Shadow of the Lion hoa-1 Read online

  Finally, the sacristan returned, the priest close on his heels. The priest was a young man; who, like the two bridge-brats, looked as if he could have used a few more meals himself. It was a small church.

  He looked in puzzlement at the scene, and then bowed to the abbot. "I am Father Ugo, and this is my parish. Why have I been called here?"

  "We have called you to throw these evil miscreants out. They were defiling your church with satanic practices."

  The little priest blinked, taking in the steel, and the "miscreants."

  With a start, Kat realized she knew the little man. Of course, he'd been smaller and plumper then.

  "Ugo Boldoni?" she said, incredulously.

  The priest peered shortsightedly at her; then, gasped. There were some advantages to her distinctive carroty-colored hair, even if it was not fashionable.

  "Kat--Milady Katerina! What are you doing here?"

  Kat shrugged. "I was caught in the rain and came in to take shelter."

  "She was practicing satanic rites!" shouted one the monks, waving a threatening finger at her.

  "I was sitting on a pew!" she snapped back at him. "Quietly sitting, getting some shelter from the rain--when you came in--like demons yourselves!--and grabbed those children who were playing up there. They were fooling around with one of the candles. I assumed the sacristan would come out and give them both a clout. Instead this--"

  She glared at Sachs. "This foul man who calls himself an abbot came in and behaved as if they were having a black mass, instead of just fiddling with the candle wax."

  The priest looked puzzled. "But . . . but where was old Giovanni?"

  "They bewitched me into sleep!" said the old man hastily. "Demonspawn they are. I'm allus chasing them out of the church. Allus up to mischief."

  The big young knight named Manfred snorted. "Smell his breath! Unless the children magicked him a bottle of wine--and if they could do that, they'd have magicked themselves some food. They don't need questioning. They need a square meal and a place in a household."

  The priest nodded. "Alas, sir knight. This is a poor parish. There are many such souls."

  Sachs, glaring back at Kat, attempted a commanding sneer. The expression failed of its purpose; seemed more childish than anything else.

  "These are mere lies! And the poor you have with you always. It is their souls, not their bodies we must deal with. Now, as your senior in the church I order you to put them out of here, Father--ah--"

  The priest's name had obviously escaped him. "Priest. I will have a word with Bishop Pietro Capuletti, and see you are moved to a more worthy station. We'll have the truth out of them. The Servants of the Trinity have ways of dealing with the most hardened servants of Satan."

  A look of pleasure came into the abbot's hooded eyes. The kind of pleasure that comes to a man when he finds himself back on his own ground after stumbling into a marsh.

  Kat shivered. The knights, she suspected, would obey the abbot--however reluctantly--if the priest who had actual authority here denied sanctuary to her and the children. And how could once-fat, timid little Ugo Boldoni stand up to this?

  "Yes, servants of Satan have no place demanding sanctuary," put in one of the two monks unctuously. "Such rights should be denied the likes of them. And the abbot is your superior!"

  That was apparently the wrong thing to say to Ugo Boldoni. His spine straightened. "You attempted to remove them from the sanctuary of the Church? You? You had no right!" He glared at the abbot. "Nor is he my 'superior.' In this see, that is the Metropolitan Michael--no other! In this church I am the final arbiter."

  The little priest's anger was peppery hot. "Get out of this church! Get out right now. Go."

  And that was enough--more than enough--to end the whole affair. The knights were entirely in support of the priest, not the abbot. Within a minute, all of them were gone, the abbot and the two monks scurrying ahead of the knights as if afraid that if they didn't move fast enough they would be manhandled out. Which, Kat suspected, was not far from the truth. On the way out, Manfred seized the still-groaning Pappenheim by the scruff of the neck and, using only one hand, dragged him out of the church as easily as he might drag a sack of onions.

  * * *

  When they'd gone, Father Ugo turned to Katerina. "Just what are you doing here, milady? The Casa Montescue is a long way from here, and it is late."

  Kat shrugged. Boldoni's father had been a sailing master. A good one too, apparently. And it showed in the son's manner, she reflected. "About my father's business," she said quietly. She knew that he'd know that Carlo Montescue was long overdue back from sea. Missing; presumed, by nearly all, dead.

  Ugo nodded. He knew perfectly well that the Montescue might be Case Vecchie, but they were in financial trouble. All of Venice knew quickly enough whenever one of the famous old houses fell into difficult times. And knew as well, that there were some tasks only family could be relied upon to do.

  "You swear that there is no truth in what that abbot said? Your soul is clean?"

  "I swear by all the Saints and upon the holy cross that it was a complete lie." Her conscience twinged slightly. "These two children are naughty, but were not practicing any kind of witchcraft."

  She took a deep breath and turned around, so that Ugo could not see. She reached into the pouch and took out one of the ducats. The Casa Montescue was in a desperate state, but not that desperate. Not compared to those two children, still wide-eyed and frightened. She returned the bag to its warm nest and turned around.

  "Here." She held out the coin.

