Odd. Unsettled. That was how Katerina would have described this meeting in Verona. Petro had insisted that Marco come with him, along with part of the Venetian Council of Ten. Marco had not wanted to go, but had been persuaded against his better judgment because of all of the strange and contradictory rumors that were now spreading about the likely intentions of the Holy Roman Emperor should Charles Fredrik die. More of these were coming out now that the meeting was in full session—and it occurred to her that if their Great Enemy wanted to eliminate most of the thorns in his side in one swoop, he would have had only to arrange for a human agent to pack the cellar of the palace in which they were meeting with gunpowder . . .
Which might explain who was spreading all these rumors, and why.
Fortunately, that seemed to have occurred to more than one of their allies as well; you couldn't move without bumping into a very alert-looking guard.
She couldn't make heads or tails of it. Some rumors had it that Prince Manfred had open designs on Corfu, and after that outpost, presumably Venice as well. Others claimed that he had quarreled with his uncle the Emperor over the Emperor's designs on Venice. Some said Manfred had quarreled with his cousin Conrad, the heir presumptive, over the same thing—with half the rumors ascribing evil designs on Venice to Manfred; the other half, to Conrad. Still others swore that nothing of the sort had happened, that, in fact, Manfred had never left Corfu and that so far as intelligence out of Corfu was concerned, there wasn't any.
Certainly ships were not coming from that direction, which was . . . odd.
"Tension" was not even close to describing what the atmosphere in this room was like.
And Marco was in knots. He'd told Kat yesterday that he knew there was something terribly, horribly wrong, but he was too far from the Lion to tell what it was, and too far from the Lion's protection to dare try to scry for it, either. Finally he'd gone out last night in search of the largest Hypatian establishment in Verona to ask them to find out what they could for him.
But if anything, this morning he was in worse case. Even the Old Fox had been forced to take notice.
"What's wrong? You look like you've been drinking the water out of your own canals." The tension underlying his words made the attempted jest fall flat.
Marco shook his head. "There's something wrong about all this—these rumors aren't spreading accidentally—and there's still more wrong back home—"
At just that moment, there was a commotion at the door. A burly man who looked more warrior than Hypatian Sibling shoved his way inside.
"Brother Ancetti!" Marco called, recognition and welcome in his voice, forestalling the guards who were going to shove the Sibling back outside again.
The Sibling bowed, in a curt manner. "Marco Valdosta, I have that word from Venice that you asked me for, and your instincts were correct," he said grimly. "Only this morning I have news from Sibling Mascoli, and from the Grand Metropolitan as well, and I believe it is something that everyone at this council needs to hear."
The Sibling proceeded to relate a tale that, had it not been vouched for by the most powerful Christian magician in Verona and, by his word, verified by the Grand Metropolitan's own magicians in Rome, would have sounded more incredible than any of the tales of Manfred of Brittany's supposed treachery.
Stunned silence greeted most of it, until the priest came to the end—and the fact that Benito Valdosta was at that very moment on trial for treason, and possibly worse.
Three men rose from the table at an instant, all three roaring the same incredulous word.
"What?"
It was Marco who recovered first. "Horses," he said decisively, looking at Petro. "Fast ones."
"Can't you—"
Marco shook his head. "The Lion's powers only hold within the boundaries of Venice. Once I reach the boundaries—then I can call on him, but not before."
Petro nodded, though it was clear to Kat that the Old Fox was utterly baffled. "Right, then. You and that hideous bodyguard of yours, on my bay and Giovanni's roan. We'll come behind you as fast as our horses can manage."
Marco didn't waste a word, and spared not more than a glance at Kat—not that she was going to complain, not when Benito might find himself facing execution before the sun set! He ran out the door, calling to his scarred shadow, Bespi, that strange, silent man with the haunted eyes.
And it was left to Petro and her to explain, as well as they could, what that abbreviated conversation had been about.
But they did it on the trot, because it was altogether possible that even Marco and the Lion would not be enough to do more than delay things until the Doge himself arrived.
Having his identity known did move Benito's case up the slate to head the morning list. Which was something positive . . . Benito thought. For the first moment. Until he saw the facial expression of the Justice assigned to the case. It would have curdled vinegar, never mind milk.
"What are the charges?"
"It's a misunderstanding," said Benito.
The Justice turned grimly to look at him. "Speak when you're permitted to. The clerk will now read the charges."
The clerk did so. Benito had in the meantime been struggling to place the sour face in front of him. When he did, he realized that his troubles almost certainly weren't over. The man was a Capuletti. A cousin of the man he was supposed to have murdered. A house that had fallen from grace along with Ricardo Brunelli. A man, by the looks of him, who held grudges.
