This Rough Magic (17 page)

"Something together, perhaps, Eneko?" Francis muttered, as Eneko paused for a breath.

Eneko nodded, and led the pilgrims in the chanting of psalms. At last the way seemed to be clearing ahead. They were on a well-paved causeway across a swampland of slime-covered pools and reed patches. The relief almost beguiled them. But as Eneko was about to step forward, something whistled off to his left flank. An inhuman whistle; the kind that actually makes your eardrums vibrate.

Despite his resolve, Eneko looked—and saw an undine, rising half out of the water. She was wreathed in long green hair with magnificent bare breasts, much like the other temptations and apparitions.

Only . . . she was thumbing her nose at him. Sticking her tongue out. The gesture was so unlike the horror or the seduction of the other visions that had confronted them that Eneko realized immediately this was no illusion.

As if to reinforce the impression, the undine blew a raspberry at them. Then, beckoned. Eneko felt his brows draw together.

"Follow it," he commanded. And he stepped off the causeway into what appeared to be waist-deep water.

"We should stick to the path, Eneko," said Father Pierre worriedly. "Swamps are treacherous. And why do want to follow this illusion?"

For an answer Eneko pointed at his feet. "Because she isn't an illusion, Pierre. My feet are not wet."

"You look to be about waist deep!"

"It is the water that is an illusion. We are already lost. The horrors and visions were just a distraction while Chernobog or his minions tried to trap us more subtly. That undine is not an illusion. It is real."

"Nonhumans can be treacherous," Pierre warned.

Eneko stepped forward boldly. "Not more than Chernobog. And if I judge this correctly, she is the emissary of an ally of ours. An alliance of convenience, in which not much love is lost between the allies, but the common foe is worse."

There was, he thought, no point in mentioning that he thought this undine had come directly from Marco Valdosta, who had inherited his Strega predecessor's adherents. That would complicate matters altogether too much at the moment.

They walked slowly toward the undine, who smiled, showing altogether too many sharklike teeth. Father Diego glanced back, perhaps feeling doubtful, and yelped.

"My God!" he shouted, his voice rising a great deal. "Look!"

Eneko turned with the others to see what it was that had Diego so shocked. Behind them the illusion was dissolving. Ahead lay a far more dilapidated looking causeway. They were just on the edge of the reed-brake around some swampy pools. Behind them the ground was in fact higher. Higher and lashing with something that hissed unpleasantly, with distinctly reptilian tones.

The darkness lifted; the sun, long obscured, came out and cast reflections onto the still pools. And Eneko felt a warm breeze . . . and thought, perhaps, that he saw a reflection of something gold in the water.

"The Lion," said Pierre.

Eneko nodded. "Our guide has deserted us, but I think we no longer need her."

The breeze swayed the reed-brake.
Indeed
, it seemed to say.

Father Francis shook his head. "I feel we are in the presence of some powerful magic. You and Pierre seem to understand what is happening."

Eneko led his mule forward. "Chernobog made an effort to turn us before we could reach a place where he holds no sway. When the ruse failed . . . it tried to kill us, by luring us away from the safe paths and deeper into the swamp and the bogs, where something cruel and bloody lurks. But we are now in the lagoons and marshes of an ancient neutral power. One which is bound to a Christian soul."

"The Lion of Saint Mark," said Pierre. "The Winged Lion of Venice."

Father Francis looked troubled. "Why would one of the neutrals aid us?"

The undine stuck her head out of the water. "The Lion bids you a grudging welcome to his marshes. He sends messages to Eneko Lopez. By the inner flames that must be you, man. The Lion bids you come in haste. He needs you for a bonding. And he says that you should remember that although your God allows you free will, he too has plans. And that one such as he guides many threads."

The undine slipped back under the water. Then she popped her head up again. "Oh. Sorry about the nose-thumbing and the raspberry. But the Lion says the one thing Chernobog cannot understand nor feign is humor." She pointed. "The path is over there. Stick to it."

Lopez remained thoughtfully looking out at the horizon for a long time after she had gone. Francis, meanwhile, had taken the blinders off all the mules. Finally Pierre nudged him, and he started.

"What's wrong, Eneko?" the priest asked.

