Shadow of the Lion

Fifteen minutes later, they stood to attention in squads in the courtyard. The knight-proctors inspected them, reported back to the abbot, returned to their squads.

The abbot stood in front of serried rows of steel-clad men. He held up a wad of parchment. "These are a final and complete list of the Jews, Strega, Mussulmen and other ungodly ones in this pesthole," he announced in a triumphant voice. "I have addresses and maps. We will be arresting the ringleaders tonight, Ritters, just as soon as the tocsin bell in Saint Mark's square is rung. Tomorrow a full contingent of our Knights will be arriving from Trieste to help restore order in what will be the new southern frontier of the Holy Roman Empire."

Erik heard Manfred, standing next to him, draw a deep breath. He waited for the bull-like bellow. It didn't come.

Sachs had paused, as if he too had been waiting for something. Then he continued. "Knight-Proctors. Step forward and collect your orders. Squads are to remain together, at their assigned posts, until the tocsin bell rings. Then you will move out, with your assigned group of Servants of the Holy Trinity, to protect you from whatever magic these ungodly ones may attempt to unleash at you. Fear not! God and the holy Saint Paul are with us!"

Erik and Manfred found themselves assembled in a front salon along with some twenty knights, under the command of Knight-Proctors Von Welf and Von Stublau. Many of the other knights had been kept back in the courtyard.

He and Manfred walked up to the two knight-proctors.

"Who said you could break ranks?" snapped Von Welf.

Manfred took a deep breath. "We need to take you to see Count Von Stemitz, Von Welf. There is something he's got to tell you."

Von Welf smiled a particularly unpleasant smile. "We'll be seeing him soon enough. As soon as the bell in Saint Mark's Square begins to ring continuously. His name is on the top of our list."

There was a moment's silence. Erik heard footsteps shuffling behind him; quietly, as if heavily armored men were trying to move stealthily across a tile floor. Two or three of the knights in the salon were coming up behind him and Manfred.

He was quite certain of their purpose, and had to fight down a savage smile.

In the distance a bell began to ring. "That's early," said Von Stublau, quietly, almost conversationally. "But it's the signal. Such a pity that Petro Dorma ordered you killed. The evidence and report are on their way to the Brenner pass right now."

But Erik was moving before the Prussian had finished the last sentence. He knocked Manfred aside with a thrust of his right arm and spun to the left, dropping to one knee as he did so. The poignard in the hand of the knight assigned to stab him in the back passed overhead harmlessly. An instant later, the Algonquian hatchet sheared through the knee joint in the knight's armor.

The knight screamed and toppled forward. Erik rose up beneath him and added his own thrust to the topple, sending the armored man crashing into the two Prussian knight-proctors.

Erik glanced at Manfred. The prince had been expecting treachery also, of course. And if Manfred did not have Erik's lightning reflexes, he could move much faster than anyone would expect. Erik's shove had sent him out of immediate danger, and by the time the knight assigned to murder Manfred had reached him . . .

The prince had his sword out. A sword he had learned to use extremely well over the past year. His assailant attempted a feint, which Manfred countered by the simple expedient of lopping his arm off. The knight went one way, the arm another. Blood poured over the tiles.

For a moment, Erik studied the remaining knights in the salon. They were still frozen in place, immobilized by the sudden and unexpected violence. Clearly enough, none of them except two had been directly involved in Von Stublau's plot.

Von Stublau and Von Welf were struggling back onto their feet--no easy task for heavily armored men sent sprawling to the ground. Von Stublau was on Erik's side, Von Welf nearer to Manfred.

Von Welf never made it up at all. Manfred's sword, in a backswing, shattered his helmet and the skull inside it. Von Welf sprawled back onto the floor and lay there motionless.

Erik disarmed Von Stublau with a quick hooking motion of the hatchet, a maneuver the Prussian neither expected nor had ever encountered before. He was still looking more puzzled than anything, when his attention was riveted by the razor edge of the hatchet--three inches in front of his eyes.

"Make any move and I'll take off your face," said Erik cheerfully. "That nose guard might as well be a lady's veil, as much good as it'll do you."

Von Stublau froze. The Icelander's thin smile was as friendly as a wolf's.

"You made two mistakes, Von Stublau. The first one is that bell. You see, that isn't the one from Saint Mark's Square. That's the Marangona, the bell they ring every morning at the Arsenal. It goes on for half an hour every morning, so you should know it. As this isn't morning, and as the Arsenal is working right now, I imagine someone has found out about your plot."

The knight-proctor looked startled. Then, began to pale.

"And the second one is that you shouldn't assume everyone is as stupid as you are."

He raised his voice. "Prince Manfred, Earl of Carnac, your uncle His Imperial Highness, Charles Fredrik, Holy Roman Emperor, has given me orders to kill any man who threatens your life." Erik grabbed the lower edge of Von Stublau's helmet and jerked him forward, kicking the knight-proctor's legs out from under him and driving him back down. The Prussian grunted with pain as his knees smashed into the floor.

"Kneel, traitor. May he be shriven first, My Lord Earl?"

Everything was moving too fast for the remaining knights to understand what was happening. Most of them were still slack-jawed with surprise. But at least two thirds of them, out of training if nothing else, had drawn their broadswords.

The doors at the back of the salon opened. The entry of soldiers or other knights might have simply made the situation explode into violence. Outnumbered sixteen to two, Erik and Manfred would have been hard-pressed to survive long enough for any kind of rescue.

Except . . . by an unarmed, haughty, imperially-dressed woman, accompanied by an elderly gentleman in court clothes. The woman looked like a princess. She certainly wore enough jewels.

Francesca smiled at them from under her tiara. The knights parted like the Red Sea before Moses, opening up to allow her and Count Von Stemitz to walk through.

She curtsied to Manfred. The count bowed low.

Manfred behaved as if he had, not a few moments back, been in a fight for his life, and didn't have a bloody sword in his hand. "Princess." His mind raced for a suitable address. Well. There were enough little principalities in the Empire. Let the Knots guess. "How may we assist?"

She smiled regally. "Your imperial uncle has asked me to deliver certain warrants to you." She handed him the sheaf of parchments he'd left with her not an hour before.

Manfred took them and leafed through them, as if he hadn't written them himself. "Count Von Stemitz," he said calmly, "Who am I? Please explain that to these assembled Knights."

Von Stemitz bowed again. "You are Prince Manfred, Earl of Carnac, Marquis of Rennes, Baron of Ravensburg. You are also Privy Emissary Plenipotentiary for his Imperial Highness Charles Fredrik of Mainz. He has invested you with the full and independent power to act for the imperial throne."

Manfred cleared his throat. "I have a message from Emperor Charles Fredrik to read to all of you. He says to remind the Knots that he holds their charter, the deeds to all their monasteries--and that they are perilously close to his displeasure. And that he has more than sufficient military forces to crush the entire order of the Knights of the Holy Trinity, should they persist in defying him. And to remind any confrere knights that he is their sovereign and their estates are his to dispose of."

The salon seemed to chill by many degrees of temperature. Charles Fredrik was known to be reluctant to use military force except when he felt it was necessary. He was also known to use it with utter ruthlessness when he did so.

The threat was particularly shaking, obviously enough, to the confrere knights who made up perhaps half of the force assembled in the salon. Not one of the confrere knights in the salon doubted for an instant that the old Emperor would make good his threat to kill all of them--and expropriate their families in the bargain. As surely as a farmer will butcher a hog for a feast.

Erik cast quick eyes around the salon. He could see at least four--no, five; then six--of the confrere knights start shifting their stance. Moving, now--and none too subtly--to be prepared to subdue the two regular knights who were most prone to religious fanaticism. And then saw the other regular knights sidling away from the two zealots. The sudden shift in the balance of forces was as palpable as a lead weight.

Count Von Stemitz coughed in the tense silence. "May I remind you further, Ritters, that standing in the presence of the Emperor's nephew and Privy Emissary Plenipotentiary with drawn weapons is--ah--dangerously close to treason."

Weapons were sheathed, hastily. With the naked blades absent, the tension began to ease.

Manfred, meanwhile, had been sorting through the bundle of parchments as if he had not a care in the world beyond scrupulous attention to the Emperor's correspondence.

"Here, Erik." He handed one to the Icelander, who still held the kneeling Von Stublau. "Show him that."

Erik held the parchment in front of the knight-proctor's eyes.

"See that seal, Von Stublau?" said Erik, coldly. "Your life, your lands, and your family's lands are forfeit. You and they are landless peasants. You are shortly going to be a dead landless peasant."

The big Prussian's eyes widened. He had been afraid of the axe. This--to the Prussian--was worse. "I . . . I didn't know . . ."

"You knew," said Manfred scathingly. He looked down on Von Stublau. "You and Von Welf both knew. Now, you must pay the price of treason. Your lands are confiscate to the crown. I will, however, temper justice with mercy. I will not act against your family's holdings--if I am told the full details of your plot. Should it emerge, later, even twenty years hence, that you didn't tell us all you knew . . . then your kin can join the Polish peasants on your lands."

"The peasantry will kill them," whimpered Von Stublau. "They'll tear them apart."

"Maybe you should advise them to start some reforms immediately," said Von Stemitz dryly.

Erik gestured at the door. "Time for this later, Manfred. There are a lot of knights out there, and Sachs too."

Manfred nodded. "True. De Grinchy. Lutz. Take charge of this one. Bring him with us."

They marched out, with Manfred at the head of the column of knights. Erik, watching his back, reflected that power was a strange thing. Sachs, and the knight-proctors involved, would have chosen their adherents for this squad. Yet when Francesca had shifted their balance, the reins had ended up firmly in Manfred's hands. Even the two zealots--

Erik's lips twisted in a smile that was as bitter as it was wry. The worst of Sachs's camp followers would be the quickest to strike off any head from anyone who dared to dissent. And yet, really, in actual fact, they were still completely at the mercy of their former foes.

"How did you know to come now?" he whispered to Francesca. "And where did you get the jewelry?"

"I wouldn't like this jewelry examined in broad daylight or by a skilled jeweler," said Francesca quietly. "I've taken my task seriously, Erik. I've had my watchers keeping an eye on Manfred too, you know. He's a very valuable client, to say the least."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Besides, you know Von Stemitz."

Francesca dimpled at him. "Indeed. You are too observant, Erik. Hendrik has been a regular, ah, friend. But I really don't think Manfred needs to know that petty detail."

Mutely, Erik shook his head.

Francesca's dimples were now quite dazzling. "Ah, what would you do without me?"

Mutely, Erik shook his head.

Chapter 86 ==========

Benito was a little edgy. For starters, the old man couldn't move very fast. For a second thing, the town felt like a powder keg. There was a tension in the air you could almost taste. He and Lord Montescue had gotten to the gondola landing to find several anxious-looking people with brass-bound staves waiting to take their vessel. There'd been someone running back across there. . . .

Then they'd entered the narrow winding calle which led to Marco's digs--and found a cluster of people in front of them, in the middle of what was obviously a tense confrontation.

And then he heard Maria shout: "I'll shoot at least one of you others!"

He left Lodovico and ran forward.

"Benito!" Maria nearly dropped the pistol. "You idiot! I almost shot you."

Lopez stared at Benito. "You!" Then, incongruously, he burst into laughter. "It needed only this!"

Benito noticed that Kat was pushing the muzzle of her own pistol into the Spaniard's belly. "Er. Kat. Why are you doing that?"

"He's maybe the one behind all the magical murders!" snapped Kat. "And he probably killed the bishop, too--that you nearly got executed for killing. He's certainly the driving force behind Venice's woes!" The lightning progression--maybe; probably; certainly--didn't seem to perturb Kat in the least. The youthful inquisitor, in full fury.

Benito took a deep breath. "He's also a Legate of the Grand Metropolitan in Rome. And--well, he's helped me."

Lopez bowed his head and smiled wryly. The fact that a cocked pistol was pressed into his midriff didn't seem to worry the man in the least.

"Here at the request of Metropolitan Michael to investigate the activities of the Servants of the Holy Trinity," he elaborated, in quite a calm tone of voice. "Particularly with reference to their persecution of magic-users. Since then I have been seconded to try to find out who was committing these magical murders, as well as how they were being achieved. And to determine--and thwart, it at all possible--the purpose behind them."

Luciano growled. "Well, look no further than your precious Servants of the Holy Trinity then. They're in league with Chernobog--be sure of it! And the woman you're looking for is that so-called 'nun' of theirs."

"Katerina," puffed Lodovico, who had just hustled himself forward. "What is happening now? And why are you threatening this gentleman with that pistol? Be careful, for the sake of God! You've got it cocked!"

Kat frowned, uncertainly. But her weapons training had been rigorous. She removed the weapon from Lopez's waistline; then, carefully and expertly, disengaged the lock. "I hope it may just be a misunderstanding , Grandpapa."

Benito heaved a little sigh of relief. Then pointed to Zianetti's, which was not twenty yards distant.

"That tavern's the place to settle this, not here on the street. Milord Dorma and Marco can join us there." He gave Lopez a polite little bow. "That's Marco Valdosta, I'm referring to."

Lopez nodded. "Valdosta, yes. There are portents attached to that name."

For the first time since Kat had ever seen the fierce-looking Basque, standing on Brunelli's balcony the year before, his intense face suddenly burst into an expression of pure good will. She was almost stunned by the sheer charisma the man seemed to exude.

"A tavern it is, then! Now, if you will allow me to introduce my companions--" He gestured to the two men standing behind him. "Father Pierre, from the Savoy; and Father Diego. Diego, like myself, is from Spain--although, poor soul, not blessed with being a Basque. On the other hand--also like me--he has the pleasure of being able to claim some Jewish ancestry."

The last statement was made in such an offhand manner that the import of it did not register immediately on Kat. When it did, she relaxed still further. The Paulines, especially the more fanatical ones, tended toward religious intolerance. No Pauline zealot, for a certainty, would so casually announce that he had some Jewish blood running in his veins. Kat realized that Lopez had made the statement deliberately. The Basque, clearly enough, was a skilled diplomat, whatever might be the ferocity with which he seemed to act otherwise.

"Father Pierre, as you will see for yourself the moment he opens his mouth," continued Lopez cheerily, "is blessed with the usual Savoyard skill for mangling civilized tongues. But he is quite accomplished in other ways. The detection of black magic, for one."

"Welcome to Venice," said Benito, with a laugh. "Let us buy you a glass of wine at Zianetti's!"

* * *

Zianetti's tavern was relatively deserted. The Accademia was emptying fast, and they got a small private room.

"Time for straight talk," said Benito.

"Yes," said Lopez firmly. "The fate of Venice is at stake."

Benito shrugged uncomfortably. "I dunno about the destiny of Venice. But you kept me free and alive, true enough." Benito saw the puzzled looks around the table. "Look, never mind. It's a long story. I got into stupid trouble and he helped me out. He was very truthful--and very rude."

Father Diego laughed. "Ah, yes. The true Eneko! Don't feel bad. He's rude to everyone."

Lopez allowed himself a brief smile. "It has been on my conscience. But I have told you . . ."

The other priest, the Savoyard, said something. He pointed at Luciano.

Lopez looked carefully at him. "He says you are a mage. He says . . . there is a stink of blackness."

Luciano nodded, tiredly. "He's right. But the stink isn't coming from me, it's--like a man who's been in smoke and still smells of it. I have just been performing a rite, one which you Christians would term 'black.' On the other hand I did it--at the peril of my soul--to try to save this city and my co-religionists. I have been practicing necromancy on an agent of those who serve Chernobog."

There was a silence. And then Lopez said: "You are Dottore Marina, of course. A Grimas, indeed. I don't really approve of necromancy, of course. But . . . there are worse things. What did you discover, Dottore Marina? And did you allow him to confess and be received back into the arms of God?"

Luciano shook his head warily. "Chernobog snatched him back from me. I was nearly drawn in myself. But we know now that this is his conspiracy, and that the nun who is with the Servants--"

"Sister Ursula," said Lopez. "Renowned to be one of the greatest practitioners of Christian magic in the Northeastern Frontier."

Luciano snorted. "She may once have been. But she's nothing more than a vessel for Chernobog now."

"But she is a nun!" protested Diego. "She bears the crucifix!"

Luciano pulled a wry face. "You will find that it is broken. Or bathed in the blood of unbaptized infants, or desecrated in some other terrible way. Or not even there at all. Chernobog's acolytes are masters of illusion. Masters of corruption."

Kat leaned forward. "What I want to know is why Lucrezia Brunelli should want Marco Valdosta dead. And why you, Lopez, stayed at the Casa Brunelli."

Lopez shrugged. "I stayed at the Casa Brunelli when I first arrived because the lodgings were offered to me, by a man well known in Venice and in good repute with the Grand Metropolitan. As for Lucrezia . . ."

Lopez seemed to shudder a bit, for just a moment, as if a sudden unpleasant memory had come to him. "I'm afraid I was perhaps oblivious to the woman's other vices, since I was so preoccupied with avoiding a particular one." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "As to why she might want Marco Valdosta dead, I cannot think of a reason offhand. Except . . . She seems to have an insatiable appetite for men. Perhaps he turned her down too brusquely." His lips thinned. "The woman is, ah, quite taken by her own beauty."

"She's in this up to her elegant neck," said Kat savagely. "Deceive yourself if you like, Senor Lopez. I know for a fact she has ordered magical materials from the East. I've delivered them to her. But she's no Strega."

Lopez rubbed his face. "The worst I know of her is that she passed on a message from Capuletti that he would meet me at midnight at the San Trovaso Chapel, instead of in the morning. I had tracked this dealing in that vile black lotos to him, somewhat by accident, while dealing with a Signor Tassole. I confronted the bishop about it and the peril to his immortal soul. He denied it, but wrote to me later to say it was true and that my words had troubled him. He said he wanted to fast and pray for the night but had things on his conscience that he wished to confess. It was the letter of a deeply troubled man."

"I'll bet she was in that up to her neck, too," snarled Kat. "She probably dictated the second letter herself, and then killed him."

Marco and Petro Dorma came in looking for them. Petro seemed to accept Lopez and his companions as perfectly logical people to be there. "Still no sign of the Schiopettieri," said Petro, sitting down. "I've left a message over at Marco's old apartment for them to come here. Bribed several of the locals to wait for them. Still, if they're not here in ten minutes, I must go and rouse the Council of Ten myself. I wonder why they haven't arrived?"

* * *

Marco had been drowning in Kat's eyes, paying almost no attention to the conversation. It took a few moments for Petro's words to drum through.

"I wonder why they haven't arrived?"

That, and Aleri's last word--which he and Petro had agreed did sound as if Aleri might have been starting to say "Caesare"--finally registered. Marco's immediate reaction had been: that can't be true. But walking across the darkened campo the thought had come to him. . . . What allegiance did Caesare Aldanto owe to Venice? He was for sale to the highest bidder, after all. He'd always seemed good to Marco . . . but the way he had cheated Maria . . .

"Um . . . Would your Schiopettieri messenger have gone to Caesare Aldanto?"

