"You're a fool, Emeric." Even in such a gorgeous voice there was only one Hungarian in the entire kingdom who would have dared to say that. The speaker was petite, curvaceous and almost edibly beautiful. She was perfection itself from her musical laugh to her cascade of lightly curled, fine dark hair. Her skin had that bloom to it that spoke of youth.
Emeric of Hungary would have found a nest of angry vipers more attractive. His great-great-aunt habitually chastised him. She also never failed to assist him in his schemes. She had, she had admitted once, a fondness for him because he was the only one of her blood in which magical skill had manifested itself.
He waited. There was no point in rising to her bait.
"You should have come to me for assistance first. I would have advised you to stay away from Corfu."
"Jagiellon seemed to think it would be an easy conquest, by the money and materiel he arranged. He is not aware that, far from being his cat's-paw, I have had intentions to begin conquests to the south for some time."
Elizabeth, Countess Bartoldy, laughed musically. "My dear boy. The fertility rituals on Corfu go back to prehuman times. Something that ancient, which keeps its base of believers, has a power reservoir the size of the ocean to draw on."
"I haven't seen any signs of great magic yet."
She dimpled. "Corfu's is a passive kind of magic, tied to the earth of that place. Very difficult for invaders to deal with. I do have something that will work, however—because it is not in contact with the earth. Wait."
She returned sometime later carrying a glass jar. A large jar, a cubit in height. She carried it with a negligent ease that betrayed her great strength. Emeric peered into the cloudy fluid within, and then wished he hadn't.
"An experiment of mine," said the Countess. "I constrained a fire and an air elemental to mate. It is not a natural occurrence. This is their offspring, somewhat prematurely removed. I have placed certain magical constraints on the creature, as well as enhancing its power."
Emeric looked warily at it. "Just what does it do?"
The countess smiled "It is a bringer of fires. And, of course, winds. Sickness, too, is one of its aspects. But the core of its ability lies in dryness. An island—surrounded by water to contain it—should be the ideal place to release the thing."
Benito yawned, crackingly. "Sorry, Marco. It's not your company, honest. It's just . . . well, I have been working like a dog, and I haven't had much sleep lately."
Marco patted his shoulder. He noticed it was rocklike, stretching at the shirt. "You're working too hard. Everyone from the admiral to my father-in-law says so. Benito, one man, doing the work of a common laborer because he doesn't have the skills to build ships or clad them, isn't what Venice needs. She has plenty of good men working hard, but we need your brains."
Benito yawned again. "Why? Are we out of cannonballs?" He grinned and raised a hand pacifyingly to his brother. "Seriously, Marco. I have a problem here. Everyone expects me to lead like a Case Vecchie born. Giving orders, seeing that things are done. And I don't know how. I might be a direct blood relation of men who are great leaders of men, but I grew up among the canal people as a thief. The only way I know to lead is by example. So: I want these ships built. I don't shout at people. I challenge them to keep up with me. And when the carpenters say: 'That's caulker's work,' and sit back and say 'we can do nothing until they've done,' I pick up another balk of timber and ask, "Do you think this is Casa Vecchie work?' "
Marco grinned at him. "And the result is that you need new shirts. You've put an inch on your shoulders since you started here."
Benito pulled a rueful face and felt the tight seams on the shirt. "Yeah. I'm getting a bit heavy and bulky for the old upper-story work, Marco. Not so good for squirming in tight little holes. So, tell me, what's the news from the outside world? Any news from Mainz?"
Marco shook his head. "This kind of heart condition is not something that changes from day to day, Benito. Apparently the Emperor's physicians say he seems to be recovering a little. Of course he is struggling to breathe and his chest gives him a great deal of pain. But this may ease, and if there are no further recurrences . . . he may yet leave his bed again one day. But commonly, I'm afraid, when these problems start, they do recur. We can only pray for him."
Benito knew there were millions of people throughout the Empire doing just that. And there were very few indeed who would be privy to the detail Marco had just given him. Most of the citizens of the Empire would only have heard rumors that the Emperor was not well. But the Holy Roman Empire felt the tremors of an uncertain future run through it—as did all of Europe and much of the world beyond.
Benito scowled. "And on other fronts? How are your attempts to contact Eneko Lopez coming?"
Marco sighed. "Not so well. We can't raise him, for reasons that aren't clear at all. Anyway, what I came to talk to you about was what you'd said to me about the undines and the tritons."
"Get anywhere?"
It was Marco's turn to shrug. "They're not like humans, Benito. They . . . well, they only live partly in the same world as us and they don't see things the same way. But Juliette wants to meet you. That's a step."
