Marco handed Lodovico and Benito each a goblet of wine. "Bespi and my horses will be along from the border shortly. Petro, Kat and Grandfather are coming as soon as they can get to horse—and I expect that the treaty negotiations will be completed, if not within hours of my leaving, possibly in the saddle. We couldn't all leave without breaking the whole thing up, and we'd come a long way toward concluding a treaty. But when the word came about you—the siege—I knew I had to get here before someone managed to silence Benito. Or worse. Make him disappear, maybe. The moment I crossed the border and I could invoke the Lion, I did so, and I left my horses in Bespi's hands. I'm afraid—or perhaps I should say, I am glad—flying as the Lion in broad daylight is something that no one can silence; everyone in Venice knows that when the Lion flies, Venice is in danger, so besides getting here faster, it let everyone in the city know that something horrible has happened."
"Um," Benito said. He felt odd. Humbled. To be the center of that—
Marco smiled. "To be honest, all of this uncertainty since the Emperor's illness, and all of the conflicting rumors and reports, could have served us a backhanded good turn. Ferrara and Venice would have been a lot less obliging and conciliatory if they hadn't been spooked. As it is, it looks to me as if we'll get a good deal, which will improve security, benefit trade, and sideline Milan a bit further."
"Sounds good, Brother," Benito replied, trying to regain a bit of his composure. "But when I've finished drinking this, I need to get along to the Imperial embassy and show the ambassador my head."
Marco blinked. "Your head?"
Benito chuckled. "Come along and see."
Count Von Stemitz at the embassy was a very urbane and unflappable man, as a rule. But he looked a little taken aback at being told to feel in the hair behind the grubby, scruffy-looking young man's left ear. "There should be a lump there," said Benito.
"Er. Yes," said the Count rather gingerly. He'd met Benito before, briefly. Now, vouched for by Marco, whom he knew well, and Lodovico Montescue, who was a long-time friend, Von Stemitz was prepared to accept that this tousle-headed sailor was in fact the Case Vecchie tearaway, and normally attired somewhat differently. He was even prepared to grant that this bizarre ritual might have some deeper purpose.
Might. Benito's reputation preceded him.
"Cut it out, please," asked Benito unable to refrain from grinning. "I hope you have a sharp knife."
The grin plainly worried the count. "This is not one of your practical jokes is it, Signor Valdosta?"
"It's not my joke. If it's anyone's, it's Prince Manfred's."
Now that he was near to the end of this, Benito was beginning to feel all of it catching up to him. He was going to eat his way down the banquet table, and then sleep for a week. "And being funny is not its purpose. Believe me, I'm going to be glad not to have that lump there. A girl in Calabria tried to run her fingers through my hair and nearly pulled it out by the— Ow! You should sharpen that thing."
Count Von Stemitz stood examining the Imperial seal of the Hohenstauffen Dynasty. "I presume you are going to explain this. It is not used in jests," he said dryly.
"Oh, its purpose is earnest enough. Manfred just said I was the scruffiest personal letter he'd ever sent. We were in a situation where actually carrying a letter would be dangerous, given the possibility of a search. So this seal is to authenticate that I have come from the prince. I must tell you that he and his men are under siege in the Citadel on Corfu. Both King Emeric of Hungary and the Byzantines are laying siege to the fortress. The prince conveys his respects to his uncle, and asks for whatever assistance might be brought to their rescue."
Lodovico chuckled. "A talking letter. These modern advances! What will they think of next, eh, Hendrik?"
The Count had to smile too. "It's a very serious matter . . . but maybe cleaner envelopes? Well, if you will excuse me, gentlemen. A letter, slightly more conventional in form perhaps, must be dispatched to Mainz with the fastest messengers. I have a fit young Ritter here. I am going to dispatch him, with a covering letter, to see the Emperor—or, if the Emperor is too ill, at least the Privy Council and the States General."
"Good," said Lodovico. "Because I think the biggest problem with a relief force will be ships to transport them. Venice's fleets are away. We'll need ships from further afield. Few of the other Mediterranean powers are likely to wish to help us. Perhaps they will oblige the Emperor."
