This Rough Magic (72 page)

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.

Maria habitually took Umberto something to eat and a small jug of watered wine at about Vespers bell, now that the Little Arsenal was working so late. It was amazing how purpose had transformed that place. Everyone but a few of the Illyrians seemed to be getting on fairly well.

She walked out carrying Alessia and a basket, closing the door behind her. Few people owned locks here. Maria and Umberto weren't among them. There was little enough to steal and besides the goat was turning into a terror. All she wanted was food, but then, would a thief be aware of this? The thief might of course want to steal her. . . . With each passing day the taste of meat became more of a memory.

There was of course food, even meat, to be bought. Some of it legitimately and on the open market: the produce of a few gardens; or hoarded by the wise before the event; a few fish caught over the walls that went down into the sea. Some—undoubtedly stolen from the Citadel's stores—on the black market that flourished for those who had real money. Maria and Umberto didn't number among them.

She was deep in these thoughts when the bleating of Goat—she'd never acquired a name, despite Umberto wanting to call her "Satan"—penetrated her brown study. She turned back to the house. The door was closed. But it sounded as if the goat was inside.

There was no telling what the creature would do if she'd got into the house. Maria turned and ran back as fast as a baby and a basket would allow. She unlatched the door and burst into the small living room.

Goat had someone cornered by the hearth. A cloaked woman who was thrashing away at her with a bunch of something. Maria had a moment's delay, to put the baby down, and then she sprang forward. She didn't think the intruder dangerous—half her mind was on restraining Goat.

She abruptly changed her mind. The intruder was all manic, scratching strength. Only the fact that the woman wore gloves saved Maria's eyes. Maria swung the basket. It and the strange bunch of stuff in the woman's hands landed just short of the grate. The woman grabbed desperately for the bunch. Maria lunged for her. The woman's gloved hand and forearm ended up in the hot ash as they wrestled.

The intruder might be manic, but Maria had both the weight and upper-body strength advantage on her opponent. Maria pressed her opponent's arm down against the fire grate. Was rewarded by a terrible scream, and a savage bite on her shoulder. Then, as the woman broke free, grabbing a poker, someone called: "Maria? Maria are you all right?"

Maria used the moment's distraction to grab the poker-wielding left hand, as well as the other arm. There was a frantic moment's struggle as old Mrs. Grisini—whom, to Maria, seemed half-absent from her own mind most of the time—peered at them. Then the strange hooded and masked woman wriggled her hand from the glove and tore free, bolting for the open back door.

Maria ran after, but she slipped on the spilled wine from her basket and fell, winding herself. By the time she got up, gasping, Mrs. Grisini had picked up and was comforting Alessia.

"She reminds me of my own babes. I lost all of them, you know," said the old woman in a dreamy voice, as if she had not just witnessed a savage fight.

The old lady's minder, a young Corfiote girl, hurried in. "Kyria, kyria? Where are you?" She saw the old lady with considerable relief. "Oh, thank heavens . . ."

Then she took in the rest of the scene. "What happened . . ." She looked at the bunch of strange stuff on the hearth that Goat was sniffing, screamed and pointed.

Maria nearly had her breath back now. She weakly shooed Goat off. Then, took a closer look at what had made the young Corfiote girl scream. It was pretty unappetizing, whatever it was. There was a rat skull and some hair. And some plants. Maria had grown up in Venice. She wouldn't have recognized many food plants before they'd gone to stay in Istria. But there old Issie had at least showed her some of those that were dangerous—including the deadly nightshade which she recognized in the bundle.

"A curse!" The girl crossed herself hastily. So did Maria. Old Mrs. Grisini just looked dreamily at Alessia.

Maria reached for the revolting bunch of nastiness to toss it into the hot ashes. "Don't touch," squeaked the girl. "Don't touch, kyria!"

Maria looked at the glove she was still clutching. "Makes sense. So what do I do with the damned thing, then?"

"You must take it to the Papas . . . the priests, kyria," said the girl fearfully.

Maria shook herself. "I suppose so. But how?" She didn't have so many pots that she wanted to sully any of them with the horrid bundle. Then she had an inspiration. The pot beneath the bed. It was only clay and could use replacing anyway.

The curse bunch fitted into the pot. The pot fitted into the basket. She tossed the glove in too. Poor Umberto would just have to wait for his dinner. Most of it was in the ashes anyway, and Maria didn't know what she'd find to give him instead. There wasn't too much to spare in the cupboard.

She went to old Mrs. Grisini, who reluctantly parted with Alessia and allowed the young Corfiote girl to lead her home. Maria set out once again.

She was heading for the church, at first, but then she changed her mind and headed for the small Hypatian chapel. If there was one person who knew all about magic and witchcraft it was that terrifying Eneko Lopez who was now staying in the monks' cells behind the chapel with his companions.

If they were there, of course. They seemed very busy these days trying to wander around the Citadel looking innocent . . . and failing completely. They were up to something, Maria was sure.

Fortune favored her, this time. They weren't in their rooms, but they were at prayer in the chapel along with the nun whose gardens were a byword in the town.

Not knowing how to disturb them, she waited. One, the tall dark one, noticed her. "Can we help you, signorina?"

Eneko Lopez's heavy line of dark brow drew together as he looked at her. He nodded. "Maria Verrier. The friend and maid of honor to Katerina Montescue. Are you looking for us?"

Maria nodded. "Father. Uh, yes. You are an expert on witchcraft, I think?"

Lopez smiled wryly. The others chuckled. "I have had to deal with various forms of pagan magic. Whether that qualifies me as an expert, I don't know. But how may I help you?"

She opened her basket and, to everyone's surprise, took out the very recognizable pot and pointed into it. "I interrupted someone leaving this in my house."

Looking up and seeing the bemusement on the faces of the monks, she realized the possible confusion. "Uh. I just used this pot to carry it in. I didn't want to touch it. I think it is a curse."

The priests came up and peered into the pot. "Come. Put it in front of the altar. Let us exorcize it anyway," said Eneko Lopez, taking it from her. "And this other thing in here?"

"It's a glove. The woman who was putting it in my house lost it in the struggle. She was using gloves to carry the thing."

Eneko's line of eyebrow raised. He went and placed the pot in front of the altar. He and the others arranged four candles very precisely around it, and then began to sprinkle salt, and then water, and burn incense as they chanted a psalm while walking around the pot.