of humor came to Erik's face. "Really? No more carousing? No more--"

"Not that!" choked Manfred. "I meant the other stuff." His great hands groped in the fog and the rain, trying to shape the distinction--and failing quite miserably.

* * *

It was only later, sculling home, playing over the events of the night that it occurred to Kat that whoever her mysterious customer was . . . she wasn't Strega. Her knife had been steel and silver--both metals the Strega would avoid like the plague.

But Kat was too tired to think too much about it. Getting free had cost her one ducat--and her scarf, which the wretched abbot had apparently kept--but the rest would soon be sitting safe in her grandfather's near-empty strongbox.

* * *

When she got home, Katerina collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the infinitely relieved. The gold was safe enough. Good pure unpunched Venetian ducats. The coin valued beyond all others in the world.

It was well into bright morning when she awoke. There was someone in her room, looking through her clothes from the night before. They'd just been dumped in a soggy heap when she came home. Reaction had set in and she'd been just too exhausted.

Her first half-lucid thought was that someone was going to steal the bag of ducats. She sat up and yelled before her groggy mind recalled that she'd taken the gold to the old man the night before.

It was only Alessandra, snooping as usual. "There's no need to shout the house down! Just because you've spent the whole night with your lover and are too lazy get up," she added tartly.

"Oh, go away!" snapped Kat, rubbing her tired eyes. It was certainly bright out there. "Leave me to sleep. There's no lover--as you know perfectly well."

Alessandra cocked her head on one side; raised a perfect eyebrow. "Oh. What's this hair then? I'm going to look for men with honey-auburn hair with just that touch of red. I mean, I know you've got no dowry, but I didn't really think . . ."

"What are you talking about?"

"This hair from your pocket." She held up something, golden-red in the sunlight.

Kat blinked. Hair?

Oh, yes. She remembered now. One of hers she'd not wanted to leave with that Strega . . . actually non-Strega she thought, remembering that knife. "It's one of mine."

"Ha! The day you have hair that color--"

She snatched it from Alessandra's hand. True. In daylight, Katerina could see it was thicker and more curled and it certainly didn't match hers.

So--she must have picked up a hair from the woman herself, not one of her own. In the poor light she hadn't realized.

She shrugged. "I was snuggling up to Lucrezia Brunelli last night. In my sleep. Now go away before I throw this ewer at you."

Alessandra turned. "I'm going to tell Grandpapa if you don't tell me," she threatened.

Kat reached for the ewer. Alessandra showed a remarkable turn of speed leaving the room, quite out of keeping with her normal languid progress.

Kat lay back again. But like Alessandra, sleep had left the room.

There was a greater risk of being recognized, but she was going to have to start doing more deliveries in daytime.

Chapter 16 ==========

Marco was out on his feet by the time he got to Caesare Aldanto's apartment near the Campo San Polo. Even if he could have found a gondolier at this hour, he had nothing to pay with--all his money and Maria's had gone into trade goods for Sophia. He had stopped at his apartment long enough to drink some watered wine and get into dry if dirty clothing; figuring that a half-hour more or less would make little difference in Aldanto's condition. Once dry and warm, he slipped on a waterproof cloak--the rain had begun again--cast a longing look at his bed, and went out again into the night.

He was ready to drop and staggering like a drunk by the time he got to Aldanto's door. It was a process that was not aided by the fact that he had had to walk a few miles through the winding dark alleys, because he didn't have a single lira for the canal traghetto. He'd had to go the long way over bridges walking, then wet footed along the tile rail to the water-door, before actually reaching it. But there was no other choice for him to make; he was not up to an argument with the guard on the gated street doorway. The stair seemed to go on forever, and the door looked like the portal to Heaven when he finally reached it. He leaned wearily against the lintel and let his fist fall on it.

The door opened the barest crack. "Who's out there?" said a muffled voice.

" 'S me, Maria, Marco. Lemme in before I fall down."

The door opened so quickly he almost did fall in. "Ye get th' stuff?"

"Uh huh. How is he?"

"Sleepin'. Don't seem no worse, but I had to pour a helluva lotta brandy in him t' get 'im t' sleep. Got him upstairs."

Marco slogged the few steps into the sitting room, let his pack fall to the floor, peeled his cloak over his head and dropped it beside the pack. "Where's Benito?"

"Sleeping too, upstairs. I figured if I needed him I could wake him up. And it's not a bad idea having him bedded down across the door up there, no? The least, somebody forces it, he c'n scream his lungs out. May kill a boarding party by scarin' 'em to death!"

Marco made his way lead-footed to Aldanto's bedside--you don't try to walk silently around an ex-assassin!--and stood in the dark listening to the sound of his breathing. A little wheezy, a little hot, but not bad. He'd gotten back well in time. There would be no need for a "real" doctor.

Satisfied, he dragged himself back out. "Boil me some water, would you, Maria? I got to get this stuff measured right--"

As she trotted back to the kitchen, he sat down on the soft warm carpet beside the pack and began taking out parcels of herbs wrapped in rags, identifying them by smell, eye, and sometimes taste. Sophia had literally given him her entire stock. The artemisia could be tricky to use--too much and you got even more horrible side effects.

"Maria," he called softly, "think you can find me a couple of big jars or bowls or something? I need something to put this stuff in besides a rag."

"Lemme look." She clattered down the stairs and returned a moment later. "These do?" She brought him a pair of canisters, the kind spices came in, with vermin-proof lids.

"Perfect."

Sophia had gone by "handful" measurement--but it was a very precise handful. Although it was a little awkward to work one-handed, Marco weighed the herbs in his palm, adding or subtracting a few leaves at a time until he was satisfied; then, carefully crushed what he'd selected into the tin, trying to get it as fine as possible.

He crushed the resulting canisterful yet again, until he had a mixture as fine as possible, then crushed a second bunch of artemisia into the second canister.

"Maria, that water ready?"

"Aye." She must have seen how tired he was, and brought the pan of hot water and spoon and cup to him. "Show me--"

"I intend to--you're going to have to do this from now on. Look, exactly two flat spoonfuls of this for every cup of water--you can put it in the cup or the pan, don't matter which." He measured two spoonfuls into the cup and poured the still-bubbling water on it. "Right, so I'm taking another flat spoonful of this stuff from the other canister and adding it. You want to keep him alive, you do the same. Now you let it steep for as long as it takes to count to a hundred."

He concentrated on the dull throbbing of his hand while the mixture seeped. He noticed with a tired little chuckle Maria's lips moving silently as she marked the time. She could count if not read. He resolved, quietly, to teach her at least to cipher her own name. His own good fortune demanded that he pass it on.

"It ready now?"

"It's ready. We strain off the leaves. If you leave them, it'll get stronger and can kill a man." He suited action to his words. "Here--" He handed the cup to her while he got himself slowly and painfully to his feet. "Let's wake him up."

Maria brought a candle with her, and lit the oil lamp beside the door across from Aldanto's bed. Some of his instincts, at least, were still holding. Caesare was awake and wary as soon as the light touched his eyes.

"Got som'thin' for ye, layabout," Maria said cheerfully--real cheer. Marco was touched at her implied trust. "Marco here says it'll fix ye right up."

"Oh--" Aldanto blinked, but before he could continue, he began shaking, great tremors that shook his entire body.

"Caesare--" Marco had never used Aldanto's first name to his face before, but it slipped out. "I mean, Milord Aldanto--"

"Caesare is fine," Aldanto said wearily, when the coughing fit was over.

"Caesare Aldanto, I've had what you've got--honest, this will help. And if you don't drink it, you could get a lot sicker. Believe me--I almost died. You don't come from Venice. Kids here get it when they're small. Lot of them die. But if they live, then they will live when they get it again. But you could die. Now, this medicine is going to make you feel even sicker, but I swear to you, it'll help. On my family's honor, I swear. But it is going feel like death."

Aldanto gave him a long, appraising look--then wordlessly took the cup from Maria and drank it down in two gulps.

"Feh--that--is--vile!" he choked, face twisted in distaste. "That better work fast, because if it doesn't, I'm not drinking more!"

"That's more words in a row than you've managed yet tonight," Marco pointed out. "We'll sugar it next time." Without being asked, Maria brought the brandy and looked inquiringly at Marco.

"Good notion." He approved, thinking that a bit more brandy wouldn't hurt and might help keep Aldanto in bed. "Caesare--I hate to ask--but is there anything around here I can use as a bandage? I love old Sophia, but I hate to think where her rags have been."

"Spare room," said Aldanto around the brandy.

"I'll get it," said Maria.

Aldanto sagged back against his pillows, eyes going unfocused again. Marco carefully unwrapped his hand. The poultice of coltsfoot and lance-leaf plantain and Heaven knew what else was working quite well--and Sophia had included more bundles of the herbs in his pack to allow him to put fresh dressings on the wound.

Despite the herbal poultice the wound looked bad, red and swollen. But it was sealing shut, and Marco thought by the look of it that it wasn't infected. He was just beginning to realize how lucky he was. His hand ached, but so far as he could tell all the fingers were still working. He could have easily gotten some tendons sliced and wound up with a crippled hand.

"That's a knife wound." Aldanto was staring at the wounded hand, surprised and shocked alert.

"It is, Caesare. I know you think I'm a kid, and you're right sometimes--but you're not right this time. I had to go into the Jesolo for that stuff. Sophia was the only place short of a real doctor where I was going to find what you needed. A man tried to stop me."

Now Aldanto was looking wary, even perhaps a bit alarmed. Marco could have kicked himself for not thinking. Of course, Aldanto would suspect those enemies of his of trying to follow Marco--

"No, no," he hastened to assure him. "Nothing to do with you, he was a marsh-loco. I had to fight him to get through. That's where I got this, and lost my own knife."

"Was?"

"Was. And don't you ever tell Benito I killed a man. He wasn't the first--but I don't want Benito to know about that."

"You have a reason?" Aldanto was staying focused, which rather surprised Marco, given the amount of brandy and the artemisia he had in him, not to mention the fever.

"Because--" Marco looked up from his hand, and he knew his eyes and mouth were bitter. "He'll think he has to be like me. Next thing you know, he'll go out looking. He'll either get himself killed--or he'll kill somebody, and for all the wrong reasons. And that would be worse than getting himself killed. I remember more than just you from home. I remember what some of the younger Montagnards were like when they were my age and Benito's. They started like that--first each one trying to out-risk the other--then it got worse. I don't think he'd ever turn out like them, but I'm not taking any chances on it."

Aldanto nodded slowly, relaxing and letting himself give way to the drugs and the alcohol. "I think maybe I've been underestimating you."

"Only sometimes. You getting sleepy yet?"

Aldanto shivered hard again, then got it under control. "Getting there--and feeling a great deal less like death would be welcome."

"That's the whole idea, Caesare." An idea occurred to him, and he decided he wanted to broach it while Aldanto was in a generous--and intoxicated--mood. "Could you do me a favor? When you feel more like talking?"

"Maybe," Aldanto replied wearily, obviously wishing Marco would leave him alone. "What's the favor?"

Maria came in with clean bandages, salve, and a cheap broach. Marco felt his face flame with embarrassment. He hated to ask in front of Maria, but this might be his only chance. "Could you--could you tell me some time--how to--how to get a girl--to--to like you?" And what do you do with her after that, he thought, but didn't say.

"Oh mercy--" Aldanto shut his eyes and leaned his head back on his pillow, his mouth twitching. Marco had the uncomfortable suspicion that he was trying to keep from laughing. Behind him, he heard Maria choking a little, as if she hadn't quite managed to suppress her own humor.

"If you'd rather not--"

"Later, Marco. We'll see about it later." Aldanto opened his eyes and gave him a not-unsympathetic wink, shivered again, harder this time, and lost his amusement as a shudder of chill shook him. "Surely it can wait?"

"Sure--sure--" Marco hastily backed out of the bedroom, taking the bandages from Maria as he passed her. By the time she joined him, he was sitting on the couch, trying to rebandage his wound one-handed.

"Here, you fool, let me do that." She took the things away from him and undid his clumsy work. He leaned back into the soft upholstery and allowed her to do what she wanted. "How much of this stuff of yours he gonna need?"

"Just what's in the canister."

She looked suspiciously at him. "I looked in your pack. You brung back a lot more'n that--"

He shrugged. "I know. I could catch it again, or Benito, or you. There's likely to be a use for it before a cold snap kills the fever. Sophia says I can come trade her for more, anyway. And I brought other herbs."

Maria looked thoughtful. "You know--this could be worth something. You say this is the same fever that kills the little ones."

"The thought crossed my mind. But I was mostly doing it for Caesare."

"I owe you one, Marco," she said softly, earnestly.

He relaxed and shut his eyes, feeling his tired and bruised muscles go slack. "Don't go talking debts at me. I owed him."

"Damnfool Case Vecchie honor," she jeered back. There was respect in that jeer, however. The scoulo families like hers might be poor, but their honor was as deep and as precious. She worked slowly, gently and precisely, first cleaning the wound with some more of Aldanto's brandy. He could tell it wasn't the first knife wound she'd dealt with.

"Just one of Ventuccio's clerks." Fatigue made irrelevant thoughts swim past and one of them caught what little was left of his attention. A thought and a memory of a couple of days ago.

What the hell, he'd risk her temper. "Maria--it's 'aren't' when you're talking about you or more than one person, and 'isn't' all the rest of the time. Except when you're talking about yourself, then it's 'am not.' Got it? Think that'll help?"

He cracked an eyelid open to see her staring open-mouthed at him.

"How did you--?"

"Noticed you fishing for it the other day. Figured nobody'd ever given you the rule. Hard to figure things out if nobody tells you the rules. Claudia could help you better than I could. She was an actress for a while and she knows all the tricks." He yawned. "She could make Brunelli sound like a bargee, or a bargee sound like"--yawn--"Brunelli." His lids sagged and he battled to stay awake.

"Ain't nobody put it quite like that before," she said thoughtfully. "Huh. Damn, this is a bad 'un. Looks like it hurts like hell. What'd you do here, ram your hand down on the point?"

"Had to. He outweighed me by about twice. It was the only way I could think to get the knife away from him." He ran his right hand up to check the lumps on the back of his head and encountered his not-too-nice hair. And remembered.

"Oh hell!"

Maria looked up, startled. "What's the matter? I hurt you?"

"There's no food in the house, I need a bath worse than I ever did in my life, all the clothes are filthy and have to be washed and I don't have a copper for any of it! I spent every last coin I had for trade goods for Sophia! Oh hell!" He squeezed his eyes shut to stop their burning, but a few shameful tears born of exhaustion and frustration escaped to embarrass him. To have gone through this whole night only to have to run against this--

"Oh, don't get upset." Maria still had his hand and he managed to get enough control of himself to open his eyes to look at her. She was smiling broadly and pointedly not looking at his tears. "I reckon Caesare owes you a good bit. We got food here, we have a tub and a fireplace. And good soap. You want, I can row you back to Cannaregio when Benito wakes up, get your things, bring it all back here. Given this hand, I reckon I could help you with the clothes even. You just be damn sure not to waste nothing. That suit you?"

Relief turned his muscles to slush and he sagged back. "More than suits--"

"You've got that thinking look again."

"You get most of your work at night, right?"

She looked more than a little uncomfortable, but nodded.

"We work days. So--if you wanted, we could stay here just long enough for him to get better. Or--hell, half the town's sick. You could take a note to Ventuccio's saying we are, and we could even spell you in the daytime that way. Saints! The way I feel right now it wouldn't even be a lie! I figure Caesare should be getting better in four, five days; a week, tops. We watch for trouble while you're out, whenever. We can feed him too, make sure he takes the medicine. Keep him from going out when he isn't ready to."

The last two sentences came out a little uncertainly. Keeping Caesare from doing whatever he felt like doing was an improbable scenario--sick or not.

"And you get?" asked Maria.

"Food and a hot bath. I know damn sure Caesare can afford to eat better than we can." He grinned wearily, his bruised facial muscles aching. "You'll have to talk him into covering the pay we'll lose, though. Hell, Maria, you know we can't afford to lose pay any more than you can."

"I know he trusts you." She looked back at the hand she was holding and finished pinning the new bandage with the broach. "I expect after tonight ye've proved it out. We got weapons enough here, between the two of us. And if I don't show up for too long, it's gonna look funny. We don't dare let anybody guess he ain't well enough to fight. All right; you do that." She sniffed, her mouth quirking a little contemptuously. "Hell, the way he throws his money around, he'll cover you if I say so."

"We'll cook and clean up after ourselves."

"You'd damn sure better, 'cause I ain't gonna--" She looked up to see he'd fallen asleep, wedged into the corner of the couch. His head was sagging against the couch cushion and he'd gone as limp as a loaf of water-soaked bread. She chuckled and went to find him a blanket.

