Late the next afternoon a wagon, escorted by a mounted patrol of Magyar, joined a number of other wagons heading into the camp. Erik's raids had forced Emeric's troops to dig earthworks and station guards, but a wagon with a Magyar driver and a military escort excited no comment. It didn't even get stopped. Benito reflected that Erik had missed some wonderful opportunities.
Benito put his earlier time within the Citadel to good use. He'd stood on the inner battlements making sure he'd get through the ruins of the town and the maze of tent-areas belonging to the different units of Emeric's army. Eberhard of Brunswick had stood up there with him while he watched, and had explained the interactions between the various tribes and nationalities in Emeric's kingdom. To the old statesman, those were potential danger areas of misunderstanding to be avoided.
To Benito they were something to be used. The Magyar, the elite of the army, Emeric's pets, weren't very popular, according to Eberhard. If you had to choose for least love lost between two groups, the levies from southern Carpathia detested the Magyars most. The Slovenes came a close second. And in the watching of detachments moving to and fro to the front, Benito knew where these two groups were encamped. They were on the southern end of the Spianada, behind a half-screen of buildings that the officers of both sets used for slightly more comfortable quarters—just out of cannon-shot. There was an open patch that both sets of troops used as a parade ground.
Benito took his set of "Magyar" there with the wagon and parked it on the edge of the parade ground. His men dismounted. Some played dice. Some just lounged against the wagon. It was covered with a tightly tied-down tarpaulin. Benito hoped the poor devils inside weren't roasting as the afternoon sun blazed down.
Nobody came over and talked to them, except for one Slovene officer. Benito didn't understand a word. However he could offer a pretty good guess.
Stephanos, with his few words of Hungarian, was posing as the group officer. Stephanos snapped one word—"orders"—with as much arrogance as he could muster and jerked his thumb at the ornate pavilion on the hill. Benito thought he could have done a better job, but then he had to give Stephanos credit for looking the part. The man had been a taverna owner at the start of the war. In younger days, however, he had spent some years in Rugosa as a clerk, working for a Venetian buyer—who couldn't operate there, and had needed a trusted man. Stephanos was a positive graybeard to Benito, but he had the posture and attitudes of someone who is used to being respected.
Stephanos's Hungarian, unlike his Illyrian, was limited, and certainly wouldn't fool a Magyar trooper for an instant. But it worked fine on the Slovene.
Benito got to drive the wagon, with Nico. Nobody seeing Benito ride would have believed him to be a Magyar cavalryman. Just after dark they set out for the northern causeway. It meant crossing the entire front—but the Croats were on that side. They had two fluent Croat-speakers from Istria, whom Benito had recruited from Captain Di Negri's Venetian volunteers.
One of the wounded from inside the covered wagon groaned. "Shut him up!" whispered Benito hoarsely.
They were approaching the two earthwork and masonry fortresses that had been constructed to deal with any sally. By the looks of it, a lot of work had gone into these since Benito had left.
They stopped the wagon just short of one of the forts. The two Croat speakers dismounted. Benito held the wheel-lock pistol between his legs. If things didn't work now . . . It would mean they'd failed to fool the guards. Then it would be whether they retreated, and tried to leave the Hungarian base in the morning—because there'd be no leaving now—or decided to rush the causeway forts. Having looked at the causeway and the improved forts, Benito knew that one in ten of them might make it.
Halfway. Before the Venetians started shooting.
The two returned and said something in Stephanos's drilled-in Hungarian. The twenty fake Magyar dismounted, grumbling suitably, looking hangdog. A number of grinning Croats had turned out to take the horses and watch the Magyar's discomfort. The Magyar and the Croats had a healthy respect for each other. That didn't mean they didn't enjoy seeing the other lot suffer.
Really suffer. Proud Magyar having to do manual labor—off their precious horses—which had to be left with the Croats' flea-bitten nags, was a sight to be enjoyed.