Benito hadn't thought of that. And ten to one, neither had Manfred.
The Count nodded, sighing. "We will surely find that Emeric has tried to prevent others coming to your rescue. I imagine part of the Hungarian's strategy is to get Alexius VI to trap the eastern fleet in the Black Sea. The western fleet is another question. Do you think the Barbary pirates may be involved?"
Benito bit his lip. "I don't know, milord. But this I will tell you: Eneko Lopez believes Grand Duke Jagiellon is also involved in all this. And that means Lithuania and its allies. And now, if you'll excuse us, Count. You have letters to write. And we have the Arsenal to visit. They'll be working night and day until another fleet is ready."
The situation at the Arsenal, Benito had to admit, was worse than he had hoped. Doge Giorgio Foscari had let the old policy of keeping a number of spare vessels in readiness, just needing to be rigged, lapse. The Senate had recently passed a new appropriation to restart the program, but it was still in its infancy. Only two extra new keels had been laid. The work had of course been proceeding on seven new great galleys to replace existing but elderly vessels, but the Arsenal simply didn't have a new fleet ready to sail. At least twenty great galleys would be needed, and three times that number of smaller galleys.
"How long?" asked Benito.
The representative of the Admiral of the Arsenal shrugged. "Six to eight months, milord. We'll start launching the smaller vessels within two, but it all takes time. We can't just throw money and resources at the problem: The limit is skilled manpower. You can't make shipwrights overnight, and they've got to sleep sometimes."
It was not what Benito had wanted to hear.
After two days Benito was rested, his saddle sores almost entirely recovered, and his appearance returned to that of a Case Vecchie gentleman.
By then, apparently shortly after Benito had fallen into a bed, Kat had returned from Verona, as part of the retinue of Petro Dorma. The Duke Dell'este was expected the following day.
Marco was watching Benito devour his second breakfast of the day, when Kat appeared. She melted into her husband's arms with a sigh of deep contentment, holding him as if she never wanted to part from him, even though Benito knew she couldn't have been away from him more than an hour or two.
Marco always just looked somehow more complete and at ease with Kat at his side, Benito decided. She was never waspish with him either, as she used to be with Benito. Still, she even kissed the prodigal fondly before taking a seat next to Marco.
"I supposed it's to be expected that you would find a unique reason to break your exile," she said, with a wink. "How is Maria?"
"She and Baby Alessia were fine when I last saw them. Mind you that was more than a month ago, and they're in a fortress under siege. But Umberto is looking after them." He paused. "That's a good man she married, Kat."
Now Katerina scowled at him, looking far more like the Kat that Benito remembered than the joyous Madonna-like person who was married to his brother. "You were a fool, Benito."
He grinned, though to be fair his heart wasn't in it. "I still am, Kat. But at least she's happy. Be honest, he gives her the kind of stability I can't."
She sniffed. "Stability is all very well. But you could have settled down a bit if you'd tried. Anyway. There is nothing you can do about it now. I'm supposed to tell you the Doge and your grandfather want to see you as soon as possible. They're in council with the Patriarch, Sister Evangelina, Brother Mascoli, and several other clerics that I don't know. They wanted to talk to Marco, too.
"I'm coming along," she added militantly, "just to see that they don't talk you into doing something dangerous, Marco."
"Flying with the Lion isn't really dangerous, Katerina. And we had to get someone down to Venice quickly when we heard about Benito's predicament from the Hypatians."
"Perhaps flying with the Lion is not entirely dangerous," she said sharply. "But you know very well what happened to Bespi once you left him! And if it hadn't been that you moved so fast, it might have been you who encountered that ambush, off Venetian soil where the Lion couldn't help you—"
Marco winced; Benito gaped at him, then demanded, "What ambush? What happened?"
"Oh," Marco replied, "Bespi ran into some—trouble."