Chapter 17 ==========

Francesca waited on the walkway outside the Red Cat for Kat to arrive with the last package. Madame was not going to object if any of her girls chose to take a little sun on the walkway while she waited for a delivery; it served as good advertisement. And when that girl was Francesca . . . it guaranteed a full house.

The Sots, though they might harass women they suspected of being whores in and around their own stronghold or inside churches, had not yet become brave enough to go after the Scarlet Women at their own doorsteps. For that much, Francesca was grateful. From Kat's own lips she'd heard the story of the incident with the Sots at the church two weeks before. It had sent chills down her spine. It wasn't so much that they'd dared--a fanatic would dare anything, any time, any place--as it was that their leader had so instantly seen heresy and witchcraft where there was none.

Small wonder the Strega she knew were digging holes in the water to hide in. She wanted her talisman, and she wanted it badly.

As if the mere thought of Kat had conjured the girl, the next gondola to make the turn and negotiate its way into the Rio dei Mendicanti was hers. Francesca waved cheerfully to her; with both hands on her pole, Kat could hardly wave back, but she nodded.

There was no need to hide anything. Kat's usual costume, with the hood that covered her distinctive hair, disguised her well enough from anyone except people who knew her well. Which meant, Francesca was now certain, anyone from the Case Vecchie circles. As a young woman of the Case Vecchie, Kat would not be known to anyone in Venice's lower classes except the few people with whom the girl had set up commercial arrangements--which, for their reasons as well as her own, would be kept highly secret. So there was no danger of Kat being recognized here, so long as she kept her face shadowed and her hair covered by a hood--not in the vicinity of this bordello. The House of the Red Cat did not have a low-class custom, true, but it was still several cuts below the kind of establishment that the city's elite would frequent.

Nor did Francesca have any reason to hide the transaction from the watchful eyes of the Madame of the Red Cat. Prostitutes received frequent parcels from boat girls; not even a suspicious brothel keeper would wonder about this parcel. In fact, the very openness of the delivery was the surest protection. Besides, Francesca was too impatient for the pose of the languid lady. She caught the rope that Kat tossed to her and tied up the boat with her own hands. Kat threw her the package she had been waiting for, then balanced up and over the deck and onto the walkway, jumping across the water to land beside Francesca.

"Do you want to check it and make sure it's all right?" Kat asked.

The gown within the outer wrapping--a very special gown--had been an extra, ordered after the successful interview with the Madame of Casa Louise. Madame wanted her to make an entrance and a stir when she first arrived (officially) at the House. Kat had promised she could come up with something spectacular. Tonight, or tomorrow, depending on what Fate presented in the way of opportunity, saucy and inventive Francesca of the Red Cat would vanish, and Francesca de Chevreuse, gracious and educated courtesan from Aquitaine, would appear at Casa Louise--with no way of connecting the two. Certainly her potential customers would never guess. The social strata that patronized Casa Louise wouldn't even glance down the Rio dei Mendicanti as they passed by on their way to some important social or business function.

All the rest of the new gowns, including the interview gown, were in her new apartment at Casa Louise, conveyed there by the ever-resourceful Katerina. Francesca was taking no chances on the Madame of the Red Cat sniffing out her imminent defection. A bruised and broken-boned courtesan was not an object of desire, and the doorman had heavy fists.

Kat had cleverly managed to squeeze everything into a rather small package that looked exactly like a parcel from a food-stall. "I don't suppose you'd care to come in, would you?" Francesca asked doubtfully. She was surprised by the answer.

"I would love to. I'd like--to ask your advice."

On what, I wonder? Kat knew Donatella, the same Strega herbalist who provided Francesca with the means of preventing pregnancy, so it couldn't be that, could it? Unless Kat wasn't aware that there were such things--

Ridiculous. She couldn't be making deliveries on these waters without finding out within a fortnight.

"Then by all means, please come in." Francesca gestured that Kat should follow her.

It was too early for the doorman to be on duty, and plenty of the other girls had female friends or relatives from outside the House, so Fernando paid no attention to Kat whatsoever. They reached Francesca's room in short order, and Francesca dropped the latch into place when Kat was inside.

"I hope you'll forgive me, but there's really no place to sit but the bed," Francesca said apologetically. Kat shrugged, and took a seat at the foot, looking around with curiosity.

"Ease my mind and have a look through there. I think you'll like what I found, and I want to make sure that the goldsmith gave me the right thing."

Thing. That would be the talisman. Francesca smiled; she wouldn't wonder that Kat was suspicious--it didn't look like something a goldsmith should have held in his keeping. She cut the string holding the parcel together and unfolded the dark, tabby-weave cloth.

Ah, the cloak. Kat had used the cloak she'd asked for as the wrapping, lining-side out. Inside were the dress, the undergown, the shifts, the hose, with one of the undergowns wrapped around another bundle.

"These are perfect," Francesca assured the girl. "Especially the choice of colors. Every other courtesan is going to be in blue or red; not only are these good colors for me, but they'll make me stand out immediately." She untied the shift and shook out the ornaments. "These are even better, if that's possible," she pronounced. "Whoever taught you about jewelry was a wise woman. Never choose fake anything, when for the same price you can have something genuine." She held up the sparkling strands of Murano glass beads that she would weave through her hair, then the three-tiered necklace with carved amber pendants and the matching earrings. "Can you see how much richer and substantial these look than gilt chains and faux pearls?"

"I didn't like the look of the other things I was offered," replied Kat. "I can't explain it, and no one taught me."

"Then you have very good instincts," Francesca told her, taking out the last piece, her precious amulet. It had been her mother's, and had come all the way from Aquitaine with Francesca. It was very crude--a wooden heart encased in a plain silver cage. It was also very old, and would probably get her burned on sight if one of the Sots ever got wind of it. It held a luck-spirit: not a terribly powerful one, but powerful enough to keep Francesca safe so long as she didn't do anything monumentally stupid . . . and quite powerful enough to keep her safe from prowling canal monsters by making her invisible to the eyes of evil creatures and black spirits.

It was also indisputably pagan. Which was why Francesca had chosen her Jewish goldsmith to hold it for her while she was in the Red Cat.

"Instincts good enough for me to do what you're doing?" came the bitter question.

Francesca clutched the amulet to her breast quite unconsciously and stared at the girl. "You can't possibly be saying you want to become a whore!" she blurted.

Kat flushed, but persisted. "You seem to be doing well enough. And if . . . my grandfather dies, I may have no choice."

Francesca had known from the first day she met Kat that the girl's family was in dire straits. She was fairly certain she even knew, from the rumors that swirled through Venice along with the tides, which of the old houses it was--Montescue--even though she had never made any attempt to find out. But this . . .

She sat down on the head of the bed, put her talisman aside, and seized Kat's hands in both of hers. "I am the exception to the general fate of women in this profession," she said bluntly. "Or, at least, I intend to be. I've had to fight and scheme my way with every step I took since I came to Venice, and if I had not had the training from early childhood, and exceptional looks, I would not be going where I am." She was not going to speak the name of Casa Louise aloud, not here. Until the moment she went out of the door in this dress, there was still danger.

"Listen to me--I'm not going to give you my life's story, but I'm going to tell you enough. My family was the equivalent of Case Vecchie--elsewhere. My father was ruined by another old house when I was fifteen; then excommunicated and executed for supposed 'treason.' My older brother was murdered within a month. My mother fled with me and a single mule-load of her belongings. She set herself up as a courtesan in another city by appearing at a very exclusive House in one of her fine gowns and letting the Madame know that she--and her daughter--were available. The Madame tested her--and myself as well. A courtesan is not a whore; if she were, no man of wealth and taste would bother with what he could have cheaper, elsewhere. Simple rutting, however luxurious the setting, is not sufficient for the price that a man pays for a cortegiana."

Kat's face flamed, but Francesca was going to give the girl the whole truth as brutally as possible. "My mother prospered until she did something unbelievably stupid. She had the opportunity to strike back at the man who had destroyed her husband and son, and she took it. She was condemned and hung as a murderess. By then however, I was--in the business. I took my accomplishments and what I could carry and the Madame kindly assisted my flight to Venice. The Madame and my mother saw to it--as the next generation in their profession--that I had every accomplishment. I read and write in four languages, I speak six. I play the lute and sing. I dance. I can converse with a learned dottore of letters on the works of the Greeks and Romans, or on the works of the poets and philosophers of our own age. I even write poetry myself--it's bad poetry, but I can write it. I know as much about politics within Italy and the wider world as most of the gentlemen of the Case Vecchie. Quite a bit more, in fact. And as for the games of the bed--well, let me just assure you that I am a notable athlete. That is what is required to be a courtesan."

She paused thoughtfully. "You may believe the rewards are great, and . . . they are. Or can be, at least. I will, in the course of a year, earn as much as a good ship's captain, and that is my share--the Madame will earn as much from my labors as I do. But to get to this point, I have had to strip my soul down to the bones, and be more ruthlessly honest with myself than anyone other than a priest should ever be forced to be. I must look in the mirror every day, and rather than admire my own beauty, search ruthlessly for any flaw. I must keep my body in a state of perfection. I must lie gracefully and believably to my customers--I must be able to read them so well that I seem to read their thoughts. Every day I face the possibility that a customer will injure or even kill me, and if he does, no punishment will come to him. Lately there is also the threat that the star of the Servants of the Trinity will be so on the ascendant that they will dictate Venetian morality--they will be looking for women to make into examples, and they will take the ones who stand out. Now--consider what I am, what my accomplishments are, and ask yourself--are you my match? Can you do what I do every day? If not--you'll find yourself here, in a House like this one. The risks are greater, here; the likelihood of a customer committing some outrage higher. The Schoppies are frequent visitors, and demand pleasure as the price of leaving us alone. The servants are spies, and the Madame herself can order her girls beaten as punishment for some infraction, real or imagined. Unless extreme care is taken, the risk of disease as well as injury is very high."

"Oh," Kat said, and gulped.

"I quite understand that from the outside--although my life is ridden with sin--all this looks moderately attractive," Francesca said more gently. "I am also aware that the life of a courtesan looks . . . well, quite glamorous, in a tarnished sort of fashion. And it is quite possible, for a clever and careful woman, to find herself wedded to the man of her choice. You've heard the whispered gossip, no doubt, perhaps you even know of such a woman. But let me tell you now, that although I fully intend precisely that sort of fate for myself, it will require all the resources I can muster, all my energy, thought, and time, the planning of a great general, and, frankly, a certain amount of luck."

"Ah," said Kat; she looked both disappointed and relieved, and Francesca patted her hands and let them go.

"Such luck as you have been for me," Francesca continued. "A courtesan remembers her friends, Kat. I think you'll soon find that the information I can provide you once I move will be of considerable help in mending your fortunes, as you have done the things that helped me to repair mine."

She smiled. "If worse comes to worst, a Grand House like the one I'm moving to often requires discreet boatmen to ferry messages, as well as clients who need a certain privacy. And, what would be even better . . ."

Francesca hesitated, not wanting to bruise Kat's already damaged pride any further. But--

"Kat," she said firmly, "within a much shorter time than you might expect, I will be . . . well, not exactly awash in wealth, but certainly rich enough to afford--even require--my own gondolier. Having one who was herself a pretty girl--or, better still, a pretty girl cleverly disguised as a very pretty boy--would give the thing a certain cachet. Which a courtesan requires more than anything else. So if your fortunes come tumbling down, and you find yourself destitute and alone--please come to me first. Before you think of taking any, ah, desperate measures. All right?"

As she had made her suggestions, the color had faded from Kat's face. But it returned, soon enough. And her expression had become almost hopeful when Francesca came to the part about the private gondola. That gave Francesca a feeling of great relief--Kat did not have the makings of a courtesan, and she didn't want to see the girl in the situation that most of the Red Cat women were in. Kat, she knew, would not survive that life for more than a handful of years.

"Now, I know you must have deliveries, and I have an evening of work ahead of me--" She fished for the pouch of coins she owed Kat, and pressed them into her hand.

"I do," Kat said, springing up from her seat on the bed. She paused at the door, and turned around. "Francesca--thank you. For everything."

"You are most welcome, dear." Francesca gave her a knowing wink that made Kat blush all over again before she whisked out the door and was gone.

Chapter 18 ==========

The monster waited until the vessel was completely engrossed. As always, Chernobog's shadow voice aroused the pathetic creature to a frenzy of uncontrolled emotion. Every emotion--anger and fury as well as lust. The vessel was careless. And so, as he combined fury with lust, satiating himself on the servant's body while he imagined an insolent young witch in her place, he gave not a moment's thought to the effect his emotions would have on the monster's shackles.

The monster could sense the coming moment, when the vaporous cage that restrained it would soften, grow tattered. It could escape then, without either the vessel or the servant noticing its passage into the outer world.

The monster's own lust grew rapidly, as the gray mist that surrounded it began to take shape and color. Some small part of its mind urged caution--the master will be angry!--but the monster ignored it. Why should Chernobog care if the monster devoured another soul? And it could always claim that it had been commanded by the master's own servant. Had she not aroused the vessel? Had not the vessel's own fury and lust sent the monster on its way--even selected the prey?

Somewhere in what was left of what had once been a keen mind, the monster knew that Chernobog would see through the deception. But--

It no longer cared. Let the pain come, later. For the moment, the monster could think of nothing beyond the immediate prospect of feeding.

And such a magnificent feed! The monster could barely restrain itself from clawing at the cage.

Too soon, too soon. Wait until . . .

* * *

The gray mist faded and faded. Finally--it was enough.

The monster glided through and found itself, once again, in the outer world. The small room was dark; more of a crypt than a room, with the casket at the center. Once it had been a small chapel, but no longer. It was devoted to a different creed now--as the bones and infant skulls and arcane symbols on the walls attested.

The monster ignored its surroundings. It was not really part of any faith, and found the trappings meaningless. Instead, moving slowly, it opened the door that led to the room beyond. The door was neither locked nor bolted. There was no reason for it to be, since the larger room beyond was given over to the privacy of Chernobog's servant. It was a spare and austere room, lit only by a single candle.

The monster crept through the room toward another door on the opposite side. Behind that door was the bedchamber where the master's voice slept. Slept, and, every night, aroused the vessel.

The door to the bedchamber was not only unlocked, it was ajar. The room beyond was dark. Before entering, the monster listened for the sounds it was hoping to hear. Yes. The vessel was grunting his lust atop the master's voice, in the bed against the far wall; the monster could hear the voice responding with soft cries of faked passion.

The sounds meant nothing to the monster. It had a different lust to satisfy.

Silently, stealthily, so as not to disturb the rutters, the monster crept on all fours through the bedchamber. Another austere room, it was, well designed to disguise the servant's true nature. The monster's thin lips peeled back in jeering scorn, seeing the crucifix attached to one of the walls. Normally it would avoid such a holy symbol, but this one was meaningless. The servant had long ago, as she had with all the paraphernalia of her supposed faith, defiled the crucifix in such as way as to make it harmless. Still, the monster did not come any closer than necessary to the holy symbol as it glided toward the pile of discarded clothing on the floor.

The item it sought was there, just as it had sensed it was. Still tucked away, forgotten, in a pocket of the vessel's tunic. Carefully, slowly, the monster teased it out with its long, thick tongue. Savoring the taste, absorbing the scent . . .

It was enough. It could find the prey, now. Easily.

The monster sidled away, backing toward the crypt where its cage was kept. Again, being careful not to disturb the rutters on the bed; and, again, staying as far away as possible from the crucifix on the wall.

Once back in the crypt, the monster re-entered the cage with an eagerness it did not usually feel for that act. But that was because the cage was a cage no longer. Not with the vessel's mindless lust shredding the vaporous bars. The cage was now . . . a portal.

* * *

As soon as the monster felt the waters of the canal, and was finally able to see the outer world again, it flinched. It had not realized the time of day. The vessel and the voice usually rutted at night, but night had not yet arrived. It was only sunset.

With a quick thrust of its tail, the monster drove beneath the surface and hid amidst some pilings shoring the side of the canal. Cursing silently at the frustration, but unable to do otherwise. It would risk Chernobog's anger at an unauthorized feeding, but it would not risk the master's rage if it were seen. On that matter, Chernobog's instructions had been far too clear for the monster to claim an unfortunate misunderstanding.

So it waited, for the sun to disappear and the darkness to come. And, as it waited, felt its frustration mounting to the point of sheer fury.

Especially when it saw the prey herself passing by! Not forty feet distant!

The monster's eye, peeking above the surface of the water in the shadows amidst the pilings, watched the prey row her gondola past. Its eel-throat gaped wide; thick tongue writhing in the water like a giant worm, tasting her scent.

The prey was so--splendid. Fresh, young, innocent. The monster knew that her soul would taste as fine as her hair, shining like copper in the sunset. So much tastier a soul than the wretched things the master had been feeding it.

It would be so easy. . . . The monster could capsize the gondola in an instant. Then, seize the prey once she was in the water and drag her to a hidden feeding ground.