  Father Ugo's eyes bulged slightly. Ducats didn't come his way often. But he was of iron principle. "You cannot pay me to free you of sin, Katerina," he said, sounding extremely doubtful.

  "It's not for you. It is for those two children. A small thank you to God for sparing me from the Servants of the Holy Trinity."

  His voice was troubled. "They do God's work, Katerina Montescue."

  "That one young blond knight did God's work. Had it not been for him, that abbot . . ." She shuddered. "Anyway, forget it. I'm grateful. So is Montescue. So take this for those two children you also saved."

  He took the warm ducat. "I'll buy a candle."

  Kat shook her head. "Food. They'd only play with the candle!"

  It was the ragged little girl's turn to shake her head. So fiercely that it looked as if it would come off her skinny shoulders. "Never play with no candles no more." She looked earnestly up at the priest. "Promise!"

  A smile lit Father Ugo's countenance. He patted the children's heads gently. "Do you both promise?"

  They both nodded, eyes still wide with fright.

  "Good! When the rain is over I will go and check that the Servants have really left. Now, I think we will go to the altar and I will lead you all in some prayers. Tomorrow I will go to speak with Monsignor about this. Be easy, Katerina. He is Venetian, you know."

  * * *

  As the party of knights and monks trudged through the rain, Erik and Manfred bringing up the rear, Von Gherens paused to allow them to catch up with him. Then, walking alongside, spoke softly.

  "I am forever in your debt, Hakkonsen." His square, solemn face was creased with worry. "I fear I have allowed myself . . ." The next words were almost hissed. "Damn the Servants and their witch-hunts, anyway! They're twisting my mind. Sachs sees a witch under every cobblestone in Venice."

  Manfred snorted. "Witch-hunts! What witches? So far all we've 'uncovered' are a few quacks selling charms as magical as a brick."

  Von Gherens nodded. "Who then took the holy test of faith before Venice's Metropolitan without fear." He sighed heavily. "I miss Father Maggiore. He was often a bit obnoxious, true, but--far better than Sachs. And he was familiar with Venice. He had knowledge of the city, spies who knew something instead of Sachs's absurd gaggle of informers. Since his horrible death, the Servants have blundered about like hogs in a salon."

  Erik's words were clipped. "We're doing nothing mo
re than spreading fear and mayhem, Ritter--and for no purpose. If Sachs were trying to, he couldn't damage the reputation of the Knights worse than he has. This is the most gossipy and intrigue-filled place I've ever seen. Everything we do is spread all over the city within a day."

  For the first time since they'd entered the church, Von Gherens smiled. "True. But I daresay what you did tonight will spread just as fast--and go a long way to repairing the damage."

  "What we did," insisted Erik quietly.

  Von Gherens shook his head. Then, placed a thick hand on Erik's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "No, Erik. What you did. Had it not been for you, the rest of us would have allowed Sachs to drag us further into the pit. I will not forget it."

  The knight raised his eyes and glared at the dim figure of Sachs in the rain ahead. "I will not forget," he repeated. "Von Gherens is a proud name. Respected by all. Feared by none save demon-ridden pagans. My family is in your debt as much as I am."

  He said nothing further and, a short time later, quickened his steps in order to resume his rightful place beside the abbot.

  Manfred watched him go. "Odd, really. He's also Prussian--yet so unlike Von Stublau."

  Erik said nothing. Manfred sighed. "And me too, Erik. I will not forget either."

  Finally, a touch of humor came to Erik's face. "Really? No more carousing? No more--"

  "Not that!" choked Manfred. "I meant the other stuff." His great hands groped in the fog and the rain, trying to shape the distinction--and failing quite miserably.

  * * *

  It was only later, sculling home, playing over the events of the night that it occurred to Kat that whoever her mysterious customer was . . . she wasn't Strega. Her knife had been steel and silver--both metals the Strega would avoid like the plague.

  But Kat was too tired to think too much about it. Getting free had cost her one ducat--and her scarf, which the wretched abbot had apparently kept--but the rest would soon be sitting safe in her grandfather's near-empty strongbox.

  * * *

  When she got home, Katerina collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the infinitely relieved. The gold was safe enough. Good pure unpunched Venetian ducats. The coin valued beyond all others in the world.

  It was well into bright morning when she awoke. There was someone in her room, looking through her clothes from the night before. They'd just been dumped in a soggy heap when she came home. Reaction had set in and she'd been just too exhausted.

  Her first half-lucid thought was that someone was going to steal the bag of ducats. She sat up and yelled before her groggy mind recalled that she'd taken the gold to the old man the night before.

  It was only Alessandra, snooping as usual. "There's no need to shout the house down! Just because you've spent the whole night with your lover and are too lazy get up," she added tartly.

  "Oh, go away!" snapped Kat, rubbing her tired eyes. It was certainly bright out there. "Leave me to sleep. There's no lover--as you know perfectly well."