Mocking cheers and jeers followed them struggling to haul the heavy wagon by hand along the causeway. Dragorvich's engineers had built a snaking set of ramparts along it, and the farm wagon had to be backed and hauled around these. Several of the engineers and a group of sappers actually gave them a hand.
Tch. What a degradation for the crème de la crème. It served them right for being stupid enough to be caught drunk on duty. They were lucky the punishment was so slight. If it had been the king who'd caught them, they wouldn't just have to take a load of gunpowder casks to the front for Count Dragorvich. The sappers might have wondered why they hadn't been told about this latest plan. But, in an army—especially Emeric's—nobody ever told common soldiers anything.
Since Manfred's sally, a forward post had been added to the defenses. By the looks of it, the Venetians had been pounding them. The wagon would certainly go no further.
The officer from the forward post emerged and snapped something caustic. Probably: "What the hell are you doing here, you idiots? Get that damn wagon out of here!"
The poor fellow wasn't expecting a blow to the head with a knife pommel. The Corfiotes and Venetians moved fast, into the forward post. Now there was no time for subterfuge. Just violence.
Benito and the eight cutters didn't wait to see how it went in there. He flung off the Magyar helmet and tore the sash off and joined in cutting the cords that held the cover, flipping it over so the carefully chalked inner lining of the canvas sprang onto its banner-support poles.
Benito just had to hope shots being fired in that forward post would be taken as normal around here. In the meantime he had a stretcher to carry. Erik and the other three couldn't run themselves.
They started running forward. Benito just hoped the shooting would only start in earnest after the wagon got to burning. The wagon was neatly jammed across the causeway, supporting a banner of the winged lion of Saint Mark.
Shots rang out from the walls. They'd been seen. "SAN MARCO!" yelled Benito, with what breath he could spare. The other runners were shouting too. He looked left, back at the causeway. The wagon was burning merrily. The chalked outline of the Lion of Saint Mark reflected back golden.
They were almost at the corner tower. And then round it. Now the Hungarian forces were firing too. "Press against the wall. San Marco! San Marco! A rescue!"
"Who in the hell is down there?" bellowed someone from the wall.
"Valdosta! Wounded men! Help!"
"Valdosta?"
"San Marco! Help us! We've got wounded men."
The north postern spilled light. Benito saw pikemen come hurrying—but wary, and with their pikes ready. "Valdosta?" yelled someone from their ranks.
"Here!" Benito waved a hand. "Help us."
"It's all right boys! It's him. It's the madman!" Benito recognized the voice of large Alberto, Umberto's Arsenalotti friend. The Citadel's pikemen surged forward, grabbing them, grabbing stretchers, shouting "Valdosta." Cheering. Even laughing.
Benito didn't feel like laughing. Only eighteen of his band of heroes were here to enjoy the cheering.
Jagiellon prepared his favorite dish for the shaman. There were properties about it that would help to heal the shape-changer, even if the skin was only that of a palace servant. In the meanwhile, the shaman huddled in a corner in his feather-and-bell-hung spirit cloak. He sat there shivering, making the bells tinkle, and flickering his fingers across the surface of the tattooed Quodba-drum.
The noise—which reverberated outside the mere physical plane—was an irritation, but Jagiellon ignored it. He had no choice if he wanted to retain the services of this very powerful shaman. The shaman was enacting a kind of self-healing and pain-stilling. He was, despite his formidable skills, still a primitive man. Or something near that anyway. Right now, Jagiellon could have killed him effortlessly. The shaman was in too much agony to care.
But Jagiellon needed to send him back. Whatever it was about Corfu that hampered his own magics was powerful, intensely so. Jagiellon could not afford to let it fall into Emeric's hands. He knew that Emeric was a cat's-paw for someone whose interest in mere geographical possessions was limited: the sorceress across the Carpathians.
Soon, therefore, the shaman must go back. The power of Corfu would be centered on a specific place. The shaman must be the first into that place. The slave was useless now. His wounding had been physical and dire, and Jagiellon was not sure if he was going to bother to repair him.