So easy . . . Now! Now!

But . . . not even the monster, not even when it was burning with lust, was crazy enough to do it. Not while it was daylight. Not with people in other boats on the water, and walking alongside the canal. No matter how fast it moved, someone would witness the act. Might even catch a glimpse of the monster itself.

Chernobog's rage would not stop at mere punishment, then. Chernobog would feed on the monster itself, and not be satisfied with simply a portion.

Remembering the one time the master had fed upon it, the monster almost whimpered. Its lust receded, replaced by terror. Enough, at least, to enable the monster to bring itself back under control.

Wait. Night is coming, and I can find her anywhere. The scent will be easy to follow.

* * *

The monster was so intent on its own desires that it never noticed the priest standing on the opposite side. Never noticed that the priest was also watching the prey, as she receded down the canal--and with as much concentrated attention as the monster itself.

Nor did it notice the moment when the priest suddenly started and cast a gaze across the canal. Then, scrutinized everything in the area, as if a hunter had suddenly heard a noise in the forest and was trying to detect its source.

Nor did it notice when the priest spun on his heels and began striding hurriedly away.

* * *

The shaman, however, did notice. Naturally enough, since the shaman had been sent on this incredibly dangerous expedition for that very purpose. The monster thought it had "escaped." In reality, Chernobog had foreseen this eventuality and had decided to use the monster's lust to test his opponents. The shaman's master did not understand either the purpose of these peculiar priests in Venice, nor their power.

Chernobog also, the shaman understood, wanted to test the depths of the Lion's slumber. Once before the shaman's master had misgauged the Lion, when he tried to murder the Strega Grand Master with too open a hand. That attempt had roused the Lion from his sleep. The ancient spirit had not only slain the assassins before they could finish the work, but had carried the still-living Marina himself into the Jesolo.

Three years ago, that had been. The time had come, Chernobog decided, to see if the Lion had returned to his slumber. The shaman understood the logic--even agreed with it, abstractly. But it was he, not Chernobog, who was forced to lurk in the shadows of the canal and watch, while a monster roamed loose. A monster which would not hesitate for an instant to devour the shaman as readily as it would devour its intended prey.

* * *

The time finally came. It was dark enough, now, if the monster moved carefully. It eased out of the pilings and began driving up the canal with slow and powerful strokes of its tail. Keeping a wary eye for boats and passersby, and diving below the surface whenever necessary.

The scent was strong. As easy to follow as blood spoor, but far more delicious.

* * *

When Pierre came into the room, his face was as pale as a sheet. His eyes, open and strained; he looked for an enemy, but not one of this world.

"Something . . . is out there. . . ."

Eneko Lopez rose from the table where he had been writing a letter, his head cocked. "Yes?"

The Savoyard priest shook his head violently, and shuddered at the same time. "I don't know. I was watching the girl, the one you wanted to find out more about. Then--suddenly--I felt something. Something horrible. Evil more concentrated than anything I can remember in my life."

The Basque at the table turned his head and stared out the window. "Was it she herself, perhaps?"

Pierre shook his head again. Less violently, this time. "I . . . don't think so, Eneko. It was connected with her somehow, I felt. But I had the sense that it was something watching her, rather than she herself."

Reluctantly, as a priest will speak of such things. "It seemed very . . . lustful. A horrible sort of lust, and not the sort of thing that anyone would draw willingly unto themselves. And I am not so sure, now, that it wasn't actually hunting her, and not just watching her."

Lopez limped out through the open door near the table and onto the balcony beyond; then, peered down at the canal below. The waters were already dark with the evening. He raised his eyes and studied the massive edifice across the canal that housed the Imperial embassy.

Something watching--perhaps hunting. Something evil. A true innocent might, might be safe from such a thing, but how many people were true innocents, once out of leading-strings?

"Too late . . ." he murmured. "For anything except prayer."

He turned back, sharply and decisively. "Join me, Pierre. Here. Now. Whatever it was--let us test the thing. If it is what I think it is . . . Chernobog has made a serious error."

Pierre hesitated. The Basque priest's solid bar of eyebrow lowered. "It is not forbidden, Pierre!" he snapped. "And what is the alternative? To allow a girl who may be guilty of nothing more than venial sins to be devoured by Chernobog?"

The Savoyard's uncertainty vanished. A moment later, he joined Eneko on his knees, crucifix in hand.

"Protections?" Pierre asked. Eneko shook his head.

"No time, but we are not the ones it is hunting--" Eneko cleared his mind of the distracting worry that this might be a trap for him and his own people. "Saint Mark--"

"Ah!" Pierre caught his meaning. "I found a prayer in the Accademia library that might be what we need."

The Savoyard bent his head over his clasped hands and began murmuring the words; Eneko concentrated on them, and on special, sacred magic of a Hypatian priest-mage, that of directed, aimed prayer, with power behind it.

Blessed Saint Mark . . . patron and protector . . .

The power flowed, outward and upward, as Eneko concentrated; he felt another power join to his--Pierre's--and their souls sought for that place where prayers were answered.

But then, what he had not dared hope for.

He felt something stir; sensed sleepy eyes opening, somewhere, in that place that was outside space and a time beyond time, in that other where spirits dwelt. Something ancient.

What--

He did not have the means to answer that question; It could not hear him, he lacked a voice It would respond to. But he didn't have to answer it; he sensed It was now . . . looking. For just an instant, Eneko thought he saw a pair of great eyes, opening.

* * *

The monster was at the water-door. Not because it sought entry by that means--too risky--but simply because it wanted to be certain. It required only a moment of soft snuffling, licking the door with its tongue.

Yes. So strong! So delicious!

It moved slowly down the canal, searching the walls. A very great house, this was. Still massively impressive, despite the little signs of disrepair.

That disrepair would be of good use to the monster. There was a route up the walls--as easy to climb as a chimney to an experienced mountaineer. The monster almost chortled with glee.

Then . . . restrained itself again. It was still too early. Night had fallen, yes; but the house would not be asleep. The monster could not risk Chernobog's anger that much.

Wait. Wait.

* * *

Something else awoke, stirred from long slumber by prayers. Opened golden eyes, and then . . . understanding the meaning of the prayers . . .

Great muscles rippled down a tawny back. Huge wings began to unfold.

In my city? You grow too bold, Chernobog!

There was some fury in the thought. Not much. Mostly, the thought was just . . . amused. Christian priests, no less! They're not usually that smart.

* * *

From his hiding place in the pilings nearby, the shaman watched. He was awash in fear. The shaman understood what the monster was doing, and he knew that the slightest motion on his part would draw its attention. Should that happen, the shaman was far too close now to even hope to escape. In open water, with enough of a lead, the shaman in his fishform could outswim the monster. But here, in the narrow canals--the shaman had seen how quickly the monster could move in a lunge--

The shaman prayed to his pagan deities. Prayed desperately, hoping that time itself would move faster in its course.

* * *

It was time!

Still almost silent, for all its eagerness, the monster heaved out of the water and began climbing up the wall. It made swift progress, even stopping from time to time to scan the area in order to be certain there were no observers. The heavy wall's disrepair made climbing easy.

* * *

The shaman, still almost shuddering with relief after seeing the monster's form lift out of the water, froze with new terror. Something new was stirring! He could sense it! Something . . . immensely powerful.

He turned and began swimming away. But an iron thought came from his master.

STOP, SLAVE. I MUST SEE THIS. YOUR LIFE IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE.

* * *

There was no balcony providing ingress to the house. But the monster had seen the roof garden, and it served the purpose just as well.

A quick slither, and the monster was into the garden. Being careful, still, not to crush or disarray the vegetation. Leave no trace. Silently, on all fours, it crept through the lush vegetation. Too lush, really--the garden also showed signs of poor maintenance.

* * *

Eneko thought he heard a thunder of wings, and felt a shadow pass over him, before he and Pierre fell back into their heavy, mortal selves.

"It is done," he whispered. "Let us pray it will be in time."

A little shudder passed through Pierre's shoulders. "I wouldn't worry about that, Eneko. If the legends are even half true--" He gave his Basque companion a look that was almost baleful. "What have you gotten us into?"

* * *

When the monster reached the glass-paned double doors that opened onto the garden, it thrust its misshapen head cautiously between two large potted plants. The curtains on the doors were not closed, and the monster could see into the room beyond. Could see everything quite clearly, despite the overcast and the absence of a candle in the room itself. The monster was a creature of darkness, after all. It could see as well at night as in daytime--better, in truth, since the sun was painful to it.

Its great body grew taut as a drum, almost stunned by its good fortune. It had expected a difficult time, creeping through the house in order to find the prey.

Instead--

She was there! Sleeping in the bed!

It made sense, of course. Even the dim mind of the monster could understand that much. A girl with such coppery hair--such a coppery, splendid soul--

Hungry!

--would want to wake to the sunrise. Feel the coppery rays bathing her in a new day.

A new day which would never come again. Soft laughter began to gurgle up in the monster's thick throat. But it forced the sound under. Just a moment more of silence, and it would--feed.

A claw reached up for the latch. The monster knew, for a certainty, that the door would be unlocked. Such an innocent soul . . . it gathered its haunches.

Hungry!

* * *

The vise that clamped down on its head struck like a god's hammer. It vaguely remembered such a hammer. . . .

But there was no time to think of ancient weapons. The monster writhed like a lizard, caught by a hawk, its limbs thrashing and flailing.

Thrashing and flailing in--nothing. Talons smote thin air; a tail lashed in emptiness. Everything was dark, a darkness not even the monster's eye could penetrate. Dimly, stunned, it realized that its head was in a giant maw. Realized--dimly, stunned--that it was being carried through the air. Like a lizard, caught by a hawk.

The monster's thrashing grew frenzied. Something smote its back. Almost--not quite--breaking the spine. But the blow was enough to paralyze the monster.

* * *

Not even his fear of Chernobog could have kept the shaman from fleeing in terror, now. The spirit that had passed over him had seemed like a golden avalanche of fury and destruction.

As it happened, the shaman was quite safe. He was beneath the Lion's contempt. Nor did he have to fear Chernobog's wrath. His master was far too busy--far too frantically busy--forging his own defenses to worry about the doings of a pitiful slave.

* * *

Some time later--how much, the monster was too dazed to know--it was tumbled to the ground, its head spit out of a maw like a bad seed.

Wildly, scrabbling to get back to its feet, the monster looked around.

It was back in the cage. Except . . . even as it watched, the tatters in the vapors closed in, barring any exit.

No, not closed in . . . were driven in, by the flapping of great wings. Seeing the size of those wings, the monster flinched.

Then, flinched again, as it finally looked at its assailant. Flinched, and sidled away. Whining in its throat.

There are rules, creature. The voice hammered into the monster's brain. This is no longer our time--neither yours, nor mine. But there are still rules!

The monster howled as a great paw slammed into its flank, ripping gouges in the flesh. The blow was terrifying in its power. For all its own strength, the monster knew it was no more than a mouse at the mercy of a cat.

A very large and angry cat.

Another blow, which broke the arm the monster raised to fend it off. Another blow, which shredded its snout. Fangs like swords clamped on its haunches. The monster was jerked off its feet, shaken like a mouse in the maw of a cat.

This time, the monster's spine did break. So did its shoulder, when it was hurled to the ground. So did its rib cage, under yet another hammerblow of a paw the size of an anvil.

The monster was shrieking pure terror, now. Another blow shattered its jaw, bringing silence.

That's better. You'll live, of course. Here in this . . . foul cage. Heal, soon enough. Those too are the rules.

The growling voice turned into a rumbling laugh. But I dare say you'll not try that again.

A giant paw was raised, in question. Frantically, the monster gargled agreement through a broken jaw.

Remember, beast. This is my city--no one else's. Tell that to Chernobog, when you see him next. He may attempt to destroy it, if he can. But he may not do as he pleases. THERE ARE RULES!

Another blow came, crushing the monster's skull.

* * *

Diego found his two companions in Eneko's room, looking wan and exhausted.

"Did you see a ghost?" he asked cheerfully.

They glared at him. "Near enough," muttered Pierre. He pointed a weary finger at the Basque. "He summoned the Lion. I think."

Diego's eyes widened. Eneko chuckled. "It was Pierre's prayer, you know. How odd that he didn't mention that. . . ."

The Basque priest lurched to his feet and walked out onto the balcony. He leaned on the balcony and studied the Imperial embassy across the canal. The huge edifice was now somber with nightfall. Only a few lights could be seen, tapers and lamps flickering behind curtained windows. Behind him, Eneko could hear Pierre's murmured words, as he explained to their Castillian comrade what had transpired.

His companions joined him on the balcony a short while later.

"Are you certain it was not she herself?" asked Diego quietly. "We must be certain about this, Eneko."

The Basque shrugged. "I'm not certain of anything. But . . . no. I am now almost sure the girl is an innocent. The more so, since you discovered her identity."

"The name 'Montescue' is an old one, Eneko," said Diego uncertainly. "Evil enough, in that family, over the centuries."

Again, the Basque shrugged. "And of what old family can that not be said?" With a little laugh: "Certainly not mine! Did I ever tell you about my great-grandfather--"

"Several times," growled Pierre. "Just as Diego has bored me endlessly with tales of his own wicked Castillian ancestors. My own progenitors, on the other hand," he added cheerfully, "were virtuous peasants."

His companions bestowed skeptical looks upon him. "Each and every one!" he insisted.

The moment of levity was brief. Diego returned to the subject like a dog chewing a bone. "Still, Eneko. We must be certain."

The Basque was back to his study of the Imperial embassy. His gaze was intent, as if he could penetrate the heavy stone walls and see what transpired within.

"It doesn't make sense, Diego. I've discovered, as you know, that Casa Montescue is in dire financial straits. And the girl Katerina is the only member of the family young enough--and trusted enough--to be working at the 'gray trade.' Her grandfather is too old, her sister-in-law . . ." His lips tightened with distaste. "Untrustworthy, by all accounts. That's enough--more than enough--to explain her mysterious habits."

Diego began to say something, but Eneko drove over it. "Besides, consider the logic of what just happened." He gestured with his head toward the Savoyard. "Pierre is wrong, incidentally. I'm sure of it. We did not summon the Lion, we simply . . . woke it up for a time. To actually summon the thing requires knowledge I do not possess, and--if the legends are to be believed--the participation of one of the four ancient families of Venice. Which are: Terrio, Lacosto--both families long vanished; Valdosta--destroyed, presumably by the Montagnards. And--" He paused, giving the next word added emphasis. "Montescue."

Diego stared down the dark canal, in the direction of Casa Montescue. "You think the Evil One was trying . . ."

"The same legends also specify a son of the families, Eneko," objected Pierre. But his demurral was not spoken with any great force.

Eneko smiled grimly. "Yes, I know. But does Chernobog?"

He sighed. The next words came iron hard, for all the softness of the tone. "Enough, I say. I'm satisfied that the Montescue girl is innocent. We've got few enough resources as it is--just the three of us. We've learned all we can--and need--for the moment, concerning Katerina Montescue. Time to concentrate on two more important matters."

"What really happened to the Strega Grand Master," mused Diego. "That's one. What's the other?"

Eneko's little chuckle was quite absent of humor. "What do you think? What really happened to the children of Lorendana Valdosta? Two sons, I remind you."

"Casa Valdosta was destroyed," protested Pierre. "Everyone says so."

Eneko stared into the darkness. "This is the murkiest city in the world, brothers. We cannot assume anything."

* * *

Agony led the way, dragging the monster back into consciousness. In the cage, true enough, its bones and flesh would knit and heal. But--not without pain. Immense pain, in this instance.

Worse than the pain, however, was the terror; once the monster's returning mind understood that Chernobog himself was here.

Here . . . and in a rage.

Another blow destroyed most of the healing. A second broke the monster's spine anew.

You imbecile! You had your orders!

The monster tried to babble its excuse. But it was impossible, with a still-mangled snout.

It would have done no good, in any event. Chernobog was not to be misled, and the monster--now that its mind was no longer clouded with lust--knew how foolish that thought had been.

You awakened the Lion!

Another blow sent gouts of blood flying, along with gobbets of flesh.

Thankfully, it felt Chernobog receding. The fury in the master's voice ebbed, slightly, replaced by a colder and more thoughtful anger.

Nothing for it. I cannot punish the servant, for there is nothing left to punish. Nor the vessel either, for the moment, since I still have use for it. But you . . .

The broken-bodied, half-paralyzed monster whined, begging forgiveness.

On you I will feed.

The monster howled for some time thereafter, as Chernobog held it down and tore out its innards. Not gobbling the intestines so much as chewing on them, slowly and with apparent relish.

When Chernobog was done, there was not much left of the monster. But, in the recesses of what had once been a mind, the monster knew that there was still . . . enough.

It would survive. Barely.

The healing would be painful. Agonizing.