Petro turned on him, pursing his lips. "It was his name! It was that name that the Chernobog destroyed Aleri rather than let us discover! Oh, Jesus. I've given the city defenses into the hands of a traitor."

"He's a traitor and a murderer all right," grated Lodovico.

Petro took a deep breath. "He could wreak more havoc than all the Montagnard firebombs put together. I can't take the chance, even if I've guessed wrong and he's innocent. What the hell am I going to do?"

Maria stood up. "What you should have done in the first place, Dorma. Call out the Arsenalotti. They haven't joined your stupid militia because they are insulted by it. The defense of the Republic has always been their responsibility."

Dorma nodded. "Get me paper and sealing wax," he commanded Rafael. He turned back to Maria. "You obviously know the Arsenal, woman."

"My cousins are caulkers," said Maria stiffly. "My father was a caulker."

"Would they rally to the Republic, if you were to tell them that the defense of the Arsenal and the Doge's palace are in their hands, that they must deal with any rogue militia?"

Maria snorted. "You're so stuck up, Dorma, that you have no idea. Of course they would! And most of the boat-people too. Send Marco to rally them. They saw him with the Doge. And he has a reputation five times as good as yours. They trust him."

Petro stood up. "Good. Because I have work, tonight, for every one of you. You too, Lodovico Montescue."

"I am at the service of the Republic," said the old man stiffly. "But I hope that that work includes arresting Caesare Aldanto."

"That's dangerous work," said Petro mildly. "But I have another task for you. I want to know which of the Trieste-coasters is running messages to Trieste. You have the contacts. Get onto them. If need be, arrest them. I want to know to whom these messages are going. And I want to alter a message."

Kat and Lodovico gaped at Petro. "How--"

Petro smiled sardonically. "You can thank the Doge. I would have closed you down. He said the gray trade would exist anyway, and he would rather it was in the hands of someone we knew and who was loyal to Venice. Someone that we could use if need be. Besides, the Doge felt the Jews and the Strega did a great deal for Venice's wealth and well-being. He thought your trade supported them. Just because he has that childish devotion to clockwork devices doesn't make him a fool, you know."

Kat recovered her wits first. "Captain Della Tomasso. He is carrying messages for the Sots. And if anyone knows of any other secret messages being carried, it'll be him. His ship leaves on the full tide at about two o'clock this morning."

"I'll see to him," said Lodovico. "But who gets to arrest Aldanto? I can provide a charge."

"And I have evidence," said Benito, "in the shape of a bound and locked-up hired murderer lying in our apartment. Giovanni Matteoni."

Marco gaped at his younger brother.

Petro took a deep breath. "I will. My sister is going to be angry." He sighed. "And I must try to do something about Lucrezia, while my messengers rouse the Council."

"I've heard Ricardo Brunelli has sent Lucrezia away to safety," announced Lopez.

"Ah. Then, with you, Lopez, and the Doge's Swiss Guards, and what other force I can muster, we will go to the Imperial embassy and confront the Knights."

He turned on Luciano. "The attack is at least in part magical. The Strega must contest that. Can you damp fires?"

"Rafael will go to see that that is in hand. I must go to the Marciana library. There is a guardian . . . if I can arouse it, it will do more than any fire-damping."

"Very well. Marco. You will go with this lady," Petro pointed to Maria. "I will give you a signed order for Admiral Marchese. Ring the Marangona. Rouse the Arsenalotti. Send any men who can be spared to Piazza San Marco. And I want squads of men to proceed to as many of these addresses as they can. Take no chances. Douse any gunpowder they find, or toss it into the canal. And then proceed to rouse any of your canaler friends you can find. Send them to San Marco."

Marco looked alarmed. But nodded.

"Benito. Your task is the Casa Dandelo."

Benito smiled savagely. "Yes. Although I'll arrest Caesare first for you if you like."

Marco gaped at his brother again.

Petro looked calculatingly at him. "No. I'll do that. You deal with the Casa Dandelo. Neutralize it. Destroy it." He sighed. "I go beyond my authority here. To act against foreigners is easy, but a Venetian Casa . . . Even to order a search will take time and manpower I don't have."

"The place is like a fort," mused Benito, considering the problem. In that moment, he seemed much older than he was.

"I know. Do it."

Benito grinned. "Si. How much gold do you all have? I'm going to need a fair bit. And Maria--you going to come and help when you've finished talking to the Arsenalotti? I'll need a couple of your cousins. Good honest boatmen. I'll see you at Giaccomo's. We're going into the barrel delivery business. And the Signori di Notte and the Schiopettieri are turning a blind eye."

Maria nodded. "Come and choose them."

"Si. I'll need some gunpowder from the Arsenal anyway."

Petro looked rather warily at the imp he'd just set loose. But he dug into his pockets.

"I guess that leaves me," said Kat. "I'd better go with my grandfather to Della Tomasso."

Petro took a deep breath. "No. Lodovico Montescue is old enough not to need his hand held. You go with Marco. We may all be dead soon. You may as well--" He waved a little feebly. "Be together."

Lodovico looked at Marco Valdosta. Shrugged. "My house is in ruins anyway. Be happy at least, cara mia."

* * *

Marco faced a crowd, a sea of faces. The torches made the planes of the faces stand out. Showed the lines of hard work and poor food, particularly in the clustered caulkers. Hard times and hard faces. Mouths set in a grim line. His stomach turned itself inside out. He looked at Maria. There was the same grimness, the same determination in that square jaw, as there was on the faces in the crowd. And Maria said that he, not she, must tell the Arsenalotti what Petro had said.

He looked at Kat. She reached out and squeezed his hand, and he realized just how right Petro had been. He still did need someone to hold his hand. "Introduce me," he said to Maria.

She stood up onto the marble step. "Arsenalotti!"

There were a few cheers. A number of smiles. A good many waves. Everyone here knew Maria Garavelli. Honest as the day was long, even if she had a temper on her that you could boil a kettle on. "What are you doing up there, Maria?"

"This is Marco Valdosta. He needs to talk to you. He's Case Vecchie, but he has doctored some of your kids. He's a good man and he's got a message for you from the Council of Ten."

Marco got up onto the step. "Thank you, Maria."

There were a few people clapping. He heard his name repeated. He cleared his throat and looked at Kat. She smiled.

"Who has always defended the Doge, the piazza? On whom has the last defense of Venice always rested?" His voice cut through the silence.

No one answered. Then someone in the back of the crowd said "Not Petro Dorma's damned 'militia,' Valdosta!"

"Right," said Marco. "Not the militia. The Arsenalotti. That is the way it has always been. And that is the way it must stay."

The crowd cheered.

Marco knew in his bones that he was doing the right thing. He had them. He held up a parchment. "Dorma made a mistake. He's man enough to admit that. I, Marco Valdosta, have his writ here. The Council calls the Arsenalotti to the Defense of the Republic." A strange power infused his voice. "In the name of the Winged Lion of Saint Mark, you are called to Arms! Will you answer?"

The assent itself was a roar. And to Marco's shock, he realized that they were chanting "VAL--DOS-TA! VAL--DOS-TA!"

He stilled them with a gesture. "This is my brother, Benito. He's the one who is good at organizing and plans. He'll tell you what the Council wants."

Benito, wide-eyed, was pushed to his feet to face the cheering crowd. "I'll get even with you for this, Marco," he said quietly.

"Face it, Benito," said Marco. "You tell people what to do far better than I do."

And Benito went on to prove him dead right.

Chapter 87 ==========

Erik stared at the desecrated Lady chapel. Grim. Silent. Pellmann had not run away after all, as his remains testified. But it was the bells that were the most offensive. Made from infant skulls, with a small thighbone for a clapper. The cross was broken. The walls were scrawled with strange and unpleasant symbols . . . scrawled in what could only be blood and excrement. Rusty stains marred the once white altar cloth. Pieces of clothing . . . A cotte. A knitted cap. A richly embroidered nightshirt . . . lay on the floor.

But of the Woden-casket, which had been placed there, there was no sign.

"I think I am going to throw up," said Manfred quietly. "Under our noses. Right under our very noses! Well, Sachs? What do you have to say to this?"

The abbot, defiant, furious, and threatening divine retribution until a bare minute ago, sank to his knees. "My God. My God! Forgive me."

"He may. But I won't," said Manfred, grimly. "Where is it and where is she, Sachs?"

The former abbot looked into Manfred's implacable eyes. Looked around at the desecrated chapel. "Sister Ursula, the casket, and an escort of knights left this late afternoon. There was a chance that the witches could . . ." He faltered. "That's what she said. She said they would try to liberate it. That it would be safer with our friends on the mainland. My God, my God, I have been weak, misled by the carnal desires of the flesh! My God, forgive me."

Erik hit him. "Enough time for self-pity and remorse later, you stinking swine. Where have they gone?"

Sachs whimpered. "I don't know. She said something about forts to Aldanto."

"The Polestine forts," said Francesca.

Erik turned to Manfred. "She's going to turn the Woden loose on the forts, presumably to clear the way for a fleet from Milan, which will be coming down the Po River."

Sachs nodded wretchedly. "Sforza is coming. But we didn't know . . . I thought--she said it was Christ's work. . . ."

Manfred pointed at the chapel. "Well, now you see whose work it really was. What is this about Trieste?"

"A thousand two hundred of our knights, the Chapters from Greifswald, Landsberg, and Schniedemuhl, are ready to embark to restore order and seize the Arsenal. They wait for our message."

"So," said Manfred, sardonically. "You stripped the northeastern frontier for this adventure. The Grand Duke of Lithuania must be very pleased with you. What do you think, Erik? Shall we turn them loose to make a demonstration on the border against Emeric of Hungary? That'll keep him out of the mess, anyway, and them away from here."

"Yes." Erik nodded. "And we will need local guides. If we ride hard, we may get to the Woden-casket in time."

Manfred nodded. "Francesca and Count Von Stemitz--with an escort of Knights--can ride for the Brenner pass to reassure Uncle Charles Fredrik that I am still alive. Now we'd better go and look for Petro Dorma."

A knight ran in. "There is a huge party of Venetians disembarking outside. Looks like some mercenaries too. And cannon. Knight-Proctor Von Dusbad and Etten are readying defense." He stared at the horror in the chapel . . . "What is this!"

"Sister God-damned Ursula, is what it is. Hell's teeth! Let's see if we can stop this. You--" Manfred pointed to one of the knights. "You see to it that the Servants are marched in here to see this abomination." He pointed to the kneeling Sachs. "And take him and lock him away."

"Open up in the name of the Holy Church and the Republic of Venice!" demanded someone outside.

"Let us out the wicket door. You can prepare a charge in case there is a problem." Ducking, Manfred, Erik and several of the senior knights came out to face the Venetians.

Erik felt his heart lift to see Petro Dorma out there in the torchlight. Petro may have felt similar relief, but he didn't let that show on his face or stop the mercenaries lining up the small cannon. All he said was "Where is Abbot Sachs?"

"I sent him off to be locked up," said Manfred. "We don't want trouble, Dorma. In fact I need to talk to you . . ."

"Ciao, Petro," said Francesca, sweeping forward with her hands outstretched, as if greeting an old family friend.

Dorma's mouth fell open. His face seemed to flush a bit.

Francesca smiled at him. "You look like a catfish with your mouth open, Petro. Close it, dear. You really do need to talk to them. They've just foiled a plot against you--and the Holy Roman Empire. This large young man is the Emperor's nephew, as it happens. Who would have thought it? And, I believe, also his Emissary Plenipotentiary."

Having obeyed Francesca's first injunction to close his mouth, Petro Dorma then did an even better catfish imitation.

"You'd better come inside," said Erik. "We have found out who has been committing those murders."

"Do you have her prisoner?" asked a slight man with an aquiline nose and a solid single dark line of eyebrow. "I am Eneko Lopez, a Legate of the Grand Metropolitan of Rome. We demand to speak to 'Sister' Ursula."

Erik shook his head. "Too late. We've found her foul chapel. But she's gone. Come."

The doors were opened. Dorma and some of his party were escorted to the desecrated Lady chapel. One of the priests gagged immediately and clutched his nose. "Chernobog!" he gasped. "The stench is horrid! Fierce!" Even under the circumstances, the man's broad Savoyard accent was unmistakable.

Erik looked curiously at the fellow. He'd heard of witch-smellers, but had had no faith in them in times past. Now . . .

Erik sniffed experimentally himself. Yes. It was the same odor he'd smelled in Sachs's study that one day. He'd thought it was sister Ursula's perfume--and how odd it was for a nun to use perfume. It was . . . sort of sickly sweet. Confined in Sachs's room it had made him want to sneeze. Perhaps Sachs himself had been the victim of a powerful amount of magical manipulation.

Manfred was talking to Petro Dorma. "--three parties. Ten will remain here. The message to Trieste should stop the Knights. If not . . . well, those who remain here can pass on Charles Fredrik's orders. The rest are split into the party going to tell Emperor Charles Fredrik that I'm not dead yet, and the bulk of us are riding after Sister Ursula."

"Take us with you," said Lopez. "She is what we seek."

Manfred looked him over. "We want to leave as soon as we can get a boat to the mainland. Mounts may be a problem." He hesitated. "And it'll be a hard chase. Even for soldiers."

Lopez snorted. "I was a soldier once, lad--and longer than you've been, I venture to say. You think I got this limp from the stairs in the Vatican? Nor have I led what you'd call a soft life since."

Dorma interrupted. "I can solve one of your problems. We have remounts on the mainland at the landing at Chioggia. I'll send Capi D'Strozza with you. He's from Chioggia, and will see you through to the forts. And, as he says, Senor Lopez was once a knight. Despite the limp I think you can still ride, no?"

Lopez smiled. "Better than any Ritter, I suspect. We'll find out." The last sentence came out almost gleefully. Holy the man might be now--but, clearly enough, there was still that Basque truculence lurking somewhere within his soul.

* * *

Over on Saint Mark's Square a bell began to ring, frantically.

Petro looked despondent. "The alarm tocsin! Now what?"

Erik smiled. "Part of this conspiracy that we have partially unraveled, I suspect. Give us your Capi and we'll be moving, and you can get back to Saint Marks." He peered into the darkness, at the hazy, haloed moon. "Looks like you're in for fog. I hope your Capi is a good navigator."

Petro smiled back. "The best. He was a smuggler before I recruited him. Fog was one of his favorite kinds of weather."

* * *

Down on the water, on the mainland side of Rialto, Benito could have told Erik the fog was thick enough to cut with a knife already. It smelt . . . odd. Marshy. Not the usual wet-wool and smoke smell of Venice fog. Benito wasn't going to let it worry him. Giaccomo was enough to worry about.

The heavy, balding man was not the type to be impressed by Case Vecchie clothes or orders. Money would talk, however. Benito hoped he had enough. They'd picked up Valentina . . . Claudia was off somewhere. The way Valentina said "somewhere" meant: Strega stuff, don't ask.

"Your eyes almost seem to be glowing," said Maria, looking at him curiously.

Benito knew he could get killed doing this. So could Maria . . . So could other people. It didn't stop him loving it all. He was feeling brave, so he put a hand on her forearm. That was gambling with your hand, with Maria.

"It's in my blood. My grandfather . . . And my father."

She flicked the hand off. But almost gently. "Your grandfather I've heard about. Dell'este is a legend. But the Valdosta . . . I asked. They're like Marco."

Benito pulled a wry face. "We're half-brothers really, Maria. I think my father was Carlo Sforza."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. Sforza. The Wolf of the North. She shook her head. "So. Just what are we going to do to get into the Casa Dandelo? There are probably up to thirty Dandelos and their slave overseers. There are God alone knows how many Montagnards there too. We have thirty men and one thief."

"There must be three hundred slaves," said Benito. "And the way out is going to be through the Casa."

Maria nodded. "True. And having been in there myself, killing a few slave-masters might be sweeter than freedom to a lot of them. Well, keep it simple. Clever plans go wrong."

"I'll do my best."

* * *

"You want thirty empty casks?" Giaccomo looked at Benito. Then at Maria. "What for?" He went on polishing glasses.

"And your small barge." Benito ignored the question, and began counting out gold coins onto the counter. He noticed that Giaccomo had stopped polishing glasses.

"You're with Dorma nowadays," said Giaccomo. "Quite the young Case Vecchie gentleman. With a brother who once tried to sell me fake relics. I want to know why, boy--or no deal. Not for twice as much."

"I'm not Marco," said Benito calmly. Giaccomo flustered Marco; Benito knew you just had to keep calm around him. "Have I ever done you wrong, Giaccomo? I brought coin for you once."

"Yeah. But I still want to know. And nobody else has barrels enough."

Benito shrugged. "Dorma wants me to blow up Casa Dandelo. Destroy the place. We had a dead certain tip-off"--he couldn't resist the pun--"that it's full of Montagnards. They're due to cause trouble when the invaders come." Benito smiled. "And we all know how Maria loves the Dandelos."

A small corner of a smile touched Giaccomo's face. "She ain't your tip-off?"

Benito knew that Giaccomo regarded even a whiff of magic as bad news. So he chose his phrasing carefully. "Party called Aleri. Heard of him?"

Giaccomo's eyes narrowed. He nodded. He didn't look friendly. "You can't trust him."

"Ah. Let's put it this way. He was answering certain questions for the Signori di Notte in an . . . involuntary fashion."

Giaccomo actually smiled. He pulled three of the stacks of coin towards himself. "I'd lend you some manpower . . ." He paused. "This has nothing to do with Aldanto, has it?"

Benito shook his head very firmly. Giaccomo pushed one of the stacks of coin back. Benito pushed it over again. "It's Dorma's money. And it's only right to tell you that if things go wrong you won't see your barge again."

"Aldanto's got money from Ferrara sitting here. Been coming in ever since you and that brother of yours showed up. You see him, you tell him there's two lots here." The expression on Giaccomo's face said: and I don't mind if he doesn't fetch it. "The barge is round the back. Jeppo will help you get the barrels loaded."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Giaccomo's barge was heading for the Casa Dandelo with a cargo of "wine." Benito hoped that Valentina had the gunpowder in position. When they'd cased the joint, picking up the guards on the roof, she'd said that it would be easy. He hoped she was right, because they'd need the distraction.

The cargo wouldn't get into the Casa proper, but there was an enclosed loading bay into the stores and slave quarters. He, Maria, and Maria's cousin Luigi poled the barge, little more than a floating flat-bed full of barrels, around to the front of the Casa. Benito went and pounded on the door.

"Who is it at this time of night?" demanded someone, far too quickly.

"Wine delivery. From Giaccomo's!" yelled Benito.

"Go away!" bellowed someone within. "We didn't order any wine."

Benito yelled back. "Party by the name of Aleri came in and paid for it, special delivery, tonight."

There was the sound of talk, as if a small argument were going on. But Benito was relaxed, confident. No one behind that door was going to turn down a cargo of wine. And the deliverers were not exactly a threat. A ragged fifteen-year-old boy, a seventeen-year-old girl, and an older bargee. Odds on, the "extra guests" had already worked their way through most of the Dandelos' wine stock--and with the war on, heaven knew when they'd see more.