Benito smiled. "Sure. I'll sweep her off her tail with my charm. When do we do this thing?"
"Well, full tide is a good time," said Marco. "That's in about an hour."
"Sure. Where? At San Raphaella?"
Marco nodded. "We can take a walk up together. Or take a gondola."
Benito shook his head. "I'm supposed to be confined to this place."
"Only by your own decision."
"Yeah. But I'll pretend to abide by it," said Benito, suddenly looking an impish five years younger. "The roofs of Venice miss me. And I might as well enjoy them while I still can."
Benito found the undine's gaze quite disconcerting. He'd been forewarned about the bare breasts, and if he ignored the color, they were quite attractive. One might say, pert. And besides, he'd seen a few more than Marco, anyway. But her unblinking stare he found . . . scary. Those golden eyes actually seemed to be looking inside him, at something just below the skin.
Eventually she spoke. "Mage Marco, you are sure this one is your brother? His flames, and the fire in this one are strange. Powerful. There is an echo of you about him . . . but you are water. Cool, healing waters. This one frightens me."
Benito snorted. "Well, if it's all the same to you, green-hair, you make me nervous, too, just by the way you look at me."
Marco smiled and put an arm around Benito's shoulders. "Yes, Juliette. He is my brother. My half-brother, anyway. But he's been as close to me as a twin. And though at times he's as wild as fire, you can trust him to the ends of the earth."
Juliette didn't look entirely convinced. "Spill a drop of your blood on the water then," she said to Benito.
Benito shrugged, took out the Shetland dagger and tried to prick his thumb. Hard work had calloused it, and besides, sticking a knife into yourself was never that easy.
"Do it for me, Marco."
Marco did, with all of a chirurgeon's practiced ease.
Benito squeezed the thumb. A red drop formed and splashed into the greenish chapel water. Juliette scooped some of it up in a long-fingered hand. Sniffed it. Tasted it. Looked penetratingly at him again.
Her next question startled Benito. "Do you know the child Alessia?"
Benito nodded. "She's on Corfu with her mother. It's where we wanted help to get back to."
Juliette regarded him keenly. "Corfu! You mean Corcyra? Aieee!" The golden eyes narrowed, still unblinking. "Do you care for this child? Do you love her?"
Benito blinked. "I . . . I don't really know her. I do care very deeply about her mother."
The look was now stern. "I ask you again. Do you love this child? Will you guard her and care for her, if she needs it?"
Benito had found the gaze of the Republic's chief Justice less disconcerting, less searching. Alessia was a baby, for heaven's sake. He'd hardly even touched one before her.
He remembered, suddenly and vividly, the warmth of her, the smell of her. She was Maria's kid. Of course he would love her. "Yes," he said, calmly.
Juliette continued to stare at him, but that flat golden stare seemed wary now. Benito noticed she'd edged away a little. "The flame burns steady," she said at last. "But it burns very, very hot. You must see to the child's welfare. I charge you with this. It is your responsibility."
"And will you help us?" asked Benito, a little tired of the orders, the inquisition, the mysterious questions and references.
She nodded. "I must. I will speak with the tritons."
And then she slipped away into the water with scarcely a ripple.
"Well," said Francesca, with a small, satisfied smile. "I have finally found the link between several of the trouble spots. It's so simple that I am disgusted with myself that I didn't think of it earlier. It's the local black market. The factions all buy extra supplies out of the Venetian storehouses from two men. A nice little link of bribery and blackmail for spies."
Manfred almost fell off the chair he'd been endangering by rocking on. "What? How much of this is going on?"
"I'm really not sure of the extent of it, Manfred," said Francesca. "But from what I can work out most of the Corfiote Libri d'Oro families are involved."
Von Gherens looked grim. "Hang the lot of them. It's treason."
Francesca blinked at the knight. "It's buying food on the black market. Hardly a capital crime."
Falkenberg rubbed the scars above his eye. "What you don't seem to grasp, Francesca"—he'd finally gotten to calling her Francesca—"is that it undermines the military capability of the Citadel to resist. You see it as a chain of blackmail that spies and traitors can use. We see it far more directly as shortening the period a fortress can withstand siege."
"Both apply," said Manfred grimly. "And it has to be stopped. And it is no use just cutting off the supply. Von Gherens is right. We need to make it clear that the buying, too, is a crime."
Francesca made a face. "I see what you mean. But the biggest problem is finding someone in the Libri d'Oro who isn't buying."
"And we're going to have to find out what this corruption has done to the supplies."
"You are going to have to do so quietly, without causing panic," pointed out Eberhard.