I trust you will obey me, henceforth.

The monster tried to whine its abject obedience; but failed, quite miserably. The only sound it made was that of spilling blood. Chernobog had also devoured its tongue.

Chapter 19 ==========

Caesare Aldanto leaned back in the dark corner of the tavern where he had taken a table. For a moment, he closed his eyes, scowling inwardly as he felt the continuing effects of the disease he'd contracted. It had been almost two weeks now since Marco had begun medicating him. And while that medication had certainly helped enormously--quite possibly saved his life, in fact--Caesare was still feeling some lingering weakness.

Damn Venice and its miserable swamps anyway!

He sighed. He couldn't afford any weakness. Not at any time in his life, much less now. In Venice, less so than in any city in the world except possibly his home town of Milan itself.

In truth, he detested Venice. Still . . . it was an excellent place for a man like him to make his fortune. So, suppressing all else, Caesare reopened his eyes and gave the gloomy interior of the tavern another careful examination.

This was not Caesare's usual haunt, but it suited his purpose today. The tavern was dark, the food and wine were inferior enough that it wasn't very popular, and he wasn't known here.

Sensing movement at the door, his eyes flicked in that direction. Caesare had taken a table in the rear, as he had specified to the contact. So when Sachs's man entered, he didn't have to stand in the doorway peering around, which would have made him suspicious and uncomfortable.

As the new arrival made his way past the tables, Caesare realized that this man would have had no difficulty recognizing him anyway. They were old acquaintances, after all.

Relishing the shock he'd give the fellow, Caesare leaned forward, taking his face out of the shadows. "Good evening, Francesco," he said genially.

Francesco Aleri was good; Caesare had to give him that. Except for a momentary start, Aleri's astonishment was quickly covered. Not surprising, of course, for the man who was Duke Visconti's chief agent in Venice--which meant, in practice if not in theory, also the head of the Montagnard faction in the city.

Caesare, by sheer willpower, forced any trace of the weakness produced by the disease from his face. The grin that creased that face was purely savage. He could not afford to let Aleri suspect he might be ill.

And, besides . . . Caesare was genuinely enjoying himself. This must be a dreadful moment for Francesco, who had thought until now--and with good reason--that Caesare was safely dead. After all, Aleri had been the one responsible for cracking him over the back of the head and dumping him in the Rio dei Mendicanti.

That would have been the end of the matter for Caesare, if Francesco hadn't chosen to dump him off a bridge rather than rolling him over the side of the canal. But as it happened, there had been a small boat tied up under that bridge, and in the boat had been a young girl, alone, and . . . very susceptible to a handsome young man in obvious danger. Especially one who was as consummate an actor as Caesare Aldanto.

"You look prosperous, Caesare," Aleri said pleasantly, taking a seat across from him. The motion was easy, casual, relaxed--but Francesco's back, needless to say, was prudently to the wall.

Caesare smiled. "I do well enough," he said, in tones as smooth and bland as unflavored cream. "Despite the ungentle fashion in which I was discharged from my previous, ah, position."

"You seem to have landed on your feet," Francesco said, shrugging.

Aleri said nothing else, although Caesare had expected a retort, at least. From Aleri, who had been the one who had discovered that Caesare had been selling his information outside of Montagnard circles. Aleri, who had denounced him as a traitor.

Aleri, who had volunteered as executioner. As he always did, at such times. Aleri prized his position of being Duke Visconti's "enforcer" among the Montagnards. It had been Aleri, also, who saw to the disposal of Bespi. Although, in Bespi's case, the cause had been an excess of enthusiasm rather than cynical peculation. Like many true believers, Bespi had eventually found the contradictions between Montagnard ideals and Milanese realities . . . too difficult to handle. And had then been stupid enough to send a protest to Duke Visconti.

Caesare toyed with his wineglass. It was only there to give him an excuse for being here; he didn't intend to drink the vile stuff, not on top of lingering illness. He actually had landed on his feet; if he'd gone headfirst into Maria's boat, he probably would have died anyway of a broken neck. As it was, he'd been limp enough to collect nothing worse than a few more bruises. He'd feigned worse, naturally, when he realized where he was. He'd have been a fool not to; he had no money, no resources, and a Montagnard death sentence on his head. Maria had realized as much the moment he landed next to her, and had kept him safely hidden, becoming more and more infatuated with him with every day that passed. For his part, he had seen to it that the infatuation was fed until it spread through her veins like a fever and overcame the tiniest vestige of her common sense. Love was the surest hold a man could have over an inexperienced girl like Maria.

He also made certain that she remained ever-conscious of the difference between their ranks. It made her unsure of her ability to keep him with her, without making her jealous. Jealousy might break the spell he had over her; self-doubt and the uncertainty of being worthy of him kept her eager to please.

"I believe you requested a meeting," Caesare said lazily. "As I informed your contact."

"Not a meeting with you," Aleri snarled softly. "I was supposed to meet--" The Milanese agent broke off abruptly, muttering something under his breath. Caesare wasn't certain, but he thought the phrase had been: that idiot monk!

Assuming he was correct, Caesare pretended to sip from his wine and then added: "What can you do, Francesco? And the German cretins call us 'auslanders.' As if they could find their own assholes here in Venice. But, like it or not, I am the 'idiot monk's' chosen man for the job. Whatever the job might be."

He set the glass of wine down on the table. "So why don't you tell me about it, and save us both the useless recriminations. I don't have any hard feelings, after all, despite being the injured party in the affair."

Aleri's features were not distorted. The only sign of the rage that Caesare had no doubt was filling the Montagnard was the coldness of his gaze. "Your services were always for sale, Caesare." There was ice in Aleri's voice, too. "Just like every other putta in this filthy city."

Caesare did not rise to the bait; he'd been expecting it. Aleri was a true believer himself--which was odd, really, for a Milanese so close to Visconti--and that was his Achilles heel. He would do anything for faith; Caesare would do anything for money. They were two of a kind, and the joke was that Francesco didn't even see it. "The job," he prompted gently. "And my pay."

Aleri, Caesare thought, was very near to throwing his own wineglass in his face. But . . . the memory of how good a duelist Caesare was prevented him. As good as Francesco was with a blade, Caesare was better--and they both knew it.

Instead, after a moment's tense struggle with himself--for a moment, his face looked like a winter storm--Aleri reached into his cloak and brought out a leather purse. He slapped it down on the tabletop.

"I'd have hired a dog first, myself. But this incident you're to organize and carry out is a fool's business anyway. If the German cretin wants to hire a traitor for it, why not? It matters not to me."

Caesare took the purse and made a little show of pouring the coins into his hand and counting them. Aleri scowled slightly. "Stop being a fool. You always were too clever for your own good. It'll get you killed soon enough, and good riddance."

Caesare didn't rise to the bait. "Tell me about it," he murmured. "The job, Francesco. Save the speeches for your faithful followers."

* * *

By the time Aleri finished, Caesare was waging a fierce battle to keep from scowling himself.

That idiot monk! Typical German. Head as thick as a hog's.

His mind raced. That the plan would work, on its own terms, Caesare had no reason to doubt. But . . .

What is the point of it? And the trouble it might stir up! Does that clerical cretin have any idea how--?

He broke off the thought. It was none of his business, after all. For whatever reason, Caesare's new employer and protector had given his approval to the abbot's silly schemes. Though why Brunelli, whose fortunes were tied to the Metropolitans, should have done so was a mystery to Caesare. Not for the first time, Caesare wondered if Casa Brunelli always operated with a single mind.

Interesting thought. But he had neither the time nor the inclination to pursue it. Soon enough, Caesare had little doubt, he would have to look for another employer anyway. And, for the moment, the one he had paid well and--

He smiled across the table at Aleri. And keeps this one, and his cohorts, from peeling the hide off my back.

Aleri's chair scraped slightly on the floor as he pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. "You'd better keep one eye open from now on when you sleep," he growled. "Because the moment that your new patron finds you too expensive to support, is the moment when I finish the job I bungled."

Caesare continued to smile. "In that case, I needn't worry," he mocked. "You'll have a long, gray beard before that day comes."

Aleri stared down at him. "And did you tell your new woman your real history, Caesare?"

Caesare must have shown something in his face; he cursed himself silently as Aleri continued: "Of course there's a new woman. There always is, with beautiful golden Caesare. You betray everyone, women even quicker than men. Whoever the girl is--and I'll find out, soon enough--I pity her. But my pity won't keep me from killing her also. An example must be set for what happens to traitors and their whores."

The Milanese turned and stalked out.

Caesare continued to play with his wine, and wait for young Benito to saunter in as a signal that it was safe to leave the place. As he did so, his thoughts drifted over his new . . . associates.

Maria was invaluable for the moment, leaving aside the pleasure her fiercely enthusiastic lovemaking provided. Very unskilled enthusiasm, to be sure, and Caesare was beginning to get bored with it. But that problem was easy to solve, after all. Caesare gave it no further thought, beyond an idle moment of curiosity as to which of several Case Vecchie girls would be the first to climb into his bed and provide him with more expert entertainment. Alessandra, for one. He was quite certain the Montescue woman was eager to rekindle their old affair.

The boys, on the other hand--Benito in particular--were proving far more useful than he would have guessed. No one ever looked twice at a child, particularly not a canal-brat like Benito. Aleri and his ilk would be looking for a woman. That they'd discover Maria soon enough, Caesare didn't doubt for a moment. Any more than he doubted what would happen to the canal-girl once . . . the situation changed. But the Montagnards would never suspect Caesare of employing the boys as his aides. Particularly not those boys--given how their mother had died, and by whose hand.

But that, after all, was part of the dance, wasn't it? Caesare flexed his right hand, for a moment, remembering the feel of Lorendana's throat as Bespi slid the knife between her ribs. She had been quite shocked when she died, he remembered. Not so much with the knife as with the hand that kept her from crying out. She had always understood the risk of assassination, moving in the circles she did. What she hadn't expected was that her own lover would set up the killing--and time it for the moment she was most defenseless. Naked, in her own bed, right after they finished making love.

A stupid woman, in the end, for all her quick wits. She should have known that once she lost the favor of Carlo Sforza she was sure to receive the delayed vengeance of Filippo Visconti. Yet she'd been careless enough to accept a Milanese adventurer as a new bedmate.

Stupid. As stupid as Bespi, with his idiot ideals. Caesare's lips twisted in a little smile, remembering the look on Bespi's face as he killed Lorendana. The assassin's eyes had been on Caesare, not his victim. Eyes cold with loathing and disgust. Caesare had never been sure, but he suspected that killing had been the one which finally tipped Fortunato Bespi over the edge.

No matter. Caesare was not stupid. And he enjoyed the irony of having Lorendana's orphans as his new underlings. It was the best proof imaginable that his own view of the world corresponded to reality.

Caesare considered the wine, and sat back into the shadows. The wine was execrable; the shadows--ideal.

Chapter 20 ==========

Erik shifted his feet in the antechamber before Abbot Sachs's door. He took a deep breath. Then, reluctantly, knocked on the thick oak.

He waited. He'd just knock again, and go. He could try later. He raised his hand. . . .

"Enter," said a voice from within.

Erik walked in. The room was sybaritically appointed. His eyes were still drawn first to the deep-set glowering stare of the abbot, rather than the furnishings fit for a prince of the blood. Sachs sat behind one of these, an escritoire of dark wood inlaid with ivory.

"You wished to see me, Abbot?" asked Erik evenly. The air in the room was overly warm and full of an acerbic incense. And maybe just a hint of . . . perfume? Erik found himself wondering if Manfred's frequent witticisms about the relationship between Sachs and Sister Ursula might not have a basis of truth.

Whatever the scent's nature, it was making his nose itch and his eyes water.

The abbot's sour countenance twitched. Then, to Erik's amazement, his face did something the confrere knight had never seen it do before--the thin lips dragged themselves into a smile. "Ah. Hakkonsen. Yes. I have a task for you."

Erik wondered whether it was too late to bolt for the door. It was either bolt--or sneeze soon. If there were two things Erik was certain of, the first was that Abbot Sachs disliked him violently; the second was that this incense was driving him mad. But as a confrere Knight he was, by order of Bishop-Commander Von Schielbar, under the authority of the leader of the Servants of the Holy Trinity in Venice.

That remained true even if Erik had forcefully reminded the abbot, less than a fortnight ago, of the limits of his authority. The months they'd spent here in Venice had made their dislike mutual; the incident in the church over sanctuary had brought it into the open. In the two weeks that had gone by since, the abbot had spoken not a single word to Erik, prior to now.

The only official notice of the clash had been a summons to the quarters of Von Stublau, where the knight-commander began a stern lecture on the proper conduct of knights when dealing with abbots. It had been as brief as it was stern, because Erik had turned on his heel and left before Von Stublau finished his third sentence.

The Prussian had been outraged, no doubt. But not even Von Stublau was prepared to press the matter any further. Erik's conduct in the church had given him a reputation among all the other knights as a man to be dealt with very, very gingerly. The more so when the reaction of official Venice to the incident in the church made it as clear as crystal that Erik's behavior had been the only thing that had saved the Knights from what might very well have been a political disaster.

As Sachs had discovered two days later, not even the usually sympathetic Doge wanted to hear the abbot's side of the story. Canal-brats are canal-brats, you idiot, not "servants of Satan." Such had been the entirety of Foscari's opinion, before Sachs had been summarily dismissed.

And the Doge's reaction had been mild compared to that of Metropolitan Michael, who, by all accounts, had been livid when Father Ugo's story reached him. The prestige of the Pauline orders, always low with the Petrine patriarch, was now as low as it could possibly get. Rumor had it that the patriarch had only been dissuaded with difficulty from demanding the forcible eviction of the Servants and the Knights from Venice. And dissuaded, by his advisers, solely because they reminded the patriarch of his policy of trying to avoid clashes with Foscari.

Nor was there any doubt that if the Pauline orders lost the favor of the Doge, they could be expelled from the city--by force, if necessary. There were only a few hundred Knights in Venice. Leaving aside the actual military forces at the disposal of the Doge, which were much larger, the sixteen thousand workers in the Arsenal where Venice's great fleet was built were famous--or notorious--for their willingness to take up arms readily. They were also famous for their solidly Petrine allegiance in religious matters and for being a hotbed of Metropolitanism. Not even the Servants of the Holy Trinity were rash enough, or arrogant enough, to try to enforce their attitudes in the vicinity of the Arsenal or the quarters of the city where its workers lived.

Being shown to be utterly wrong hadn't, needless to say, made Abbot Sachs any fonder of the Icelandic knight. He had said nothing to Erik in the two weeks afterward. But Erik had not failed to notice that, each and every day since, he had been given nothing but arduous and menial duties.

To Erik's surprise, however, the incident had also caused a number of the knights--especially the younger ones and the confreres--to view him with much greater warmth than they had done previously. Some, bolder than most, had even whispered quick congratulations into his ear when no one was watching. It was clear enough that Sachs's arrogance grated on many others besides himself.

Still--the abbot was his lawfully appointed superior. So long as Sachs made no further attempt to transgress law and honor, Erik's own stiff sense of honor obligated him to obey the man, and pay him at least the outward signs of respect. Even if the wretched creature did use the vilest incense Erik had ever encountered.

So all he said was: "I am yours to command, Abbot."

The abbot blinked. He looked as though he hadn't expected it to be so simple. For a moment, Sachs seem to fumble for words. Then:

"Well, the mission we have for you is not simple or easy. This city is full of corruption and evil. We need to root it out. I, personally, would like to put half of these ungodly ones to the question."

I'll bet you would, thought Erik wearily. Personally. And by the time you'd finished with them they'd confess to anything you pleased.

But he held his tongue, and simply concentrated on not sneezing.

Sachs plainly expected a reply or a comment. "Well?"

"I am yours to command, Abbot," repeated Erik woodenly.

The abbot looked intently at him. Then, laced his fingers. "Very well. I shall command you. Tonight, just before midnight, you will proceed to the Calle Largo di Lorenzo. You will be unarmored, and without your sword, but wearing your surcoat showing yourself to be one of the Knights of the Holy Trinity. Get one of the boatmen to take you, as you'll never find it on your own. You will have wine on your breath, and you will be seen to be unsteady on your feet. Do you have that clearly? You will be seen to be unsteady. You will turn into the third alleyway and proceed down it. Perhaps you should sing. You will go to the last house on the left-hand side and demand entry."

Erik swallowed. Was this some kind of trap? Why in the seven hells was the abbot sending him to visit one of Venice's most notorious brothels? He didn't need a boatman to show him the way. He knew perfectly well where it was, down to which door. He'd hauled Manfred out of there not two nights ago. The Madame was not going to be pleased to see him again.

"Why?" he rasped.

At last, Sachs looked genuinely pleased. "Because I have commanded you."

"Yes, Abbot." And then Erik could contain it no longer. He sneezed. Then he sneezed again.