"Trouble?" Kat's voice dripped sarcasm. "He was ambushed, Benito. And the only reason he's alive now is because Marco wasn't with him." She glared at him. "And the fact, I suppose, that they couldn't actually set up a good ambush, since they were expecting to catch you before you got on Venetian territory."
Bit by bit, Benito pulled it out of them. It happened right after Marco left Bespi on the road with their two horses, when he broke through a group of mercenaries who had set up an ambush on the road that showed every evidence of having been hastily set up. Wisely, rather than try to fight, he spurred his horse through them. But he hadn't gotten away without adding more scars to his considerable collection, and it was Bespi's opinion that the only reason the ambushers had broken off was that they had been confused, seeing only one man, and that man looking nothing like Marco Valdosta. He was recovering, but since the mercenaries were aided by something that Bespi had refused to describe, except as "black magic," there was no doubt that Jagiellon was involved.
"And if you had been outside the border of Venice, what then?" Kat repeated.
Benito shared Kat's distrust of these magical doings. Perhaps Marco understood and was in control of these forces, but they left Benito feeling like a weak swimmer in an undertow.
They walked across to the Doge's palace together, where the Swiss guards saluted very respectfully. It was amazing what a difference the clothes one wore made. No one even glanced at the scabbarded sword at Benito's side now. Ha! So much for the fuss about "concealed weapons." The same weapon could be carried openly without any comment by the Case Vecchie.
A footman led them up to a large, airy salon where Petro Dorma was in animated discussion with a number of other parts of the state machinery, and several clerics. The Doge broke off his argument to greet them. "Well, Benito. I thought I told you to stay away from trouble?" As it was said with a broad smile and general laughter, Benito knew that at least he wasn't still in Petro's bad books.
"Nonetheless, you have given us something of a legal conundrum," said the one hawk-nosed secretary. Benito recognized the voice from the Council of Ten interview. "You are still legally banished. And there are a small group saying no matter who you are and what you have done, or whatever the reason, holding a Venetian Justice hostage at sword's point is unacceptable."
"I'll face my trial and accept my sentence," said Benito stiffly, feeling irritated. "I did what had to be done, and I was the right person to do it."
"And Venice and the Church are conscious of their debt to you," said Petro. "But the form of the law must be observed."
"It's a pity you couldn't have put off arriving until tomorrow," said the secretary with a wry smile. "Your pardon was on the agenda for the Senate meeting."
Benito found this more than a little odd. He'd hardly been gone from Venice a couple of months and they wanted him back? Not very likely. "You were going to pardon me?"
Petro waved a hand, dismissively. "For reasons of state that no longer apply, since the rumors about Prince Manfred's schemes to seize Corfu proved to be untrue."
The hawk-nosed secretary cleared his throat. "Still, the item is on the agenda and must be debated. I think it would sit very ill with the commons if Benito were not pardoned now."
Dorma shrugged. "Very well. Leave it scheduled. It may help our case. Just try to stay out of trouble this time, Benito. We have scheduled the case for nine tomorrow morning, with a full bench of Justices. I'm afraid that will include Capuletti. I can't influence or be perceived to have influenced the case at all."
Benito snorted. "I did what I thought had to be done, Petro. If they want to be petty about the matter—well, so be it."
The Patriarch shook his head. "The church will certainly appeal strongly for clemency. Magical contacts have been made—considering the gravity of the situation and the involvement of the Ancient Enemy, the expenditure of magical power was reckoned worthwhile. The Hypatians in Messina give you a glowing character reference. And you have alerted the mother church to a terrible evil. Our sacred magicians are gathering to take the war to the enemy."
"Anyway," said Petro, "that is for tomorrow. Today we just want to extract as much information from you as possible. Wring you out so that a court-case will seem a minor thing." He sighed. "It will take time to relieve the Citadel. I wish we had a fleet at hand, but this attack was carefully planned to catch us when our ships were away."
"I have a feeling they've made plans to keep our fleets away," said Benito. "This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment attack, Petro."
"No," the Doge agreed grimly. "It wasn't."