Commander Leopoldo had chosen to come and see Manfred while the knights were at morning drill, because he could do so while remaining unobtrusive. A party of men—and an officer—would come to do a stock-count at the magazine every Wednesday anyway. Leopoldo did this duty himself sometimes, so his presence while they were drilling in the courtyard was unremarkable. When the knights broke for a rest, it was simplicity itself to walk the few hundred feet under the arcade to the shade where Manfred sat with his watchdogs, and squat down so that he was virtually invisible. He was not a man given to peacocky clothes like Captain-General Tomaselli.
"Milords. I'm looking for some quiet advice. I've little siege experience and some things are worrying me."
Falkenberg grunted. "Not half as much as they worry me. And I have plenty of siege experience."
Manfred grinned at the young Venetian. "What can we help you with, Commander? Be warned. You give Falkenberg here the opening for a word on sieges and he'll give you ten thousand. And redesign your fortress. He's done so at least five times since we got here."
Gino Leopoldo smiled back, a little nervously. "The captain-general has expressly forbidden me to fraternize with you, Milord Prince. So if you don't mind keeping this quiet. . . I want to ask about those moles."
Manfred nodded. "They're creeping closer. Erik destroying the magazine out there stopped the covering fire for nearly twelve days. But ten or twelve more days should see the south one complete. Another day, the north. And Emeric's siegemaster has men on a bucket chain on the south side of the Spianada. You can bet he has a tunnel project going. What are the plans to deal with this lot? The captain-general has decided to keep us in the dark."
The stocky young man grabbed a hank of his hair and tugged at it. He sighed. "We're planning on a sortie from the main gate. With footmen."
"I see," said Manfred, putting a restraining hand on Falkenberg. "Tell me more. Are these pikemen? Or arquebusiers? Or both?
"Arquebusiers. In a tercio. Only . . . the shingle is very narrow. No room for a tercio."
Manfred put another hand on Von Gherens's shoulder. "I see. But there are two moles. How are they to face both?"
"The first tercio will go south. The second north."
"The captain-general is certainly rewriting the science of war," said Manfred, so calmly that he thought Francesca would have been proud of him.
Falkenberg could take it no more. "No preemptive strike to destroy the moles?!"
The young Venetian shook his head.
"No flanking from the posterns?!"
Leopoldo shook his head again.
Von Gherens exploded. "Foot soldiers! Is the man insane? The minute those clumsy tercios try and get out of the gate the Magyar are going to charge from both sides. Without pikemen to allow the arquebusiers to reload they'll annihilate them! And the front gate'll be so packed with fleeing men they'll never close it!"
"Er. Yes. I know."
Manfred's eyes narrowed. "So where are the cavalry supposed to be in all this? Where are we supposed to be?"
Leopoldo looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable. "The captain-general wants to prove you're unnecessary. And my cavalry—and I don't have much, to begin with—is going to be kept in reserve for any street-fighting."
He shook his head ruefully at the gaping knights. "I am in charge of the Citadel garrison. But he is in charge of me. There is not a lot I can do."
Falkenberg took a deep breath. "Then I guess it is up to us."
Manfred shook his head. "Let's just remember what Erik and you two have drummed into my head: The minute the first shot is fired the best battle plan in the world comes apart. And then, of course, commanders must act on their own initiative. What can you do?"
The commander shrugged. "All I'd thought of was the cannon. The captain-general has said they're irrelevant because the fighting will be below the walls. I've got about two hundred pikemen he seems to have forgotten in his plans. . . ."
Aldo Morando sat sipping his wine, waiting for Fianelli to come. He had a few interesting snippets, for which Emeric's agent would pay well. These rich, spoiled women—especially Sophia Tomaselli—were proving very effective spies. And now that he'd convinced Sophia that she should try to seduce Prince Manfred . . .
True, Aldo would be surprised if she actually managed the feat. Sophia was attractive enough, but nothing compared to the prince's leman, Francesca de Chevreuse. Still, who knew? Some men—Morando was one of them, himself—enjoyed variety. It was worth a try. If she succeeded, Aldo would possibly gain access to information hitherto locked away. To this point, he'd been able to discover nothing about the inner workings of the Imperial contingent in the Citadel.
There was hardly any risk, after all; to Morando, at least. If Sophia was publicly rebuffed or got caught in the course of success, the whole thing would just be ascribed to her sexual appetites—which were already fairly notorious in the Citadel, even if her dimwitted husband knew nothing about it.
Morando yawned. And success would have the added advantage of distracting Sophia from him. Ye gods, the woman was demanding! She came to him so often that he'd finally been forced to show her the secret entrance, or else she would have surely been spotted. Truth be told, Morando preferred his sexual liaisons to be with someone like Bianca Casarini. Casual, relaxed, basically distant despite the physical intimacy.
Speaking of whom . . .
He should start considering, with Bianca, the best ways to get out of here when the place fell. They couldn't hide in the cellar forever, after all, and there was no point in being rich and dead. He knew she was no more trustful than he was of King Emeric's final intentions toward his spies and agents on Corfu. She'd proven to be an excellent partner, and he thought she might be willing to continue the partnership somewhere else.