Sachs had obviously not expected this answer, because he did explain. "It is an ambush. One of our agents has brought us information that a large group of the ungodly pagans will be conducting their evil rites there. When you have gained entry, you will create a disturbance. You will continue to do so for as long as possible, while the Knights force entry at the water-door."

"Haaachoo! Yes, Abbot. Ndow will you excuse me? By dose is streaming."

* * *

The bed groaned as Manfred did his customary flop onto it. As usual, he gave his attention to the bedpost caryatides before turning to Erik. "What's up? Why are you pacing about, rubbing a thoughtful hand on that pious, sharpcut chin of yours?"

Erik took a deep breath. "I've got to go brothel-creeping!"

Manfred leapt to his feet in a single movement, like a crossbow snapping straight. It was at moments like this that the big knight revealed his true strength and agility. He rubbed his hands gleefully and grinned, revealing those blocky teeth.

"Oh, me too. Me too! But this time just to watch! What's suddenly come over you, my pure Icelandic friend? Besides the need for female company, that is?"

Erik scowled. "I've got orders from Abbot Sachs to go to the House of the Red Cat. You will be staying here. Even if I have to lock you up, you will be staying here. And it's not funny," he snarled, seeing the young knight-squire's expression.

Manfred put his hand in front of his grin, trying to hide it. His shoulders began to shake. Then he gave up. He laughed. He guffawed. Eventually he collapsed onto the bed again, still fighting off paroxysms of chuckles while Erik stared at him in icy irritation.

Eventually he stopped long enough for Erik to start speaking. "It's a direct order!"

This provoked a snort of derision from Manfred. "I'll bet. Tell me another one. Unless Sachs is learning more from Sister Ursula than we realize."

"I'm supposed to be a decoy for a raid, you young fathead! I should take you out into the practice yard and teach you some decorum," snapped Erik.

Manfred sat back and raised his big hands in a pacific gesture. "I'm all decorum, I swear. I haven't forgotten the last time! Neither have my ribs. Has Sachs got wind of your last little visit and the friendly little chat you had with the Madame and her bouncers?"

"Jesu. I hope to God not." Erik crossed himself. "Let me tell you about what he wants me to do."

* * *

By the time he'd finished, Manfred wasn't laughing. He wasn't even grinning. "I suppose they'll be waiting by the water-door for the ruckus. This smells to the heavens, Erik! That idiot Sachs will get you killed--and I wouldn't doubt that's really what he wants. Why in the hell no sword and no armor?"

Erik pulled a wry face. "I suppose they don't want the bouncers too alarmed and deciding not to interfere. I'm supposed to create a disturbance."

Manfred had the grace to look shamefaced. "I think they're going to be a little alarmed just to see your face."

"Thanks to you, yes," replied Erik grimly.

Manfred stood up slowly. "True enough. Are you going anywhere in the next while?"

Erik shook his head. "Not until I leave smelling of wine, shortly after Compline."

Manfred pursed his lips. "That gives us plenty of time." The knight-squire headed for the door. "Wait here. That Pellmann is nowhere about, is he?"

Erik raised his eyes to heaven and shook his head. "When he doesn't have to be? Not likely."

Manfred nodded, and walked out and away up the passage. He could walk fast and quietly for such a big man.

A short while later he was back, with a bag and an oilcloth roll. He closed the door and bolted it before tossing the bag onto the bed. It clinked. Erik raised an eyebrow.

Manfred unrolled his oilcloth onto to the table and revealed a set of tools that would have done any torturer from Damascus to Vinland proud. "Get out of those clothes. If you've got a close-fitting quilted shirt, put it on. If you don't, we'll have to get you one. We'll need to fit this thing. It's too small for me these days, but likely it'll be still too big for you."

Erik looked doubtful. "What is it?"

Manfred stepped over to the bag on the bed. He hauled out a shirt of tiny chain links. They gleamed with an odd black pearly sheen. "Koboldwerk. My uncle had me wear it at court. Somebody must have washed it because it's shrunk."

Erik snorted. "Particularly across the belly."

It was an unfair observation. Manfred was as square as a foundation block, but he was also solid muscle. He'd been a great deal softer before Erik had started on him. He trained with Manfred from an hour before dawn until Lauds every single day. Then they'd put in at least an hour on the pells. Then they'd join the knights for morning drill.

To give the Breton squire his due, nowadays Manfred gave the training his heart and soul. At first, Erik used to have to haul him out of bed. But lately it was getting to be the other way around, despite the fact that Manfred had managed to explore the wilder aspects of Venice's nights quite successfully. Also, he'd noticed how the squire had put on inches, particularly across the shoulders, in the months they'd been together. The boy was finishing his growing, and it certainly wasn't around the waistline.

Erik suspected that Manfred had been genuinely shocked to discover how much more capable his Icelandic "keeper" was than he, when it came to any kind of extended fighting. Manfred's incredible strength and athletic ability had not been matched by endurance--leaving aside the fact that he had little of Erik's actual combat experience and the brutal skills the Icelander had learned in the island's savage clan feuds as well as frontier skirmishes in Vinland.

One thing Erik had come to realize about his charge. For all of Manfred's roustabout ways, the young scion of the imperial family was quite capable of learning something when he put his mind to it. And, if it accomplished nothing else, the incident in the church seemed to have finally brought a certain amount of seriousness to Manfred's outlook on things. The big young man had brooded for days afterward, obviously ashamed of his initial reaction to Erik's defiance of Sachs.

Erik suppressed a snort. Not that Manfred's new-found solemnity went all that deep. If Abbot Sachs kept the Knights here much longer, he didn't doubt that Manfred would even learn to speak the local dialect. Well enough, at least, to ask directions to any location in Venice. He'd already learned how to find the taverns and brothels.

Manfred slapped his stomach. "It's the wine," he said mournfully. "I need more."

Erik shook his head, and smiled ruefully. "That is the one thing you don't need."

"This is a matter of opinion. Now get out of that cotte and put on a quilted shirt."

Erik did as he was told. The chain-links were heavy and cold, despite the shirt. And while it was loose around the waist and a little tight around the chest, it fit across the shoulders.

Manfred grunted in satisfaction. "Too big I can fix. Too small would have been a problem. Stand still."

He reached for the tools, displaying a familiarity that surprised Erik. The Icelander watched in some amazement. "I thought you were a prince, not a blacksmith."

Manfred twitched a lockring loose with an evil-looking set of long-nosed pliers. "According to my father, the Breton chiefs were once both--blacksmiths as well as princes. This was his idea. I got to run tame in the castle smithy back in Carnac. Beat spending time with the tutors mother inflicted on me, that's for sure."

His thick fingers moved with expert skill. "That's the difference between Mainz and Carnac," he continued. "Too bookish in Mainz. The aristocracy either reads or fights. In Carnac, according to our old seneschal, my father used to do the winter slaughtering before mother got there and 'civilized' him. Now stand still. Old Sachs didn't say anything about that hatchet of yours, did he?"

"The subject never came up," said Erik, standing still as he had been told. Books were a treasure up in Iceland. Especially in winter. But he could see where sitting still with a tutor might aggravate a boy like Manfred.

Erik sighed. He was supposed to watch over him; guard him; teach him. But it seemed to Erik that Manfred's supreme skill was slipping off to have a good time. Taking his watchdog with him, if that was the only choice, but without him if he could manage it. It had been from one of those expeditions that Erik had retrieved him from the House of the Red Cat.

Manfred whistled tunelessly between his teeth. "Stretch your arms out." Erik complied. "Bring them round in front of your chest. Can you move easily?"

Erik nodded. "It's not very comfortable. But I can move."

Manfred snorted. "It's never comfortable. And be grateful. I even had to sleep in it."

Erik looked grimly at Manfred. Sooner or later the boy had to accept the fact that he was in close line of succession to the throne of the Holy Roman Empire, the largest and most powerful realm in Christendom.

"Your uncle wanted to make sure you stayed alive. And that is why I'm supposed to watch over you. No one but the High Abbot at Wurtemburg knows who you are. And that is your best defense. But somebody may just possibly recognize you. Even with that moustache."

Manfred's responding grimace was so like that of a boy denied a day's play that Erik almost laughed. He could sympathize with Manfred's plight, inwardly if not openly. By Manfred's description, life in rather ramshackle, relaxed Celtic Carnac had been a far cry from the stilted imperial court at Mainz. But there was no point in letting his charge see that sympathy. Manfred would only try to take advantage of it.

Chapter 21 ==========

Maria waited for them in the kitchen of the apartment. It was . . . homelike having them living here. The boys tried to keep quiet, but they were, in the manner of boys, not much good at it. Maria found the noises comforting. She hadn't been aware of Caesare's catlike quietness until she'd had the contrast. The occasional clatter and slip from whisper into a laugh or hastily stifled yell was pleasant, almost comforting. Maria had never had a real family, the way most people did. It had been just her and her mother, as she was growing up. Since then, her huge pack of cousins had offered to provide her with a home--well, until she took up with Caesare--but Maria had always declined the offers. She valued her independence too much. But the boys didn't really impinge on that independence. They just made her home . . . warmer.

Of course, she'd never tell them that. They obviously found the apartment pleasing too. They hadn't moved out although Caesare was getting up for part of each day now. There was not much wrong with him any more that Maria could see, except he tired quickly. She wanted a word with Marco about that. And she'd better sort Benito out before he got into real trouble. She felt a little awkward at the thought of trying to discipline Benito. He wasn't more than two years younger than she was, after all. But somebody had to do it. And Marco, for all that he was a good soul and gentle as a dove, wasn't up to dealing with his little brother.

She grabbed him by the ear when he came in. "Benito. You listen to me."

"Ow! Leggooo! How do I listen when you're pulling my ear off?"

Maria snorted. "You listen with the other one, and if I pull this one off maybe things won't just go straight in one ear and out of the other."

"I'm listening. I'm listening. Just let go," said Benito on tiptoes.

She did. "Now if this doesn't go in, next time I will pull it off. I hear from Giaccomo you're still hanging out with that Laivetti boy. Mercutio."

"Yeah," said Benito, defensively. "He's a friend of mine, see." His tone was surly.

Maria didn't like that tone. "He's trouble!" she snapped. "If you're going to stay with Caesare and me--you keep your nose clean. Caesare doesn't need extra troubles."

Benito was silent for a few moments. He bit his lip. "It's not as simple as all that, Maria," he said quietly.

"And why not?"

Benito shrugged. "You know, when you're living on the canals . . . um . . . some of the bigger boys they use the little 'uns like girls. Some of them are real fond of little boys."

Maria's eyes narrowed. "This Mercutio . . ."

"No! Mercutio, he's a ladies' man. But he looked out for me. Kind of let it be known that he'd deal with anyone who tried anything. Helped me out with food and--and a bit of coin a time or two. Showed me a few things that Claudia and Valentina left me to find out the hard way. And--he made me laugh when I needed a few laughs." Stubbornly: "I can't just turn my back on him. I can't, Maria."

Maria nodded. She understood this level of loyalty. It made her think better of Benito, actually.

"Si. I can see that, 'Nito. But there's a difference between being a friend, maybe sitting at Giaccomo's, talking, and doing the kind of crazy thievery and stunts that he likes to pull. You'll get killed. So will he."

Benito shrugged again. "That's what Claudia always says. But Mercutio--he's lucky."

Maria shook her head. She hadn't really gotten through to him. "Luck runs out. You stay away from his stunts, Benito."

Some of the grimness in that must have gotten to Benito. "He's out of town anyway, Maria. From what I can work out, no one's seen him since two-three days after Caesare took sick."

Maria smiled. "I know he's your friend, but I hope he stays away."

Benito's brother walked in, looking preoccupied. "Morning, Marco. You been to see the patient? Hope you not lookin' like that 'cause he's going downhill."

Marco smiled. "Sorry. I was just . . . thinking about something. Si, I've been to see Caesare. He's fine, Maria. It'll take him a little while to get his strength back. His endurance, rather--his strength's pretty much back to normal. If he rests, well, another few weeks and he'll be like this never happened."

Maria snorted. "I can't make him rest--he'll be out and about again today. He just won't accept it that he can't run around for very long. That's a nasty sickness."

Marco looked embarrassed. "Um. That's the treatment, not the disease. If you live through the disease without the herbs, you're better in a week or so."

Maria gawped at him. "What?"

Marco held up his hands. "Without the herbs, a lot of people just die. But the herbs are poison too. You can kill someone with them if they have too much. Old Sophia reckons the herbs make the body too poisonous for the sickness to live. It takes the body a while to rid it itself of the toxin. It won't do Caesare any harm to be up and about. He'll get tired quick, that's all."

"Well, that's good to know," said Maria with relief. "Although I wouldn't tell him you poisoned him!" The relief went away. Quietly, anxiously: "He's organizing something. I can tell by the way his eyes go thoughtful."

* * *

Out on the water carrying a cargo of copper nails to the Arsenal, Maria had time to think about what Marco had said. She just hoped the poison didn't make Caesare slower. He kept most of what he was involved in from her. He always said what she didn't know couldn't be tortured out of her. But on at least one occasion it had been a duel, which was strictly illegal. The young nobleman Caesare had pushed into it had been a thorn in the side of Ricardo Brunelli.

"Hey, Maria."

She looked up. It was Antonio, plying his usual load of fresh crabs for the fishmarket. It was a good line, that. Housewives wanted their crabs still alive. And they paid extra for it. But it meant Antonio was often ferrying a load in before Lauds. "Ciao, 'Tonio. How's trade?"

"Bit slow. Always is at this time. Look, I know you work nights a bit. I'm just passing a warning out. They found what was left of one of those young Ponto di Reggio brats dead in the water, stuck in some piles."

Maria thought of Benito. Maybe he owed his friend Mercutio more than he realized. "What killed him?"

Tonio shrugged. "Somethin' bad. Real bad. The body was pretty much missing, and what there was the eels and fish had eaten most of it. But the head, they say, was bitten in half. What kinda fish can bite right through a skull, eh? No natural one, that's sure and certain. Like nothin' anyone ever saw. They reckon it must be some of this witchery that's going on. The kid disappeared months ago, and they say it was the same night that rich banker got torn apart in his own bed. Does that sound like happenstance to you?"

He glanced around, searching the water, uneasy even in broad daylight. "Just thought I'd tell you to keep a weather eye out."

Maria clutched at the amulets she wore. Two were from the Calle Farnese, supposedly protection against demons of the night. The other, side-by-side with pagan charms, was a little leather bag containing--well, supposed to contain--a fragment of St. Ursula's skull. She hoped they'd protect her because she didn't have a whole lot of choice about working nights, moving stuff for Giaccomo sometimes.

* * *

Marco felt very uneasy here. This was the last place, the very last place, where a Pauline belonged. This was, if not the headquarters of the enemy, at least a bastion--a chapel of Saint Raphaella, one of Saint Hypatia's fervent followers, martyred, not by fire, sword, or persecution, but by accident. Saint Raphaella had allegedly stood firm in the face of a tide of dreadful injuries all over Alexandria in the wake of the terrible earthquake of 735, had used herb and skill and yes, magic, to hold off the scythe of grim death from thousands who were dying. She cured them of injury or illness or both, and perished only when an aftershock toppled a broken column down on her as she was trying to help more who were trapped in the rubble and still alive. And even then, she did not cease her work, apparently; for all those who prayed to her recovered, and there were many who dreamed of her laying gentle hands on them in the night and woke healed. In the wake of so many miracles, it would have taken a stronger man than the then-Grand Metropolitan to deny the voices on all sides who called for sanctification.

Marco remembered his mother denouncing the saint, once, when he was a small boy. He only remembered because of his phenomenal memory. Lorendana Valdosta had denounced a lot of things.

She was headstrong, disobedient, not modest and self-effacing as Saint Paul told women to be. She defied her own priest, even, when he ordered her to stay out of the city. Told him to take his orders to the Devil!

If she hadn't, how many would have died? Marco could remember himself wondering that, after his mother finished her little peroration. And today, much older, he could look back on the episode and realize how absurd it was for his mother--the notorious Montagnard agent Lorendana Valdosta--to be denouncing other women for being headstrong and disobedient. As if she herself had not been! And for a far less worthy a cause than Saint Raphaella.

Still . . . Marco was unsettled. Whatever doubts he might have begun developing about all the tenets of the Pauline creed, it was the one he had been raised in, after all. And this was a tiny, dark little place, squeezed in between two warehouses, on a waterway so narrow a boy could jump across it. The reason Marco had come was that Brother Mascoli, who presided here, had sent a message that he wanted to speak to Marco about his herbs.

At least he's Hypatian. Horrible thought, that. Had they heard it spoken aloud--and had they enough authority--the Servants of the Holy Trinity would probably drag Marco up in front of a tribunal and in less time that it took to say "knife," have him declared a heretic.