The door cracked open. An eye appeared, examining Benito for a brief moment and then, for a much longer moment, the cargo on the barge. "All of that for us?"

Benito laughed. "You wish! Five casks. The rest are for Barducci's. The boss won't let us do 'one person' deliveries. And Barducci's is running dry. Gotta have it there inside the hour. Party there tonight, with everyone going off to war. You goin' to accept this load or do we take it away again?"

That dire threat brought the final decision. "Bring it round the side. Some of the men will come down and open up."

"Send someone to offload, too."

"Cheeky little sod. Does your master know you're so lazy?"

"Ah, come on--"

"On your way! The men will see you there."

On his way down the side canal, Benito whistled loudly, tunelessly. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen a glimpse of Valentina on the opposite roof, grappling hook ready. She wasn't going to swing across, herself. But the small barrel of black powder was going to pendulum across. Valentina reckoned it'd smash through those shutters like a knife through silk. It didn't matter whether it did or not, just so long as there was fire and trouble in the main residential part of the Casa. Still, Benito wished he could watch. He also hoped like hell Valentina didn't stay to watch.

The Dandelo men had already gotten the rusty portcullis they used to enclose their dock half up by the time they got there. When the barge was in, as Benito expected, the portcullis dropped again. That made good security sense.

What happened next was not, however, what Benito had expected at all. There were seven Dandelo men there. As soon as the portcullis dropped, the leader smiled at the barge crew and rubbed his hands. "Well! We got thirty barrels and three slaves for the price of five barrels. And it's on Aleri's coin! Ha. Take 'em, boys."

"Hey!" protested Benito. "You can't do that! Giaccomo knows where we are. And he'll send for the Schiopettieri. And you don't mess with Giaccomo's cargos!"

The slaver laughed. "By the time he knows you've gone, it'll be too late. Hear that Tocsin? You got in just before the bell, boy. Now we're shut up siege-tight until Sforza gets here. So come quietly or you're going to get hurt."

Benito was paralyzed for an instant, not knowing what to do. Then--dead on time--an explosion rocked the walls.

Bits of mortar fell. It was like a slap around the ears. Benito realized he still had a lot to learn about black powder. It certainly stunned the Dandelos, but Maria and her cousin Luigi were tipping barrels as if it hadn't happened. Arsenalotti were scrambling out from under, weapons in hand. Benito hadn't waited, either. He'd gotten between the doorway and the Dandelos. And the first fool didn't even try to avoid the rapier he'd snatched up from between the barrels.

He hadn't been prepared for the horror on that face. But he didn't have time to think. The blade was stuck right through the slaver, so he pulled his knife out. The next few moments gave him several reasons to write off part of Caesare Aldanto's crimes. Only the training he'd had at Aldanto's hand kept him alive.

Two minutes later, at the cost of one dead and three wounded men, the dock was theirs. And even from here they could hear the chaos that Valentina's black powder had generated.

They moved out, to the slave pens. Heavy hammers and cold chisels in the hands of two blacksmiths from the Arsenal began making short work of the locks. Two of the Arsenalotti stood by with a barrel full of cutlasses. In the meanwhile Maria and her ten escorts raced up the stairs, looking for the passage she'd found through to the Casa itself. The barrel of black powder they had with them should see that door blown open. Then it would be a case of shepherding freed, armed slaves up and in.

"Listen up, all of you!" shouted Benito. "We have to cut our way out of the Casa. Loot what you can, especially clothes. And don't kill anyone wearing these hats." He pointed at his red woolen cap. "They're our people. When you're out into Venice, toss the cutlasses into the canal. Scatter. Act like citizens, otherwise the Schiopettieri will put you away." Not strictly true, but the last thing Petro Dorma wanted on top of his troubles was a rampaging mob of armed ex-slaves. Arsenal-issue cutlasses were cheap compared to that risk.

There was a ragged chorus of cheers. Most of the slaves were still staring, unbelieving. They started to believe when big Gio smashed open the first lock with his cold chisel. Men and--from the next pen--women streamed out, taking the weapons as if they'd been handed the Holy Grail.

There was a small explosion from upstairs. A much more controlled-sounding one. At least Maria had an Arsenal gunner to manage her black powder.

"Up!" shouted Benito. "Up the stairs--and at the Dandelos!"

The cheer now was a wild deep-throated roar, like a tiger uncaged and seeking furious vengeance on its trapper.

Benito led them on up. Reflecting all the while on an old proverb he'd once heard about the risks of riding a tiger.

* * *

Maria had found being back inside this place a nightmare. It made her feel weak and scared. Not the fighting, or the danger. Just the horrible place itself. Still, they had a job to do. And Casa Dandelo would rue the day they had taken her prisoner. She heard the tumult of the slaves coming up the stairs, and saw Benito at the head of them.

There was a fierceness in his shining eyes. This wasn't the mischievous, laughing boy she knew--and had once made love to, a memory she found strangely haunting. This was the blood of the Wolf of the North. She didn't like it. She didn't like it at all. But when she thought about it, it had always been there, lurking under the surface. For all his charm, there was also something a little frightening about Benito.

She followed after the rush. Fifteen minutes later she and Benito were out on the Grand Canal in fog. The Casa Dandelo was burning behind them.

"Well. That's that," said Benito, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

"I suppose you're proud of yourself?" said Maria quietly.

"Well," said Benito, swelling his chest a bit. "It was a good fight. We didn't expect them to have Milanese soldiers hidden in there. But those slaves didn't let arquebuses or even the magicians stop them. No finesse but lots of courage."

"They had lots of courage because they were desperate, Benito, and no way out. And you used them as cannon-fodder. And that 'distraction' of yours exploded in the family living quarters. You probably killed and maimed a whole lot of kids. So I hope you're not too proud of yourself, Benito Valdosta, because I'm not. We just did what we had to do, that's all."

Benito started to say something. Then he stopped himself. "So what should I have done, seeing as you are so clever?" he asked. But there was doubt as well as hurt in his voice.

Maria looked back at the burning building. "I don't know," she said quietly. "But that was the way the Wolf would do it. The Old Fox kills for family, not just for fun. He would have figured out a better way."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'll think about it when I haven't got a war to fight," said Benito. The adult male gruffness in his voice did a poor job of covering the hurt in the boy's. "We'd better get back to the piazza and find out what that tocsin was all about."

* * *

The bell was Lucrezia Brunelli's way of telling the city that its second most important citizen, Ricardo Brunelli, was dead. Murdered.

And not five hundred yards away, a building was burning.

A runner came up, panting. "Arsenalotti! Count Badoero has landed at the Sacca della Misericordia. With many men!"

Chapter 88 ==========

Nobody challenged sixty fully armored knights riding through the dark. They crossed the Brenta and the Piave bridges without opposition. Now, as the sky was turning gray with the dawn, they only had the last league or so to go.

"We might be ahead, you know," said Erik. "They landed at Mestre. We saved a fair distance by going around by sea to Chioggia."

"Hmm," said Manfred. "As long as they didn't meet up with Francesca."

"No point in worrying about that," said Erik. "More immediate is the problem of how to stop the forts from opening fire on us. Or what to do if we see Ursula and her escort."

Manfred snorted. "She has twenty-five Knights and a bunch of Servants of the Holy Trinity. We have sixty. We ride the bastards down."

Erik was tired and irritable. It had been a long night. "She'll have picked up an escort, probably from the Scaligers. Possibly arquebusiers. Think, Manfred. And this casket--how do you think she plans to use it?"

Lopez, who had been riding beside them as if he'd been born in the saddle--quite unlike his two companions--turned slightly and answered. "She and the Servants will probably abandon their escort, and head for the fort posing as distressed holy pilgrims. The fort will let them in, particularly when they see one is a woman and there are only five of them. Then I imagine they will release the Woden from the casket. They alone will be protected. When everyone is dead--or flees, which most of them will--the troops will come up and turn the cannon in this fort on the other. And then the enemy will sail through to attack Venice."

Erik nodded. "That's what I'd do, I suppose, if that monster in the casket is so powerful. And what would you do about meeting the Knights and the escort?"

"It would depend on the terrain and the light," answered Lopez. "Arquebuses are inaccurate at the best of times and pretty useless at night." He eyed the large prince. "Or was the question aimed at you?"

Manfred sighed. "Erik's trying to get me to say a double feint or something, Senor Lopez. And then he'll say 'no, keep it simple, stupid. Always flank them.' He's a blasted teacher born."

There was a flash of teeth in the half-dark from the Basque. "A good one too, then. Simplicity is usually best--in war as in all things."

Their guide rode up. "There's a party of soldiers ahead. A barricade. Look like mercenary arquebusiers."

"Can we go around?"

The guide looked at the heavily armored Knights; shook his head. "Too swampy."

"They're not Venetians, are they?" asked Erik.

The guide shook his head again. "Scaliger colors." Erik was not surprised by the answer. The Scaligers were the ruling family of Verona; traditional allies of Milan and supporters of the Montagnard faction in Italian politics. Since they controlled the Adige route from Venice through the Brenner Pass into the Holy Roman Empire, they had been expected to intervene in the war in alliance with Milan.

"And how far are we from the fort?" asked Manfred.

The guide shrugged. "Half a league. Maybe less."

"I think we've got to move fast, Ritters," snapped Manfred. "I'll bet they've left their escort and are advancing on foot."

Erik shook his head. "Scout it quickly first. It shouldn't take ten minutes, it'll rest the horses, and it may spell the difference between success and failure. Ursula must plan to arrive when the fort's defenders can see them easily. That gives us a few minutes."

They halted. The guide slipped forward on foot. He returned to report that there were some hundred or so cavalrymen breakfasting on the edge of a field of peas.

"Right." Manfred took a deep breath. "We don't want to lose the time fighting the troops and let Ursula get into that fort. If we defeat every one of them and she and her henchmen get in . . . we've failed. Remember that chapel. That is what we're dealing with, not some Italian mercenaries. Erik, you tell them how you want to run this. That way you can't complain if I get it wrong."

Erik nodded. Skirmish combat against wild tribes in Vinland was something he had three years of experience with. And more than that in the similar type of warfare which plagued clan-ridden Iceland.

"Knight-Proctor Von Oderberg, you are going to take care of the troops. Manfred, Von Gherens, Etten, and I will keep riding, with Lopez and his companions. Don't get your horses among the peas--you'll lose mobility. If you keep those Scaliger mercenaries dismounted and busy, Von Oderberg, that'll be fine. You don't have to do more than that. Try to tell our fellow Knights you have orders from Sachs to turn them back. But if need be, cut them down."

* * *

They caught sight of the little band bearing the casket not three hundred yards from the fortress's walls. By the sounds of it, Von Oderberg was butchering the escort. Or being butchered. Erik didn't turn around to look; he just bent low over his horse's neck.

One of the monks did turn, perhaps alerted by the sudden thunder of hooves. He shouted something.

The monks and sister Ursula stopped. Erik could see that Sister Ursula was scrawling something in the dust with a long staff. Wind, laden with grit and debris leapt at them. Horses reared and screamed. Ritter Etten and Father Diego fell. Erik struggled to stay on his horse. Hastily, almost falling himself, he managed to dismount. The horse fled.

Erik, Manfred, and Von Gherens, now dismounted, formed a phalanx of steel around Lopez and Father Pierre. As they began to advance, lightnings crackled off the steel. Behind them, Eric heard Lopez saying: "Let that which cannot abide the name of Jesus, begone."

And somehow . . . the resistance eased. They continued plodding forward. Etten came up to join them. "Father Diego is too dazed from his fall," he muttered to Erik. "We won't have his help."

Erik saw that Sister Ursula was ordering the monks to lower the casket to the ground. As they drew closer, he could see that the casket no longer carried its heavy chains and securing locks. Nothing held the lid down beyond its own weight.

They were ten yards away, now. Ursula stood next to the casket at the center of the circle she had scrawled, her staff held upright in one hand, with the four monks standing like guardian statues at the cardinal points. The circle seemed to sparkle.

The nun's wimple had fallen and her hair was revealed: a great mane of it, in a dark corona around her white face. The face itself seemed to bear no expression at all. It might have been the face of a statue, if marble could blink its eyes and move its lips.

"You cannot prevail, Vessel of Chernobog!" said Lopez. "Repent and save your soul. I am Eneko Lopez, Legate of the Grand Metropolitan and master of Holy magic. You cannot prevail. Let your darkness begone! Fiat lux!"

Light leapt even from the stones . . . Except inside the circle.

Ursula laughed. The sound was mocking, but empty--as if an actress were feigning an emotion she had never understood, or had forgotten. "I might even be afraid, Lopez. Lucrezia told me that she failed to find the chink that most men have in their armor. Foolish woman. She thought she was as powerful as I. Impossible, when she refused to join herself fully with the Great Lord."

Erik's flesh crawled. Everything about the way the woman spoke was empty. The nun's habit fell aside. The body that was revealed wore clinging black silk. The half-transparent silk hid little; in fact, it seemed designed to tantalize rather than to conceal. But, again, the display was empty. There was no woman there to give the shapely flesh any real allure. Erik finally understood how completely Chernobog had consumed the creature.

She reached forward, and tapped the casket. "And I have my little friend here."

"Servants of the Holy Trinity, see what you have in your midst!" shouted Lopez.

The monks didn't move. They stood like statues, arms outstretched, warding.

"They are mine, body and soul," said Ursula. "Unlike Lucrezia I insist on total control."

"She stinks of ice and Chernobog," said Pierre.

It was true, thought Erik. That was what the smell reminded him of. Breaking sea ice, with a sickly sweetness over it. It was very strong now.

Suddenly, the Savoyard priest clutched at his crucifix and sat down, gasping. A moment later his eyes rolled back and he slumped on his side, unconscious.

Manfred ignored Pierre's collapse. He glanced at Erik and said lazily, "I heard she was fat as a sow when she joined the order. Sold her soul for a pair of tits."

Erik realized what Manfred was doing: Exactly what the Venetian swordmaster, Giuliano, had taught them. Unbalance your enemy, make them angry. It was a dangerous game. Erik was not prepared to leave him to play it alone. "She got cheated," he sneered. "She's still too ugly to get customers anywhere except the docks."

But the gibes seemed to have no effect on Ursula at all. Erik caught the tiny, tell-tale signs of Manfred tensing. When he lunged forward, so did Erik. So did Von Gherens and Etten.

Erik's sword struck the air above the circle. It was like hitting a wall. He caught a glimpse of Ursula swinging her staff. A huge and shadowy hand swung towards him. It didn't actually make contact, but fear and pain washed though Erik. He wanted to scream, to turn and run. Von Gherens stumbled and fell; Etten whimpered; Manfred grunted and tried to press forward--but was driven back.

Ursula shrieked words Erik did not recognize. Small biting, pinching imps leapt out of the air. They turned to ashes as they struck armor, but there were so many it impossible to see or move.

Then Lopez shouted: "Reverse your swords! Hold them like a crucifix! And ground the tips in the honest earth."

Erik and Manfred immediately obeyed. Staggering back onto his feet, so did Von Gherens. Etten tried, but the sword slipped out of his hands. Lopez began to chant in Latin. Immediately, the imps were immobilized in the air, then began to shrink, then vanish into wisps of smoke. The monk guardians began to crumple.

Ursula shrieked again. Another command of some sort. The four monks seemed to summon their fading strength and began scuffing the soil with their sandals. Within a moment, the circle which Ursula had scratched was broken at the four cardinal points. At the broken points, hot air seemed to eddy out of the circle and wash over Erik and Manfred and the others. The same hot air, swirling at the four compass points like miniature cyclones, sucked the monks dry in an instant; four skin-bags full of bones collapsed to the ground. The heated air seemed to glow and darken simultaneously, as if drawing power and form from its consumption of the monks.

"No closer!" warned Ursula. She laid a hand on the casket's lid. "No closer or I will release the Woden."

Lopez walked forward, coming to stand next to Erik. He held a very small crucifix in his hand. "This is a fragment of the true cross, witch. Evil cannot prevail against it."

Lopez's words seemed to have no effect. Ursula's lips curled in what Erik would have called a sneer, had it not been for the emptiness of the face which framed it. A woman can sneer; a vessel cannot.

"Besides, if you open that casket," said Manfred, "your plot is at naught."

At that moment, Ursula's face underwent a transformation. A horrid one. The face thickened, grew heavy; the shapely cheeks sagged into jowls; the fair brow swelled, looming now over sunken eye sockets. Inside the orbs, a woman's dark eyes became slits of pure black. And now, for the first time, emotion filled the face. Anger and cruelty, overlaid by triumph.

Erik understood that the vessel was now filled to the brim, and overflowing. This was not Ursula; this was Chernobog himself, lurking inside her flesh.

The horrible face--half-man; half-woman--bared white teeth turning yellow as Erik watched. "Do not presume to instruct your betters, stripling. There are plots and plots. If the Woden cannot accomplish one task, it can certainly succeed in another."

Erik's mind seemed to be working much faster than his body. He understood Chernobog's new purpose, and desperately tried to reach Manfred--to seize the prince and hurl him back, out of danger. But some magic was causing his flesh to move like soft lead. The same magic seemed to have frozen Manfred and Von Gherens completely. Etten was no longer standing at all. The knight had crumpled to his knees, his head lolling.

Chernobog/Ursula's voice rolled on. "Here, fool boy--uncontrolled and unwarded--the Woden will kill and kill and kill. You will be dead, and your precious Empire left with one heir the less."

Ursula's hand had remained female. Now, even more suddenly than her face, the hand changed. Grew, swelled, became first the hand of a large man and then the hand--the paw, rather--of something still larger. The claws plunged into the wood of the casket lid and began to raise it. Heat and darkness spilled out of the crack like a flood. A horrible stench came with it.

Lopez stepped forward and met the surge of darkness from the casket with the tiny cross. He shouted some words Erik did not understand. In Greek, he thought, not Latin. Neither the action nor the words seemed to have any effect on the swelling darkness, but Erik felt the paralysis which had kept him almost immobile suddenly lift.

He could see the Chernobog/Ursula face open its mouth. The thick lips began to twist, began to utter words of their own--words which, Erik had no doubt at all, would counter those of Lopez. The Basque priest was still shouting Greek phrases.

But the paralysis was completely gone, now. Erik moved faster than he ever had in his life. The Algonquian war hatchet sailed across the distance and buried itself up to the wirebound hilt in his/her skull. Blood gushed. The obsidian eyes seemed to flame black fire for an instant, before the body toppled back and fell to the ground. As it fell, all traces of Chernobog left the face and then, more slowly, the hand. But the talons remained longest of all--long enough to draw the lid of the casket open as Ursula fell.

The hot, stinking blackness poured out like lava from a volcano, sweeping over Erik and Manfred and all the others. Erik could hear the gleeful shriek of a monster somewhere.

That shriek was immediately overridden by another. Etten's voice, that was, howling in agony. Erik turned toward the sound, his eyes tearing from the heat and the stench. The Woden monster had seized upon Etten, he knew. Etten, the weakest of them, was being consumed by fire from within.

