Burdens of the Dead Read online

  * * *

  Poulo Bourgo began the long journey west, to Venice. He knew people there still, even if they would no longer know him. They could be compelled to assist him.

  * * *

  The Black Brain plied the paths of elsewhere, avoiding the woman, her old bone harpoon and her dogs. He went further south to where he had taken control of those who sought holy inspiration and visions to guide them. The Baitini were unskilled in plying the worlds beyond and unskilled in magic, which they considered it evil and unclean—much to the benefit of the demon who had become their unknown master, by wielding such magics.

  The Baitini prayed for guidance, and for help with the Mongol yoke, whose broad tolerance they found perverted. There was only One True Way for the Baitini; their way. They instead would force all into their narrow path, and kill those who they could not force.

  The Baitini had not ruled by an open show of power, but by the hidden hand before the coming of the Mongol and the destruction of Baghdad. They’d tried those same tactics on Hulagu when the Mongols first came—and he’d almost destroyed their stronghold at Alamut in response.

  Many of those who survived had fled to Damascus—also called Dishmaq, by some Mongols and Arabs—and now the two centers struggled quietly for dominance. The Old Man of the Mountain at Alamut was still formally their leader, but there were those in Damascus who tacitly challenged his position.

  The Supreme Master of the Hidden Hand was one such. He now lived in the incense-reeking halls of their secret place in Damascus, far from the stark isolation of the mountains. He pulled the threads of death and fear across the lands of the Ilkhan and their vassal states, carefully avoiding open conflict with the Mongol. Instead, his Baitini undermined the Mongols by working for them, making themselves indispensable and penetrating government and serving as their functionaries—all the while seeking divine power and guidance.

  The Black Brain was not the God they sought. But it was willing to take them and subvert them to its design. They were a sharp if small tool, right in the heart of the Ilkhan. They wanted visions of paradise? Nothing could be easier for Chernobog. Their paradise would be exactly as they imagined it to be.

  ***

  The old man who was the Supreme Master of the Hidden Hand staggered out of the scented garden. His eyes were wild and his white robe soiled and disordered.

  He could barely stand, but his words were clear enough. “At last! Our time is at hand. Paradise is ours, and so is power.”

  The Supreme Master of Poisons looked doubtfully at his him. He knew what they smoked in the hidden, scented garden, to reach upward. He’d seen how new Hands believed fervently that they had seen paradise already. He knew what they’d experienced. He organized it, down to the houris. The current Supreme Master was an old man, and anything he said should probably be subject to suspicion. They went like that sometimes, believing too much, believing even in their own deceptions.

  The Supreme Master of Poisons decided he had better send word to the Old Man of the Mountain. The Master of the Chalabis, the final arbiter in matters of religion, and thus politics and the power of the Hidden Hand, had long ago returned to holy Alamut. The Poison-master wondered who would be elevated next.

  The Supreme Master of the Hidden Hand grabbed his arm with a scrawny but fanatically strong hand. “Come!” he ordered.

  * * *

  The Supreme Master of Poison took his own life that night. After what he had seen and experienced in the scented garden he was too consumed with shame—and lust—to go on. But not before he quietly sent a message to Alamut.

  Others came to the garden at the insistence of the Supreme Master of the Hidden Hand; others proved stronger in resolution and obedience to him, to the message. New masters went out, full of religious zeal, and new orders. They remained in the same business, but with a renewed holy vigor, and rather a different direction.

  Chapter 4

  Constantinople

  The city before Hekate’s gate began to stir behind its walls. It was still a very great city, a place of assassins, sailors, whores, princes, spies, merchants, thieves, saints and cut-throats, but as the population had steadily declined under the misrule of Emperor Alexis, some of them had been obliged to take on more than one of these professions.

  Antimo Bartelozzi was a spy. He masqueraded as a merchant in the Venetian quarter of the Golden Horn, and was good at it, as he was good at almost anything he turned his hand to. He’d on occasion had to resort to being a thief; and, in the service of his master, the duke of Ferrara, had killed a few people.

  Fortunately, the Old Fox, Duke Enrico Dell’este, did not order death lightly or without reason. The ruler of Ferrara was an odd master, winning the love of his people by working iron himself, with his own hands. He administered fairness in a time when that was rare from nobles. But mostly the people loved him for his bravura, and for winning against the odds. For keeping them safe.

  That was not why Antimo Bartelozzi loved him. Antimo had once been sent to kill the duke, and had not done so. The Old Fox had given him a reason to live, which was more important than merely sparing his life had been.

  Antimo would not ever have considered himself a saint, not even here in this most venal of cities. He was reasonably generous, though, so he tossed a scrap of his breakfast pastry to a hungry-looking stray dog in the alleyway, an odd looking creature with red ears.