"It strikes me that this was a singularly ineffective attack, compared to what we have faced from Chernobog before this." Lopez turned to look into the faces of his companions.

"Well . . ." Pierre began, then nodded. "You know, you're right. But we did weaken him considerably, and this may be all he can mount."

"We weakened his instrument, Pierre," Francis pointed out. "We never touched Chernobog himself. He can always get new instruments."

"My thought exactly," Lopez replied, with a frown. "So why this halfhearted try at stopping us?"

"Because we aren't as important as we think we are?" Pierre replied.

"Your humility is appreciated, Pierre, but—" He thought a moment. "But Chernobog would assign an importance to us out of all proportion to how we actually rate in the Lord's grand scheme," Lopez said firmly. "We
hurt
him. We hurt his mortal vessel, physically, and we hurt his pride—and pride, as you well know, Brothers, is highly cherished among the dark ones. No, I think there must be another answer."

"He's dividing his attention?" Pierre hazarded into the silence.

Eneko nodded. "I think it must be. He is confined to a mortal vessel, and has limitations imposed by that confinement. At the moment, something is occupying his attention that is far more important to him than we are."

Francis snorted. "Well, I, for one, am going to consider that a blessing!" He turned and strode off up the road, leaving the rest to follow.

But it was Pierre who voiced precisely what was troubling Lopez, as he nudged his mule with his heels, and sent it after Francis.

"If there is something more important to Chernobog than we are, what
is
it?" he asked aloud. "Why haven't we heard anything about it, and why haven't the Grand Metropolitan's seers gotten any hint of it?"

"Why, indeed?" asked Lopez, and sent his mule after Pierre's. "Whatever it is, I fear it will come from a direction that none of us can anticipate."

"She's beautiful! Oh, she's so cute!" Kat peered into the crib at the baby.

Maria yawned. "She's asleep. That is beautiful enough for me right now."

"She's so tiny! Oh, look at those little fingers."

Maria snorted, but fondly. "You should hear her yell. There's nothing tiny about her lungs. She yelled almost the whole way here to Venice, on the ship. Then I took her to see Umberto's sister to talk about the christening, and the baby screamed at her. You're lucky. Umberto's sister didn't seem to think much of being bellowed at. I thought she'd refuse to be a godmother, and Umberto particularly wanted her to be."

"
I
insist on being one of her godmothers," said Kat loyally. "And whether he likes it or not, Marco is being the godfather."

Maria smiled. "You're not losing any time putting your foot down, are you?"

Kat smiled back. "Start as you mean to go on. When and where will the ceremony be? At the Chapel at St. Hypatia di Hagia Sophia?"

"We haven't arranged it yet. Father Pasquari, the priest who married us, has died since. But we just need a small place. There'll only be a few friends."

"I'll talk to Marco," said Kat firmly. "We have a wedding to arrange. Let him arrange this. He's very good friends with Brother Mascoli of St. Raphaella."

Maria smiled. "That's a canalers' church. He's a good man, is old Mascoli."

The more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea. Small, intimate, and none of her friends would feel uncomfortable, as they might in St. Hypatia's.

"Marco will arrange it."

Petro Dorma blew across his steepled fingers.

"Of course a desire to please the Holy Roman Emperor must be a major factor. But . . . well. I'd have to clear a couple of great galleys. It's not just the entourage, Manfred, it's the horses, and at such short notice. The merchants are going to howl. The Republic of Venice is not like the Empire. The
Case Vecchie
are all engaged in the trade. I wish you were prepared to take carracks instead."

When Manfred and Erik and Eberhard had been admitted to the Doge's private working chambers earlier, he'd been delighted to see them. "You've arrived in Venice just in time for Marco and Kat's wedding!"

Now that they were asking to hire vessels to transport them to the Holy Land . . . he looked as if he'd just drunk a large draft of vinegar.

"The Outremer convoy leaves in less than three weeks. Even deck-space is bespoke."

From the corner of the room a stocky young man spoke up. "What about the four galleys that are in the Arsenal, Petro? The ones that are going to Cyprus? They should be finished by the end of March."

