This Rough Magic (32 page)

As Count Ladislas had known, someone was going to suffer for this and he had a feeling it would be himself. The king stood outside the tent. Count Ladislas dismounted and gave his great war-horse, seventeen hands at the shoulder and his pride and joy, a last pat. He hoped they'd find a good master for him.

He knelt before the king. There were little livid spots of fury on Emeric's sallow cheeks.

"You incompetent, bungling fool!" A quirt slashed at the count's face. He did his best not to flinch, as the blood began trickling down his cheek. "Where have your men been? Why did you come after the attack? Are you a coward, Ladislas? I don't tolerate cowards. Or incompetents!"

Count Ladislas knew the truth would serve him badly. "Sire. The peasant we took as a guide was there simply to betray us. He led us into an ambush the Venetian scum had prepared for us. Your heavy cavalry flattened them, Sire. But they knew we were coming. Someone must have betrayed us!"

The Count played on the king's passion for heavy cavalry and his belief that they could ride anything down. It was not a hard belief to feed. The Count believed in it himself. He also played on Emeric's belief that treachery lay everywhere.

For a brief moment, Count Ladislas thought it had been enough. Emeric's cruel eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head. "The peasant you found just happened to lead you into an ambush? Ha." The quirt lashed at the other cheek viciously. "Where is this peasant?"

No use looking to see how many of your troops the cannon were taking down when you charged. Straight ahead and devil take the hindmost. Scarred cheeks were a small price to pay for his life. "Sire. I ran him through myself. The village was deserted, except for this one man. He was hiding, but not well. He ran out of a building my men entered. He claimed he'd come down secretly after the others had left to steal some wine."

Emeric stared at him. Then shook his head. "Truth or not, I'll have to make an example. You love that horse, don't you?"

The Count had held back the cold sweat with difficulty. Now he felt the sweat pouring out. "Sire . . ." he croaked. "That horse is great bloodstock. Some of the finest bloodstock we've bred. Don't kill him, Sire. Kill me."

Emeric reached out his hands and put them on the count's shoulders. "I'm not going to kill your horse. It is far too valuable. You, on the other hand, Count Ladislas, are not. Your horse is going to kill you."

The king's brows flared satanically. "You've heard I am a man-witch? You've heard that I derive my strength from the pain of my victims?"

That wasn't all the Count had heard. "S-sire, please."

The king smiled, like a kill-mad weasel. Agony washed through the count, flowing from those hands. "It is true. All of it."

The Magyar officers stood in a silent circle. The corral that had been hastily knocked together contained their former commanding officer. And a horse he'd trained to follow him like a dog.

Count Ladislas had been a brutally efficient officer, but he'd loved that horse. Now, his eyes, fixed on the once beloved steed, were full of terror. The king reached out his hands and touched the horse. The animal screamed like a woman, reared and backed away. The king stepped out through the gate.

The horse was . . . shivering. Its eyes rolled, and its lips peeled back. It turned, then, its mad eyes suddenly fixed on the count. He tried to climb the corral, but the Magyar flung him back at the king's command. He scrambled to his feet in front of the advancing horse.

The horse lunged forward to bite and lash out with his iron-clad hooves. Ladislas dived, but the war-horse was faster. A hoof caught him and flung him into the rails. Blood flew. The Count was a tough and a strong man, though. He grabbed at his horse's mane and vaulted onto its back

The great horse went berserk. It dropped and rolled; kicking epileptically.

It took a while to kill the count. But eventually the horse stood, head hung low. And in a bloody ruin lay the remains of the Magyar commanding officer.

Emeric walked into the corral. The horse backed off. Emeric spat on the corpse and turned to the silent audience of Magyar cavalrymen. "Learn. If I order you to be at a place at a certain time—you will be there."

Towards midday King Emeric gathered his commanders on the hilltop overlooking Kérkira. Smoke and ruins surrounded the island fortress called the Citadel, but it was undamaged. "We have a handful of four-pounders. Not enough to make a dent on their walls. We have, however, an effective sea blockade in place. We have, even if the Greeks fail to stop the returning convoys, some months to reduce their defenses."

