The rocks, in the paling predawn, were just visible by the lacing of foam around them. The wind was blowing spray off the water, leaving the descent greasy. The stony surface compared well to mossy pan-tiles in the rain, but it was steeper than any self-respecting roof would be. Benito decided the young shepherd guiding him had a great future in housebreaking, if he should need it.
Coming closer, Benito could now see that the rocks were twisted, shattered and sharp-edged, even in this poor light. That anyone would bring even a dingy in here, let alone a thirty-five-foot lateen-rigged fishing boat, seemed like insanity. Yet, there she was, snugged up beside a huge boulder. Someone was busy attaching a bush to her mast, the only bit that stuck out above the rock.
Benito whistled. Kosti nearly ended up in the cove. He dropped the bush. "Now, see what you made me do," he said grumpily.
"How do I get across?"
"There's a ledge of rocks over there. Time it right and you won't get too wet."
Benito paid off the guide, rolled his trousers up, and walked into the surge. The water was cold, and the mussels underfoot were sharp. He walked forward cautiously, his city-born imagination putting sharks and giant octopi in the dark water. Encountering seaweed nearly had him into the deeper water with a shriek. However, he reached the fishing smack's mooring without any ncidents. He pulled up onto the rock, and stepped into her. The smell nearly knocked him back ashore.
"Where is the skipper?"
"Where I'll be in a minute," said Kosti, finishing tying the bush to the masthead, just as the first rays of sunlight hit the mountain above them. "Under the sail. Asleep."
The sail had been made into a crude tent, and through the long, hot spring day, the crew slept. After an hour or so, Benito grew tired of the heat and the flies and waded back onto the shore and slept under a pine tree. He could see the open sea from here; and, waking during the day, he saw several patrolling Dalmatian galliots. But they didn't come close enough to the dangerous-looking rocks to spot the fishing boat. Even a land patrol would have to come very close to the edge of the near-vertical vegetation and crumbling limestone cliff to see her. The tough part was going to be avoiding being seen that night, once they were at sea.
The two men were overly well dressed for Paleokastritsa. They approached the table in the taverna diffidently. "Milord. We've heard a rumor that you came out of the Citadel."
Erik looked them over cautiously. The clothes, on closer inspection, had once been fine but showed signs of very hard wearing. Erik doubted that the Hungarians would have gotten around to using spies or informers . . . yet. "Why do you ask?"
The older of the two, the one with the neatly trimmed beard with hints of salt and pepper in the blackness, said grimly: "Milord, we're both Venetians who have estates here. Or, I should say, used to have. Our families have been killed and our homes burned. We want to know what is happening. We want the Republic's armies to sweep these Hungarian bastards into the sea. We've scouted along the ridgelines . . . all we can see is that the Citadel is under siege. There aren't that many men attacking."
"I just want to kill the bastards," said the younger one, morosely, his pudgy, neat hands forming themselves into fists.
Erik pushed his chair back. "What I can tell you is that Emeric has landed many more men. As for when the Venetian Republic's relief forces will be here—"
He shrugged. "That is anyone's guess. I believe word has been sent, but whether it got through or not, I can't tell you. Of course, Emeric's Dalmatian pirates will try to stop the messages. So it may take a long time. Months at the very least."
The younger man said: "I told you so, Ambrosino. I'm going back out to kill a few of the bastards."
In Erik's assessment, the young man would probably die the first time he encountered a real soldier.
The older man patted him on the shoulder. "Forgive him, milord. He lost his wife and their newborn son. Pardon us for intruding on you."
Erik took a deep breath. If he was going to organize resistance to Hungarians, he had to start somewhere. This unlikely looking material was as good as any. The younger man was going to get himself killed anyway in his fury and grief. Let him at least put them to some use.
"Sit down." It was a command, not a request.
Both men looked at him in some surprise. So did the Vinlanders. But the two sat.
"If you go out there, you may kill a Croat or a Hungarian or two. However, if you really wish to hurt Emeric and his troops, you're going to have to be more methodical about it. Emeric has plenty more Croat troopers. But if you destroy his cannons or burn his supply dumps, then not only will you hurt him far more badly, you will save the lives of others."