The Justice turned to stare at Benito. "Are you Benito Valdosta?"
Benito nodded. "Yes."
The Justice looked at his clerk. "You may prefix that list with the breaking of exile. It is a charge which carries the maximum penalty."
"But I came to bring warning . . ."
"Silence!" thundered the Justice. He beckoned to the two Schiopettieri. "If the prisoner speaks without my express orders again, you will silence him. And Valdosta, if you speak out of turn again, I'll have you gagged. Is that clear?"
Benito said nothing. He knew if he did he'd explode. Fury was building up in him. And, because the jailors had been convinced by now that this was all a mistake . . . they hadn't shackled him when they'd sent him up.
"I said: Is that clear?"
Benito said nothing.
"The prisoner will answer or be held in contempt of the court. Is this clear?"
Benito leaned forward, gauging the distance to the door. "If I say something you'll gag me. If I don't say anything you'll hold me in contempt. This is a farce."
"Add contempt of court to the charge list. Now. We have the prisoner's own admission that he is Benito Valdosta, a person proscribed from the city and environs of Venice. The second charge relates to an attempt to carry a concealed weapon into the Doge's palace. Is that the weapon in question?"
"It is, Your Honor," said the reedy-voiced clerk. He drew the rapier from the scabbard and placed it on the desk. "It was hidden inside a roll of cowhide, your honor."
"Doubtless he wanted to avenge himself for being banished. And now to the assault charges. Call the first witne—"
Benito jumped up onto the rails of the dock that held him, and then feinted as if to leap for the doorway. Instead he sprang out into the room, knocked aside the little clerk and seized the rapier.
And Justice Capuletti. The man gave a terrified squeak as the blade touched his throat.
"Back off or I'll kill him," said Benito to the two Schiopettieri assigned to the court.
They looked doubtfully at each other. The Swiss mercenary guard commander who had been about to be first witness intervened. "Do what he says. That man is a professional, boys. He'll kill the Justice and chop you into dogmeat if you try and rush him. And if you try to shoot him you'll as likely kill the Justice."
"Listen to the man. This sword—you all see it? It's the sword of my father, The Wolf of the North. Do you want me to prove I can use it just as well as he could? If you do, just push me. I've come a few hundred leagues, by sea, foot, and bedamned horse, and nearly been drowned, caught or killed a couple of times to bring word about the attack on Corfu. I'm not going to be stopped by some small-minded petty bureaucrat. Now, if you do things my way, we can clear up this little misunderstanding and no one needs to get hurt. Isn't that so, Justice?"
The man squirmed. "Yes. Just do what he says. You can go free Valdosta. I . . . I meant no harm. Just let me go."
"And I mean no harm either. I'll let you go just as soon as I've had my say. Now someone can go and fetch Petro Dorma. Then if it's all the same to you I'll go back into exile. I've discovered just how much I hate the pettifogging bureaucracy of this place."
One of the Schiopettieri cleared his throat nervously. "Signor Valdosta. The Doge has gone to Verona."
Benito sighed and raised his eyes briefly to heaven. Very briefly. "Why don't we just move the whole town there? Very well . . . Is Lodovico Montescue in Venice?"
The two Schiopettieri hastily consulted. "We think so, signor. We have not heard anything about him going."
Benito grinned. Lodovico Montescue might be old, but he'd do just fine. He was influential enough to get things moving. And he and Benito saw eye to eye.
"Have him fetched. You." He pointed to one of the Schiopettieri. "Go. And don't even think of bringing anyone but Montescue back here. If you let me talk to Lodovico, no one gets hurt. If you bring a bunch of Schioppies charging in here, I'll cut this Capuletti's throat first, and then see how many more of you the sword can bring down before I die. "
Wide-eyed, the Schiopettieri nodded. And went with a degree of speed Benito was sure his plump body hadn't managed for many a year.
"Now," said Benito, looking at the tableaux of waxworklike people in the chamber, "the Swiss gentleman with common sense, if you wouldn't mind bolting that door. I've come a long way to bring this story to Venice, and I'd hate to be interrupted while I'm telling it. Also, if something goes wrong and I get killed I'd hate to have failed to bring this warning after all this. Clerk, you will write all of this down."
The small clerk nodded hastily.
"Right. I won't bother with things you already know about, such as when we left Venice. As our ships were approaching Corfu, we were attacked by two fleets of vessels, Narenta galliots and Byzantine carracks . . ."
He led them through a brief synopsis of the landing in besieged Corfu and his escape from the citadel and his adventures on the way here.