He pointed to a savagely scarred man. "You, General Krovoko, are going to remain here. You're in charge of the assault on the Citadel. You'll have cannon shortly, even if I have to go back to the Narenta mouth myself to find Dragorvich, the rest of troops, and the rest of my cannon. In which case, heads will roll."

He pointed to the Greek admiral and the chieftain who headed the fleet of Narenta pirate galliots. "You will arrange the blockade. I will have one ship captain's head for any vessel that escapes. On the other hand, the loot is yours—except for one fifth, which is mine. You will arrange how it is divided, Admiral. I leave it in your hands. Make me satisfied with the arrangements."

He turned to the second in command of the three hundred Magyar cavalry. "You are promoted into Count Ladislas' shoes. See that you fill them better than he did, Commander Hegedes. The cavalry will be of little use in this siege phase. See the locals are suitably cowed. Strip the Venetian estates. One fifth for Hungary. Two fifths for the besiegers . . . on success. Two fifths for the cavalry. When you've done that, let these Corfiotes know who their new masters are."

"Sire, it will be done to perfection," Hegedes stated crisply. "You'll be proud of us."

"I'd better be," said Emeric. "You've seen what happens to those who fail me."

As she held Alessia close, Maria listened to the thunder of the cannon. A pall of smoke hung over the city outside the walls, the fresh morning breeze bringing the smell of gunpowder and burning. War might sometimes be the stuff of song and full of dreams of glory for men. But a part of her knew without any telling that for women and children, wars were hell.

And sieges were usually worse.

She looked through opened shutters at the small walled courtyard. The goat-kid was eating the grass that straggled through the paving stones, ignoring the patch of grass farther back. The chickens were pecking about. Cannon fire hadn't put them off laying. It was still a pitifully small extra ration toward the siege she knew would come. It might be five or six months before some relief came to the fortress. Maybe longer.

The raiders had timed this well: The Venetian convoys were gone until autumn. Occasional vessels would have come past, little tarettes trading up the coast. But it could easily take two or three weeks before the news even got to Venice—if the invaders weren't sinking every vessel they could find. If they were, then it would take longer. Except . . . there were the vessels that Prince Manfred, Erik and the Knights were traveling to the Holy Land in. Great galleys, if she remembered rightly. They should get away, surely?

The thought of these vessels brought Svanhild to mind. Lord! She was out there somewhere, in an unprotected villa. Maria bit her lip. What could she do about it? A prayer maybe.

Smelling the smoke, Maria's thoughts turned to the peasants she'd been with only yesterday. Would they have managed to hide from the raiders?

A mangy, vicious-looking yellow dog hanging around the edges of the crowd snarled at a cavalryman who had made a move to kick it. The cavalryman picked up a stone and the dog slunk off into a gully. But the shaman had heard and seen enough. He walked away toward the water's edge to assume his other form. The sea attack on his Master's adversary needed orchestration. He was becoming quite casual about following the adversary-mage now. The mage did not seem to be able to detect him. That was very odd, but quite welcome. And foolish. 
 

"The other guild foremen and assistant-foremen have got to go and see the captain-general," said Umberto unhappily. "He has sent for us."

"I hope it isn't his wife complaining about the chickens," said Maria. "But you'd think he'd have other things on his mind."

"It is a great pity that you should have fought with her, Maria. She seems to wield a lot of influence here."

"I'm sorry, Umberto. It just happened. She's a vindictive bitch." Sophia Tomaselli had found small ways to needle at the Verrier family already.

"It's a shame she hasn't got any children to occupy her time," mused Umberto, looking at his wife rocking Alessia.

"They certainly occupy enough of it!" said Maria, dealing with a milky belch. "Wave good-bye, 'Lessi." Maria assisted a fat little hand. The baby gurgled and Umberto managed to leave with a smile.

He was back a little before the terce bell, frowning. "The commander wants to draft our men in as soldiers. He says the boatyard is sitting idle while the siege is on, and he hasn't enough men to guard his walls."

"It makes sense, I suppose," said Maria. "If the Citadel falls we'll all be in the soup. What happens to you, Umberto?"