  Antimo went quietly on down the filth-strewn street, measuring, watching, making mental notes. He didn’t see the dog watching him, and then turn to follow its mistress. Antimo was looking for ways into and out of Constantinople. The dog knew some, but they were not used by ordinary mortals.

  Antimo studied Constantinople with infinite care. He had been busy doing so for more than a month now. The emperor Alexis, profligate and debauched, had turned the city into a rotten fruit—ready to fall at a touch, but held in place by thorny branches. The emperor himself was not capable of directing the defenses of the city. He lacked troops, for one thing. He was scared to keep too many in the city, just as he was too scared to keep a good general there. He lacked the money for the sort of mercenary army he actually needed, and lacked the money for the sort of mercenary general, too, whom he might have been able to trust politically. Or distrust less, at least. A lot of money flowed into Byzantium, but it flowed away from Alexis just as quickly if not faster. The emperor was immobilized by his fears, pulled in so many directions, that in the end, he generally did nothing.

  Alexis was fragile—but Constantinople was not. She had ancient walls and towers, and her people. Even abused by Alexis, they were a formidable force, and not one that would easily bend a knee to an invader. They loved and were proud of their city, from the Hagia Sophia to her mighty walls.

  The walls and the citizenry could potentially hold off a large attacking force. Antimo explored the chinks in those walls…and in the citizenry. The traders’ enclave was one such chink. The court of Alexis another, although that would be dangerous and expensive to use; Alexis expected treachery there, and was always looking for it. A third, possibly cheaper chink, were the mercenary captains. Alexis used his own people and his own ships to defend Byzantium and to tax her. But since the days of the Varangian Guard, mercenaries had played a major role in the defense of Constantinople. There just were not enough of them now to form a proper force.

  Mercenary were relatively trustworthy, so long as they were paid. The emperor of Byzantium was wary about having his own generals here, so the mercenaries were his compromise for the safety of his city. The best of Constantinople’s generals were in Asia Minor on the borders of the Ilkhan’s satellite states of Cilcilia and the sultanate of Rum, or on the northern borders, where the tribes raided down from the lands of the Lord of the Mountains, Iskander Beg.

  That worked fine for Antimo Bartelozzi, too.

  Venice

  In the Campo Ghetto, Itzaak ben Joseph, Kabbalistic mage and goldsmith, bent to his work. He took pride in his workmans
hip—and if a Jew dared to love a place, he loved this city. He felt as safe in this place as it was ever possible for a Jew to feel safe. He dared to think about the future, a future that held something other than packing up and fleeing to another place. Life in Venice under Doge Dorma was at least better and safer than it had been for the people of the Ghetto under Doge Foscari. It was still a place of Jews, Strega, even the occasional Mussulman trader. And of course, frauds and rogues, but it a Jew could walk the streets without being molested.

  There was plenty of quackery and trade in grey goods, philtres and charms and meaningless cantrips scrawled on strips of parchment. Still, there was real magic here, and not all of it good. Since the death of Marina, the mages had failed to unite or to accept any new leadership. The Strega families would continue with their old beliefs, but, no longer threatened by a common enemy, and without any particularly inspiring leaders, they grew more fractious.

  Some drifted into areas that Itzaak would prefer not to think about. He was no great mage himself, his skills being limited to a bit of divination and his metalwork. He knew everyone, though, which was a kind of magic in itself. All news eventually came to his shop.

  The latest was a bit worrying. A traveler had come into the shop, a co-religionist who had arrived from Constantinople. Besides the fact that the man wanted to convert quite a lot of jewelry into cash—of interest, naturally—he brought something of more interest. Itzaak’s small magical skills related to his profession. He could read precious metals, gold especially, and a little in some gemstones. They told him from whence they had come, and what they were made of. Often the two pieces of information were part of the same thing. Raw gold had different amounts of other metals mixed in with it. And of course processed gold was frequently adulterated.

  This was gold from far off. Gold from the lands beyond the Volga River. And…it was new. It had still been in the rock when Corfu had been under siege.

  Gold was not a metal that, unmixed and relatively new, came into his hands very often. He smiled politely and proceeded with an assay, using the aqua regia, and carefully weighing the metal. The assay was totally unnecessary except as camouflage. It was accompanied by some equally careful fishing for information.

  That was not very hard. Once he established that Itzaak shared his religion and history of persecution, Suliman ben Ezra was quite ready to tell him. “I don’t know where the emperor Alexis is getting it from, my friend. But it does come from the palace. Even though the attack on Corfu failed, he is still spending gold like water. It’s all he knows how to do. I think he expects Venetian vengeance, so he has been spending a little on mercenaries. This is where my gold came from. I was a seller of fine goods and perfumes. Mercenary captains run to expensive mistresses.”

  “It’s information Venice should know,” said Itzaak.