Suddenly, Lopez's voice rang out more loudly than Erik would have believed possible, coming from such a small man. In an instant, the darkness vanished and Erik could see clearly again.

Etten was writhing on the ground, his fingers clawing at the straps of his helmet. Smoke was pouring up through the visor. Von Gherens, nearest to him, leaned over and began to help. A flash of flame seemed to leap through the visor and smite the Prussian knight in the face.

Now it was Von Gherens' turn to writhe on the ground, screaming in agony.

"Quick!" shouted Lopez. "Use your swords!"

Moving together, Erik and Manfred grabbed their swords by the hilts and held them up like great crucifixes.

"One over each," panted Lopez. Manfred stooped over Von Gherens, Erik over Etten. After a moment, the smell of burning flesh seem to ebb.

Slightly. Not much. Erik glanced at Lopez. The Basque priest's face was drawn and haggard.

"It is too strong," he murmured. "Too strong--and too attached to Etten." Lopez's eyes seemed hollow under the solid eyebrows.

But whatever weakness the priest might be feeling, none of it was apparent in his next words.

"Kill Etten. Do it now, while there is still time."

Erik stared at him. The Basque shook his head. "He is dead anyway, Erik. The burning has already destroyed too much of his body. But we can still rescue his soul, if we release him from the Woden in time."

Still, Erik hesitated. He glanced at Von Gherens. The Prussian knight seemed unconscious. Erik could see enough of his face through the visor to see that there was still a face there. Whereas Etten--

He looked through the visor of the knight below him. Through that visor he could see nothing but . . . burnt flesh. Like a piece of meat charred in a fire.

Still, he hesitated. "And then what? Do the same for Von Gherens? And then what? Cut our own throats?"

Lopez shook his head wearily. "I cannot fight this monster in salamander form. If Pierre were still with us--or, better yet, Dottore Marina--"

Again, he shook his head. "I can hold it at bay, for a time, but not combat it directly. You will have to do it, Erik--you and Manfred."

Manfred had said nothing, but he had apparently been following the discussion. "Fat chance of that, Lopez! What Erik and I know about magic wouldn't fill half a manuscript page. And all of it would be gibberish."

Lopez's laugh was more of a crow's caw than anything else. "Have no fear of that! I cannot fight the thing, but I can transform it into something which you can fight. But I warn you--it will be monstrous."

Erik's hands tightened on the sword hilt. "Something flesh and blood, you mean?"

"Heh. In a manner of speaking, yes. A particularly horrid form of it, you understand."

"Flesh and blood is flesh and blood," growled Manfred. He hefted the sword higher. "And steel is steel. Do it."

The last two words were spoken by a prince, and no one could mistake it. Erik hissed his own agreement, and Lopez bowed his head for a moment.

When the Basque's head came back up, however, there was not a trace of obeisance in his face. His was the face of a man born to command himself.

"Obey me, then. Erik, kill Etten. Manfred, stand back from Von Gherens."

Erik hesitated no longer. Using the hilt to drive the sword, he plunged the blade through the gaps in the armor into Etten's throat. Then, twisted it to open the wound before withdrawing the sword. Arterial blood fountained, for a moment. Not long. That wound would have killed an elephant.

He stepped back. Manfred had already done the same. Von Gherens began to writhe again as smoke, again, began to rise through his visor.

Lopez shouted something--again, in that odd language which Erik had thought was Greek but now suspected was something else entirely--and held the crucifix high. What seemed like a clap of thunder struck the world all around. Erik flinched; so did Manfred.

Von Gherens screamed and arched his back. A stream of black something spewed out of his gaping mouth and spilled onto the ground several yards away.

Another clap of thunder; a wave of darkness.

Then, for the first time since the battle had begun, Erik felt all traces of magic vanish. The sunlight was clean again, with no obscuring darkness. He felt enormous relief pouring through him and took a deep breath.

And . . . deeply regretted it. The stench was worse than ever.

But at least now the source of the stench was clear and obvious. On the spot where the black something had spilled, a monster rose on its haunches.

It was huge; half again Manfred's size. Somewhere in its misshapen and hideous form Erik could detect the remnants of something which had once been human--or close to it. Mostly in the upper face, which still had a recognizable aspect. The one eye possessed by the monster--the other was scarred over, as if the eye had been torn out sometime long ago--was quite human in appearance. Bright blue; piercingly blue. The eyebrows were as blond as Erik's own.

The rest . . .

The lower face protruded in apelike jaws; though they bore a closer resemblance to those of an eel than those of an ape when the monster bared its teeth and roared its fury. A thick tongue writhed purple behind teeth that were not even remotely mammalian. They reminded Erik of shark's teeth more than anything else.

Everything about the monster had that bizarre, horrible half-and-half quality. The hind legs were those of a land animal of some kind. A giant wolf's, perhaps--except the skin was naked, almost scaly. The arched heavy spine was also that of a mammal, with a straggly mane that resembled human hair more than animal fur. But the heavy tail was purely reptilian.

The front limbs were perhaps the worst of all. Heavy, powerful arms--almost human, except for their size--ended in a demon's taloned paws. Except no demon Erik had ever heard of possessed suckers on its palms and forearms. As if an octopus were part of its ancestry.

Again, the monster roared. There was a peculiar glee to the sound. As if the creature had been forced into silence for so long that the mere act of making noise was a joy in its own right.

"Any advice, Lopez?" asked Manfred cheerfully. The big prince was holding his sword by the hilt, now, ready to fight.

Erik glanced at the Basque priest. But Lopez, he saw immediately, would be of no more further assistance. The man was clearly exhausted. Lopez simply shook his head and whispered, "This is your affair now, Prince of the Realm. I can do no more. God and the Right."

Erik felt a moment's dismay at the last words. He knew that Manfred would--

Sure enough. "Dia a coir!" bellowed the prince, striding forward two steps and bringing his heavy sword down on the monster with a great two-handed swing.

Reckless idiot! Erik lunged forward.

The monster squalled--half in fury, half in glee--and evaded the blow deftly. The sword sank into the soil. An instant later, spinning, the Woden's tail lashed around and knocked Manfred's legs out from under him. The prince landed on his back, his sword flying out of his hands. Fortunately, Erik's training in wrestling enabled Manfred to break the fall by slapping down his arms.

But, for that moment, he was helpless. The Woden charged forward like a crocodile, great jaws gaping. A taloned and suckered hand raised for the death blow.

This time, it was the monster's turn to misgauge. Erik moved far faster than the Woden expected. His sword met the downstrike and removed the hand at the wrist as neatly as a carrot top removed by a knife. The hideous thing went sailing through the air and plopped into some nearby bushes.

The Woden shrieked in agony, black blood pumping from its severed wrist. The jaws lunging at Manfred's throat veered aside and snapped at Erik.

Another mistake. Again, the monster was caught by surprise. No human it had ever faced moved as quickly as the Icelander. Erik sidestepped the snapping jaws; then, as they gaped wide again, his sword slid through the teeth, mangling the great tongue.

The Woden squalled in pain and fury and twisted aside, blood gushing from its maw. The tail lashed around, striking at Erik's legs. But the blow was blocked. First, by Erik driving his sword into the soil; then, by Manfred lunging forward and grappling the monster's hindquarters. The prince gathered his legs under him, ignoring the claws scrabbling at his armor. Then, with a grunt, heaved the monster completely off the ground and slammed it into a nearby tree. The tree--a sapling, really--broke under the impact. So did the Woden's ribs.

Erik was astonished. He'd always known that Manfred was far stronger than the average man. But he realized now that he'd never really seen Manfred exert his entire strength. This was--almost superhuman. The monster must have weighed at least four hundred pounds.

Again, the Woden lashed its tail; and, again, knocked Manfred down. This time, however, the prince had been expecting the blow. So he was simply staggered to his knees rather than upended.

Desperately, Erik raced forward. As badly injured as the Woden was, the horror was still alive and still quite capable of wreaking havoc. And Manfred--his charge and responsibility--was facing another attack. Unarmed, and on his knees.

The Woden sprang at the prince, using its hind legs to drive and its remaining forelimb for balance. The jaws opened like a shark's--and if the tongue was a ruin, the teeth were not.

To Erik, everything seemed to move as slowly as ice. The jaws were approaching Manfred faster than his sword could intervene. Jaws now gaping wide enough to close on Manfred's entire head, helmet and all--and Erik didn't doubt for a moment that those jaws were quite capable of crushing the helmet like a snail.

Manfred broke its jaw. One punch, with an armored fist, skewed the Woden's bite into a harmless snap. The monster coughed blood, half-stunned. But its forward momentum knocked Manfred on his back again, this time with the Woden sprawled across him.

Erik hesitated, unsure where to strike with the sword that wouldn't risk hitting Manfred.

Then--

"Gah! What a stink!"

The monster's head and back suddenly lurched up. Manfred, lying beneath the creature, was holding it up with his big hands clamped firmly around its gullet. Holding it up--and steady.

"Do me the favor, would you?" hissed the prince. Erik's sword drove into the glaring blue eye and deep into the Woden's brain. The monster twitched and shuddered. And kept twitching and shuddering, after Erik jerked the sword loose from the skull.

With another great heave, Manfred tossed the thing off. Soaked with blood, he rose to his feet and stalked over to the place where his sword had been sent sailing. Then, stalked back. The Woden was lying on its side, still twitching and shuddering.

* * *

Manfred spent the next considerable period of time hacking it into small chunks. He didn't stop until each single piece of the monster was lying motionless and the blade of his sword was as dull as a table knife.

Erik tried to restrain him, early on, so that he could examine the prince for injuries. But Manfred would have none of it. "Dia a coir!" was repeated perhaps two dozen times, intermingled with other expressions which were vulgar and profane beyond belief.

Eventually, Erik gave up and went to help Lopez, who had begun tending to Von Gherens. The Prussian knight was alive, though still unconscious. But now that the Basque priest had removed the man's helmet, Erik was relieved to see that the burn marks on Von Gherens's face were not as bad as he had feared.

"He'll be all right, with a little rest," murmured Lopez. "The facial scars will be bad, but--at least he's a Prussian. They treasure the things, so there should be no really adverse consequences."

He glanced at Manfred, still furiously dismembering the already-dismembered carcass of the Woden, and smiled slyly. "Unlike your friend, who--I daresay--is adding years in purgatory with every oath that comes out of his mouth."

Erik wasn't quite sure how to respond. Lopez shook his head. "Not your problem, my fine young Icelandic friend. You are not responsible for protecting the Hohenstauffens from God, after all."

Erik couldn't help grinning. "True enough." Seeing that Lopez needed no further help with Von Gherens for the moment, Erik went over to retrieve his hatchet from the corpse of Sister Ursula.

But . . . there was no corpse; just a burned piece of grass.

And there was no hatchet, either. Only the wirebound shaft remained.

* * *

After a time, Erik fell silent. Lopez clucked his tongue. "And I daresay you've just added as many years. Where did you learn to curse like that, anyway?"

Stolidly, Erik stared at the priest. Then, pointed at Manfred, who had finally left off with his hacking.

"Oh, sure," grumbled the prince. "Blame everything on me!"

Chapter 89 ==========

Erik and Manfred stood in one of the bastions of the northernmost of the Polestine forts, watching the Venetian cannons finish pounding the last of the Milanese galleasses into rubble. It seemed a somewhat pointless exercise, since the galleass had ceased being a water-capable means of transport quite some time ago. But a quick glance through the gunports in either of the bastion's retired flanks was enough to see the reason. The ditch in front of the curtain wall was a charnel house, with nothing more to fire at beyond a relative handful of wounded and maimed soldiers in Visconti colors.

Nothing alive, at least. The ditch was mounded with shattered bodies, all that was left of the Milanese mercenaries who had stormed the fortress thinking a quick rush would be enough to overwhelm the few surviving defenders. The rising sun cast a pale reddish glow over a landscape which seemed red-soaked already.

The mercenaries trapped at the curtain wall had tried to surrender, soon enough. But the Venetians were in no mood for terms. On this day, at least, the normal conditions of Italian condottieri warfare had been suspended. Milan had tried to destroy Venice; the city of the winged lion was returning the compliment. The gunners in the bastions had kept firing on the men piled up along the curtain wall until they had been turned into so much ground meat. Then, still raging, turned their fire onto the grounded and crippled galleasses. There too, clearly enough, they would not be satisfied until the ships had been turned into so much kindling.

Manfred squinted into the distance, where the retreating Milanese army could be seen frantically trying to build fieldworks. Their galleasses destroyed and the assault on the forts having been driven off with heavy losses, Sforza had led the Visconti forces into a retreat along the river. Had tried to, rather. Now, finding that Enrico Dell'este had cut off his retreat with a far larger army than anyone believed Ferrara could possibly put into the field, Sforza was doing what he could to prepare a hasty defense.

"No 'Old Fox' out there today," mused Manfred. "He's looking for Sforza's blood, or I miss my guess."

Erik did not argue the matter. That was his assessment also. He thought the Duke of Ferrara was behaving foolishly, but given what he knew of the personal history between Dell'este and Sforza he was hardly surprised. The Old Fox had waited for years to obtain revenge on Milan, and now that the day had come he clearly intended to show Carlo Sforza who was really "the Wolf of the North."

They heard footsteps behind them, clambering up the stone stairs to the bastion with an oddly arrhythmic pace. Before they even turned their heads, they knew it was Lopez. The Basque priest had been tending to his two companions in the fort's infirmary below. Diego and Pierre had both survived the encounter with Ursula and the Woden monster, but they had been badly shaken.

Lopez limped over to stand next to them. He spent no more than a moment or two studying the distant scene, with eyes which had clearly seen more than one battlefield in times past.

"Stupid," he pronounced. "We have no idea what is transpiring in Venice itself. While Ferrara obtains his revenge here, the city may still be lost."

That neatly summed up Erik's assessment. Manfred's also, judging from his nod.

"Come," commanded Lopez. "If we can reach Dell'este in time, we may still be able to convince him to forego his pleasure." He turned and began limping off.

"What can we--" began Manfred, but Lopez's impatient wave of the hand stifled the rest.

"You are the Emperor's nephew, young dolt! And I have a certain talisman which may help. Now come!"

* * *

"I'm not entirely sure I care for that man," said Manfred sourly, as he and Erik followed the Basque toward the fort's stables.

Erik smiled. "And I, on the other hand, am entirely sure that Father Eneko Lopez doesn't care in the least what you think of him."

"He should," grumbled Manfred. "I'm the Emperor's nephew, dammit!"

* * *

By the time they reached the Ferrarese lines and were able to negotiate their way through to the duke's presence, the battle was well underway.

Not that it was much of a "battle" yet. Clearly enough, from what they had seen as they approached, the Old Fox hadn't lost any of his tactical acumen. Since he had Sforza trapped, he intended to bleed him with gunfire as long as possible before ordering any direct assaults. Dell'este's own soldiers were mercenaries, for the most part. Professional soldiers--highly experienced Italian ones, especially--had little use for commanders who wasted their lives in premature assaults.

The duke's field headquarters consisted of nothing more elaborate than a simple open-air pavilion erected on a small hill overlooking the battleground. They found Dell'este standing just under the overhang, studying Sforza's lines with a telescope. Like all the optical devices of the day, the telescope was a heavy boxlike affair mounted on a stand. The old duke was slightly stooped, peering through the eyepiece.

Hearing their footsteps, he stood erect and turned to face them. He gave each of them a quick study in turn. Perhaps oddly, he spent most of his time studying Erik and Manfred, the two men he had never met before.

"Knights of the Holy Trinity?" he asked, his lips quirked into a wry smile. "Not wearing full armor? I think you might be excommunicated, if you're not careful."

Manfred frowned; Erik chuckled. "I'm from Iceland, Your Grace. Spent time in Vinland also. Full armor, in today's world, is just stupid."

The duke's eyes fixed on Manfred. "And you, large one? Do you agree?"

Manfred was clearly struggling not to glare outright. So all he managed in reply was a muffled grunt which could be taken as a form of agreement.

"I declare you honorary Italians," pronounced the Old Fox. Then he faced Lopez, his smile disappearing. "There's no point in discussing the matter, Father. I know perfectly well why you came. Venice is Venice, Ferrara is Ferrara. I've done enough for Venice this morning. The rest of the day--and tomorrow, and the day after, if that's what it takes--belongs to me and mine."

He turned his head, his fierce old eyes glaring at the distant Milanese lines. "I will have Sforza's head. And spend the rest of my days planning to reap Visconti's."

"Me and mine?" demanded Lopez. The priest reached into his cassock and drew forth a small object. When he presented it to the duke, Erik could see that it was a miniature portrait. He had wondered what the object had been that he'd seen Lopez tucking into his saddlebag when they left the fort.

"Do you remember what you said to me when you gave me this, so-called 'Old Fox'? 'Old Boar,' more like. Dumb as a nearsighted pig."

Erik was surprised to see that Dell'este did not bridle under the sarcasm. Indeed, for a moment his lips even twitched, as if he were trying to control a smile.

"Lamb of Christ, is it?" murmured the duke. " 'Lynx of Christ,' more like. Feral as a starving cat."

Lopez ignored the riposte. He simply held the portrait up in front of Dell'este's face.

After a moment, the old man looked away. "Most of all, you must remember the mother."

Eneko lowered the portrait. "Exactly so." He pointed toward the Milanese. "It was not Sforza who murdered your daughter. Other crimes can be laid at his feet, I've no doubt. But not that one."

"Had he not abandoned her," hissed the duke, "Visconti would never have dared to strike at her."

"The same could be said of you," retorted Lopez instantly.

Dell'este's face turned white as a sheet. His hand--old and veined, but still muscular--clenched the hilt of the sword buckled to his waist. The eyes he turned on Lopez were hot with fury.

Erik held his breath. Next to him, he could feel Manfred tensing.

Eneko--

Never flinched. The little Basque priest returned the Duke of Ferrara's glare with one of his own. Which, in its own way, seemed just as hot.

Indeed, he rubbed salt into the wounds.

"The father condemns the lover?" he demanded. "For the same deed which he committed himself?"

Lopez pointed a stiff finger at the unseen figure of Carlo Sforza. "What that man did was give you a grandson. A grandson who is--today; now; this minute--fighting for his life in the streets of Venice."

The Basque dropped his arm contemptuously. "Like father, like grandfather. No doubt you will abandon the grandson as you did the mother. Nothing may be allowed to interfere with a petty lord's overweening pride. A sin which he will try to mask by giving it the name of 'honor.' "

Erik's eyes were on the duke's hand, clutching the sword hilt. The knuckles were ivory white, and the sword was now drawn an inch out of the scabbard. So he couldn't see the expression on Dell'este's face or that of Lopez. But he couldn't mistake the sneer in the Basque's voice.

" 'Old Fox.' Was ever a man more badly misnamed? To give up his chance for vengeance on Visconti--who did murder his daughter--in order to salvage his pitiful dignity on the body of a lover?"