  Alessandra cocked her head on one side; raised a perfect eyebrow. "Oh. What's this hair then? I'm going to look for men with honey-auburn hair with just that touch of red. I mean, I know you've got no dowry, but I didn't really think . . ."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "This hair from your pocket." She held up something, golden-red in the sunlight.

  Kat blinked. Hair?

  Oh, yes. She remembered now. One of hers she'd not wanted to leave with that Strega . . . actually non-Strega she thought, remembering that knife. "It's one of mine."

  "Ha! The day you have hair that color--"

  She snatched it from Alessandra's hand. True. In daylight, Katerina could see it was thicker and more curled and it certainly didn't match hers.

  So--she must have picked up a hair from the woman herself, not one of her own. In the poor light she hadn't realized.

  She shrugged. "I was snuggling up to Lucrezia Brunelli last night. In my sleep. Now go away before I throw this ewer at you."

  Alessandra turned. "I'm going to tell Grandpapa if you don't tell me," she threatened.

  Kat reached for the ewer. Alessandra showed a remarkable turn of speed leaving the room, quite out of keeping with her normal languid progress.

  Kat lay back again. But like Alessandra, sleep had left the room.

  There was a greater risk of being recognized, but she was going to have to start doing more deliveries in daytime.

  Chapter 16 ==========

  Marco was out on his feet by the time he got to Caesare Aldanto's apartment near the Campo San Polo. Even if he could have found a gondolier at this hour, he had nothing to pay with--all his money and Maria's had gone into trade goods for Sophia. He had stopped at his apartment long enough to drink some watered wine and get into dry if dirty clothing; figuring that a half-hour more or less would make little difference in Aldanto's condition. Once dry and warm, he slipped on a waterproof cloak--the rain had begun again--cast a longing look at his bed, and went out again into the night.

  He was ready to drop and staggering like a drunk by the time he got to Aldanto's door. It was a process that was not aided by the fact that he had had to walk a few miles through the winding dark alleys, because he didn't have a single lira for the canal traghetto. He'd had to go the long way over bridges walking, then wet footed along the tile rail to the water-door, before actually reaching it. But there was no other choice for him to make; he was not up to an argument with the guard on the gated street doorway. The stair seemed to go on forever, and the door looked like the portal to Heaven when he finally reached it. He leaned wearily against the lintel and let his fist fall on it.

  The door opened the barest crack. "Who's out there?" said a muffled voice.

  " 'S me, Maria, Marco. Lemme in before I fall down."

  The door opened so quickly he almost did fall in. "Ye get th' stuff?"

  "Uh huh. How is he?"

  "Sleepin'. Don't seem no worse, but I had to pour a helluva lotta brandy in him t' get 'im t' sleep. Got him upstairs."

  Marco slogged the few steps into the sitting room, let his pack fall to the floor, peeled his cloak over his head and dropped it beside the pack. "Where's Benito?"

  "Sleeping too, upstairs. I figured if I needed him I could wake him up. And it's not a bad idea having him bedded down across the door up there, no? The least, somebody forces it, he c'n scream his lungs out. May kill a boarding party by scarin' 'em to death!"

  Marco made his way lead-footed to Aldanto's bedside--you don't try to walk silently around an ex-assassin!--and stood in the dark listening to the sound of his breathing. A little wheezy, a little hot, but not bad. He'd gotten back well in time. There would be no need for a "real" doctor.

  Satisfied, he dragged himself back out. "Boil me some water, would you, Maria? I got to get this stuff measured right--"

  As she trotted back to the kitchen, he sat down on the soft warm carpet beside the pack and began taking out parcels of herbs wrapped in rags, identifying them by smell, eye, and sometimes taste. Sophia had literally given him her entire stock. The artemisia could be tricky to use--too much and you got even more horrible side effects.

  "Maria," he called softly, "think you can find me a couple of big jars or bowls or something? I need something to put this stuff in besides a rag."

  "Lemme look." She clattered down the stairs and returned a moment later. "These do?" She brought him a pair of canisters, the kind spices came in, with vermin-proof lids.

  "Perfect."

  Sophia had gone by "handful" measurement--but it was a very precise handful. Although it was a little awkward to work one-handed, Marco weighed the herbs in his palm, adding or subtracting a few leaves at a time until he was satisfied; then, carefully crushed what he'd selected into the tin, trying to get it as fine as possible.

  He crushed the resulting canisterful yet again, until he had a mixture as fine as possible, then crushed a second bunch of artemisia into the second canister.

 
"Maria, that water ready?"

  "Aye." She must have seen how tired he was, and brought the pan of hot water and spoon and cup to him. "Show me--"

  "I intend to--you're going to have to do this from now on. Look, exactly two flat spoonfuls of this for every cup of water--you can put it in the cup or the pan, don't matter which." He measured two spoonfuls into the cup and poured the still-bubbling water on it. "Right, so I'm taking another flat spoonful of this stuff from the other canister and adding it. You want to keep him alive, you do the same. Now you let it steep for as long as it takes to count to a hundred."