Francesca shook her head. "To be honest with you, Eberhard, this place is positively Venetian with intrigue. There is a strong pro-Byzantine faction, of long standing, among the Libri d'Oro. Not surprising of course, since Corfu's local aristocracy are Greeks themselves. Fortunately, they distrust Emeric of Hungary. But they long for Venice to lose power and for their own stars to be ascendant under Alexius."
Eberhard snorted. "That wastrel would be more likely to sell their precious island to pay off some of his debts. Or just to have more money to spend on his vices."
"Precisely," Francesca agreed, nodding. "But not having the knowledge that you do, Ritter, the pro-Byzantines here entertain some very unrealistic ideas. So far as they know, Alexius is cut from the same cloth as his father, which would make them Byzantine allies rather than vassals. And, most importantly, would put Corfiotes—or at least Greeks—back in the seats of power here. They resent the way the Venetian overlords here on the island often treat them. It's the sneering, really, not anything material. But noblemen—especially sorry, idle ones like most of these wretched Libri d'Oro—take offense easily."
"And how well placed are they to act on those unrealistic ideas?" asked Manfred, looking concerned. "I've known people to be prepared to die for some really stupid things."
"I am still compiling a list, Manfred. But so far, they have some bodyguards and some interesting working positions."
Manfred nodded, frowning. "One thing in our favor is that the Hungarians are present in such force. Nobody, not even the most self-deceiving pro-Byzantine Libri d'Oro, can believe that Emeric is going to give up this prize so easily."
Eberhard shook his head. "Self-deception is the greatest strength of such people, Manfred. Petty noblemen with neither work nor war to keep them occupied will often spend all their time wallowing in perceived insults and fantasies of retribution."
"True," said Francesca. "But Emeric's vicious reputation does work against him. So long as it does not appear that Alexius is allied with him in this venture, we may be able to keep the faction quiet. Quieter, anyway."
Manfred poured another cup of wine. "I never thought I'd be pleased to hear that Emeric was such a murderous, treacherous son of a bitch. So who else do we have stacked against us? A pro-Hungarian faction?"
"Fortunately, Emeric's reputation works for him there, too—or rather, works for us. There is, however, a Montagnard faction, that believes you have come to take over the island under the pretext of this war, and are very much in favor of the notion." Francesca dimpled. "Of course there are a few who also think it is true, but are opposed to the idea. And I have found evidence that someone is buying information. That suggests Emeric has some spies here in the Citadel."
Eberhard had been staring at her with more and more astonishment as she spoke, and now his mouth was actually agape. "How do you find all this out, Francesca?" he asked in disbelief.
"Among other things, Maria introduced me to the main artery of gossip in the Citadel. Sooner or later everything gets told to Stella." Francesca's smile faded, and turned to a frown. "She also told me another thing I must discuss with Eneko Lopez. She says there is a cabal of true magicians here, and they are not Christian."
Manfred chuckled. "Sleepy little seaside town, eh?"
In the living quarters which Sibling Eleni had provided for them adjoining the chapel, Eneko Lopez was scowling. "There, Francis—again. Did you sense it? And you, Diego?"
Both men nodded. "Someone is using Satanic magic in this Citadel," muttered Diego. "That was fairly close, although I couldn't sense the direction."
"And that one! A sending ritual requires blood."
"Most Satanic rituals do, Francis." Eneko shook his head. "At least that one doesn't require human blood."
"That's not my point, Eneko. We're under siege. Soon enough, finding a goat or chicken to slaughter isn't going to be so easy."
Lopez thought about it, for a moment. "True. We should speak to Francesca. Unless I miss my guess, she'll be running the counterespionage work here before much longer. The podesta is an old man and the captain-general is . . . well. Not competent."
"So charitable, Eneko!" chuckled Francis. "I would have used a stronger expression."
Lopez smiled thinly. "Well, charity is a Christian virtue."
Diego didn't seem to share in the humor. "Finding a stray goat or a chicken will be getting hard. But with thousands of people packed into this place, finding a human to slaughter won't."
Eneko and Francis stared at him. Diego shrugged. "I would remind you that charity is not a Satanic virtue."
"We'd best talk to Francesca about that as well," murmured Francis. "Although . . ."
Gloomily, Lopez finished the thought. "How do you keep track of people to see if any are disappearing—when half the people in this Citadel are here illegally to begin with? Thanks to that jackass Tomaselli!"
"Charity, Eneko, charity," cautioned Francis.