Manfred recognized the lad; it was the hooligan who had taken part in the raid on the
Casa
Dandelo slavers, which Manfred and Erik had participated in. The one who'd been in jail for supposedly killing the priest. Manfred had been properly introduced to young Benito Valdosta as Dorma's ward after Venice had been rescued, but now, suddenly, the connection made itself clear. Then he'd been dressed like a beggar-brat. Now he was dressed as a Venetian noble. But a twist of expression as he'd looked at Manfred had let him place the face.

Petro nodded. "It's an idea." He turned back to Manfred. "Would you consider remaining on in Venice for a week or two after the wedding? You would arrive in Ascalon just as quickly, as the vessels wouldn't accompany the convoy. The convoy stops for two or three days at each port to allow for trade. You'd be spared all of that, as well as all of the mess and confusion of herding pilgrims on and off again at each port. And with your two hundred men aboard, they'd be well-armed."

Manfred nodded. "That sounds fair. What do you say, Eberhard?"

The white-haired statesman looked thoughtful. "A personal convoy of brand-new ships will look as if the Empire and Venice enjoy a very cozy relationship. Rome may not like that. Constantinople may not either."

Manfred grinned. "We're expecting to have the Grand Metropolitan's very own delegation along, in the shape of Eneko Lopez and his companions, according to a letter I have from my uncle. And as for Alexius, well, let him worry. The news is he may be a shaky ally at best. A good idea to fill his mind with doubts. In fact—on the whole, I think it would not be a bad idea at all for Alexius to think the Empire and Venice are on better than mere speaking terms."

Eberhard looked speculatively at Manfred. "I detect Francesca de Chevreuse's hand here."

Manfred did his best to look affronted. "I can think of ideas too, you know."

The statesman shook his snowy head. "Explain to him, my Lord Dorma, that a wise politician always tells the truth. If one day it is necessary for you to lie, no one doubts your veracity."

Manfred snorted. "The truth seems pretty rare in politics, Eberhard."

"That," said Eberhard, grimly, "is because there are very, very few wise politicians. If you must play at politics, play by my rules."

But Petro had picked up on another point. "Francesca!" he said with unalloyed pleasure. "You have brought her with you?"

Manfred nodded, warily. There was a little too much enthusiasm in the way Petro had reacted to Francesca's name. And he began to remember a few things from their last sojourn here. How Francesca had made it very clear to him that their liaison was not going to be an exclusive one. That she had several clients. And once, to comfort him, she had said lightly that one of them was balding and big-nosed . . .

He found himself eyeing Petro Dorma's balding head and lumpy nose with new understanding. "Yes, we have," he said curtly, trying to keep hostility out of his tone. "But understand this: She is strictly off limits to anything but polite social calls, Dorma. Even if you are the Doge of Venice."

Petro smiled, not at all discomfited. "Ah, well. My loss is your gain. But Francesca's conversation is a jewel even more rare than her magnificent body."

Manfred coughed. "Hmm. Well, we are going to be staying at the Imperial embassy. Francesca's already gone to see Katerina Montescue. But she will be in this evening."

Petro bowed. "I will come and make a call. And I don't mind if Rome and Alexius of Byzantium see it as Venice wishing to cozy up to the Holy Roman Empire."

"I'll send you a messenger when she gets in," said Manfred. "No. Wait. A better idea. We'll take young Benito with us. Trusty native guide, y'know. Well. Native, anyway. And then I can send him back without exciting comments about a messenger running between the two of us."

Petro looked at Benito, who was grinning like a horse-collar. "Why do I feel this is a bad idea, Prince? Well, I can hardly refuse. Off you go, Benito."

Looking at Benito's eyes, alive with devilry, Manfred himself actually wondered briefly if this was a good idea. Then he dismissed the piece of caution with the contempt it deserved. What trouble could this young
Case Vecchie
cause that he, Manfred, hadn't had Erik rescue him from a dozen times already?

Surely none.

"Well, there is a font, yes," said Marco, thinking. "But it is a very small and very poor church."

"Maria likes the idea."

"I'll talk to Brother Mascoli, then. I don't think he'd mind, and his Hypatian ordination allows him to do this. I've hardly seen you for days with all this arranging. Come with me. Mascoli is a nice man."

So he and Kat went down to St. Raphaella, taking simple joy in just being in each other's company.