Erik glanced up quickly, seeing the twitch in the hand holding the sword. The fury in Dell'este's eyes seemed . . . adulterated, now. Filling with cunning--surmise, at least--instead of sheer rage.

The duke's teeth were clenched. His next words were more hissed than spoken.

"Explain."

Lopez, once again, demonstrated what Erik was beginning to believe was an almost infinite capacity for surprise. The priest's face suddenly burst into an exuberant grin.

"Finally! The Italian asks the Basque's advice on a matter of vendetta! About time."

He rubbed his hands, almost gleefully. Then, crossed himself. "I cannot speak to the point concretely, you understand. I'm sworn to the work of Christ. But, at a glance, it seems to me that the son is better suited to settle accounts with the father than you are. At the appropriate time. And--given some sage advice and counsel from his grandfather, in the months and years to come--is certainly the best choice to settle accounts with the mother's murderer."

Again, he crossed himself. "God willing, of course. But, on this matter, I suspect the Lord will smile kindly." Again, he crossed himself. "Provided, of course, that the son is alive tomorrow. And provided"--again, he crossed himself--"that he manages to avoid falling into the pit of sinfulness the day after."

More sedately: "Um. To be precise, manages to clamber out of the pit. Being, as I suspect he is, already halfway into it."

The sound of the sword hilt slapping back into the scabbard jolted Erik a bit. The duke's harsh chuckle even more so.

"I'd ask you to become his counselor," said Dell'este, "but I suspect that would fall into the category of putting the fox in charge of the henhouse."

Lopez managed to look aggrieved. Not much.

"How soon do you need me in Venice?" asked the duke.

The priest shrugged. "The sooner the better. But--" He glanced out at the Ferrarese forces constructing their own fieldworks. The quick assessment was that of a man who had once been a veteran soldier himself. "Under the best of circumstances, you cannot manage the task sooner than the day after tomorrow. That should be good enough. Even if the enemy wins the battle in Venice today, they will not be able to fortify their position in less than a week. Not in Venice, not without Sforza."

The duke nodded. "Very well. I'll start today. But I intend to bleed Sforza--and Visconti--of everything I can before leaving."

"Goes without saying," agreed Lopez, nodding sagely. "Drain every lira from his pay chest. Leave his mercenaries moaning their lost money but savoring their salvaged lives. They won't be able to do anything about it anyway, since you will naturally demand their guns and their pikes." He pursed his lips, considering the problem. "Probably best to leave the officers their swords. Except Sforza's, of course. You'll want to break that over your knee in front of him."

The Duke of Ferrara was smiling thinly, now. "Fierce, you are! Father Lopez, the days when I could break a sword over my knee--a good Ferrara blade, anyway, and be sure that's what Sforza possesses--are long gone."

"Allow me the privilege, then," said Manfred forcefully. He extended his huge hands. "I won't even need a knee."

"Oh!" exclaimed Lopez. "How rude of me. I forgot to make the introductions. Enrico Dell'este, Duke of Ferrara, meet Manfred of Brittany. He's the Emperor's nephew, by the way, and has some incredible list of titles. I can't remember them all. Earl of something, Marquis of whatever. Baron of this and that."

Dell'este's eyes may have widened a bit, but not much. Mostly, he seemed interested in Manfred's hands. "You'll need a pair of iron gauntlets," he mused.

"Damn things have to be good for something," growled Erik.

* * *

Manfred snapped Sforza's sword like a twig. The commander of the Milanese forces, Italy's most famous condottiere, did not so much as flinch at the sound. Whatever else he was, Carlo Sforza was no coward.

"You look just like your son," commented Manfred mildly, as he handed Sforza the point end of the broken blade. "Except Benito's not reached his full growth yet, and he isn't as mean-looking."

Sforza's round, hard, muscular face registered surprise. As much at the return of the blade, perhaps, as the mention of his son.

"You've met him?"

"Yup." Manfred held his right hand above the ground, about an inch lower than the top of Sforza's curly hair. "So tall; don't think he'll get any taller." He gave Sforza's stocky form a quick once-over. "But I think he's going to wind up even thicker than you. The kid's already got the forearms of a small bear."

For a moment, a shadow seemed to cross the condottiere's face. That was the first expression other than stoic resignation Erik had seen Sforza exhibit since the surrender ceremony began in mid-afternoon. And it was now well into sunset.

"I haven't seen him in years." The great captain's words were almost whispered.

"You will," predicted Manfred. He held up the hilt end of the broken sword in his left hand. There was more than a foot of the blade left. "I'll be giving this to him, when I see him next." He nodded toward the Duke of Ferrara, standing stiffly some distance away. "As his grandfather commanded. Some day--don't ever doubt it, Sforza--he'll be coming to get the rest of it."

"And when that day comes," said Erik between tight jaws, "I strongly urge you to have found another employer. Or your guts will be the carpet he uses to get to Visconti's throat."

Sforza's dark eyes swiveled toward him. Erik's grin was quite savage. "Believe me, Carlo Sforza. I'm an Icelander, and I know a feud when I see one. I've met Benito also."

"I'll consider your words." The dark eyes got even harder. "I told Filippo Visconti this was a fool's errand. Damn all dukes and their complicated schemes. But . . . he pays well. Very well."

Manfred snorted. "Idiot. Benito'll spill your purse before he spills the rest of you."

"That's my boy," murmured the Wolf of the North. "Others doubted. But I never did."

Chapter 90 ==========

The grayness swirled thick, carrying the sounds of combat and dying. Despite everything they'd done, some of Aleri's agents had survived. Fire bloodied the fog to the south, and the smell of it was thick in the air.

Marco turned to Kat, a heaviness in his chest, and the edge of despair in his voice. "We're losing. In spite of everything, we're losing. Count Badoero must have brought at least a thousand men. Caesare has made sure the damned militia are ineffectual. The Arsenalotti and the boat-people fight well. But this fog--it confuses everything. There's something wrong with this fog. It's like it's fighting for them."

"It feels heavy. Not natural," said Kat. She'd acquired a cut on one cheek and two ash smudges on the other. With or without them, Marco still thought she was the most beautiful, wonderful person he'd ever met. She lightened the fog around her, and in the face of her hope and determination, he lost some of his despair. If Kat believed in him, in their cause, maybe--

She patted his arm. "You're a good general, Marco. People rally to you."

He pulled a face; he didn't want to be a general, and it wasn't what he was good at. If only there was something he could do to make a bigger difference than merely whacking at people he'd rather be meeting over a glass of wine at a taverna! "Benito is twice the organizer. And I hate this killing."

Someone came running out of the fog. It was Rafael, gasping for breath. "Luciano says . . . needs you . . . the Marciana . . ."

They headed across at a run. They weren't that far from San Marco anyway.

Rafael led them upstairs to a room, and they burst through the door. Sigils and arcane symbols were chalked on the floor and all three of them came to an abrupt halt before they so much as touched a toe to one of those sigils. A complex triple circle with squares at the cardinal points and an internal octagon occupied the center of the room--that wasn't chalked, it was inlaid onto the floor of the room.

This is a--a working chamber, Marco realized. A place for magic, and nothing else. Christian magic? Jewish? Strega? All three, perhaps? There was some overlap--more than just some if Brother Mascoli was to be believed. Emeralds twinkled from the cardinal square nearest them--sapphires from the one across the room--topaz to the left and rubies to the right. The lines of the diagrams were laid out in--gold and silver? Well, for some Strega magic, the magic with the purest intentions that called only great spirits, silver and gold were a good thing, not something to be avoided. Silver for Diana, and gold for Dianus. Or silver for the Moon and gold for the Stars. Or silver for Earth and gold for Heaven. The jewels glittered, and the whole of the diagrams seemed to scintillate. The boundaries weren't fully up yet, but the energies that would create the walls between the realms weren't white, they were opalescent, rainbowed. The air was thick with incense.

Luciano, clad in a long white robe, loomed out of the scented smoke. He looked old and tired--older than Marco had ever seen him before. And frail. His skin seemed translucent, as if the motral part of him was wearing thin and his soul shining through it. "Are we winning?"

Marco sighed, and shook his head, despair once again pressing down on him. "No. We have more men, but Badoero and Caesare are just too damned good. And they have the certainty of more men coming. Kat's grandfather got the message off to Trieste--if that works, at least we won't have to deal with the rest of the Knots. Manfred and Erik and Lopez rode off to try to save the Polestine forts from that nun. We won't know for some time whether Sforza is on his way here with the Milanese. In the meantime, we're fighting fires--and each other, often enough--in this damned fog."

Luciano's lips thinned with anger. "It is indeed a 'damned fog.' It is caused by Chernobog, working through someone here in Venice. Lucrezia Brunelli, I would think, is the only one powerful enough to do it alone. But she's supposed to have left the city, so perhaps it is several mages working together. The only good thing about it is that it's taking nearly all of their energy. Weather magic is hard, expensive magic."

"They've obviously got gold to burn," said Marco bitterly.

"The expense I refer to is of magical energy," said Luciano tiredly. "And what I have been doing is also--expensive. I had hoped to avoid this, but it seems we have little choice . . . I will perform a summoning. If it works, it will save us. Save Venice. But it calls, of all things, for one of the Case Vecchie blood. One of the longi. And only four families are listed. Two are no more. The other two are Valdosta and Montescue."

"What do I have to do?" asked Marco, a bit doubtfully. A summoning? Just what was Luciano going to summon? Not necromancy, dear Jesu!

"Be within the circle of invocation. Give some of your blood." It seemed simple enough. Some of his blood--that couldn't hurt. Not here. It was a token sacrifice, not an actual one; something, perhaps, to remind a greater spirit of a promise from long ago.

Blood to blood.

"I'll do it," said Kat decisively. "It says Montescue, doesn't it?"

Luciano shook his head. "The script is faint, but it clearly says 'a son.' This--this is a Christianized attempt at a far more ancient ceremony, but it is all that I have. Hence--" he waved an ancient bronze knife vaguely at the rest of the room "--all this. According to this it should be the Metropolitan who is doing this, but--"

He didn't finish the sentence.

"What will this do?" Marco asked, feeling oddly detached and strangely calm.

Luciano shrugged. "The spell has only been used twice before. Yet this is a very ancient copy of an even more ancient spell. It is called the Lion's Crown and it invokes the spirit of the lion of the marshes. One of the oldest of the great neutral spirits. The Guardian of the lagoon, the marshes, the islands. And, yes--the Lion is still here, and strong. It influences much, still. But mostly it slumbers, waiting for Venice's hour of need. It is what Chernobog has feared most all along, and why he maneuvered so stealthily. If the Lion awakes--awakes fully, as only you can do--not even Chernobog can stand against it. Not here, not in Venice."

The memory of a brushing of wings passed through Marco's mind, but was gone before he could snatch at it.

Luciano looked directly into Marco's eyes, as if weighing the heart behind them. "I think this is that hour of need. And not only do you bear the blood, you carry the mark of that Lion. Scrying glasses turn to you. I've long known you would wear the Mantle after I'm gone, but you can also wear the Crown--and do it now. Are you willing?"

The mark of the Lion? Mantle? Crown? But this was no time for questions, not now. Questions could wait until after, when this was over. If they all survived. This might be the only way for them all to survive. Certainly the enemies of Venice, whether they were evil spirits or came with fire and the sword, would not leave any of them standing. Marco nodded. "It's my city. And they are my people."

"I am your person too," said Kat quietly. "And I'm scared for you, Marco. I don't understand any of this--and--and--it sounds like a sacrifice!"

He leaned forward and--for the first time--kissed her cheek, gently. "It'll be all right. And . . . if we don't do something it won't matter. The city is burning. Caesare and Count Badoero's men are winning."

Somehow, she composed her face, stilled her trembling, drew herself up, and stood like the daughter of Montescue that she was. "I love you, Marco Valdosta."

His heart swelled with pride for her. "And I love you too, Katerina Montescue."

Luciano stamped his foot impatiently. "Come on! There are auspicious times for doing these things. And one of them is dawn. It's hard to tell in this fog, but that must be soon. Step inside the circle and let me close it behind you. This is a great spell and it will tax me to my utmost."

* * *

Kat was left standing, head bowed, disconsolate, his kiss still warm on her cheek, to watch as the ward-fires flared. A tear trickled down her nose. This was dangerous, horribly dangerous. She felt it in her bones, no matter that Marco didn't seem to think anything of it. A Strega mage practicing a Christian version of a pagan spell? It was crazy--how much could go wrong, or had gone wrong in the transliteration? Luciano was taking on more than he should ever have dared and he had dragged Marco in after him. Or was she just getting overprotective about Marco? She fumbled out her talisman and took comfort from the fact that at least the medal was cool.

The door opened, and Kat whirled, one hand on her Saint Hypatia medal, the other on her dagger. The medal flared with heat.

Lucrezia Brunelli stood there, smiling in triumph. "Crying for your lover, little Montescue?" she asked smirking cruelly. "It's a waste of time and tears."

Kat gasped. "You're supposed to have left!" Then, as the words themselves penetrated: "And damn you! I'm crying for a good man."

Lucrezia laughed, throwing her handsome head back. "There's no such thing, girl. Believe me--I've tried them all, from Capuletti to my brother Ricardo."

Kat gaped, for a long moment, as Lucrezia waited for the sense of that to penetrate, unable to believe what she had actually heard. "Your b--your brother!?"

Lucrezia smiled lazily, but the smile had a nasty edge. "Cleopatra slept with hers. He did crawl into my bed when he thought I was too young to understand, but in the end, he was just a man. And I did have my revenge, after all. I've had him killed for it."

The words, so cool, so unemotional, chilled Kat to the bone.

"And now," Lucrezia continued, "I need to kill these two while I still have the strength. Weather magic is wearisome."

"B-b-but--" Kat was trying to ask why, but the words wouldn't come. By now the Hypatia medal was almost burning her hand. But was that caused by what Luciano was doing, or was it Lucrezia's presence? Or both?

Lucrezia obviously understood what she meant to ask. "Oh, for many reasons--but among others, it's enough that they are two of the three who ever turned me down. Strange. Those potions you brought me from Ascalon were very effective, you know, and to have them fail so significantly on two occasions, your sweet little boy and that upright priest . . ."

Priest? "Dottore Marina isn't--"

"I wasn't talking about him. Unfortunately, Luciano disappeared before I had access to those philters. If I'd had them--" she licked her lips, as if she tasted something bitter "--perhaps we wouldn't be having this discussion now."

Rafael, who had been standing ignored on the other side of the room, chose this moment to try to deal with her in a rush. He stopped as if he had hit a wall, paralyzed. Kat's medal enveloped her in warmth.

At Lucrezia's gesture, Rafael dropped the knife and folded, to sprawl before her feet.

Lucrezia shook her head. "I am far too powerful for little Strega with their little knives. Lie there, little Strega, and watch as your friends die--for I believe that I will allow you to die last of all."

She turned back to Kat. "I learned a great deal from the Grand Duke of Lithuania's emissary, you know--in no small part, what not to do. She allowed Chernobog to possess her, in exchange for her beauty and power. I have not made that error."

"You--" Kat tried to speak.

Lucrezia smiled viciously. "And oh, my dear little virgin Montescue! Luciano made a most incalculable mistake in allowing you here, for you will make the perfect sacrifice to break the circle of power."

* * *

Inside the circle, Marco was unaware of all of this. Luciano's words were like the droning of bees as he walked the sevenfold circle. Why seven? Why not three or five or nine? He tried to remember what Brother Mascoli had been teaching him. Seven wasn't a Strega number, though it was pagan. It went back a lot farther than that, to the Romans, or the Etruscans. It felt right, though; each time Luciano completed a circuit, the rest of the room receded a little, the sound from outside faded, and the less important what was outside seemed. He noticed vaguely that someone had come into the room, but--

Well, it just didn't matter.

Marco found himself transported with the words of power; they carried him somewhere else, or perhaps it was that the interior of the circle became somewhere else. The air was not full of incense. Instead it was a smell he knew far better that: the smell of driftwood fires. Of the marsh-reed pollen. Of the delicate scent of water lilies, of marsh-mallow, of sweet-flag blossom. The air glowed with the thick, amber light of the sun cutting through the mist.

Luciano beat on a drum; or was it a drum? It was more like his own heartbeat, but slow, slow, and full of heat. The air thickened until it was as sweet and heavy as honey, and Luciano's voice wasn't chanting words anymore, it was the bees that were droning the chant.

Then came a rumble that built up slowly, and from a distance in the thick air. Thunder?

No--not thunder. A roar. Marco heard a roaring echoing across the marsh, the last great refuge of lions in Europe. But no lion had ever roared like this, no lion he had ever heard of! This roar was thunder in the sky, from a throat like the mouth of a volcano!

He glanced at Luciano for reassurance.

But--Luciano didn't look right. He was pale and sweating, the hand that held the little drum shaking, and his breathing coming hard.

"Chiano?" he asked--but Luciano didn't respond. The steady drumbeat faltered.

The beater fell from Luciano's hand; a hand that clutched at the front of his own white robe, looking remarkably like a claw.

"Chiano!" Marco shouted, panic in his voice.

Slowly, Luciano's knees gave out and he sank to the ground. Slowly, the drum, too, fell from his hand, rolled across the floor, and overset a bowl of some dark liquid that had been laid aside when Luciano had completed the circles. And Luciano Marina toppled over onto his side and did not stir.

And then Luciano was silent. The mists and brightness around him cleared and Marco understood why.

Luciano Marina would not be summoning anything again. Whatever this was . . . it had been too much for him. His eyes were glazed, staring--and empty.

The yellowed old book was still on the pedestal where Luciano had been standing. A long-bladed bronze knife was lying atop the open pages.

Marco took up the book. It was only a book--but what was in it had killed Luciano.

The circles of power still held, but the magic within them faded with every passing moment.

I have to do something--

But what? He was no magician. Besides, looking at what was said at the top of the page, this called for a willingness to make the greatest of sacrifices. What had Luciano said? "Only been done twice before. And two of the families listed are no more."

Perhaps . . . perhaps it had been no token sacrifice. Valdosta . . . and Montescue were left. I am Valdosta. . . .

A faint sound penetrated the thinning circles of power, and Marco looked up. As if through a mist, or through frost-covered glass, he saw Lucrezia. Saw Rafael fall. He tried to push through the barrier that Luciano had raised. It was like steel. He beat at it. He might as well have pounded on a rock with his fists.

They were watching him now--Kat, with one hand at her throat and the other clutching her medallion; and Lucrezia. Lucrezia had a cruel smile on her face and a long steel and silver dagger in her hand. The handle like a dragon, or a winged serpent, with eyechips of ruby. Marco's arms fell to his sides; he felt frozen with fear and indecision. They all seemed frozen in time, insects caught in amber.

Something cold touched his foot, and he jerked out of his paralysis. He looked down. The puddle of spilled liquid oozed across the patterned marble and touched his foot, mingled with a thin trickle of blood coming from Luciano's outstretched wrist. And a mist passed over it for a moment, and Marco saw, as if from above, Venice burning. Children screaming, dying. And the body of Kat sprawled, abused. And then a sequence of people he knew, and loved. Gutted. Raped. Burned. And the face of Lucrezia . . .