The last light of day couldn't penetrate these man-made canyons, and although the sky had just begun to show the colors of sunset, down here it was twilight. Marco pushed open the door to the chapel and eased inside.

There wasn't much in the way of light here, just the few candles that burned in front of the statues of Hypatia and Raphaella, and the Presence-Light on the altar. Someone knelt in front of the altar, someone in a light-colored robe and not ordinary clothing, who got to his feet and turned around as the door creaked closed. Marco cleared his throat awkwardly.

The man who approached him was not terribly prepossessing; balding, with little more than a gray fringe over each ear. Thin, yet round-faced, he blinked mild blue eyes at the newcomer. "Peace be with you, my child," he said in a reedy voice. "How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for Brother Mascoli," Marco replied. "He asked to see me. . . ."

The little man's face lit up with a smile that transformed it. "Then you must be Marco! Please, will you come back to my quarters? I'd like to ask you a few questions, about those herbs you have been giving some of my flock."

Marco would rather not have gone with him, but there didn't seem to be much choice. Reluctantly, he followed the sibling through a door behind the statue of Saint Raphaella and into a tiny closet of a cell that didn't hold anything but a pallet on a wooden platform, a stool and desk, a crucifix on the wall, and a lamp. "Please sit down, Marco," the Sibling said, taking the stool, leaving the only place for Marco to sit being the bed. He sat very gingerly on the edge as Brother Mascoli took out pen, ink, and a roughly bound book, opening it to a blank page.

"Now, if you would be so kind--I wonder if you could tell me--" the words were gentle, the interrogation ruthless. Brother Mascoli extracted every particle of information Marco had about Sophia and Chiano's herbs, even going so far as to take out an enormous herbal from beneath the bed and leaf through all the pages until he had identified the exact plants to his satisfaction. The herbal, Marco noted, was handwritten, the drawings quite accurate, and the script identical to Brother Mascoli's. Had the sibling actually ventured out into the marshes to collect samples of all of those plants himself? If so--his estimation of the rabbitty little man went up several notches.

"Now, what incantation did you use?" Brother Mascoli asked, briskly.

Marco froze. The sibling raised an eyebrow at his silence. "Well?" he prompted.

"None," he said stiffly.

"None?" The other eyebrow rose. "Surely not."

"None," he repeated, his voice cracking with strain.

Brother Mascoli carefully blew on the page to dry it, and closed the book. He regarded Marco for a very long time with a deceptively mild gaze. Marco couldn't move.

"Marco," the sibling said quietly, "Why are you so afraid of your magic?"

Marco began to sweat. "What magic?" he squeaked.

He can tell! How can he tell? How does he know?

Chiano knew. . . .

Brother Mascoli's gaze ceased being mild. After another very long time, he sighed. "Marco--I am one single man, serving people who are the poorest of the poor. I have no help, and very little money, and although I am something of a mage, I am absolutely the least powerful of any in this city. And yet the people I serve number in the thousands and they are the most likely to become ill, to be seriously injured. Now, I continue to serve them because God saw fit to grant me a gift, and it would be a sin--a sin--not to use it to help as best I am able. And not a venial sin, either, but a mortal sin, the sin of pride."

"P-p-pride?" Marco stuttered in confusion.

Brother Mascoli nodded. "Pride. The pride of a man who would believe that he knows better than God. God has seen fit to give me this gift, and gifts are meant to be used for the good of all. To be shared. To refuse to do so is to refuse God's blessings, and to do so out of selfishness. And that," he added, examining his fingertips for a moment, "would be yet another sin. Sloth, perhaps--that one was too lazy to exert oneself? Avarice, that one wished to keep one's energies all for oneself? I suppose that it all would depend on the motive behind the selfishness."

Marco wasn't going to cave in that easily to this facile Petrine. "Use of magic should remain in the hands of anointed priests, who won't be tempted by such power."

"What in heaven's name makes you think that priests can resist the temptations of power?" the Sibling retorted.

"All the more reason then--"

"Marco," Mascoli said sharply. "Give over for a moment! Allow someone who has actually studied magic to speak, will you?"

Marco snapped his mouth shut, flushing.

"Magic, as even the most rigorous Pauline practices it, is prayer. Nothing less, but certainly nothing more. We hedge it round with ritual, we beg angels to attend us and fence our work off from the outside world and the interference of the Evil One, but when it all comes down to cases, it is nothing but intensely focused prayer. God allows us to use our own strengths to accomplish some tasks, and grants us His strength or that of his angels to accomplish those that are beyond our strength, but we never force, we only ask, for these graces." Mascoli's rabbity face took on a distinctly mulish look. "Now if you can find me, anywhere in Scripture or Holy Writ, a place where the faithful are told that only anointed priests may pray to God, I beg you to show it to me. That will certainly be a revelation to every Christian alive or dead."

Marco had only thought he was flushing before. Now a painful heat crept up his neck and over his face, until it felt sunburned. He couldn't counter the sibling, and he knew it. And Brother Mascoli knew that he had won the point.

At least he was gracious enough not to gloat about it. "Just think about what I've said, will you?" he asked. "You don't have to make any decisions right now, just think about it. And while you're at it, think about all those poor creatures up and down the canals that I can't help because I haven't the strength."

"All right," Marco mumbled, and when he got to his feet and shuffled out the door, Mascoli didn't stop him.

* * *

He had already told Benito and Maria that he was going to be late, so he didn't go straight back; instead he wandered the walkways and bridges trying to poke holes in Brother Mascoli's argument. If you took him at his word that all of the ritual and incantation of magic (at least as a good Christian would practice it, leaving out all the invocations of heathen spirits and elves and whatnot) was nothing but prayer, then what he had been taught was dead wrong.

Now, Mascoli could have lied, of course. He had every reason to lie; he served the poor, he needed help, and here was Marco who could give that help if he chose to. But Mascoli was, if not a full priest, certainly an avowed and oath-bound Sibling of Hypatia. If he lied--which was, after all, a sin--it was a worse thing than if Marco lied. And more especially if he lied about something like magic, tempting Marco into deep, black sin.

Marco twisted and turned the problem every which way, and still came up with the same unpalatable answer, that what he'd been taught was wrong.

Finally, having worn out quite enough shoe leather, he turned his steps back to Caesare's apartment, and walked into yet another mess.

At least this time it was none of his doing.

When he opened the door, Maria all but ran into him, only to choke off a muffled curse and half a sob when she saw that it was him in the doorway.

"What's the matter?" he asked, alarmed.

"He's gone!" she said, and fled up to the room she shared with Caesare. Fortunately, Benito had been right behind her and filled in the rest.

"Caesare decided he was well enough t' get up, an' off he went," Benito said grimly. "Right after Maria got back. She couldn' stop him, no more could I. An' he wouldn' tell us where he was goin', when he was gonna get back, nor what he was gonna do. He just went. It was right after he got some message, just after dark, and he took it with him, so we don't know what it said."

Marco realized immediately their concern. For a man in Caesare's condition to leave the apartment was no source of worry, in itself. Not so long as he was going to a tavern, or taking a walk, or--

Anything except . . . "Caesare's business."

Marco cleared his throat. "Ah. Ah, was he carrying--

"Yeah, he took his sword," said Benito instantly, answering the unfinished question.

"Oh hell," Marco said weakly. Caesare normally didn't carry any weapon but a poignard. "If I'd been here--"

"Oh, you couldn' have done nothing with him, neither," Benito asserted. "He was that set. Said that things was gone to hell with him laid up, an' that if something or other went wrong 'cause he wasn't there, he'd be in deep. An' off he went."

Think!

"Was he shaky? Did he stagger? Lose his balance?" he asked desperately.

"Actually--" Benito put in a moment of thought. "Actually he looked pretty good. Kinda pale, maybe, but he moved all right."

We fed him good. He just might get through this, as long as he don't do something stupid. More to the point, something stupid that takes him too long to finish. His strength's okay, it's just--he doesn't really understand, I don't think, that he's got little stamina left.

He took a deep breath; then, sighed. "I'll go talk to Maria," he said, and went resolutely up the stairs to the room where he heard cursing and sobs--

--which might possibly be one of the bravest things he'd ever done in his life.

Chapter 22 ==========

Here, away from the occasional smoky oil-brands, in deep shadows where the moonlight did not penetrate, it was pitch dark. Erik wished he had the eyes of the cat he'd almost stumbled over. The only light was the red lantern at the end of the alleyway.

Obedient to his orders, Erik did his best to sing. That would tell the waiting knights he was coming. According to the family skald back home, his singing was good . . . for frightening seagulls. Well, with any luck the waiting knights were tone-deaf as well as accustomed to repetition. Erik only knew one line of the song he'd heard Manfred caterwauling one evening. It still made him red-faced, even here alone in the darkness.

Making as much raucous noise as he could, within the limits of his straight-laced temperament, Erik staggered to the door. He felt like a complete idiot, certain that his playacting would fool no one who was not another complete idiot.

It was almost with relief that he reached the door of the Red Cat and started pounding upon it. The worst that could happen to him now was an ambush. Which was something he knew how to handle.

The door swung open. Erik saw the back of the man who opened it receding into the darkness of the gloomy salon beyond, and thought he recognized one of the brothel's bouncers. Fortunately, the man didn't seem to have recognized him.

He stepped through the door hastily and closed it behind him, relieved that his ridiculous behavior was no longer subject to public scrutiny. Then he began following the bouncer toward the corridor on the other side of the salon. After taking not more than two or three steps, however, Erik suddenly realized that the red-velvet-and-brocaded salon was much darker than the last time.

He just had time to understand that an ambush was in fact awaiting him--and a far more ferocious one than Sachs had implied--when someone stepped through a side door and flung an entire jug of coarse brandy over him. Momentarily blinded by the harsh liquor, Erik sprang toward the far corner of the salon, avoiding whatever blow might be coming along next. He heard the heavy door to the brothel being bolted, and knew that at least one more man had come into the room.

His eyes cleared. Crouching in the corner--his hatchet was already in hand--he quickly scanned the room. There were four of them, and Erik was not surprised at all to discover that he recognized not a one. These men were not the brothel bouncers with whom he had clashed on his last visit--although he could see the figure of the one bouncer who had let him in the door, huddling in the far hallway. Almost cowering, it seemed.

No, these men were killers, not bouncers. Professional criminals, he suspected, hired for the purpose. They consisted of three swarthy, stevedore-built men, lightly jowled but not exactly fat, and an athletic-looking pale-faced blond. And unlike last time, when a cudgel had been the worst he'd had to deal with, this time three of the four had daggers. The fourth, the blond man, had a sword. Just by the way he held the weapon, Erik knew he was skilled in its use.

The blond swordsman spoke. "Make him scream, boys."

The biggest of the low-browed solid bruisers moved in. Feinted, in the way that an experienced street brawler does, before striking his main blow. He was obviously a bit disconcerted by Erik's left-handedness.

The contest of knife against hatchet was entirely one-sided. Erik ignored the feint entirely and slashed the hatchet across the thug's empty hand, which the man had carelessly extended. A forefinger and half a thumb flipped through the air, streaking blood.

The thug began to howl with pain. The howl turned into a gasp of shock when the hatchet swung back and caught the knife-hand at the wrist. A thick fist still holding a dagger flew through the air and slapped wetly against the wall. The man's gasp of shock, an instant later, gurgled into a death rattle. Erik's hatchet, now held at the base of the blade, had chopped straight through his throat--a short punch, with a razor-edged fist.

Erik seized the dying thug with his free hand, turned and flung him across the room with a hip roll. The man crashed into his two companions and brought all three of them down to the floor.

Erik kept moving--fast--heading for the blond swordsman. He knew full well that was the truly dangerous one, and hoped he'd gained enough time to deal with him before the two surviving bravos could jump him from behind. If not . . . he had time for a quick prayer that Manfred's mailshirt was as good as the Breton prince claimed. He might well need it to guard his back.

The blond swordsman was caught by surprise, both by the speed with which Erik had killed the first thug and his instant attack on him. Still, he was a cool one. He ducked under the first whistling hatchet blow, and lunged.

Erik managed to parry with the hatchet's wirebound shaft. The swordsman made an excellent recovery, before Erik could riposte. Once again he pressed the attack. This was no amateur swordsman. The blond didn't seem in the least confused by the fact that Erik fought left-handed. His sword skittered on the hatchet handle as he beat back the young knight. With the greater reach afforded by the sword and the blond's obvious level of skill, Erik knew that he was in severe trouble, even if the other two did not intervene. There was certainly no chance he could finish the blond assailant before the other two were back in action. In fact . . .

He wondered why they weren't back in action.

He risked a quick glance. And immediately saw the reason.

Manfred! You idiot!

Grinning cheerfully, Manfred had both of the remaining thugs in his fists, practically holding them up off the ground. Then, he began slamming them together, like a gleeful boy might pound cymbals. If he was carrying a weapon, Manfred showed no inclination to use it.

Cursing bitterly, Erik parried another sword thrust. The curse was aimed as much at Manfred's recklessness as it was at the damnable expertise of his opponent.

He should have guessed. Of course the young Breton knight-squire had made no mention of his intention of being here! If necessary, Erik would have taken him to Abbot Sachs to prevent it.

Manfred knew that. He also had a habit of getting his own way.

Erik snatched at a curtain--ripping it off its rail. If he could get that wrapped around his left hand . . .

The blond swordsman chose that moment to close. Erik dropped the curtain and grabbed his opponent's arm, staggering him. The bare arm was . . . hot. As the man twisted away, Erik's hatchet slashed across fine linen. First blood spilled, but it was anything but over. The swordsman still had the advantage. A feint and a fleche and Erik was on the defensive.

He caught his foot in the carpet as he dodged away. The sword-point hit his side. The Koboldwerk links didn't give; but Erik lost his footing, falling backwards over the body of the first thug.

The blond man rushed forward for the coup de grace. As he did so, Erik saw Manfred lift one thug and, with a huge grunt, fling him at the swordsman. The blond ducked, but was still knocked sideways by a flailing foot. Then was forced to duck again, to avoid the other thug whom Manfred heaved at him. Erik was impressed with the man's agility--the more so since, judging from that one touch, he was suffering from illness.

I'd hate to see what he's like when he's well!

And then there was an outburst of shouts and whistles, and the sound of rattles from outside.

"Schiopettieri!" bellowed someone. "Open up in the name of the Signori di Notte and the Doge of Venice!"

The assault on the heavy door showed they weren't waiting for it to be opened. By the shouting and female shrieks they'd already made entry by the water-door. The blond man stooped quickly, hefted the two thugs onto their feet, and darted down the short hallway toward the door at the other end. With much less agility, almost stumbling, they began to follow him. Then one of them stopped and stared back, his heavy face creased with emotion.

"Alberto!" he cried. "We've got to--"

Erik heard the snarling voice of the blond swordsman roll down the hallway. "He's dead, you fool! Come on!" A moment later all three men were gone. The door slammed shut behind them.

Manfred hauled Erik to his feet.

Erik shook his head. "I should have guessed you'd come here. How am I going to explain your presence here to Abbot Sachs?"

Manfred smiled grimly. "You won't have to. Those are Schiopettieri, not Knights. Since when do Knights sound rattles?"

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Do you know any other way out of here?" He looked at the side door from which one of thugs had emerged to toss the liquor over him, but saw at once that it led only to a closet.

Manfred shook his head. "Get thrown out or leave after paying your shot. Either here or by the water-door."

Erik grimaced. "Let's get out of this room, anyway. The Schiopettieri might want us to explain why we're sharing this salon with a dead body."

"That way." Manfred pointed to the door at the end of the hallway the ambushers had used for their escape. "Leads upstairs. Maybe we can find a balcony or something to jump from."

The staircase began just behind the door, to the left. They began running up it three steps at a time, Erik in the lead. He still had the hatchet in his hand, his eyes scanning ahead to watch for another ambush. He didn't expect one, though, since he was almost certain the blond swordsman and his two surviving companions had no further purpose beyond making their own escape.

They had just made the second landing in the winding staircase when they heard the street door burst open. Erik grabbed Manfred's arm and stopped him, gesturing for silence.

From below came a voice of authority. "--wearing a white surcoat with three red crosses on it. He must be taken. Kill him if you must."

Manfred pulled a wry face. "Some goddamned ambush!" he muttered. "It looks like you were the target."

"He went up the stairs!" cried another voice from below.

"Must be the bouncer," whispered Erik.

Manfred shook his head. "I put the bastard to sleep first. Come on. Give me a hand with this couch."

The couch was a venerable piece of furniture. Either it had been intended for some unusual antics in a higher bedroom, before its carriers had been defeated either by its weight or the angle of the stairs, or it was for elderly patrons who needed to lie down before going on to visit the delights on higher floors. It was solid and heavy, and made of some exotic black wood that Erik did not recognize. This was Venice. Strange things found their way here, even wood. The couch was about six cubits long and must have weighed at least four hundredweight.