"I am being charitable," grumbled Lopez.
"Not to jackasses."
Through the open door of the taverna in Paleokastritsa, Erik could see that the sky across the straits of Otranto was traced with clouds the color of salmon-flesh. The closer view was even more distracting to him. Neither Svanhild's profile nor the memory of salmon in the ice-fed rivers of home were helping Erik with the matter in hand: planning an irregular campaign against Emeric's forces.
"Essentially, we need two things. We need information, and we need safe bases."
"What's wrong with Paleokastritsa?"
Erik shook his head. "Its defenses are good, but not that good. It'll fall eventually, either to a determined assault or more likely to siege. There is no second way out of the town. And we think like foxes now. Foxes always need a second or third exit to their lairs. We'll rely on friendly towns and peasants for food and information—but never from the same one twice in a row, and we'll never stay in any of the settlements. If we bring the wrath of the Hungarians down on any Corfiote town, not only will we have betrayed them, we will have betrayed ourselves. We'll get no more help from the peasants."
He looked at the faces around the table; no one disagreed. "You all know what the Hungarians are going to do, every time we strike: they'll destroy the nearest village, if it shows any signs of our presence. The peasants are in hiding now, but they'll have to return to their holdings soon. Farms and crops don't wait. We need the countryside sympathetic to us and hostile to the Hungarians."
Ambrosino nodded. "It makes sense. Well, there is a spot I used to use when I was hunting. Not a village for three miles. You've got an excellent view of the surrounding countryside, there is water in the cave, and there are two ravines leading away. There'll be a bit of grazing down in the ravines, too. I thought of building a hunting-box up there, but it was just too expensive to get the materials up. There are wild boar and bears up there. Good hunting. And I've eaten worse than bear."
"We'll check it out tomorrow," said Erik. "We also need to organize proper scouting of Emeric's forces."
"We'll put you in at that fishing village," said Taki, pointing to the Italian shore. "The locals are at sea, by the looks of it, so we won't have to try and explain that we're not stealing their fish."
"As if we would," said Spiro, virtuously.
"Unless we got half the chance," snorted Kosti. "I thought we might visit a decent-size harbor and taste the local girls and meet the local wine."
"You mean meet the girls and taste the wine," corrected Taki.
Kosti shook his head, grinning. "I prefer it my way around."
Benito realized he was going to miss these fishermen. He was going to miss being at sea, where all the responsibility devolved on Taki. Now he'd have to manage for himself, and it was a long way home to Venice. He had written up the prearranged message for Erik. It would pass as a bill of fishmarket landings. The Bonito on the listing would tell Erik to hand over the money.
Benito now felt guilty. He'd done his dangerous bit. But Taki, Spiro and Kosti would have to get back through the cordon before they saw the paltry bit of silver. The only trouble was, short of the jewels—all he had was paltry bits of silver himself.
"Likely if we go to one of the big ports there'll be questions asked. We'd end up having to pay port fees!" Taki sounded as if he'd rather have his teeth drawn.
The idea seemed to horrify the others too. Spiro shook his head. "Besides, Kosti, we need to get home. There is a war over there and we've got people to look out for. Your mother. My sister—and you watch your mouth about my sister."
"Wouldn't say a word. Not while you're listening, anyway."
Spiro took a swing at him on general principles.
So Benito climbed off the boat and onto the Italian shore with no more than his clothes and the three fishermen's good wishes in his ears. After several days at sea, the ground seemed to be moving up and down.
He turned and waved. Taki's ratty old boat was already moving out to sea at a fair clip.
Benito turned his face to the shore and his more immediate problems. He was now faced with the problem of where, exactly, to go. It was midmorning, and he was outside a tiny little whitewashed fishing village near the toe of the boot that is Italy.
Originally someone, maybe Erik, had said he should ride up the coast to Venice. That was before Erik had seen him ride. Also . . .
Well, it seemed very easy when discussing it with people like Erik, who knew how to do this sort of thing. "Get to Italy and ride to Venice." The first question, in a spot like this, would be: Ride? On what? By the looks of the fishing settlement even a donkey would be wildly optimistic.
Maybe he should follow the course of the cowardly Capitano Selvi, and head for the Tyrrhenian sea; then, travel up the west coat of Italy. The immediate question was: Should he cut across the Calabrian Apennines—or remain along the coastline?
The mountains looked threatening. Unfamiliar. In the distance up there he could see a hilltop village—other than that, the area was forested, with the forest only being interrupted by patches of what could be vines and white rock. A lot of white rock. It all looked very big and daunting.