The young man shook his head stubbornly. "I just want to kill the bastards."
"You'll only die quickly without achieving anything." Erik gave him a measuring look, and allowed a touch of scorn to come into it. The young man detected that scorn, and reddened. "You aren't a fighter. You aren't a soldier. You certainly aren't a mercenary, who by nature is the toughest and cruelest sort of soldier. Your fancy dueling-master won't have taught you a single thing that will work in a fight against these bastards, and what you don't know will get you killed the first time you run up against one. Is that what you want? Or would you rather make Emeric pay fifty-fold for what he's done?"
The young man was scarlet by now, but he raised his chin defiantly. "I want him to pay a hundredfold, never mind fifty-fold. But I'm not scared of dying."
"Then either learn to be," said Erik grimly, "or go somewhere else. I have no space in my troop for foolhardy men."
"Your troop?"
Erik nodded. "I came out here for three purposes." He saw no reason to blather in public about his feelings for Svanhild, and certainly not Benito's secret mission. "Never mind the first two. The third, acting on Prince Manfred's behalf, was to recruit men and engage Emeric of Hungary's forces in . . . call it 'irregular warfare.' The kind of fighting we do in Vinland. I want to bleed Emeric white—draw off some of his forces from their attack on the Citadel, and make keeping the Citadel under siege a battle on two fronts. I want to make it as expensive as possible for him to be here, but I can't do that without men who are as interested in keeping their own skins intact as they are in killing Emeric's men. I don't need heroes, I need men who can be as cunning as foxes and hard to catch as weasels. Are you with me?"
"I am," said a firm voice from an unexpected quarter. Thalia spoke quietly but clearly. "I am. If I can save one other life, that's enough. If hurting this king will avenge my Georgio . . . then even if I am a woman I will fight. What kind of men will not?"
The plumper young man nodded, looking at Thalia in some surprise. Suddenly, with no warning, he began to cry. Deep, bitter sobs.
"He's upset," said the older man. "But he'll be an asset, milord. Giuliano's father was a master-at-arms. When he retired here, he married a local girl and they had one chick. Flavio Lozza gave his son one-on-one training from the day he could hold a sword." He smiled. "I think Flavio was secretly disappointed that the boy only wanted to grow olives and play the lute."
Lozza's son? Erik reflected that appearances could deceive. Flavio Lozza had been Giuliano Dell'Arta's instructor. Giuliano had taught both Manfred and him when they'd been in Venice with the Knights of the Holy Trinity's ill-fated tour with the Woden-casket. He had regarded Lozza as the father of rapier-work. Flavio, it would seem, had named his son for his old protégé—and this was certainly the last place Erik would have expected to see the son of Flavio Lozza.
Almost, he regretted what he'd said about "fancy sword-masters." But not quite. It was one thing to be a master of rapier-work; it was quite another to face mercenaries and Magyar horse-barbarians whose interest was in killing you quickly, not stylishly. Perhaps the plump boy wouldn't be killed that quickly. But there was a large difference between even the best-trained amateur and a battle-hardened professional soldier. "And you, signor? Have you got surprises for me too?"
The older man shrugged. "Not really. I hunt. I can ride. I know the island well."
"And you speak Greek?"
The older man shrugged. "Not as well as Giuliano. He got it from his mother, and then his wife was a local."
"And of course we will help, too," said Bjarni, slapping him on the back.
"To be direct, you are going to watch over Svanhild," said Erik, feeling uncomfortable. "Not go running around the Corfu hills in the dark. If possible I'd like to get you all a passage across to Italy or even Greece. This is not your war."
"We stand by our kin," said Bjarni, stiffly.
Erik grinned. "I'm not exactly that . . . yet."
The big Vinlander grinned back. "You haven't a chance, Erik. Hildi's made up her mind. Even if she has to chase you with a baby she'll get you."