Even with Manfred's oxlike strength, lifting it was not easy. They struggled to raise it above the banisters. On the other hand, the bunch of arquebus-armed men who came running up the stairs were unable to resist it as it came hurtling down at them. Neither was the wooden staircase up to this sort of treatment. It splintered. Amid the thunder of gunfire, the shouting--and screaming--of men, and the partial collapse of the staircase, Erik and Manfred fled upwards again.

"There are other stairs," panted Manfred. "Stone ones. They'll cut us off up those."

Erik pointed. "Take that next passage, any room and a window. If need be we'll break our way into the next house."

"Corner room. Give us two sides."

They legged it down the passage. Ripped open the door. And Erik suddenly remembered just where he was: in a notorious Venetian brothel.

The woman on the bed languorously raised herself up. Her very voluptuous self. She tilted her head and twitched full, red, red lips into an easy, provocative smile. "Two of you?" She had an ornately arranged head of auburn-red hair, and pale olive skin. She wore a string of gold-netted millefiori beads. That was all she wore, so the skin was very obvious.

Despite the circumstances, Erik found himself staring at the almond-skin color of the broad areolar rings around her nipples, like a snake-hypnotized rabbit. His eyes were drawn down instinctively until he wrenched them upward and away with a tremendous force of will.

She, in turn, stared thoughtfully at the three red crosses on his surcoat.

Manfred shut the door hastily behind them. He had no trouble looking at her.

"Your friend seems a little shy." There was amusement in her rich contralto voice.

Manfred snorted. "Don't mind him, demoiselle. In fact, don't mind us. We're just passing through."

"Demoiselle!" She chuckled. "Most of my visitors are just 'passing through,' darling." Her accent was a little strange to Erik, despite his skill with languages. Not that he was interested right now in worrying about where she came from.

"Well, we mean really passing through your room," said Manfred, heading for the window. "If you'd oblige us by not screaming about it, I'll come back for a longer and more generous visit when the fuss has died down. Oh."

The "oh" was aimed at the close-set steel bars in the window.

The woman laughed. Her laughter was low and cool, much like her chuckle. "Madame Claudia doesn't like customers leaving--or coming in--without having to pass through her cash box."

In the background they could hear the distant sounds of the pursuit. Getting closer. "We'd better get out there, Manfred," said Erik grimly, heading for the door. "We'll have to try and fight our way out."

"Wait," commanded the woman. "There is another way out. You'll just have to wait until the passage is empty." She had inserted herself between Erik and the door, as effectively--in his case--as a portcullis.

"They're likely to search," said Manfred. Unlike Erik he had no problems looking at her. Or at picking her up and moving her . . .

Her means of thwarting him was to blow a kiss at him. "I think I can hide you for few minutes. For a . . ." she broke off, as if she'd reached a sudden decision. "Never mind." She looked appraisingly at Erik, and then turned to Manfred.

"You, and especially your shy friend, present me with something of a challenge." She laughed wickedly. "Come on, big boys. Both of you. Get those clothes off. There must be twenty of them out there."

"I'll go," said Erik hastily. "They're only looking for me."

Manfred grabbed him. "Don't be a fool, Erik. The demoiselle is right. If there are two of us--ah, occupied with her--they're likely to look elsewhere. Come on, Erik. Get them off. Especially that surcoat."

The woman began expertly removing the horrified Erik's trousers. "I have some wigs. Some of my clients like a little masquerade. And you'd better call me Francesca. As charming as 'demoiselle' is, my clients do know my name."

* * *

Looking up at Manfred's hairy thighs standing over him was, Erik decided, the best view from a moral standpoint. Even if it was not attractive in any other sense. He couldn't just close his eyes when a murderous bunch might burst in on him at any moment--

Not with him trapped in this position. With Francesca's silky thighs straddled over him--muscular thighs, for all the soft smoothness of her skin--if he looked forward his view was of large naked breasts. Better to look at Manfred, even if large hairy . . .

The situation was grotesque! Especially because Manfred and Francesca didn't share any of his own sense of modesty.

He couldn't quite see just what Francesca was doing with Manfred, but the noise didn't leave much to the imagination. And she didn't have to roll her hips on him like that! It wasn't as if he could do anything.

* * *

When the Schiopettieri captain wrenched open the door moments later, he was greeted with the sight of three naked people on the bed, indulging in what his wife would have called "unnatural acts" that he himself would fantasize about for weeks thereafter. The slimmer dark-haired fellow who was being straddled was plainly putting in a tremendous effort, to judge by his bright red face.

Francesca removed part of her oxlike client's anatomy from her mouth. "We're busy, Luigi. You'll have to come back later," she said lazily.

The Schiopettieri captain shut the door hastily.

* * *

"Give it a minute and I think you can leave. Unless you'd like to finish off also," she added coquettishly, tickling the hastily dressing and red-faced Erik in the ribs.

"Nothing Erik'd like more," said Manfred, smothering a guffaw. "But I'm afraid we've got to go. Just how do we get out of here?"

She took a key from the drawer. "I was in a house that caught fire once. Since then I have always made sure I had a way out. There is a door at the end of the passage with a hoist-beam for bringing furniture up from the Canal."

"Ah. Going to be a splashy, wet landing. You don't want to drink this canal water if you can help it, Erik," said Manfred.

Francesca smiled lazily at him. "You'd make an even bigger splash than I would. Wait a moment. I have some rope."

Manfred nodded. "Sounds good. Beats jumping."

Erik wondered why there would be rope in such a room. Then, seeing the paraphernalia in the closet from which Francesca withdrew the rope, found himself blushing more fiercely. He had never seen such things, although he had heard of them.

But by now Erik had finished dressing, and the relief of being no longer unclothed brought back his usual calm. He turned to the still-naked Francesca, carefully looking only at her face. "Will you be all right? Should we take you with us?"

Francesca shuddered. "Three stories? When the building's not burning? No thank you! I'm not planning on staying in this establishment much longer anyway. But when I do leave, I will use more conventional means. I am certainly not built for the climbing of ropes."

Her smile widened to a grin. "My strength is in my legs. I shall use them to walk out of the front door. Quite soon, in fact. This house does not have sufficient cachet for someone of my . . . talents, shall we say. I have no intention of remaining a mere brothel puttana, although it has taken me a while to gather resources. Now, I shall move to the Casa Louise."

She chucked his chin. "Just remember that you owe me a favor. And now, get out of here before Luigi comes back."

* * *

They slid down into the darkness. It was just as well they hadn't jumped, thought Erik. When he dropped lightly off the end of the rope, he found not water but the deck of a vessel. The boatman who had been waiting for the Schiopettieri didn't expect the "prisoner" to land on his boat. Not, at least, when that prisoner was armed and unescorted except for an even larger friend. But with Erik's Algonquian war hatchet at his throat, he wasn't going to argue about taking them away from there.

They left him tied up in his own boat, on the edge of the Grand Canal, a hundred yards away from the Imperial embassy.

Manfred looked back with regret. "You know, that Francesca had a certain something."

Erik shuddered. "She had a great deal of everything. But still. I owe her a debt."

"I owe her," said Manfred, shaking his head. "That sort of thing doesn't come for free. That's a mercenary profession if there ever was one."

"Even ladies of that stamp must have kindly impulses," said Erik stiffly.

Manfred pulled a wry face. Despite being five years younger than Erik he knew a great deal more about whores. He remembered the look on Francesca's face when she'd first seen Erik's surcoat. It had been . . . calculating. The Knights were all at least minor aristocracy. Many were confreres, merely serving a three-year novitiate. He would certainly not put it past that worldly-wise woman to know that. He'd already prepared himself for a hasty argument on price when she'd suggested hiding them, until she suddenly changed her mind or thought of something else. A few moments of Erik's reactions to a naked woman would have convinced the stupidest harlot that this one was a pure young knight. Francesca'd been very speculative, very suddenly. Manfred gave a low chuckle. He could see that perhaps he'd have to protect Erik against predatory female wiles. Well. It might not be unpleasant. "Yep. Maybe she did," was all he said.

"I will have to reward her," said Erik slowly. "Mary Magdalen too . . ."

"Oh, I think she'll be happy enough with a few ducats," said Manfred calmly, with an ease he didn't feel.

In the moonlight Erik looked doubtful. "Do you really think so? I mean it was an act of great v-v-virtue," he stammered.

Manfred swallowed his amusement. Only Erik could describe a harlot performing fellatio on one man while straddling another as "virtue." And believe it too. For all the Icelander's ferocious skill in combat, he was an innocent country boy in so many other ways.

"I'm sure," he agreed cheerfully. "And I think Abbot Sachs will be surprised to see you back. Unharmed."

Erik shrugged. "Maybe it was just some kind of mix-up."

"That'll be his story," growled Manfred, with court-honed wisdom far beyond his years.

Chapter 23 ==========

Well, that was certainly interesting.

Francesca pulled on an open-fronted robe, in case someone came back, tied it around her waist with a tasseled cord, and shook out her hair. Then she turned to the ewer and basin on the top of the table across the room where it wouldn't be knocked over in a moment of passion. She rinsed her mouth with herb-scented water and spat it into the basin.

And why did I do that, anyway?

It was not an idle question. Francesca had reacted to the situation based on reflex, because there had been no time to think things through carefully. But her reflexes had been honed by a perilous life, and she had come to trust them. Now that it was over and she did have a chance to think, she probed her memory to discover what twisted chain of logic had led her, almost without conscious thought, to behave in a way that she would normally have not.

Most certainly not! If men wanted her favors, they could damn well pay for them. She was no silly maiden to rescue a handsome man from danger without good reason--much less two of them, neither of whom was really that handsome anyway.

A pair of Knots, ambushed by the Schoppies. And not just any pair of Knots, either. Whoever arranged this particular episode either had no idea what kind of a mess he would create--or intended to. I wonder which?

She picked up the wooden comb from beside the basin and ran it through her hair, walking back to the bed as she did so. Francesca had not come from the streets. Before her family's ruination, they had been skilled players in the subtle and deadly intrigue which was the principal sport of Aquitaine's aristocracy. Her father had trained her in the political and diplomatic arts as thoroughly as her mother had trained her in other ways. So, a mind far better educated than anyone would have expected to find in that brothel worked at the problem, while she sat on the edge of the bed and combed her hair.

She had known, of course, from the moment she saw the two men, that they were what her mother--as chauvinistic as any Aquitaine--would have called, disdainfully, etrangers. The embarrassed blond was too fair to be Prussian or Austrian; and his companion had called him "Erik." He could only be a Norse of some kind. And that was odd, because there were very few Norse in the Knots. The Christian Norse who belonged to the Holy Roman Empire were Danes; and the Danes were rivals of the Knights of the Holy Trinity in the Baltic. The other Christian branch of Scandinavia were the Icelanders and their various offshoots--but they gave their allegiance to the League of Armagh, not the Holy Roman Emperor.

Except--

Her eyes widened. Like a flash, her mind focused on the other of the two men--the very large and square one. Very large, she remembered with some amusement, and in all respects; but he hadn't been rough at all, so she didn't hold it against him. He had spoken with a pronounced Breton accent--unmistakable, to one born and bred as Francesca had been in the Aquitaine.

And his name was "Manfred." His companion Erik had used it once.

Her eyes widened still further. Manfred of Brittany? The Manfred of Brittany? Is it possible?

Hair-brushing was too sedate. Francesca set down the comb, got to her feet and began pacing slowly about. Her quick mind raced, tracing the connections.

Nephew of the Emperor . . . probably second in line to the throne . . . third in line, for a certainty . . . still a just a youth, he'd be . . . bit of a rakehell, supposedly . . . what would Charles Fredrik do with such an imperial scion?

Of course! It's practically a tradition now with the Hohenstauffens!

Back and forth, back and forth. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor. That, too, her mother had taught her. Noise is something you make to please a man, when it suits your purpose. Otherwise--move silently.

Yes, it all made sense. Charles Fredrik would have reached beyond the Empire altogether, called in that ancient clan favor. Brought in someone who could be trusted in such a matter, have no ties or links to the complex web of imperial politics, and also be quite capable of--

She winced, slightly, remembering the noise that had erupted earlier from the entry salon downstairs. Those fools! They might as well have tried trapping a tiger with a fishnet.

She was sure of it, now. The two men she had rescued were an imperial prince--Manfred of Brittany--and his Icelandic bodyguard.

Then, remembering Kat's description of her frightening encounter with the Knights in the church two weeks earlier, Francesca began laughing softly. Kat had not mentioned the name of either of the knights who had come to her defense, on that occasion, but she had described them. Her description, of course, had borne precious little resemblance to the two men Francesca had just finished . . . entertaining in her room. Granted, Manfred was very big; but he was not a giant. Nor--here Francesca's laugh almost gurgled--had the shy and red-faced Erik seemed quite the Nordic werewolf that Kat depicted.

Still . . . thinking about it, Francesca could well believe that those two young men--especially Erik--could be utterly terrifying under different circumstances. Judging from the sounds she had heard coming from below earlier that evening, a number of would-be ambushers had certainly found them so.

She had not, however. And, now that she was certain of their identity, Francesca found herself strangely delighted by the entire episode. She had chosen to rescue the two men out of half-conscious calculation, true. But . . .

Kat's a friend of mine. So I suppose I owed those two boys a favor anyway. Not--again the little gurgling laugh--that Erik seemed to enjoy it much, even if Manfred certainly did.

The laugh died away. Favors were favors, true, but self-interest remained. Where was the benefit to her in this thing?

This called for more leisurely reasoning. Once again, Francesca resumed her seat on the bed and went back to combing her hair.

She began by examining the ambush. She hadn't seen it, of course, but she didn't need to. She had seen the key piece of evidence--Erik's naked body, completely unmarked by any wound. Whoever set that trap had no idea what kind of ferocious "prey" would be walking into it. Which meant they were quite unaware of the true identity of Erik and Manfred. Whatever had been the purpose of the ambush, it had been aimed at two--or perhaps only one--junior members of the militant order. Not an imperial prince and his special companion.

That ruled out any of the Venetian factions immediately. Neither the Metropolitans nor the Montagnards would have any reason to ambush ordinary knights. Not in such an elaborate manner, at any rate, in a well-known brothel where there was bound to be a risk of capture by the Schiopettieri. If either of the factions had a quarrel to settle with a common knight, they would have stabbed him in the streets. A quick thrust from a doorway, followed by easy escape through crooked alleys in the dark.

Then . . . why had the Schiopettieri shown up so quickly? That was completely atypical. To have gotten here so quickly, the Schiopettieri had to have been forewarned--suborned, in fact. And whoever could wield that much influence would hardly have done it for the petty purpose of killing or injuring a simple knight.

Nor, again, was it something either the Montagnards or the Metropolitans would have done anyway. Not for their own purposes, at any rate. It was conceivable one of them might have done so as a favor to an ally, or for pay.

What ally, or paymaster? Not any of the powers within official Venice, for a certainty. The last thing official Venice wanted was any cause for quarrel with the Holy Roman Emperor. Charles Fredrik was a grim and dangerous man to have ruling the most powerful realm in Europe, especially one which was almost a neighbor of the island Republic. But--unlike some emperors of the past, Charles Fredrik was not given to grandiose ambitions. He was not a conqueror by temperament. Despite occasional frictions, Venice had gotten along quite well with the Empire since Charles Fredrik came to the throne, all things considered. It would be sheer insanity for the Venetian oligarchy to attack the Emperor's nephew.

All of which led Francesca to one inescapable conclusion. She set down the comb, folded her hands in her lap, and stared sightlessly at the far wall of her room.

Whoever was behind that ambush, and whatever the reason, it was someone whose motives were imperial. Or aimed at the Empire. This--whatever it is--goes far beyond petty Venetian squabbling.

She made no attempt to pursue that train of thought any further. She lacked sufficient information. Instead, she considered another question:

So. Was it a blunder, a piece of idiocy, or a calculated attempt to throw a tremendously big boulder into the already roiling pool of Venetian politics at present? For purposes which go quite beyond Venice itself?

After a minute or so, she set that question aside also. Again, she simply lacked the necessary information to make any kind of intelligent assessment. That left her with the final and most important question:

So. What do I do? Pursue this any further, or leave it be?

The answer to that question came almost as fast as the question itself. If she'd had any intention of not pursuing it, her well-trained reflexes wouldn't have led her to assist the two men in the first place. And, as always, Francesca trusted her reflexes.

For a rare moment, Francesca allowed herself a sheer grin. Not a seductive smile, but a true baring of the teeth with unrestrained glee.

What a grand game this would be!

The grin faded quickly enough. She was neither rash by temperament nor, certainly, by training. Patience had been drilled into her as a small girl. For the time being . . .

Meddling with this immediately or directly would make me a dangerous woman. I think I would rather not be dangerous at the moment, when I have my own pot to stir.