Laughing, with a great darkness behind her. He knew it for a true scrying vision of the future. A future which Luciano--his friend and in many ways, more truly a father to him than his own blood had been--had been prepared to sacrifice himself to prevent. Perhaps, when he failed, Luciano had dared use his last life-blood, the last of his own magical power, not to save himself, but for this vision. So that Marco would know the consequences of failure, and act.

Marco took up the bronze knife, put it against his chest and began to read the words from the ancient book. From outside the enchanted circle Lucrezia gaped. If he read her lips aright before the brightness and mist engulfed him, she was saying "No!"

* * *

"No! Caesare!" Benito looked down from the barricade he'd just climbed.

Caesare Aldanto looked up from Maria. He had an arm around her neck, and a knife against her breast. "I nearly killed her when she came through the gap," he said, conversationally. "Quite a reunion, this. Where's that brother of yours? Also around?"

"Why?" demanded Benito. "Do you want to make a clean sweep of the Valdostas?"

Benito tried to figure out what do next. He had an arquebus in his hands. But the weapon was far too inaccurate--even in the hands of someone expert in its use--to risk a shot at Caesare. As inexperienced as Benito was with firearms, he'd more likely kill Maria. But Benito made himself a promise that if anything happened to Maria . . . he'd blow Caesare's mocking, smiling face apart. At this range, not even Benito would miss.

"Now, why would I do that, Benito?" said Caesare. "I've always looked after you."

Benito scrambled down. Other Arsenalotti faces appeared. But there were several of Caesare's men too, all with arquebuses.

"You got money from Ferrara, for looking after us," said Benito coldly. "It's sitting at Giaccomo's. You never really did anything for any reason except for money, did you?"

Caesare snorted. "What other reason is there?"

Benito smiled. "Tell you what, Caesare. I'll show you another reason. You let her go and I'll fight you."

It took Caesare a moment for the implication to sink in. "Maria?" he said, incredulously. "You love this--peasant?"

"I dunno about 'love,' " said Benito carefully. "But I care a whole damn lot about her. Use the word 'love' if you want. So I'll fight you for her freedom."

Aldanto laughed. "Cocky little brat, aren't you? At your age you think you're immortal and you expect to win."

"No," said Benito calmly. "I don't. But you'll have to let Maria go."

* * *

"NO!" yelled Lucrezia, gazing in horror at Marco and the knife. She looked around wildly.

"I must stop him. Kill him! Come here, girl! I need you."

For an instant, Kat felt the sheer power and compulsion of that voice. Then, a further warmth, a heat, a fire spread from the Saint Hypatia medal that she held, and with a shake like a spaniel pulled from the dirty water of a canal, she shook off the compulsion.

Instead of answering Lucrezia's beckoning hand, she pulled her pistol from her reticule. She'd reloaded five times in the fighting. The last time she'd had to take powder from a dead arquebusier. But the balls he'd carried had been too big. So she'd filled the barrel of the pistol with some metal junk from a ruined shop. Thrust it down and hoped it would work.

Lucrezia laughed. "Your little toy won't do me any harm, you stupid child! Do you think I haven't taken the simplest of precautions? I command the spirits of air and water and darkness! The powder won't fire, the balls will miss!" As Kat hesitated--can that be true? Can she really do that?

Lucrezia sneered at her. "Besides. You don't know how to use that silly thing, anyway."

Doubt assailed her and once again, Lucrezia was using all her powers. Kat wanted to drop the weapon. Run closer.

Warmth rushed over her again, and--

--a glowing, delicate hand, insubstantial as a kiss and warm as life, closed over the hand that held the pistol.

She squeezed the trigger instead.

The metal junk cut into Lucrezia, who had half-turned, ready to throw her knife. It knocked Lucrezia to the floor.

Lucrezia screamed; and of all the screaming Kat had heard that day, this was, by far, the most horrible sound she had ever heard in her life. It went on, and on, and on, as Lucrezia writhed on the floor, thrashing spinelessly, her thrashing as horrible as the scream.

And then, the woman's body began to change. Metamorphose.

* * *

The point of the knife broke the skin, and a single drop of blood formed on the blade. Strangely, there was no pain.

Before he could press harder and end the ritual with his own death, something--took him.

The light, the mists, thickened again in an instant, golden, sweet, the honey of the Jesolo, and held him so that he could not move.

Light blinded him, and light permeated him. It became him, and he felt himself change . . . felt a roaring in his ears that came from his own throat, felt great golden wings spring from his back and begin to grow and grow.

"It's been a long time," said the great voice that was within him, but was not him. Huge muscles flexed and stretched. His golden hide twitched. He was no longer indoors. Instead, from the column-top, he looked out over fog-shrouded Piazza San Marco.

"So. A Valdosta again, is it?" said the great voice. "Last time it was a Montescue. They're more bloody minded." Marco felt his wings extend, though he was not the one to flex his muscles, stretch his claws, spread his wings.

"Who . . . who are you?" he asked timidly.

There was a roar of laughter, warm and full. "I am you. And you are me. You have taken up the Crown as well as the Mantle--the first to do so in many centuries. And we are the Lion . . . the Lion of Venice, now. The Lion of Etruria that was."

The back and shoulder muscles tensed, enormous wings beat down in a great surge of power, and the lion bounded up through the cloud and out into endless blue of the sky.

"The Lion of Saint Mark?" Marco looked down as the Lion looked down. Fog was streaming away from the downbeat of the great wings. Below he could already see the piazza, clear of all but the last wisps of it.

Again the Lion laugh-roared. "Saint Mark! I nearly ate him. He wasn't even the Mark of your Four Books, you know. You little children, you've confused him with one of my Romans! A secret Christian, that Roman, a Christian who hid his fellows in the Jesolo--Marcus Fidelus--that was what they called him, Mark the Faithful, and you people managed to get him confused with the other! 'Hic requiscet corpus tuum-- On this spot your body shall rest.' It was meant as a threat, not a prophecy."

The Lion roared with laughter, and Marco had to admit it was rather funny.

"But that Marcus was pious enough, and holy enough, and had the magic--the magic--even if up until that moment he didn't know it. I knew it. And you four little swamp thieves--Terrio, Montescue, Lacosto, and Valdosta--you that had set out to rob him and instead became his converts, begged for his life. You were my people, and he won you! Won you fairly! But you were my people, and when you begged--what was I to do? I let him live, and gave him leave of my domain. Ha. Not only did he make free of my marshes, he also took seizin of me, to come and go and look and know. He became one of mine, save only that he was first and always the child of Christ. And in exchange that we be of one heart, and would I still hold sovereignty here and not be driven from the place by later mages of Christ, that my people be free to make their own choices in who they serve--he laid this form on me, this binding with the blood of the four families. I think it a good bargain. I steer my families and look after my lagoon, my marshes, and my islands. And sometimes, when the need is dire, they take the Crown and they steer me." The great, laughing roar shook the body again. "So. Steer me, Valdosta. What do we need to do?"

Some grasp of the great strength that was his to command dawned on Marco. "First, let's get rid of all of this fog. It's not right."

The Lion spiraled upward into the dawn sky, above the cloud. "Yes. It is a magical one, a sending from a great and evil power. But this is my place. My lagoon, my marshes, and my islands. My power is stronger here."

The great wings beat down. The wind beneath those wings was more than just air. It was bright with strength and the wild primal magic that was the Lion. Marco felt not only the beating of the wings but the rushing of blood to those great wing-muscles. He knew that the very arteries and veins of the Lion were somehow channels that nourished the reedbeds, the canals that carried the trade. And they all moved to the heartbeat of the sea. The Lion was Marco. It was also the soul of the lagoon. It was rich with the love of the generations of Venetians. Of many, many people, not just some few wealthy lordlings, but all of its people.

And, like them, the Lion treasured its liberty and independence.

The fog . . . the fog was no mere cloud. It was a thing of strangling darkness. Of hatred and domination, issuing from the bleak northeast. But although it might overwhelm cities and kings, it was feeble against that independence of spirit, of the love Venetians had given this place, this special place over the centuries. The Lion was a repository of all of that. Chernobog was great. But it was also a great distance away--and was now trying to extend its power to a foreign land. Foreign to Chernobog, not to the Lion. The Lion who was also Marco drew its strength from the land, the water and from many many small sources. Generations of them--brought together in the unity which was the Lion. Individually they were mere drops of water against stone that was Chernobog. Together, they were like the raging torrent . . . and Chernobog a mere loose cobblestone, flung willy-nilly before the fury.

Magical power surged like the sea with each great wingbeat, and below them the fog scattered and tattered. The last spell-shreds of Chernobog's power here tore. Venice and the lagoon appeared, the sun striking the red roofs and dancing brightly off the clear water.

"And now?" asked the Lion.

"Let us break up the fighting. Put fear into the hearts of those who want to destroy Venice." Somehow Marco knew that was the right thing to say.

The Lion rose higher, toward the rising sun. "Let them see my shadow. In the minds of our enemies, the shadow of the Lion is more terrifying than the Lion itself. It releases their fears. To those who love Venice, my shadow is a shield."

In a slow spiral the Lion turned above the canals of Venice. Marco's keen Lion-eyes picked out the knots of fighting men, picked out his brother on the barricade. Picked out Maria. Picked out Caesare Aldanto, and saw into the core of him, saw him for what he was. He roared. The air blurred and shivered with the sound.

* * *

The roaring was like that of a thousand trumpets. But it was a glad, bright noise. To Maria it was like an infusion of strength. That little fool Benito was going to get killed!

It must have had the opposite effect on Caesare, because suddenly she was able to pull free. She spun around and, with all her strength, kicked him in the testicles.

Caesare folded up nicely. Maria scrambled up the barricade. She heard the roar of an arquebus, but if it was fired at her the bullet went wild. And then the fresh sea-scented wind hit her in the face.

"What the hell--" Benito pulled her flat; arquebus fire boomed. Fog streamed in the sudden gale, a gale so strong that it flung masonry fragments from the barricade. The dawn sun came striking at the walls. . . . Bright and warm.

And then there came a huge winged shadow--

Maria suddenly realized that Caesare's Schiopettieri were running away, as if in a panic. And so was Caesare. Running as if the very devil was on his heels.

And somewhere between Venice and the rising sun a huge winged being flew, caressing the city, its lagoon and marshes with the shadow of its great wings.

* * *

Kat stared at the devilish thing that had been Lucrezia. It was red-eyed, silver bodied, snaky like Lucrezia's dagger handle had been--and it was wounded in a dozen places. Maybe she hadn't quite killed it but she'd certainly stopped it. It was leaking black ichor from the wounds.

And from the moment Marco had fallen, it had no interest in her. Instead, it was struggling to fly on torn, batlike wings. It was heading for the windows as if drawn by an invisible wire.

* * *

Half the town seemed to be fleeing for their lives. The other half appeared to be chasing them.

Benito would have sworn he was the only one who looked up as they pursued Caesare's party across the Piazza San Marco. It might have been the brightness of the morning sun, but he'd swear that he saw the winged lion settle back onto its column.

* * *

"Is there anything more?" the Lion asked.

Marco looked around, and couldn't see anything. There was--something--far off--

"It is of no consequence," the Lion said dismissively. "The Christ-mage, the one who limps; he and his knights have conquered it, and its vessel. And there is another, but believe me--" He laughed, this time a deep rumbling in his chest. "Your young mate and her Power have that well taken care of. Now--shortly, you must become yourself again. But, Marco Valdosta, you not only bear the Winged Mantle now, but you have also taken up the Crown. As long as you live, only you may be the one to call me. No mage may do it for you. You must take care, Marco Valdosta! You must have a care for yourself, and most especially, when you think it might be good to leave my lagoons and my islands. Should Venice need me in your absence, it will not have me, for only you can call me!"

"Yes, Lion," Marco replied obediently, feeling the burden of responsibility settle on shoulders that stiffened to meet it. "I will remember. If I leave--it will be because there is no other choice, not only for me, but for Venice."

The Lion seemed satisfied. "You do not complain. Good. It does not seem a great sacrifice to me. I do not know why you humans are so itchy-footed. Now--time to put an end to this, before you--or I--come to like it all too much!"

* * *

The monster crawled towards the window, and Kat felt fear mixed with rage. It--she--was going to get away! Lucrezia had unleashed war in the streets, had killed men with her own hands or her own orders, had hurt Rafael and she was going to get away!

Not this time, little sister.

The golden, glowing hands over hers made her drop the pistol--made her reach to the side, and take a book from a shelf there--a very, very, heavy book, which must have weighed several pounds, encased in a silver-chased cover.

A Bible?

--and throw it.

It landed squarely on the monster.

There was a flash of light that was somehow black, a scream that cut through Kat's skull so that she clapped both empty hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block it out.

Then there was nothing.

Nothing but a silver-chased Bible in the floor, and a snaky black smudge on the marble.

Hmm. What's appropriate, I wonder? "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing?" "The Word is mightier than the blade?" Ah, I know! "Let Evil beware the Weight of the Word of God!"

There was--a golden laugh that washed through her, erasing the pain that the scream had left behind, and the feeling of uncleanliness. Then the presence was gone.

Kat shivered convulsively. Then . . . saw the candles in the magic circle suddenly snuff out, saw the air suddenly clear, and the glittering circles of power fade to nothing more than the silver and gold inlaid on the floor.

"Oh God--Marco!" She pushed forward past Luciano's body. Marco lay still and cold, with the blade still pressed into his breast. Katerina had the impression of a misty and insubstantial gold crown on his head. But the image faded almost instantly, and she had no time to think about it. She tugged at the hateful, fateful dagger. It fell and snapped as if it had been made of the finest Venetian glass. She stared. There was no blood. She ripped at his shirt, scattering buttons.

Marco's chest had a tiny, V-shaped cut on it--not a fingernail deep. Kat seized his wrists. She was shaking too badly to feel for a pulse. She pressed her ear to his chest. After a terrible instant of fear--silence!--then she heard his heart beating. Beating steadily.

Suddenly, Marco breathed deeply and put his arms around her. She clung to him like a drowning woman.

"I can never leave here, you know," he said softly. "He said so. I have to stay, or he can't protect Venice."

She burrowed against his chest, not giving a damn who he was. "I will never leave here then, either."

* * *

It was Benito who found them, nearly an hour later. He walked in and stared at the two of them.

"Thank God Claudia knew where this place was. Otherwise you two lovebirds might still have been here tomorrow. Tore the shirt off him, eh, Kat?" He was grinning broadly. "I must get Maria to have a little talk with you, girl. Tearing the breeches off him is much more satisfying for everyone."

"Benito!" roared Marco.

It was a real roar. The windows rattled.

Benito started at the sound, but the grin stayed on his face even if it became a little less broad.

But as he looked around, studying the room, the grin faded away. The bodies. The paraphernalia.

"So I didn't imagine the Lion," he said quietly. "I think you two had better get out of here, before someone else finds you. I've got news for the two of you; besides that, Dorma and Montescue are both searching frantically for you."

They got up. "Tell, Benito," said Kat. "What's happened?"

Benito managed another grin. "Well, lots of stuff. The Doge has stopped slipping into a coma, but he's really weak. He's offered his resignation, as he says the city needs a strong Doge in these times. I reckon Petro will be chosen, even as young as he is. A boat's just come in from Chioggia. Grandfather Dell'este and the Knights of the Holy Trinity and the boys in the Polestine forts made my father and his army head back to Milan." His good cheer faded. "But it looks as if Caesare Aldanto managed to escape."

"What?!" They both exclaimed simultaneously. "Damn him," added Kat, snarling.

Benito walked toward the nearest window, still covered with heavy drapes. "Let's get some light in here, what say?" He shrugged. "Nothing's ever perfect. Aldanto had a galley ready--in case things went wrong, I guess. That'd be just like him. When the fog cleared and the Lion's Shadow spooked them, he took advantage of it. Just in time, too. Petro Dorma is spitting mad about it. And he's looking for you pair of lovebirds." He looked quizzically at them. "So what are you going to do now?"

Marco took Kat's hands. "Kat. You realize that this doesn't change anything? I made my promises. I'm still married to Angelina."

Kat smiled. "Marco. I'll be your mistress if you want me. I'll be your friend if you don't. But I won't leave you again."

Epilogue ========

VILNA ----------------

The shaman raced frantically through the water, trailing blood from several gashes. Behind him, their jaws leaving their own red trace, came the vengeful undines.

Insofar as the shaman could think at all in his state of panic, he was sure he could elude his pursuers. He was well into the open waters of the gulf now, beyond the lagoon, and he was a better swimmer than the undines.

The thought was not especially comforting. Undines were not the only menace he faced. The shadow of the Lion, sweeping across the lagoon, had not only cast terror into the minds and hearts of Venice's enemies. It had also emboldened Venice--and its friends.

Among those friends, often enough, the tritons of the gulf and the open sea could be counted. And those, more fishlike than the undines, he could not outswim.

For that matter, the blood he was trailing might draw sharks as well. And if the sharks were no friends of Venice, they were no friends of his either.

Again and again, he cried out in his mind for the master to rescue him. Open the passageway! Open the passageway!

There was no answer. No passageway.

* * *

When he sensed the disturbance in the water, quite some distance away, the shaman veered aside. That was the sound of a ship breaking up and men spilling into the water. No threat to him, in itself--but it might draw tritons. Occasionally--not often--the sea creatures rescued drowning sailors.

But his master's voice, finally appearing, commanded otherwise.

Find the ship and its sailors. Seize the strongest one and bring him to me.

The shaman did not even think to protest the order. Partly, because he was too glad to finally hear his master's voice. Mostly, because he had never heard that voice groan with such a terrible agony. As if the master himself were trailing his own spoor of blood.

The shaman was indifferent to the master's pain. But not to the rage that pain had so obviously brought with it.

* * *

When the shaman found the sundering vessel, he had no difficulty selecting the strongest man of its crew. He was the only one who had not drowned yet; and was already sinking below the surface himself, gasping with exhaustion. Fortunately, his golden hair made him easy to find.

The shaman seized the collar of his tunic in his sharp teeth. He hoped the master would open the passageway soon. The drowning man was larger than the shaman in his fishform. He did not think he could tow him any great distance--certainly not while keeping the man's mouth above water. The shaman was nearing exhaustion himself.

But the master was apparently alert. A moment later the passageway formed. Gratefully, the shaman plunged into it, bringing his golden-haired burden with him.

* * *

Dripping water, but no blood now that the shape-change had closed his wounds, the shaman lay sprawled on the floor of the grand duke's private chamber. Gasping for breath and feeling as if he could not move at all. Next to him, the golden-haired sailor gasped also. His eyes fluttered for a moment, blue gleaming through the lids, as the man began to return to consciousness.

The shaman sensed the huge form of his master looming over them. When he looked up, half-dazed, he was paralyzed still further by the sight. The grand duke's forehead gaped open; his face was coated with blood. The shaman could see his master's brains through the terrible wound.