He saw an urchin from the fishing hamlet—calling five tiny houses a village was gross flattery—approaching cautiously. Ready to run, curiosity overwhelming obvious fear. He looked at Benito as if he expected him to sprout wings and horns or at very least large teeth.
Maybe thirty yards back were three others of still younger age, all peering, big-eyed, nervous but fascinated by this strange apparition. It didn't look like the village saw a lot of strangers. Benito waved at the kid, who was, at the outside, six years old. The older boys would be at sea, he supposed. "Ciao," he said.
The kid backed off two steps; then realized Benito wasn't following and that "Ciao" was not really a threat. He said "Ciao" back, and was rewarded with a smile from Benito. And then the kid let go with such a rapid fire of local patois that Benito managed to understand one word in ten. Some of the words sounded like Greek. Spiro had said there were a fair number of Greek settlers here.
"Whoa." Benito spoke slowly and pronounced his words with care. "I want to buy food. I want to ask directions."
He still had to say it twice.
The fishwife in her peasant blacks was a little more intelligible. Slightly. She was just as curious. Benito didn't see the point in too much secrecy. "There is a blockade on the straits of Otranto. I'm from up north and I want to go home. So I scrounged a voyage over here. Where is the nearest big town? And can you spare some food for me? I can pay."
He pulled out a copper penny, guessing that even these didn't arrive too often in a place like this. The smile and the haste with which she produced some rosso wine, cipudazzi—little red onions pickled in olive oil and vinegar—and tiny spiky artichokes, told him he was dead right. She bustled off to bring him some fresh bread and some maccu, a broad bean and fennel purée; also some fresh figs. It was a repast he was sure would have been the family's main meal. Benito hoped the husband would bring home a good catch.
The peasant woman, with the children peering around her skirts, was less useful about the nearest town. "Catanzaro. It is great city! It has more than this many streets!" She held up a hand of work-calloused fingers. "But it is far. Perhaps thirty miles away, up a ravine. We go there with the dried fish every autumn for the festival of Saint Gamina. Or there is Reggio di Calabria, in the straits of Messina, but that is a huge place and so far I have never been there. My man once went there to sell fish, but he was cheated and never went back."
A town that had a reputation for cheating rural fisherman sounded good to Benito. He might at least be able to find a ship and also be able to sell a jewel in such a place—neither of which, he knew, he'd be able to do in a small rural hamlet.
"How far is this place?"
"Oh! It must be seventy miles, Your Honor."
A vast distance, almost unthinkable. Once, confined to Venice, it would have seemed so to Benito himself.
After his meal Benito set off, walking. It was slower than riding, but it seemed to be the only real option. By midafternoon he was very aware of just how soft his feet had become. He cut himself a sturdy stick, which didn't seem to help a great deal.
Leaving the fishing hamlet he'd struck a trail. It seemed unpopulated, and determined to take him away from the coastline. Eventually another track joined it, but it was equally lacking in traffic. He was beginning to wonder where he could sleep that night, when he caught sight of the hind end of a donkey, disappearing around the next bend.
Circumstances, thought Benito wryly as he hurried to catch up with the donkey, change your perspective. He'd never ever have thought he'd be glad to see the tail end of a donkey. The donkey was part of a string of seven, laden with gurgling, oil-sheen-gleaming ticklike skin-bottles. It was being led by a fellow who looked more than a little like a donkey himself. The oilman produced a thing that was somewhere between a knife and a sword, and well-supplied with rust.
"What do you want?" he demanded suspiciously. Benito repeated his story. It didn't seem to convince the oilman at all. "You stay behind me. I'm not having you tell bandits I'm coming."
"Saints! Look, any self-respecting bandit would kill you in about ten seconds. All I want is some information. And I'm not moving at less than donkey speed just to oblige you."
"Stay back or I'll make you into sliced salami!" The oil seller waved his knife about at Benito's nose.
"Look, I can pay." Benito pulled out what he'd thought was a copper. "I'm happy to pay . . ."
The oilman's eyes lit up. "Give it to me." He waved the knife at Benito.
Benito looked at his hand and realized he had silver, and not copper there. "I'll give you a copper penny for your help. I need this."
The oilman lunged. Benito used the stout stick he'd cut to hit the man's elbow. Hard. The clumsy knife went flying. Benito grabbed him. A nasty short scuffle ensued, ending with the oilman pinioned under Benito and shrieking: "Help! Bandits! Murder!"