"Bjarni!" said Svanhild, blushing. "It's a good thing Mama can't hear you." But she didn't deny it. In fact, she gave him a sidelong glance that had speculation in it.
"Maybe you can just lend Erik three or four of us. Like me," said Kari, looking eager.
"Maybe I can just pay him to take you away," growled Gulta.
They hugged the coast with great care, creeping southwards. No one who didn't know these waters intimately was going to come this close in the darkness. It was an alarming place to be sailing at some speed.
"It's coming up for a blow," said Taki ominously.
"So what do we do?"
Benito saw a flash of teeth in the darkness. "We set our nets. Then we haul them and then we run with the wind. We're fishermen from Levkas who've been blown off course. Fishermen have fish in their boats. So we're going to get ourselves some."
So, for the next two hours Benito learned to set nets. "Taki is making an extra profit out of your labor," said Spiro. "Demand wages. Or a share in the catch."
"You'd better hope it is a bad one," said Kosti. "Or we'll be here all night."
When the nets came in, twitching with silver, and Benito saw how Taki beamed in the moonlight, Benito began to realize Kosti might not have been joking.
With wooden crates full of fish they headed away from Corfu on a following wind. By that time, they all looked and smelled like fishermen, even Benito. He was no stranger to hard work, not after the way that Erik had been drilling him, but this required a whole new set of muscles and calluses. His hands were raw and cut up, and his arms and shoulders ached by the time it was over.
Taki rubbed his hands and produced the wine, passing it around to the rest of the crew. "Never let it be said nothing good comes out of a war. I've wanted to fish old Scathos' bank for years, but never dared."
"I kept wondering whether the old bastard would still come out and shoot at us," said Kosti.
Spiro took a pull at the wine. "What? Shoot at your handsome face? Scathos' daughters would kill him."
Kosti pulled the jug away from him and handed it to Benito. "I hear that's the reason he wants to kill you."
"Me? I'm shocked."
"Well, you or any other passing fellow. Those are wild girls of his."
"Time to shift those sails!" Taki yelled.
The boat went about and they sailed on, but the direction troubled Benito. It felt wrong. "Just where are we going?" he asked Taki eventually. "You're supposed to be running me across to the Italian shore."
Taki belched contentedly. "And I am. But we'd not get across the Straits of Otranto in the dark. Not with this wind. So we're taking a longer cut at it. Have some more wine."
He frowned. "I don't want to be drunk if we have trouble."
The captain chuckled. "What are you going to do if we do have trouble? Fight a galley's worth of men? Try and outrun them? This is a fishing boat, not a galley. There is nothing much you can do except try and look like a drunken bum of a fisherman. So have some more wine. The more like us you look and sound, the safer you are."
The day was still very young, and Antipaxos some miles to the north of them, but still in sight, when they were intercepted.
It was a Byzantine galley. Benito realized, as it raced closer, just how futile trying to run would have been. Briefly, he thought the galley was simply going to run them down. But it drew up beside them. The officer on the bow bellowed something in rapid Greek.
Benito had the unpleasant realization that his life was in the hands of a bunch of poor people he didn't know very well, who would be well rewarded for selling him out and who would be killed if they were caught harboring him. Worst of all, he didn't understand what they were saying. He resolved to learn Greek, if he got out of here alive.
With his heart pounding, his mouth dry, Spiro heard the Greek officer yell: "What are you doing out here?"
"We're fishermen," said Taki. "What do you think? We're on our way back home to Levkas. We got caught up in the blow last night and came too far north."
"Stand by to be boarded."
A dozen or so marines boarded the boat. The Case Vecchie did his best "I-am-a-poor-scared-fisherman" look. It wasn't hard to do the scared bit, Spiro realized. But he rapidly realized what a genius Taki had been to insist on catching fish last night. The fish, under damped sacks, were still cool and fresh—the most convincing evidence possible that this was, indeed, nothing more than a fishing boat.
The officer with the marines looked about—obviously searching for refugees, or maybe arms, supplies, valuables. There were few places anyone could hide, so it was a very cursory look. The nets, the boxes of fish, the small crew all said fishing boat.