There was still a lot of noise and to-do going on in the rest of the house. Good. She'd intended to leave very soon anyway, now that Katerina had provided her with the last things she needed. Francesca had planned to wait a day or two more, but . . .

No. Tonight would be ideal. Once everything was sorted out and the appropriate bribes paid--this time, to the Madame of the Red Cat for a wonder, and not from her--things would be very quiet. The other girls would be upset, especially the young and not-so-experienced ones, the servants would be nursing bruised bodies and ill-tempers, and since by now the word had spread all up and down the Grand Canal that the Red Cat had been descended upon by the Schoppies in force, customers would be thin on the ground tonight. Tomorrow, of course, they'd be thick as fleas on a feral cat, wanting to know what happened, but not tonight. Tonight, in a hour or so, she could envelope herself in a cloak and walk out without anyone noticing.

Fernando, the aged servant who usually saw to the needs of the girls on this floor, stuck his head into the room without knocking--as usual. "Francesca--are you all right?" he asked.

She pouted. "I am, but my customers weren't happy. I only finished one off, and I suspect they sneaked out without paying. There were two--a big Circassian and a little Moor." There. Now if anyone thinks to connect me with Manfred and his keeper, they'll be disabused of the notion. I doubt the captain was paying attention to complexions and hair colors, other than mine.

Fernando frowned fiercely. "Half the house sneaked out without paying. I hope Madame soaks those Schoppies good!" He withdrew and shut the door. Francesca laughed softly to herself.

She waited, still as a statue, her hands folded in her lap, while the house settled.

Eventually, except for the murmur of distant talking and the hysterical sobbing of some girl too overset to be comforted, it did. Francesca bound her hair into a net to keep it in order until she could put it up properly, and got out the package that Kat had brought her early this afternoon, putting the latch on the door just in case. If anyone tried it, let them think she was having a case of the vapors herself.

Just as well that she was already naked under the robe, because she was about to go up several steps in the world, sartorially speaking, and the transformation would have to be from the skin outward, staring with perfumed oil. None of this had been cheap, but it was all necessary. Just as the Red Cat would turn away a mere putta who came calling at the door, so Casa Louise would turn away a whore from the Red Cat.

Silk hose; silk knitted hose, which clung to the leg as mere cut-and-sewn hose couldn't. Silk shifts, three of them, as fine as cobweb, and trimmed with lace. Undergown, of silk-satin, once white but re-dyed in ochre--not new, but no one would ever know that unless they got their noses within an inch of the seams. Overgown, also not new, but very, very cleverly put together from two "donor" gowns, one of which was the source of the embroidery, the other of the foundation fabric--silk-and-linen twill in a rich re-dyed brown.

Now, how am I going to use this little entertainment? It's too soon to throw any nets--and too dangerous--but a bit of bait . . .

Young Manfred was very much attracted to her, of that she was quite certain. But would he remember where she had told him she was going? Probably not. He did not strike her as the kind of young man who would remember such things. So--how to remind him?

It was as she was tying the embroidered girdle just under her breasts that it came to her, and she laughed. Of course! She would send him a short length of perfumed rope, with a card saying only Casa Louise. She would pay a messenger to see that it went only into Manfred's hands. He must go outside of the chapter house and the Imperial embassy sometime.

The sobbing had stopped, the buzz of conversation increased. Good. Time to go.

She gathered all that she wanted to take with her in a very small bag. She hadn't wasted any of her earnings--until now--on cosmetics or clothing as the other girls did. But her savings--except for enough to take her to her new home--weren't here. They were on deposit with a goldsmith. So the cosmetics and hair ornaments and jewelry all fitted into a very small bag. She left her robe lying on the floor with her two dresses; some other girl could have it and welcome. She flung over her splendid gown the cloak that had come wrapped around the dress and the rest--the plain side, a dark tabby-weave linen that no one here would look twice at. She drew the hood over her head, and slipped out the door.

The doorman was gone--nursing a bruised and possibly broken skull, she suspected. There had been no one in the Madame's room, either. Luck smiled upon her tonight.

She did have to walk a little, and this was the most hazardous part of the undertaking--footpads, toughs; she was fair game for anyone who saw her--but they, too, had been frightened out of the area along with the gondoliers. When she finally found one free and flagged him to the side of the canal, she was far enough away from the Red Cat that no one was likely to connect her to the place.

"Casa Louise. Don't hurry," she ordered the gondolier. She drew the curtains around the tiny "cabin," but did not blow out the lamp, for she was going to need it--and every moment it would take to get to Casa Louise.

By the time the boat nosed into the mooring at this most prestigious of Houses, Francesca had completed her transformation. Her hair was now arranged as elegantly as that of any merchant princess, twined with strings of lustrous glass and semiprecious beads, held in place with bejeweled pins. The careful use of cosmetics turned handsome features into something dramatic. And the cloak, now turned right-way around, showed its true face of ochre velvet and gold cording. When she drew back the curtains and the gondolier stooped to offer his hand to help her up, his eyes widened in admiration.

He aided her onto the walkway, and when he withdrew his hand, there was a coin of sufficient worth in it to assure his satisfaction and silence.

Casa Louise, unlike the Red Cat, boasted a landing lit by lanterns, with more lanterns on either side of the door, and two footmen beneath each one. The place was a well-lit stage, for very few of those who arrived here were reluctant to be seen.

Francesca glided up to the footmen with practiced grace and studied aplomb. "Francesca de Chevreuse," she told the right-hand man, taking up her new identity and name for the first time with immense satisfaction. She did not have to add I am expected, because he would already have been informed.

"Madonna," the footman murmured, and opened the door to the next stage of her life.

Chapter 24 ==========

As Marco carefully dressed and bandaged the long slash on Caesare's shoulder, he inspected their host. Caesare Aldanto should still be abed. He was definitely still pale, and it wasn't just loss of blood from that cut. Still, this wasn't the right time to ask how the man was feeling. By the grim set of Caesare's jaw, whatever had been going on when he acquired the wound hadn't gone well.

As Caesare's memory-man and scribe, Marco was still only privy to a small amount of Caesare's doings. The former Montagnard agent played things very close to his chest. One of the things Marco had realized quite fast in their relationship with Caesare Aldanto was that it was never wise to pry. The man had an uncertain temper.

"Cornutto!" Caesare swore. "Watch what you're doing!"

Marco handed him the waiting glass of grappa. "Sorry, Caesare. But this is going to hurt. You've got some dirt in there that needs to come out."

Caesare tossed the brandy off. "Make it quick then."

As Marco was working, Maria came in through the front door. As she turned to close it, two heavy-shouldered men bundled their way in behind her. Maria bit at the big hand that was clapped over her mouth and struggled vainly to reach for her knife. Her assailant clouted her, hard. "We want to talk to him, see. Now stop biting and you won't get hurt."

"I told you never to come here." Caesare's voice was icy. There was no sign of fear in it.

Marco felt in the bag for the comforting handle of the small, sharp knife that Caesare kept in with the dressings. He knew full well who these two were. You didn't mess around with the Matteonis. They were enforcers, debt collectors and rent-a-beating boys. He remembered how the crowd had parted around the three of them in Barducci's. He'd asked Valentina about them. Valentina had turned quietly to him, pulling a wry face. "Matteoni. Alberto, Stephano, and Luciano. Descended from a long proud line of barroom thugs and back-alley stabbers."

Claudia had snorted. "And this generation has sunk even lower."

Stephano Matteoni stalked forward. "Alberto's dead, Aldanto, you mincha!"

Marco smiled wryly to himself. Well, of course. Alberto would be dead if he'd attacked Caesare.

"Yeah," Luciano snarled. "You promised us the knight'd be unarmed and unarmored."

Marco swallowed. This wasn't quite what he had envisaged. He was well aware that the former Montagnard agent dealt sometimes in deaths as well as in information. But so far they'd had nothing to do with that part of Caesare's trade.

"You fools," snapped Caesare. "He is a knight. I told you he'd be dangerous."

Stephano had a big, clumsy, badly made hand-cannon in his hand. Calling it an "arquebus" would be stretching the point. "You said you'd deal with any real trouble. And . . ."

Caesare shook his head. "There were two of them--not one, like I was told. And the first one had that damned hand-axe, instead of being unarmed like he was supposed to be. And he was wearing some kind of armor." He blew out his breath. "Then the Schiopettieri arrived--"

"You promised we'd be out of there before that!" interrupted Luciano furiously.

"Things go wrong." Caesar shrugged. Then, winced as the movement pulled at the cut. "Now get the hell out of here before you're seen."

"We're not going until we've been paid," said Stephano sullenly.

Marco felt his mouth fall open. He'd thought they'd come for revenge because their brother was dead. They hadn't. They'd come for money.

Caesare stood up. His eyes narrowed. "For what? The man was supposed to be maimed in a brothel-fight and apparently drunk when the Schiopettieri arrived. You failed, and the Schiopettieri failed, too. I don't pay for failure," he added dangerously.

Stephano backed off a step. Then he remembered the hand-cannon. He steadied it, aiming straight at Caesare's chest. Of course it might not go off. This was one of the cheap fire-spell scroll ones. They were notoriously unreliable. But it might just work. At this range he could hardly miss. "Alberto's dead," he repeated grimly. "You owe us . . ."

"I owe you nothing, orrichioni," said Caesare dismissively. "The job's not done. That means I don't get paid and you don't either."

"And if you don't stop pointing that thing at Caesare," said Benito from the stair-landing, "I'm going to have to blow you bastardos in half." He had Caesare's arquebus resting on the handrail, pointed straight at Stephano's swelling belly. The slowmatch, far more reliable than a spell scroll, smoked and fizzed. "I'm giving you to the count of five. One." His voice cracked. But the muzzle of the arquebus was rock steady.

Luciano's grip on Maria must have slackened with the sudden intrusion of firepower. Maria bit savagely and broke away. She didn't go far. Just far enough to pull her knife and hiss like an angry cat at Luciano.

"And if you pull that trigger, Stephano," said Marco, producing the knife, "your surviving brother might have to explain to Brunelli just what you were doing. I think the Schiopettieri would be glad to hang him this time." Luciano looked uneasy at the mention of the Casa Brunelli. Distinctly uneasy.

Stephano sized the situation up. "All right. We're going. But we want money, Aldanto. We want money or we'll go straight to . . . Aleri."

Aleri. Marco pricked his ears. He knew that name well from his mother's Montagnard days. Francesco Aleri. The Milanese controller. Duke Visconti's spymaster in Venice.

Caesare laughed easily, unpleasantly. "You do that. He won't pay you either. Now get out. Keep out of trouble and there may be work for you again. Open those mouths of yours and you can join Alberto. Now go. Get. Don't ever come back here. I don't know you."

They backed out like whipped curs.

Marco felt the tension drain out of his shoulders.

"You can put that knife away," said Caesare.

Startled, Marco dropped it back into the bag. "Sorry." Then he realized that Caesare had actually been addressing Maria.

Looking at her stormy face, Marco realized that maybe he'd been too hasty about relaxing. The Matteonis had been a minor danger, comparatively. "How could you, Caesare? Matteoni? Figlio di una puttana! They're filth! Slavers. They sell . . . and make castrati to the east. And they broke my cousin Tonio's fingers! You know how a caulker with broken fingers finds work?"

"Put the knife away, Maria. I work with what I have to work with."

Her response was to put the knife down on the table, snatch a platter off it and fling it at his head. It shattered against the wall behind him. "Testa di cazzo! If my cousins hear you work with the Matteoni, they don't never work for you again!"

Caesare picked a pottery fragment out of his hair. His eyes blazed angrily in his pale face. He snapped right back at her. "They'll damn well do what they're told and you'll keep your damned mouth shut to everyone about it, bitch!"

"Damn you to hell, Aldanto!" she snarled. "I'll talk to who I want to talk to, when I damn well want to!"

Benito, up on the landing, put the arquebus down carefully. He'd already snuffed the slowmatch. He gestured to Marco with his eyes and head. Marco nodded, wide-eyed, and ducked as the next piece of crockery hit the wall. With a quiet that was quite unnecessary above the shouting, he headed to join Benito moving for the door. Even the risk of lurking Matteonis seemed less dangerous than staying.

* * *

In the relative quiet of Barducci's, Marco turned to Benito. "Does that sort of thing happen often?"

"What? The fights?"

"Yes."

Benito shrugged. "It's happened a couple of times that I know of. Maria's pretty quick to flare up. They always patch it up, after. Caesare needs her and she's crazy about him."

Marco looked across the room. Angelina Dorma and her Case Vecchie friends hadn't come in this evening. Barducci's was only one of the taverns they frequented. Quite frankly that crowd of hers worried him.

"I thought Caesare was too independent to feel like that about Maria."

Benito snorted into his wine. "He plays the field. But carefully. He needs Maria's cousins is rather what I meant."

"Oh." Marco let his curiosity get the better of him. He thought of Maria's extended family of "cousins." Even if she had no parents she had enough of those cousins to start a tribe. A poor tribe, though, and not . . . well . . . the sort of people you'd think would be of any value to Caesare in his shadowy world. Most of them were just caulkers, not even thugs like the Matteoni brothers. It was the poorest guild, putting the outer planking and caulking on Venice's ships. Not for the life of him could he see why someone like Caesare--with contacts like Ricardo Brunelli--would need to have anything to do with them. "Why?"

Benito looked around the tavern. "Come on, big brother. Finish up. I'm tired. That girl you've been mooning over isn't in tonight. If we take the long way back we should get back after the kissing and making up, and with any luck after the sweeping up, too."

Marco drained his goblet. He hadn't realized that Benito was aware of his fascination with Angelina Dorma. He felt a little embarrassed about it. On the other hand, he felt he'd better find out what Benito was talking about with Maria's cousins. He owed Caesare. It was only right to take care of his business for him. And he couldn't do that unless he knew what it was. Obviously his eternally curious brother had found out something. Equally obviously he wasn't going to tell Marco here.

He stood up and stretched. "Very well, it must be well the other side of midnight anyway."

They followed Benito's habitual "upper route." Even after all these weeks in town, and his frequent clambers after his brother, Marco would never possess half of Benito's catlike surefootedness across the pan-tiles. He would never have Benito's love for high places, either.

They stopped up against a chimney stack. While Marco caught his breath, Benito explained. "It's a great scam. A couple of Maria's cousins do the outer cladding at the Arsenal. They've been hollowing out a section from the actual keel timber of the galleys. Then it is fitted with a cunningly made cover, that you have to know exactly where to release. The Doge's customs and excise officers will never find it. You can only get to it from underwater."

"Oh." Well, that was relatively innocuous. Everyone tried to evade the Doge's customs to a greater or lesser extent.

Benito yawned. "Come on. Let's get back."

* * *

They both approached Caesare's apartment rather nervously. But all was quiet. And someone had swept up most of the broken crockery.

Chapter 25 ==========

The next day Caesare and Maria were being very careful around each other. But at least the worst of their fight seemed to be over. One of Maria's cheeks was distinctly bruised, but otherwise there was no obvious damage except a shortage of breakfast crockery that no one mentioned.

"I've an errand for you, Marco," said Caesare, carefully slicing a piece of frittata and placing it inside a flap of bread. "This evening before moonrise. You'd better go with him, Benito. Along that 'upper highway' you boast about, because I want this scroll delivered without anyone knowing. But Marco will go inside alone."

It was a sign of increasing trust, Marco knew. Up to now he'd only taken messages to Captain Della Tomasso--Benito's fence and a coast trader who added confidential message carrying to his quiver of expensive services. This was a step up. But he would have preferred it if Benito weren't involved.

* * *

The rooftops were slippery, curled with mist. The only light was that reflected up from windows and the occasional torches in the street below. Marco wished like hell he was down there. Roof climbing was difficult enough when you could see, although it didn't seem to make much difference to Benito. But for all the inconvenience, Marco understood why they were going along the rooftops. He understood at once, the moment Caesare had told him exactly where he was going: The Casa Brunelli.

Ricardo Brunelli was Caesare's "protector" among Venice's upper crust. He was a power in those elite ranks. Brunelli saw himself as the Doge-in-waiting, and there was no doubt that the information Caesare had been able to furnish him about the Montagnards and their adherents in Venice had been valuable. From a comment that Maria had made, Marco was sure that Caesare performed other services for the head of Casa Brunelli. The whispered knowledge that Caesare lay under the mantle of Brunelli protection was a shield the former Montagnard agent needed. Brunelli was a power in the Metropolitan faction in Venice, even if he kept a public distance from it. And although the Metropolitans did not have quite as savage a reputation as the Montagnards, they had one savage enough--and theirs was the stronger of the two factions in neutral Venice. So long as Caesare enjoyed Brunelli's favor, the Montagnards would steer clear of him. Revenge was not worth the risk of Metropolitan retaliation. Brunelli shielded Caesare just as Caesare's own mantle protected Marco.