Benito swatted the oilman's ear, reflecting as he did so that Erik had taught him very well even in such a short timespan. "Shut up. You tried to rob me, you idiot. Now get up and stop yowling. I dropped my silver penny because of you. If you don't find it for me I'll kick your ass through your teeth. Now get up."
"I can't. You're sitting on me."
Benito stood up. The oilman, on his knees, looked for the silver. Fortunately it was easy to find; nervously, the oilman handed it over.
"Pick up that cheese-cutter of yours." The oilman gaped at Benito but picked up his knife.
"Now—I need know where I can sleep tonight. And does this track lead back to the coast? I want to get to Reggio di Calabria."
The oilman bowed. "Your Honor, no one goes down to the coast. Well, only a few very poor fishermen. The Barbary Coast pirates raid it, and it is full of malaria. But this track joins another track which leads to Cantonia, maybe a mile away. There is road from there you can follow on to Reggio di Calabria."
"Right. Well, I think we go on together. Otherwise you'll come to this Cantonia place claiming I've robbed you."
The oilman did his best not to look as oily as his wares. "Your Honor, I would never do that! I'm an honest man."
"The sight of my only piece of silver seemed to change that," said Benito grimly.
They walked on at donkey pace. At length they came to the walled town. The oilman held out his hand. "Give me the copper you owe me for guiding you."
"Where are the two coppers you promised me for helping you with the donkeys?" demanded Benito very loudly, for the benefit of at least a dozen local residents. "Give it to me or I will swear out a charge against you with the podesta."
"I never promised you—"
"Yes, you did! Cheat! Thief!"
The oilman gaped. "But you—?"
Benito turned to the interested locals. "This man promised me money! I have worked and now he wants to cheat me!"
One of the women sniggered. "The podesta is in Montaforte. And if you can get money out of that old skinflint without a knife against his throat, you will have managed something no one else can do." She eyed Benito speculatively. "Though there is no knowing what a handsome man could do."
"Especially with you, Bella," said one of the onlookers. She snorted and flounced her hips for Benito's benefit.
Benito threw up his hands. "I'm a peaceful man. And I was coming this way anyway. Is there a taverna where I could buy a glass of wine to get the smell of donkeys out of my nostrils?"
"I can show you the taverna," said Bella archly.
Benito shook his head ruefully, looking at her swaying walk. Certain kinds of trouble you can get rid of. Others follow you around. He'd be leaving very, very early the next morning.
Predawn found him heading, very quietly, off down the trail for Reggio di Calabria. Evening found him there. As cities went it was a small one. After the back-country Benito found it busy, bustling, and comfortingly familiar.
"And so we came to Corfu." Maria took a sip of some of the finest wine she'd ever tasted. The white-haired Contessa Renate De Belmondo, wife of the Podesta of Corfu, smiled. She was one of those people who smiled to their eyes, and the fine creases in her skin bore testimony to the fact that she smiled often.
On the lace cloth between them, on a silver salver, lay some delicate almond biscotti. Maria marveled at them. Marveled at where she was. Marveled at the fact that she had just finished telling a Case Vecchie lady—a Case Vecchie Longi lady, born, bred and raised—more about her life than she'd ever told anyone.
There was something motherly about this woman. Maria's mother hadn't been "motherly." She'd been a working woman who'd done her best to look after her daughter, but she hadn't had any time to spare for cuddling and comforting. Their lives had been hard, Maria's as well as her mother's. Maria suspected that her mother had made the decision to ensure that her daughter learned early that life was hard, and would always be.
Francesca had helped and advised Maria, but she wouldn't choose the word "motherly" to describe her either. Maria smiled to herself. Francesca ferreted out information; she manipulated, charmed, sometimes lied through her teeth, but she showed no signs of being "motherly." But the contessa . . . got you to volunteer it. If Francesca could get her, as well as Stella, to provide information . . .
There would be very little in the entire confined world that was Corfu, great and small, that she couldn't find out. But somehow Maria knew that Renate De Belmondo was the perfect listener because she wouldn't ever tell anyone what she'd heard. Most people used conversation to talk about themselves. Renate De Belmondo volunteered little; she just listened.
The conversation shifted to babies. And here the contessa did offer something about herself. "My children were all born here on Corfu. I tried earlier in Venice, oh, I tried and I tried, but it was only here that I finally got pregnant." She smiled mysteriously. "It's a very fertile place, Corfu."