The shaman had long since understood that his master was not really human any longer. Had he any doubts, that wound would have resolved them. No human being could have possibly survived such an injury, much less have been able to move and talk.

"I must have food," hissed the grand duke, in a voice almost hoarse from screaming. "Now."

Glancing toward the great stove against the wall of his master's private room, the shaman could see that the fire was already burning in its belly. Drops of blood spilled from his master's head wound were sizzling on the side of the huge fry pan. The cleavers and flensing knives were ready on the butcher's table nearby.

The grand duke seized the half-drowned sailor by his golden hair and lifted him up, as easily as he might an infant. But then, seeing the man's face for the first time, he paused.

"Him," he muttered. Despite his fear and exhaustion, the shaman was fascinated to see the way the grand duke's forehead wound was beginning to close up. Much more slowly than one of his own wounds would heal during a shape-change, of course. And the shaman could only imagine the agony the grand duke was suffering. No wonder that the master craved his . . . special food. It would speed the healing immensely, and alleviate the pain.

The shaman was so fascinated by the sight that he didn't pay attention to his master's odd hesitation. It wasn't until the grand duke lowered the golden-haired head back to the floor that the shaman tore his gaze from the wound and looked at the eyes below.

He wished he hadn't. Even before he heard his master's next words.

"I may have use for this one. I can get another shaman."

The grand duke's giant hand seized the shaman by his long hair and dragged him toward the butcher table. The shaman fought in a frenzy along the way, but he might as well have been a toddler for all the good it did. Once on the table, a blow from the grand duke's fist ended his struggles.

Which was perhaps just as well. The shaman was too stunned to really feel the blade which began flaying him. His screams didn't start again until much of the skin was already gone. But, by then, the master was ready to prepare the blood sauce. A quick slice of the knife ended the screams.

* * *

When Caesare Aldanto finally returned to full consciousness, he discovered himself sitting at a table. A man he didn't recognize was working at a stove nearby. Huge man, he was--inches taller than Aldanto himself, and perhaps twice as broad. Adding in the walrus fat so obvious under the heavy robes, he probably weighed three times what Aldanto did.

When the man turned around and approached, Aldanto hissed. Partly because of the wound on the forehead, the likes of which he had never seen except on the body of a corpse. Mostly, because of the black and inhuman eyes under the heavy brow.

The man--the monster?--shoveled something out of the fry pan directly onto the table. "Eat now," he commanded. "There is no time for platters."

Caesare stared at him, then down at the food before him. When he recognized what it was--the tattoos alone made it obvious--he hissed again and began to draw back. A savage blow to the head half-dazed him. Then, a hand with the strength of an ogre seized him by the hair and shoved his face into the food.

"Eat it like a dog, slave. I have no use for fancy table manners. Neither do you, from this time forth."

THE PIAVE RIVER ---------------

"I think it would be best if I were escorted into Venice by your troops instead of my own, Enrico." The Emperor scanned the countryside along the Piave, the muscles working in his heavy jaws. "Bad enough I've brought them this far. But so long as Venice itself doesn't get its back up, I'm not too concerned about the reaction of the rest of Italy. Not at the moment, at least, when the bastards are cowed."

The Duke of Ferrara nodded. "I agree, Your Majesty." He hesitated a moment; then: "But I urge you not to be too cautious, either. The Scaligers of Verona have managed to infuriate just about everyone by now. Venice, Ferrara, and Rome by their actions; Milan and the rest by their failure."

Charles Fredrik's lips parted in what a shark might call a smile. "You think the time is ripe to take them down a peg or two?"

"Break them in half, rather," growled the Old Fox.

"Well said," snapped Baron Trolliger, riding to the Emperor's left. Unlike the Emperor, Trolliger was wearing armor. He seemed as annoyed by the martial equipment as he was with the state of the world in general. Trolliger was a courtier, not a soldier. Or perhaps it was simply that he detested travel.

"See to it, Hans," murmured Charles Fredrik. "Use Wilhelm Gneiss and his Bavarians. You can leave the military details to him. But make sure the Scaligers are bloodied. You needn't besiege Verona, I don't imagine--but tell Wilhelm not to hesitate if necessary. I want the territory under the control of the Scaligers shrunk--in half, as the Duke of Ferrara says. Spread the pieces around as seems best to you during the negotiations." He glanced at the Old Fox. "Make sure Ferrara gets the biggest slice."

"I've always been partial to Legnano," said Dell'este, almost idly. "Pretty town."

After Trolliger trotted off, riding his horse about as awkwardly as a man can and still stay in the saddle, the Emperor glanced behind him at a figure who was riding her own saddle with considerably greater ease and skill.

"Would you allow us a moment in private, Enrico?"

"Certainly, Your Majesty." The Duke of Ferrara trotted his horse away with the same superb skill that the old man handled a sword or a hammer. The Emperor waved Francesca forward.

When she drew alongside him, Charles Fredrik glanced at her manner of riding and made a face. "How do you manage that, anyway?"

Francesca smiled. "It's the fashion in the Aquitaine for ladies, Your Majesty. I learned to ride sidesaddle when I was barely old enough to walk." She plucked the dusky folds of silken lace-trimmed twill covering her thighs. "I could hardly wear something like this straddling the horse."

"It's quite a costume," agreed the Emperor. His tone was . . . meaningful.

Francesca gave him a sidelong glance. "I did not think Your Majesty would appreciate it much, if I were seen in my usual costume. Discretion and modesty seemed . . . well advised."

"Smart woman. Not--" The old man gave her a sidelong glance of his own. For a moment, his eyes seemed those of a much younger man. "--that I wouldn't have appreciated the other, I'm quite sure."

Francesca said nothing. Her smile was almost that of a Madonna.

Charles Fredrik cleared his throat. "And why didn't I see that other costume, Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc? Since your arrival at Innsbruck, you've both dressed and behaved as a most modest and chaste demoiselle. In my experience--which is considerable--most courtesans would have cheerfully pitched over a prince for the sake of snaring an emperor."

Francesca hesitated, a little play of subtle emotions running over her face. Before she could speak, the Emperor continued.

"Three possibilities come to mind. The first is that you have a rigid sense of honor, which would preclude that course of action on the grounds that it skirts incest. But since you are Aquitainian, I think we can dismiss that possibility out of hand."

"We do have a reputation." Francesca's accompanying chuckle was soft and throaty. "Indeed, I agree. We may dismiss it out of hand."

"The second possibility, then. You have formed an attachment with my nephew which transcends the obvious bond between a courtesan and a young nobleman." He stopped abruptly, cocking an eye at her.

"Um. I am fond of Manfred, Your Majesty. Genuinely so, in fact. But--"

Charles Fredrik heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I'm not dealing with a madwoman."

Francesca's chuckle, now, was neither soft nor throaty. Indeed, it was almost an open laugh. "Please. Manfred is charming, vigorous, good-humored--often genuinely witty--and far more intelligent than he likes to pretend. His company, more often than not, is quite delightful. Far more so than that of most of my clients. But anything more serious . . ." She shook her head firmly. "There's nothing in it, neither for Manfred nor myself. Although I'm good for him now, Your Majesty. That I do believe."

The Emperor nodded. "I also. I have no objection to a continuation of your liaison. Actually, I'm in favor of it." He cleared his throat. "You do understand, of course . . ."

"Yes, yes--certainly. Now that Manfred's identity is in the open, he can hardly remain simply one of my clients. A rich young knight can share a courtesan. A prince requires an exclusive mistress."

It was her turn to clear her throat.

Before she could speak, Charles Fredrik snorted. "Yes, yes--certainly. I know it'll cost me." He examined her briefly, spending more time on the modest but expensive clothing than on her well-covered but intrinsically immodest figure. "Plenty."

The way in which Francesca smoothed the fabric of her dress was demure propriety itself. "Perhaps--"

"Which brings us to the third possibility," said the Emperor loudly. The gaze he now bestowed on Francesca was almost angry. "Every now and then--not often--a whore becomes truly ambitious. And--if she's smart enough--realizes that the ultimate coin in this sinful world is trust."

Francesca meet the fierce eyes with calm ones of her own. "Trust which would be quite shattered if I abandoned the prince for the emperor. For the one as much as the other."

The Emperor nodded. "Good. Now--it is time to speak honestly. I will allow you two lies. No more. What do you want, Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc? Tell me all of it."

She grimaced. "First of all, I don't want that name. Francesca is now--"

"That's the first lie. Be careful, woman."

For the first time since he'd met the courtesan, her aplomb was shaken. Francesca almost jerked in the saddle.

"It is not a lie," she hissed. "I am simply--" She broke off, staring at the countryside with eyes which clearly saw a different one. "My God," she whispered, "it is a lie."

"Of course it is," snapped Charles Fredrik. "The mistake your mother made, Marie-Francoise, was settling for revenge. She should have bided her time, and waited until she could triumph."

They rode on in silence for a bit. Then Francesca shook her head, as if to clear it. "Yes and no, Your Majesty. Oddly enough, I find that I like Francesca de Chevreuse rather more than I did the girl she was. So I believe I'll stick with the name--within, as well as without." Again, that soft throaty chuckle. "But . . . yes. I will keep an eye out for the possibility of triumph."

"Good. What else?" He waved a thick hand. "Wealth, ease, comfort, all that. Naturally. But what else?"

Francesca seemed to be groping for words. The Emperor clucked his tongue. "Well, it's time you did start thinking about it. Clearly, for a change." He twisted a bit in the saddle, until he was facing her almost squarely. "Let an old man provide you with some assistance. The 'what else,' I'm quite sure, is power and influence. Your own power and influence, not that which you derive from befuddling a man's wits with your--no doubt magnificent--legs and bosom."

Francesca hesitated. Then, nodded abruptly.

"Good. That ambition an emperor can trust. For the simple reason that it cannot be achieved without trust." His smile was almost that of a cherub. "And I must say you're doing quite well, for such a young and innocent girl."

Francesca began that soft throaty chuckle again; but this time she choked it off almost before it began. "Good God! You're serious. Um--Your Majesty."

"Of course I'm serious." The cherub smile was replaced by something infinitely grimmer. "Take it from an emperor, child. What you know about sin is pitiful; what you know about wickedness . . . almost nothing."

Again, they rode on in silence. After a time, the Emperor spoke again. "I'll be sending Manfred off, soon enough. It's time for the next stage of his education--as well as the education of the Grand Duke of Lithuania."

Francesca's eyes widened. "No, girl," said the Emperor softly, "I am not sending him off to war. Not directly, at least. The time isn't right for a war with Jagiellon. Not with Emeric on the throne in Hungary, still unbloodied, and now this rot in my own--"

He broke off. Then, cleared his throat. "Never mind that. But I do think a demonstration is called for. Since that Lithuanian bastard chose to use a demon from the Svear, against the Svear it shall be."

Francesca seemed to wince. The Emperor grinned. "Oh please, demoiselle! I do not expect you to traipse around with Manfred and Erik in the marshes and forests of Smaland! But I will expect you to accompany them as far as Mainz. And then, possibly, to Copenhagen."

The Emperor's grin widened, seeing the eager light in the young woman's eyes. "Yes, yes--intrigue with the Danes against the Sots, all that. You'll have a splendid time of it. But there's something else, more important, we need to discuss."

"I am all ears, Your Majesty."

"Thought you would be. Have you ever given much thought to finance, Francesca de Chevreuse?" After a short pause: "Didn't think so. Time you did. More than anything else, girl, wars are fought with money. Don't let any one ever tell you different, especially generals. And--take it from an old emperor--organizing the finances of a major war is even more complex and difficult than organizing the supply train. Takes even longer to do it right, and it's far more treacherous. To begin with--"

On they went. Across the Piave, now, heading west toward the city of the winged lion. The Emperor never stopped talking--

"--great financiers, especially with war looming, are always old men, you see. It occurs to me that a gorgeous young woman--especially one with a disreputable past and a flavor of scandal about her--especially a smart and witty one--"

--and Francesca was all ears.

VENICE ------

It was easier, Kat was learning, to triumph over evil than to explain it.

She and Marco, holding--no, clutching--hands openly, were spared having to repeat what had transpired in the magic chamber over and over again, only by the intercession of Petro Dorma. With an efficiency that was almost terrifying, he'd sent them straight to the Doge's palace, where they'd been fed and allowed to rest--rest, not sleep, although both of them were swaying with exhaustion.

They hadn't gotten much past the first few mouthfuls when Marco's Strega friend Rafael joined them. He didn't look any better than Marco. Both of them had huge, bruised-looking circles around their eyes, and both of them must have been existing on nervous energy alone. Heaven only knew she was, and she must look much the same. Here they were, three tattered and stained vagabonds in a room that usually entertained the most prominent folk in Venice--and often, in the world. The murals on the walls alone were stunning works of art worthy of the Grand Metropolitan's palace in Rome, and the amount of gold leaf on the carved woodwork didn't bear thinking about.

It could serve to repair Casa Montescue five times over.

"What are they going to do with us?" Rafael asked dully.

The answer came from an unexpected source; Petro Dorma himself, who entered the sumptuous dining room behind a servant bearing a gold pitcher.

"Ah, my weary young heroes," Petro said, quite as if he was not as weary as any of them. "I want you to eat and drink while my messengers round up everyone who has any interest in what went on in that chamber where Dottore Marina's body was found. Then I want you to tell your stories, answer questions for a reasonable length of time--which will probably be quite a bit shorter than usual, given that we are all rather the worse for wear. By that time, you won't be able to walk three paces without staggering, so you will all be escorted to comfortable bedchambers here in the palace, where, I suspect, you will probably sleep until this time tomorrow."

Unbelievably, terrifyingly, efficient. If Petro became the new Doge, which was the rumor Kat had been hearing, he was going to be something to be reckoned with.

Petro joined them, thus making a tableau of four tiny figures who were dwarfed by the chamber and humbled by the crimson-and-gold trappings. Mostly gold, Katerina couldn't help but notice. She thought Casa Montescue's desperate financial situation had probably been somewhat alleviated by the recent events. Surely the money-lenders won't harass us for a few weeks. But, maybe not . . .

They ate slowly. Katerina concentrated on every bite, not least because the food was delicious--out of all expectations, considering the conditions of the last day and night. When did I eat last? she wondered. It seemed a year ago or more. Whenever it had been, she was as hungry as she was weary. But hunger, at least, could be easily remedied. They were only just finished and nibbling in a desultory manner at sweets, when a servant in Dorma livery arrived and Dorma rose.

"We seem to have collected everyone we're going to find," he said. "Come along; the sooner this is over, the sooner we can all sleep." The three of them got slowly to their feet--Kat, at least, was aching in every limb--and Dorma escorted them all out.

Both grandfathers were there, Montescue and Dell'este--sitting side by side, for a wonder. Nine men who, Dorma had whispered briefly as they entered, represented the Senate--but Kat suspected were really, along with Dorma himself, the entire Council of Ten. And Metropolitan Michael, of course.

All these Kat had expected--but not the cluster of priests surrounding Michael, nor the horde of secretaries seated at tables running the length of the room behind the notables. She felt uneasily like she was falling into the hands of inquisitors.

"Gentlemen," Dorma nodded to all of them. "These young people are the first we will hear, beginning with Marco Valdosta, continuing with Katerina Montescue, with--" He shook his head, clearly going blank when it came to Rafael's name. "Ah--their friend, who also witnessed what happened, as the last of the three. Hold your questions until they are finished, and try to keep them brief."

Marco began, omitting nothing, and although Kat found herself blinking in stunned disbelief when he got to the part where he apparently collapsed in the magic circle, and described what had happened. But neither the Metropolitan nor the priests with him seemed at all surprised.

A spirit? A pagan spirit, but also the Protector of Venice? The very Lion that met Saint Mark?

"So--now I'm bound to the Lion," he finished wearily; then, out of nowhere, managed a brilliant smile. "And my Pauline relatives will surely disown me now for such blasphemy!"

His grandfather, the Old Dell'este Fox, snorted, and her grandfather choked on his drink--with suppressed laughter, she realized a moment later.

"Those of your Pauline relatives who are stupid enough to be fretted about blasphemy after all this--none of whom are on my side of the family, I might mention--can go hang themselves," the Old Fox growled. "I'll lend them the rope."

"Nonsense!" barked Lodovico Montescue. "Sell it to them. I'll go in with you in a Colleganza."

The room erupted in a roar of laughter--and there was an end to that topic.

The priests added a few questions, mostly about the Lion, what it and Marco had done, and the awakening spell. But very soon the Metropolitan himself called a halt. "Anything more we can learn from the book, and it will be more certain than this young man's memory," he said. "I will confer with Father Lopez when he returns, but I am satisfied that there is not so much as a whisper of evil about this creature--to whom, and this young mage, we can only be grateful."

And then it was her turn.

Everyone listened in silence until she got to the part where Lucrezia Brunelli appeared. "Ha!" exclaimed one of the priests, smacking the table and making her jump. "Father Pierre was right! I thought he was."

"Don't interrupt her," commanded Michael sternly; then, unexpectedly, smiled at her.

She continued, wanting to close her eyes to better recall Lucrezia's exact words--but knowing that she didn't dare to, because if she did, she'd fall asleep. She managed well enough until she got to the part about the warmth that filled her, coming from her Hypatia medal; the pure, sweet voice in her head, and the glowing golden hands that overlaid hers. Then she saw something that she would never, ever have imagined.

She saw Metropolitan Michael's eyes widen and his jaw sag. Actually, at that point, there were many jaws dropping, especially among the priests. The only one who didn't seem surprised was Marco, who squeezed her hand encouragingly. No one interrupted her, though, and she continued doggedly, through the point of Lucrezia's transformation, the seizing of the Bible, and the aftermath.

"And then the voice said, Let Evil beware the weight of the Word of God, and then--I suppose it was gone, because the warmth went away," she concluded. She prudently omitted the other outrageous puns that the voice had made, as well as the remarks that had prefaced and followed the aphorism she'd been told to use.

Heads nodded wisely all over the room--

--except for Metropolitan Michael's. He appeared to be choking for a moment, but quickly composed himself.

Did he get the joke? A moment later, a glance from his dancing eyes confirmed her suspicion that he had.

Oh, dearest Dottore Marina, now I understand what you meant about history becoming somewhat cleaned up and simplified. Who, except perhaps for this single cleric, would ever understand the full version? Who would ever appreciate it for what it meant? Yes, there was terrible evil in the world, and yes, they must fight grimly to defeat it--but there was also peace, love, and joy . . .and to forget that, would be to forget there was a God.

"I have no questions, but I would like to examine the young lady's medal," Michael said gravely. She pulled the chain over her head and handed it to the page who came for it, feeling uncomfortable and naked without it. Michael and his group of priests each examined the Saint Hypatia medal closely, and they put their heads together and muttered for a moment.

Then the Metropolitan handed it back to the page, who brought it back to her. She put it back on, with relief.