The master-caulker shrugged. "He says he will brevet us as officers, but that's not the point, Maria. He simply can't do this. The guildsmen will refuse."

She blinked; she could remember all too clearly the fighting in the streets and canals of Venice, and calling out the Arsenalotti. Why wouldn't they help now? "But why not? I mean, if the Hungarians get in they'll butcher half of the people at least."

Umberto shook his head. "The Arsenalotti are already part of the military reserve—but of the Arsenal, not of Corfu. He is not our commander. We are part of the Militia, to do Militia duties when we are not at work. To assist local authorities at any time in dealing with fires, disasters, and in dealing with immediate military threat. It is very clearly stated in the deeds of the guilds. It is one of the oldest privileges. We are not soldiers under his control. And it is not within the right of the captain-general to terminate our employment. Even the podesta cannot do that. Such an order can only come from the full Senate in Venice."

Umberto pulled a wry face. "The guildsmen here are hazy about their duties. But their knowledge of their privileges is crystal clear. They're absolutely insistent on the maintenance of the same. I wish they felt the same way about their duties." He sighed. "I'm afraid their hardness of attitude has made the commander equally awkward. We'll be doing shifts of guard work, every night."

It was a peaceful and beautiful spot, if a little isolated, reflected Svanhild from where she sat on an outcrop just above the villa. The villa was perched above a little fertile valley of patchwork fields, olive groves and some salt-pans beside the bay. She sat plaiting sedge-stems and looking out across the sea. Of course the ships would not come from along the western coastline, but anyway. She reached for more sedges. She'd never been able to keep her hands still.

As she did this she noticed a column of white dust coming down the winding roadway that lead to the villa. Could it be news? Bjarni had ridden over to Corfu town earlier. The Greek servants had been full of some story the day before yesterday about an invasion. Then, yesterday, none of them had come to work. Today Bjarni had insisted on riding to the town, despite the fact that they'd offered the port officials handsome bribes to send them word if any ships were expected. And they'd been very reliable with the last fleet.

She got up and began walking down toward the villa. She could see the rider's blond head by now. Bjarni was flogging that poor horse. And it wasn't really up to his weight in the first place.

"To arms, all of you!" she heard him bellow.

By the time she got to the house, the Vinlanders were strapping on bucklers and breastplates.

"What is happening?" she demanded.

"Corfu town is under siege," he said, wrestling with a recalcitrant breastplate strap. "And there are bands of marauders out looting and burning the great houses."

"Who?" She tugged the strap through for him.

"How do I know? All these continentals look the same to me. All I know is that the one group I saw had red sashes on, and horsehair plumes on their helmets. There's a bunch of them not half a league hence and I think they saw me."

He turned to one of the men. "Olaf, go up onto that little knoll behind the house. Give Sven a wave if you see them coming. Gjuki, open that front door. There are not more than twenty of them. We'll give them a welcome. I want men with arquebuses hidden at the upper-story windows."

He pointed to the dark-haired Kari. Kari's mother had been an Osage tribeswoman, tall, strong, and handsome—no mean hand with a bow and a knife herself—and she'd raised her boys in many of the tribal ways. Kari and his brothers had been trouble all the way across to Europe, and through it. Now they would come into their own.

"Kari, you take your brothers out by the outside wall. I want this place looking open, deserted. Svanhild, you go back up to the knoll with Olaf."

Svanhild nodded. She also took a bow with her, and a belt-knife she hadn't worn since she'd left the holding on the Mississippi.

The marauding horsemen had indeed spotted Bjarni. They came on at a ground-eating canter, riding huge, magnificent horses. There were in fact only eighteen of them and they were loot and captive hungry. So far they'd met no resistance, and they needed to beat the Croats to as many more villas as they could find.

They yelled in delight and eagerness, seeing the villa with its open front door. It was plainly a wealthy nobleman's residence. The looting of Venetian villas had so far been a very profitable business indeed. Much wealth flowed into the Venetian Republic up the Adriatic, and not a little of it stayed here in this colony. Corfu was fertile, and had a good climate, and all the trade passed through it.