"Why did you come so far north?" he demanded. "Orders went to all the villages that no one was to fish within sight of Antipaxos."
Taki cringed. "My lord. In the dark we drifted too far. We didn't mean to . . ."
The Byzantine officer hit him, sending him sprawling across the fish. "Fool. By the smell of you, I think you drank too much to celebrate the catch. It wasn't the wind that got you here, it was the wine. If we find you this far north again, we'll sink you. Do you understand?"
Taki, on his knees now, nodded furiously. "Yes, milord! It won't happen again." His voice quavered.
"It had better not." The officer pointed to two of the marines. "Here, you two. Take one of these boxes. We could use some fresh fish."
"Milord, my fish," protested Taki.
"Consider it a fine for breaking the law," said the officer. "And think how lucky you are not to have your filthy little vessel sunk."
Taki did the grovel magnificently. "Thank you, milord. But . . . can I at least have my box back? I'm a poor fisherman, milord . . ."
The officer laughed. "No."
The galley receded. The apparently hard-working crew of the fishing boat started to laugh. And laugh.
"Prissy-assed malákas." Taki blew a raspberry at the departing ship and then grinned at Benito. "You're my witness, Case Vecchie. They boarded my ship in the Venetian Republic's waters, stole my fish and—worst of all!—stole Venetian property."
Benito looked suitably mystified. "Venetian property?"
"The fish box. It belongs to the fish market in Kérkira. It is the property of the Republic of Venice—which is what that prim little official at the fish market tells me every time I come in. Property of Venice! And he took it!"
The crew started to laugh again.
"Piracy! That's what it was," said Spiro, trying to keep a straight face, passing over a jug of wine.
Benito took a swig and nodded sagely. "We'll swear out a charge against them in front of the podesta, and let him have the ambassador summoned, for a severe reprimand and a demand for reparations."
"Especially for the valuable catch," said Kosti. "The idiots chose a box of trash fish."
"So when do we turn and run across the straits to Bari or Brindisi?" asked Benito.
Taki raised an eyebrow. "We're not going to run across the strait. There they have twenty-five lousy little leagues to patrol. But they can't patrol the whole Ionian Sea. You're in for a haul, boy. I hope you don't get seasick easily."
Emeric looked with satisfaction at the bluish haze of gunpowder smoke blowing gently across the channel. The forty-eight-pound bombards took a huge amount of powder and a long time to load, but they were his second choice for reducing and penetrating the walls of a besieged fortress. Evening was drawing in, but the bombardment would not stop for that.
His first choice was treachery. Months before the assault on Corfu, he had begun to prepare the ground for it. Far better than the captain-general, he already knew the number of Corfiote refugees within the walls of the Citadel. He knew how much food there was in their garrison's storehouse, and he was already getting daily reports from Fianelli. He knew a great deal about the likes and weaknesses of the various officers, too.
One of the things that had made Emeric so sure Corfu would be an easy conquest was the past history of the captain-general. True enough, the man was not corrupt, but he was a vain and incompetent fool. His handling of the insurrection in the Venetian enclave in Trebizond had been so bad that it had gotten him sent to a station where there would never again be a need for military action. He was a bungler, but a bungler with political connections. In the Venetian Republic, a bungler whose godfather is the Doge could go far. Unfortunately for Captain-General Tomaselli, there was a new Doge.
The garrison commander, on the other hand, was a disaster from Emeric's point of view. Commander Leopoldo would have to die. Emeric had bought several of the soldiers within the forces at the commander's disposal. Most of the troops serving the Venetian Republic were mercenaries, for sale to the highest bidder. It was just unfortunate that they did not have a mercenary commanding officer. So: Commander Leopoldo would have to be assassinated. When he was engaged in some firefight—best to do it unobtrusively.
Emeric went back into his tent and drew the circle. Scratched the pentacle and began the ritual that would allow him to speak to the chief of his spies within the Citadel. At this time of day, Fianelli would be in his cellar waiting.