"It'll also upset the Libri d'Oro. Make the fomenting of treachery easier for someone," said Francesca.
"Without food, Francesca, there won't be any need for treachery to bring this place down. We've got water until the winter rains at least. I thought we had good rations for a year. It depends now on how far this stupid greed has undermined the capacity of the Citadel to resist. We've got a lot of people here, you know."
"I know. I pointed it out to you," said Francesca dryly.
"Emeric is on his way back to Corfu." The words coming from Elizabeth's image had, as always, a faintly echoing air about them. "My plans are starting to come together nicely. So it is time for you to begin seriously undermining the Citadel. You have traitors in place by now, I assume?"
"Yes, mistress. I've managed to stall them, so far, although it's been difficult. They're mostly local noblemen. Corfiotes—the Libri d'Oro, they like to call themselves. Headstrong and amazingly stupid."
Elizabeth laughed gaily. "My dear Bianca, all petty noblemen are headstrong and amazingly stupid. If you think your Corfiotes are bad, wait until you meet the piglets who live in my part of Europe."
Bianca wondered if that was a promise. She'd visited the countess in her castle before, twice, but only for the brief periods of time needed to advance aspects of her training. At some point, though, it would be necessary for Bianca to take up residence with Bartholdy for an extended period. That would be a time that would be simultaneously exhilarating and extremely dangerous. Acolytes of Elizabeth, Countess Bartholdy, did not typically enjoy a long lifespan. But Bianca was determined—and confident—that she would be one of the few exceptions. Ultimately, the only exception.
The laughter having faded away, Bartholdy looked thoughtful. "I would have thought you'd be concentrating on the Venetians, though. The Libri d'Oro, when all is said and done, are simply parasites on Corfu. The real power is with their Venetian overlords."
"I have infiltrated the Venetians also, mistress," said Bianca hurriedly. "In fact, the wife of the captain-general is now my creature, and through her—if and when the time comes—I can subvert him. But that poses certain obvious risks, which I don't think we need to take at the moment."
She hoped Elizabeth would let pass the fact that the "we" in the last sentence really meant "Bianca Casarini." Elizabeth was hundreds of miles away, after all. If Bianca's schemes and manipulations backfired, she'd be the one to pay the price, not the countess.
But Elizabeth seemed in a good mood. "Oh, yes, I can understand that. Very well. Try your Corfiotes first. There's actually no great hurry, Bianca. I simply wanted to alert you, not have you start rushing about frantically. If your Corfiotes fail, you'll have time to develop your plots with the Venetians."
After the image faded away, and Bianca finished cleaning up the signs of the ritual, she examined the man lying naked on her bed. Paulo Saluzzo's face was locked in the same expression of stuporous satisfaction that she'd placed him in before she began the ritual. Although his eyes had been open the entire time, staring blissfully at the ceiling, he'd been oblivious to the satanic practices she'd undertaken in the very same room.
He was completely under her control, now. Bianca didn't usually bother to exercise that degree of magical control over her bedmates. She certainly hadn't bothered to do so with Aldo Morando. There was no need, as a rule. Sex itself, with most men, was enough to disarm them. But since Saluzzo needed to spend considerable time in her own house, unlike Morando or any of the Libri d'Oro with whom she'd copulated, Bianca had taken the time and effort to exercise the needed rituals on the man.
Besides, although those rituals were draining, they saved effort on the other end. She hadn't actually copulated with Fianelli's thug since the first few days after she'd murdered her "aunt" and "uncle" and seduced him. Saluzzo just thought she had. Indeed, he had the most vivid memories of wild and fantastic sexual activities, none of which had actually happened.
She laughed, softly. Deceiving Saluzzo was a small thing, of course. Once Saluzzo disposed of Fianelli for her, when the time came, she'd dispose of Saluzzo himself soon enough thereafter. And before too long, she knew, Bianca would have almost forgotten him entirely. Given the lifespan she intended to enjoy—eternity—she'd eventually forget him altogether. Still, she was discovering that she took increasing pleasure even in such small manipulations, deceptions and betrayals. Murdering the beggar boy had been almost ecstatically thrilling.
Such was the nature of her training and ambitions. She was very confident that she'd survive Elizabeth Bartholdy's regimen. Indeed, she intended to survive the countess herself.
Now, that would be a betrayal to cherish. Bianca even took the time, for a moment, to consider the ways she might use Elizabeth's corpse profitably. There had to be something immensely valuable to be squeezed out of that flesh.
Again, she laughed. No point bathing in the blood, of course. The one thing Elizabeth Bartholdy was not, was a virgin. Not in any sense of the term.