At the end he prodded Justice Capuletti in the ribs. "I have done my best to serve the interest of the Republic. Yes, I have broken my banishment to do this. Once my warning has been heard I am willing for the Chief Justice of the Republic to pass appropriate sentence. I just wonder whether this man's actions were prompted by malice and a desire for revenge against the Casa Valdosta, or whether he is an agent of King Emeric's attempting to silence me. I'll leave that for the court to decide, too."
The Swiss mercenary cleared his throat. "It's something of my fault you're here, milord. I made an error of judgment. Apologies."
Benito grinned wryly. "We all make mistakes, soldier. Some of us have the balls to admit it. No hard feelings. I was fairly stupid in my approach."
The mercenary looked at the door and scratched his chin. "In my professional opinion, Signor Valdosta, we ought to put a few of these benches across the door, and you should move across to that corner, away from the direct line of fire. If you don't mind, I'll ask these lads to give me a hand." He jerked a thumb at the Schiopettieri and the clerk.
The Schiopettieri nodded. "Good idea, signor."
The clerk stood up nervously. "Signor Valdosta . . . couldn't we just end all of this now? Now that Justice Capuletti has heard the reasons he understands what you were doing and why. I certainly think we could end this unpleasantness now."
Benito turned the Justice's head by his forelock. "Well, Capuletti?"
"Ah . . . yes. Of course. Just let me go."
Benito shrugged. "Very well." He let go of the Justice's pinioned arm. The Justice staggered forward.
And ran for the door. The clerk attempted to stop him and was floored by a flailing fist. But the Schiopettieri stepped in front of the door, his weapon in hand.
"Shoot him! I'm free now! Shoot him!" shrieked the Justice.
The Schiopettieri raised his piece . . . and knocked the Justice to the floor with it.
"You better come and grab him, Signor Valdosta," said the Schiopettieri, hauling the bloody-faced Justice to his feet. "Here. Hold him in front of you. They're battering at the door."
Benito held the half-limp Justice in front of him.
At this point the upper half of the door broke.
"Back. Back off or he gets it," yelled Benito.
"Just what in the name of heaven is going on here?"
The voice was old, cracking slightly on the upper registers. But Lodovico Montescue's voice was still strong enough to stop everyone in their tracks.
Lodovico stumped forward. Reached over the gap and opened the latch. "Well, Benito Valdosta. What is going on around here? What are you doing in those clothes? Did you pawn your boots for drink?"
It was like olive oil on wind-riffled water.
"I've just brought news that Corfu is under siege. It's blockaded, so I had to travel in disguise. And I'd kill for a bottle of good Veneto Soave, never mind pawn my boots."
"Siege, eh. Who?"
"Emeric of Hungary, together with the Byzantines."
"The bastards!" He turned to the Schiopettieri officer accompanying him. "The Marangona must be rung. So must the Campanile of San Marco's bells. We're at war. Have some of your men summon all of the Council of Ten that have not accompanied the Doge to Verona. And call in the Senate."
The old man took a look at the Justice. "Well, no one's allowed to even give you a cup of Soave for killing Venetian Justices, much though some of them might like to. So you might as well let him go."
"With pleasure. All I wanted to do was tell the Republic that we are at war. This one—who is either a traitor or a fool—wanted to stop me. I haven't harmed him."
Lodovico looked at the clerk on the floor. "And that one?"
The clerk sat up, looking embarrassed. "I just thought I'd stay on the floor for a while, milord."
Lodovico snorted. "Probably a good idea with all these guns. Let's uncock those weapons, gentlemen. And Benito . . . are you going to let him go?"
"Certainly." Benito pushed him away.
Justice Capuletti staggered free. "Shoot him!" he shouted.
"Have you lost your mind, Justice?" snapped Lodovico, interspersing his powerful old body between Benito and the Schiopettieri. "Go and get that cut cleaned up, and have a glass of wine. You're overwrought. You'd better hope you're overwrought. If you're not, what you keep trying to do is treasonous."
He turned around calmly to face Benito, presenting his back to several half-raised firearms in a show of the bravura that had once made him the talk of Venice. "Do you mind sheathing your sword, young Benito? It causes unease."
The bells of the Campanile of San Marco began to peal, calling the people to the piazza. Benito knew that whatever happened to him now—and despite Lodovico's calm, Benito knew he was still in deep trouble—he had succeeded. Venice would go to the rescue of Corfu and Prince Manfred. He took a deep breath, allowing some of the tension to ease from his shoulders. And Maria and baby Alessia would not have to face the danger and privations of a siege. He calmly nicked his forearm—the blade must be blooded before it was put up—and put the blade back into its sheath. Then, hung that on the sash he had for a belt.