The Aquitaine, perhaps. Bianca would like the Aquitaine.
Sophia watched until Francesca went out into the town behind the second wall. She'd gone beyond being nervous about it. After all, men were just creatures of lust, easy to manipulate. And the thought of copulating with royalty, once Morando got her to think about it seriously, was . . . exciting.
She made her way across from her suitable vantage point where she had been apparently painting a picture of the battle scene, down to the prince's chambers. She was about to knock, when the door opened. Sophia took one horrified look at the profile of the woman turning to speak to the prince and fled.
Maria Verrier was not whom she'd expected to find there, beating her to her quarry.
"She should be back soon. You must literally have missed her at the gate," said Manfred. "Anything important?"
"No. Well. It's just odd. You know, Umberto's been doing night-watches. All of the men from the Little Arsenal have. Well, he told me that they've all been taken off duties on the north wall and at the tower that guards the postern at the Little Arsenal."
"Hmm. So who's taken over?"
Maria shrugged. "And how would I know, Prince Manfred?"
She opened the door to leave. As she did so, Manfred said, "If you hear—from your side—just who is on that shift, let me know as soon as possible."
She turned back and nodded. "I will." Who was that who had turned and ran when she saw her?
Sophia's face was contorted with fury. "I want her womb to shrivel and her breasts to turn to wrinkled dried-out dugs. I want her marriage blighted. I want her baby to scream. I want her dead. She's a thorn in my flesh. You promised me the curses. Give them to me."
Aldo Morando didn't entirely follow the logic of the woman, but then, if she'd been logical she'd have been useless to him. It seemed such a slight thing. But Sophia Tomaselli was unused to even the slightest check on her. He lifted an eyebrow, as he had practiced so long in the mirror. It made him look, he thought, particularly satanic. It had the desired effect on her, anyway.
"Please, master." She petted and fawned now.
"Remember that power has a price." He meant it in money.
She didn't. "Oh, yes. Whatever you like, master."
Morando considered the problem, for a moment, before deciding to accede to Sophia's wishes. She was an attractive enough woman, after all. And if she was now willing to do anything Morando told her to . . .
That could give better returns—as good, at least—as her spying. Leaving aside her own charms, such as they were, there were plenty of men in the Citadel who would pay handsomely for spreading this one's legs—just to cuckold her husband.
To think she'd originally come to him to help with fertility! She'd lost interest in that now. He'd certainly entrapped her well. This was what real Satanists were supposed to do. Typically, those who were crazy enough to deal with the Devil were not as good at it as he was, who did what he did for a sensible god: money.
He nodded. "Very well. Come tonight at midnight. Some things like this cannot be achieved under the sun. Bring gloves."
When she'd left, Morando reflectively scratched his beard. The belief in curses and cantrips was a strain on his imagination. A good curse token had to have one dominant feature: It had to convince the user. So Morando used some of the popularly recognized symbols. Deadly nightshade. Henbane. Pigweed. A rat skull. Some blood. And to ensure it smelled rightly vile—a sprig of parsley dipped in the privy. All tied together with entrails and a strip of parchment with a lot of garbage scrawled on it in red ink. The thing should cause a disease just by being in the house, thought Morando, inspecting the concoction with satisfaction. If the recipient found it—well, belike they would think themselves bewitched. That was usually enough to make a spell seem to work.
At midnight, with the inner room suitably lit with seven green candles, he handed it to her from under his cloak.
"You must hold it with a glove only. And you must burn the glove afterwards, saying the words Rotas Astor Sotar Sator Araso, seven times." He repeated the words twice, carefully, as if they really meant something. "It should be placed under the victim's bed or within the hearth ashes."
She reached a gloved hand eagerly for the bunch. "What is in it?"
"Some things which you are not ready to learn the powers of. But don't shake it. It has grave-mold from the tomb of an unbaptized infant mixed with the blood from the menses of a virgin sacrifice." He managed to say the last sentence with a completely solemn expression on his face. A bit difficult, that was.
She took it eagerly, but carefully, holding it as one might fragile porcelain, her face a candlelight-shadowed study in nastiness. Morando knew a brief inward shudder. From what he could work out the victim's main "crime" was a lack of respect for Sophia. Morando knew that he was dealing with a sick mind here. But business was business, after all.
Besides . . .
Morando had the psychological shrewdness of any successful swindler and procurer. Bianca Casarini was by nature an independent sort of creature. She might very well decide to go her separate way, after the Citadel fell and they made their escape to the mainland. If so, it would be wise to make sure that Sophia was still with him. She knew the secret entrance and would come to the cellar herself when it looked like the fortress was finally falling. He'd already, somewhat reluctantly, made the arrangements with her.
Now, thinking back, he was glad he'd done so. Sophia would have no choice but to abandon her past life and place herself under Aldo's wing. She was an attractive woman, and still young enough. The one thing about the future that was sure and certain was that a pimp could always get by.