"I would like to place into the record of these proceedings that we have found the original protections placed upon this talisman by the Order of Hypatia. As well as a very recent reinforcing spell, placed on it within the last three months or so, by some other magician. Whom I believe to have been Dottore Marina." He paused significantly. "All of which bear the completely unmistakable aura of sanctity. This medal has been used within the last day as a vehicle for one of God's own spirits. We are not prepared to state which spirit, but I believe we can assume it was, at the least, one of the angelic order of the cherubim." Michael raised one eyebrow. "Possibly higher. Possibly the saint herself. But without having a Christian mage as a witness, we cannot state that this was a bona fide Hypatian miracle, and therefore we will confine ourselves to pronouncing it a genuine case of divine intercession."

Well, that caused as much of a buzz as Marco's revelations, and Rafael got off with doing no more than providing confirmation for her story and Marco's with no questioning. And very shortly after that, they were all three dismissed and followed their page--stumbling, as Dorma had predicted--to their rooms.

Kat found attentive maids waiting, who stripped her with the same terrible efficiency as shown by Petro Dorma, popped a nightdress over her head, and eased her into a bed she didn't even see. After that--she didn't even dream.

* * *

But the next day . . .

All of the peace of mind which had come to her came crashing down the moment she stepped out into the public corridors. Two pages were waiting for her, and whisked her off to join Marco, chattering at her the entire time.

She and Marco, it seemed, were the Saviors of Venice. Father Lopez, still covered with dust from his hurried return to the city, explained it all to them.

Never mind Petro Dorma, or the Arsenalotti. Forget the brilliant tactics of Dell'este. Ignore the subtle intervention of the Emperor. Completely discount the actions of the Knights under confrere Manfred and his friend Eric Hakkonsen. Pretend that Father Lopez never battled Sachs and Ursula and the horrible thing they had brought in on behest of the dread Grand Duke of Lithuania. She and Marco were the Saviors of Venice.

Dorma was with Marco, and Senor Lopez joined them a moment later. "You must make an appearance," Dorma told them firmly, before they could make any objections. Lopez nodded, even more firmly. Kat discovered that, when sandwiched between two such forceful personalities, no becomes a word that does not effectively exist.

Dorma and Lopez took them both to the very, very public Scala di Giganti, where the new Doges were always inaugurated, and as they all stepped out onto the top step, a roar went up from the Piazza San Marco. As she stood there, once again clutching at Marco's hand, half-blinded by the sun and deafened by the noise, she realized to her horror that the piazza was packed solid.

"Smile," Dorma shouted into her ear. "Wave."

She did; the crowd roared again.

"Now come this way." Dorma took her arm and steered her along the second-floor balcony to the side that faced the lagoon as Lopez did the same for Marco. The piazza was too densely packed for anyone to follow, but that hardly mattered, since the wave of sound propagated along as they passed. And when they got to the seaward side of the balcony, it seemed that every floating object in Venice began parading past.

At least here, facing the Doge's palace and the lagoon, where not so many people could crowd up against the building, it was easier to hear.

"Keep smiling and waving," Lopez said gravely, doing the same. Then he and Dorma explained to them how and why it was that they were suddenly the Saviors.

"Dell'este is not one of us," Dorma said, bowing as one of the House racing-boats passed with every scion of nobility the House possessed manning an oar. "The Knights--well, so far as the average Venetian is concerned, they have only just redeemed themselves for the actions of Sachs and the Sots. And, besides, they aren't our people either."

"Nor are we, the foreign clerics, and never mind who sent us here," Lopez agreed wryly. "And Petro Dorma--" His lips twisted in an attempt to suppress a smile. "Petro Dorma is a fine example of the best of the Casa Vecchie, and he will surely make a great Doge. But he is balding, middle-aged, and has an undistinguished nose. Not the fine figure of which legends are made."

Dorma chuckled. "True enough. Not"--here, a bit smugly--"that my humble nose is going to stop any of the single ladies of the Casa Vecchie from seeking out my company with an eye to matrimony. But, yes, I will be the first to admit that I do not make an appropriate figure for the future statues which will commemorate this triumph."

He gazed at Marco and Kat. "You, on the other hand--you are both handsome, young, and--well. That problem still has to be dealt with, but the rumor of your little romance is already sweeping the city. Not so little, actually. You have ended a feud between your families to rival that of the Capuletti and Montague in Verona. You have served as the vessels for the oldest of Venice's magical protectors, and of a bona fide angelic power. So, I can hardly blame the people for deciding that we old men only sat and twiddled our fingers while you two saved the city. Smile," he added, as Kat began to object. "And wave. This is what is meant by noblesse oblige, as our Aquitaine friends would say."

The two youngsters did as they were instructed. But Kat had the sinking realization--sinking like a stone anchor at sea--that the "rumor sweeping Venice" was going to make her life a lot more complicated than it already was. The ugly term adulteress crept into her mind, making her wince. She wasn't sure if she should keep holding Marco's hand. But--

His grip was far too firm to resist anyway. Even if she'd really wanted to.

CASA DORMA ----------

"You have used the children quite enough. Go any further and you imperil your souls."

Eneko Lopez's words were spoken softly; but, to Enrico Dell'este, they seem to ring through the luxurious salon in Casa Dorma like hammer blows on the anvil in his workshop. As always, the concept of uncertainty seemed utterly foreign to the Basque priest.

The Old Fox's lips twisted in a wry smile. "If the Grand Metropolitan of Rome refuses your request to found a new order, Father, you might consider taking up prophecy as your new vocation. I'm quite sure you could learn to carve stone tablets, with a bit of practice."

A nervous little laugh rippled through the salon. Lopez, showing that easy humor which--oddly enough--always lurked beneath his implacable surface, flashed the Duke of Ferrara a quick grin. Then nodded, acknowledging the hit.

The acknowledgement, of course, did not sway him for a moment. "The fact remains, milord, that you cannot manipulate everything for political purposes. Not without risking eternal damnation."

Petro Dorma coughed, drawing attention his way. "There's no need to argue the theology involved, Father Lopez. As it happens--for political as well as personal reasons--I agree with you."

Dorma had not spoken so far, since the discussion over the fate of Marco's marriage to Angelina had first begun. Everyone had expected him to be one pole of the debate--and quite the opposite one--so his statement brought instant silence.

"A Case Vecchie who is wise instead of shrewd," murmured Eneko. "Truly we have entered a new age of miracles."

Again, laughter rippled through the room--less nervously, this time; almost with relief.

Dorma shrugged. "I have done my best for my sister. But the fact remains that Angelina is . . . unstable. And Venice cannot afford to have Marco Valdosta in an unstable marriage. Nor, for that matter, can it afford to have Katerina Montescue develop the reputation of an adulteress."

He gestured with his head toward the great window overlooking the Grand Canal. Even though the window was closed, and the Piazza San Marco was some distance away from the Dorma palace, the roar of the huge crowd filling the streets and piazza in triumphal celebration was loud enough to be heard easily. Now in its second day, there seemed no sign yet that the festivities were abating.

"Some of that applause is for the Emperor, of course. Charles Fredrik is the first Holy Roman Emperor to visit Venice in two centuries, and since his visit--unlike the last one--is seen as a show of support for Venice, the crowd is casting its republican sentiments aside."

"For the moment," growled Lodovico Montescue. "If the Emperor isn't smart enough not to leave within a few days, you watch how fast that'll change. And good it is!"

"Oh, stop being a grouch," drawled Dell'este. "Look on the bright side. The Montagnards have been dreaming for years of the day when the Emperor would enter Venice--and now that it's finally happened, they're all hiding in their cellars."

He and Lodovico exchanged cold smiles.

Petro Dorma sighed. "Montescue, your house is still in dire financial circumstances. So you can't afford assassins anyway."

"I can," interjected Dell'este immediately. "And Lodovico can find them for me." He turned his head and smiled gently at Antimo Bartelozzi, seated in a chair behind him. "No offense, Antimo. But I always feel it's wise to consult the local experts."

Antimo nodded solemnly. "Quite so, milord."

"Enough!" snapped Petro. He glared at the Old Fox. "Ferrara is not in charge of Venice. Insofar as anyone is, at the moment, I am. I'm certainly in charge of the Lords of the Nightwatch." Discreet as ever, he did not add: the Council of Ten, also. "So if I discover either of you--or both together--have been conspiring to assassinate Montagnards, I'll take measures. Don't think I won't. I've had enough--so has Venice--of these damned factional wars."

The Old Fox was tempted to rise to the challenge--and just how will you take measures against Ferrara, Venetian?--but he resisted the temptation easily enough. He had nothing to gain, and everything to lose, from entering a pissing match with Petro Dorma. Besides--

"I give you my word, Lord Dorma," he said, almost insouciantly. "But it won't stop the crowd from doing it. Word is the Arsenalotti have organized their own assassins. And the canalers are guiding them to the Montagnard hideouts."

Petro made a face; then, shrugged. "What the Venetian commons do at the moment, to settle their scores, does not concern me. They'll crush the snake and be done with it. Casa Vecchie vendettas take on an insane life of their own."

Lodovico Montescue had the grace to flush and look away. A bit to his surprise, Enrico Dell'este found himself doing the same.

"My word," Dell'este repeated. This time, with no insouciance at all. After a moment, with a tone of aggrieved resignation that brought another little ripple of laughter, Lodovico added his own vow.

"Good enough," said Petro. Again, he gestured at the window. "What I was about to say, however, is that most of that applause is not for the Emperor. It is--as everyone here knows--addressed at Marco and Katerina." He rubbed a hand over his bald pate, smiling ruefully. "About whom the wildest rumors are sweeping the city."

"What's wild about them?" snorted Lopez. "Marco Valdosta does carry the Mantle of the Lion. And wears the Crown also, it seems." Seeing the uncertainty in the faces of the hard-headed Venetian grandees in the salon, the Basque chuckled harshly. "Oh, yes--have no doubt about it. Metropolitan Michael tells me he was able to study enough of what Dottore Marina left behind to understand what happened, even if he could not duplicate the thing himself. I'm not sure anyone could, except a Grimas."

From the back of the room, where he had been sitting uneasily in a chair--he was not accustomed to such society--Father Mascoli spoke up for the first time. His words were soft, but firm for all that. "There were many witnesses, milords, who saw the lion leave and return to the pillar. I have spoken to several of them."

Petro swiveled in his chair and examined the priest. It was at his insistence that Father Mascoli had come. "You have spoken to Sister Evangelina?"

Mascoli nodded. "Yes, Lord Dorma. And she has agreed--provided Angelina is not coerced in any way."

Petro nodded and turned back. "I have not coerced her. In fact, it was Angelina who first made the suggestion herself."

His round face took on an expression which was partly one of chagrin, partly one of fondness. "My sister's moods swing back and forth, rather unpredictably. At her best--" He straightened in his chair. "Her marriage to Marco was a fiction, as all here are well aware. Angelina, in her way, has grown very fond of Marco. And seems now to have become determined not to be an impediment to his happiness."

He raised a fist to his mouth and coughed into it. "She proposed, in fact, a simple annulment on the grounds that the marriage was never consummated. Which, as it happens, is quite true in this case. But--"

He broke off, his expression clearly showing his unease.

Enrico immediately understood the quandary, and slid into it with all the grace of an expert swordsman in a fencing match.

"Petro. Naturally you would like to avoid the public embarrassment of admitting that the child is not Marco's." Dell'este saw no reason to add the obvious: even if no one in Venice except halfwits believes it anyway--and even the halfwits don't believe it once they see the bastard's hair. As always, for Case Vecchie, formalities and appearance were as important as the reality.

"I see no problem, Petro," he continued easily. He glanced at Father Mascoli. "If Angelina has agreed to take Holy Orders, that gives another ground for annulling the marriage. One which is much less awkward, for all concerned."

"What about the baby?" asked Lodovico. "Angelina can't very well take her with her to a nunnery. And if you give her up, you undermine the whole purpose of the subterfuge."

Dorma smiled; again, the expression conveyed that odd mix of fondness and chagrin. "I've spoken to Marco. He immediately offered to raise the child as his own. Truth to tell, he already spends more time with the girl than does my sister."

Dorma hesitated. Then, his innate honesty forced him to keep speaking. Dell'este was quite delighted. Venice would need an honest Doge, in the time to come.

"I must point out the possible problem," said Petro. "An annulment due to my sister joining a religious order will take quite some time. The Grand Metropolitan will agree to the annulment readily enough, I'm quite sure. But he will insist on following the established procedures." Dorma half-turned his head, looking back toward Mascoli. "The Hypatian Order requires a one year novitiate, before the final vows can be taken. Until that time passes, the annulment will not be final. In the meantime . . ."

His words trailed off into silence. Most of the people in the room shifted uneasily in their chairs. A year . . . And it took no great perceptiveness--certainly not for anyone who had seen Marco and Kat in each other's company over the past few days--to realize that the two youngsters were hardly likely to wait . . .

"Can't afford another scandal," gruffed Lodovico. "Certainly not," echoed Dell'este. "We'll have to insist that they see each other rarely, and then only with a proper chaperone in--"

"Oh, for the love of God!" snapped Petro Dorma's mother Rosanna. Since the discussion began, the old woman had been sitting against the wall tending to her point-vice embroidery. "Men! Katerina is a sensible Case Vecchie girl. She'll understand the precautions needed--and where to find them."

The faces of all the men in the room grew pinched. Except that of Eneko.

"Hah!" barked the Basque priest. "Of course she'll know where to find them. She's been trafficking them, I don't doubt." The faces of the other men grew very pinched. Lodovico's expression was downright vinegary.

"And what little she doesn't know from lack of personal experience," Lopez continued blithely, "she'll have no difficulty at all learning from her close friend Francesca de Chevreuse."

Rosanna Dorma almost cackled. "For that matter, I could--never mind."

She and Lopez exchanged smiles. The Basque shrugged. "I see the moment of wisdom has passed, replaced by that detestable shrewdness." He made a motion with his hand which might have been that of a prophet, carving stone. "Be done with it, o ye wise men of Venice. Allow them their love in peace, in whatever manner they choose, until they sanctify it in marriage. There will be no harm done, and you have used the children quite enough. Look to your own souls."

The Venetian grandees stared at him, their jaws a bit loose. The church had never formally condemned such practices, true; but they were much frowned upon by clerics. Not to mention fornication and adultery.

Lopez returned their stares with his own; and his jaw was not even a bit loose. "Chernobog has seized the throne of Lithuania," he said, almost snarling. "If anything, Emeric of Hungary delves into even blacker arts. The church rots from the inside or takes on the coloration of its enemies. The rumors from Egypt--"

He rose to his feet abruptly and began limping toward the door. "Enough! Worry yourselves sick over matters of petty shrewdness if you will, grandees of Venice. I return to the wisdom of the crowd, saluting its young champions."

After he was gone, Dell'este looked at Dorma and Lodovico. Then shrugged and rose himself.

"And why not? The worst that can happen is another bastard. Won't be the first in our families; and certainly not the last."

THE PIAZZA SAN MARCO --------------------

A few days had done a great deal to change the city and the political landscape, thought Benito, looking at the celebrating crowd.

Horsemen had come in to report that the Scaligers were scrambling out of Fruili, with the whole countryside rising against them and imperial troops hot on their heels. A sharp merchant had brought the first pirogue-load full of fresh vegetables down the Po, past the sunken remains of the Milanese invading fleet. Venice's foes had put the bulk of their forces into that fleet, and now they were in dire trouble.

Benito wasn't sure he wasn't in dire trouble, too. Maria hadn't given him the hero's welcome he'd rather thought he was going to get. Instead she'd said: "I fell in love with a wolf once. I'm not giving my throat to another one, Benito. And I'm not sure if what you are is fox or wolf. You're still young. It's hard to tell. But I've had enough of wishing to be something I can't be." And she'd turned on her heel and left him standing there.

After a while, he'd shrugged. He'd try later. In the meanwhile half of the girls in Venice seemed very pleased to see him. They thought he was hero, at least.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, someone took Benito by the arm and drew him away from a young female admirer. Oddly enough, he didn't feel any urge to resist even before he saw that it was Petro Dorma.

"I've got news I felt you should hear right away. A crew that arrived this morning came upon a shipwreck in the gulf the day of the fighting. I just got the word. Caesare Aldanto's galley, it was."

"Are they sure?"

Dorma nodded somberly. "They say there were big seas that afternoon. Probably stirred up by the gale that blew the fog away. They saw a galley in bad trouble and were heading for a rescue when a double wave came through. The galley snapped in two and broke up. By the time they got there--the waves were very severe . . . it was all over. No survivors.

"After the sea calmed, they recovered some of the bodies. Caesare's was not among them, and they say it was much too far from land for anyone to have a hope of swimming ashore."

Dorma took a deep breath. "There's more. Part of the wreck was still floating. The captain had a look and they've hauled that section out and brought it back. Someone had hollowed out a great chamber in the keel. When it hit the waves, it snapped. We think this must be how the other galleys were lost. We'll be checking them all now."

Benito closed his eyes briefly. The smuggling scheme . . . now he wondered if it had really been a smuggling scheme, and not just Caesare's way of sabotaging Venice's commerce. Whichever it had been: Caesare's own mischief had come back to sink him.

* * *

After Dorma left, Benito wandered through the huge throng aimlessly. He was trying to decide how he felt about Aldanto's death. On the one hand, he'd planned to kill him anyway, if he could. On the other . . .

He sighed, remembering all the little ways in which Caesare Aldanto had helped him. For his own purposes, to be sure. But . . . not always, perhaps. And even if it had all been done for nothing but mercenary reasons, the help itself remained.

Benito had long known that life couldn't be separated into neat blacks and whites. Now, he was discovering that gray is also a much more confusing color than it looks at first glance.

Out of that welter of confusion, one thought came clearly. I want to see Maria.

* * *

The piazza was redolent with the smells of feasting. Not a few of the Arsenalotti had already been dipping deep in the casks of good Veneto red that Petro Dorma had caused to be set among the tables. Benito found laughter, smiles, and winks from pretty girls and even snatches of song amid the laden trestles. What he didn't find was Maria Garavelli. It worried him. He'd been looking for her for quite a while.

The afternoon was rich and golden. Everybody was full of happiness. Everybody except Benito Valdosta, it seemed. And Maria, maybe. He thought there'd been a tear in her eye when she left him earlier. Or maybe . . . he just hoped so.

Only, where the hell had she got to? Ah. A familiar face. "Hey Tonio. You seen Maria?"

The bargee nodded. "Yeah. Saw her heading for the moorings down by the side of the Marciana."

"Thanks!" Benito quickened his pace and walked off towards the moorings beside the library.

* * *

She was sitting on a bollard, staring out across the gently bobbing rows of gondolas and the forests of masts in Bacino San Marco. A lonely figure--sheltered from the noise and laughter of the piazza. Here only the occasional gull shrieked and squabbled overhead.

"So what's wrong now?" He knelt down next to her and put an arm over her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

"I just want to be alone," she snapped. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

She lifted that square jaw. "It's not a Casa Vecchie problem. Now go away."

"What's this Casa Vecchie stuff? I'm Benito!" He stood up and backed away a pace, raising his hands in protest.