  His customer shrugged. “They must have their own spies. They’ll find out in good time, without me meddling. But it was time for wise people to leave there, my friend. The emperor was offering Jews as scapegoats and a blood-sop, to those who were angry about the losses. We’re being blamed, somehow. Again. He doesn’t quite want to destroy the Venetian quarter on the Golden Horn yet…but Greek pride stirs and is hurt. My family has lived there for two hundred years”—he made a face—“and yet I am still a foreigner and a Jew to them.”

  “Venice is more tolerant than most places.”

  “At the moment. But it will come here too.”

  “That is the story of our people,” said Itzaak, philosophically. “And yet…there are good people here. Marco Valdosta…”

  “I am going to go further,” interrupted the visitor. “Vinland, I think. Unless the temple of King David is rebuilt.”

  “One day, my friend. Now, I value that bracelet at three ducats. To be honest, the workmanship is not good. That’s for the metal and the value of the topaz insets…”

  * * *

  Later that evening Itzaak had sent word to Marco Valdosta. Marco was trying hard to avoid politics and too much involvement with any faction, even the Strega. The boy still really merely wanted to heal the sick. But he and his wife had…connections. And if one duke could work iron with his own hands, there was no reason why another could not be a physician. Who knew? It would probably make him even more beloved than the Old Fox.

  Milan

  In Milano, Duke Filippo Maria dispensed orders to a man he hated…and yet needed and feared. “And that will be all that you need to know,” he said, his prim, plump little mouth set in its usual false smile, which did not carry to his close-set little eyes.

  “Perhaps just a little more information on what you require of me. I am a soldier, not an agent provocateur.” So spoke the lean, scar-faced man staring unblinking back at him.

  “A military provocation of the Scaligers. And the town of Nogara.”

  “We would be wiser to expand westwards,” said his condottiere.

  “I will decide on what is wise and what will be done,” said Filippo Maria.

  * * *

  Carlo Sforza was relieved to be back in the saddle, heading away from the Palazzo Ducale. He trusted Filippo Maria not at all, and he had a good grasp of how the cunning, devious little man’s mind worked. The duke was deliberately goading him a little. Testing his loyalty. Pushing his condottiere, playing one off against another. But Filippo Maria always did that. He was up to something more than his strategy of divide and rule.

  Carlo felt the front of his tunic, felt the golden pilgrim medal that hung there. He remembered how it had come back to him and the message that had come with it. Damn Lorendana. Damn her. Even after all these years, she made him angry, and he was a man who had always been in control of his emotions. Unlike her.

  He’d made mistakes…and this too was something unfamiliar. Sometimes, very rarely, he had been out-thought, but even there brute force had seen him clear. Except against Dell’este. Her blood. Carlo would, at a time and a place of his choosing, possibly risk another throw against Ferrara’s lord. Maybe. The Old Fox was neither that wealthy nor able to muster that large a force.

  Carlo touched the medal again. He was much less sure about someone else he might have to face if Filippo Maria continued to prod Venice. The duke of Milan assumed that he was subtle in his maneuvers. But so were the secretive Council of Ten. This fencing in the dark could get messy, and there were certain things they should avoid messing with.

  He had his own agents, of course, if not as many as either Filippo Maria or the Council of Ten. They kept him informed on the movements and actions of Lorendana’s sons. Filippo Maria would be wise to avoid conflict with Venice, or the older boy, if the reports were true. Of course the duke only believed in magic when it suited him. But that was not the focus of his thoughts. Carlo Sforza wondered—as he had many times—about the younger boy instead.

  His son, that one.

  Who would, one day, almost inevitably come to kill him.

  By the stories out of Corfu, and the stolen pilgrim medal he had sent back to his father, Carlo Sforza faced that prospect with a degree of respect bordering on fear, which was something he was totally unaccustomed to. There was a twisted pride, too, which was perhaps odd.

  The snippets of information that had come to him, and the plots and plans that the duke of Milan was not entirely revealing…it all came together. Carlo Sforza was a man whose success rested on making quick, forceful and accurate decisions. He made one now. Francisco Turner was not a man he would lose easily or lightly. The man had a knowledge of ships as well as a grasp of several languages. His father had been an English sailor who had deserted his ship to stay on in Genoa and marry his light-o-love.

  He’d left his son his name and a liking for beer. The rest of Francisco’s skills had been acquired since then, mostly among the Barbary pirates who had once enslaved him.

  “Francisco,” he called the man forward. The rest of his men fell back. If the condottiere wanted to discuss matters with Francisco, they really didn’t want
to listen in.

  It sometimes meant unpleasant things. Like bathing. Or purgatives. Francisco was a man of odd and dangerous ideas.

  “I need you go to Venice for me, Francisco,” said Carlo Sforza. “There is someone I need watched. I need them to trust the watcher. And that means it must be you.”

  Francisco nodded. He was not a man who questioned his lord’s orders, even if this was not his usual role. He was adaptable, and, while he was no assassin, he could use a misericord and had an alarming knowledge of poisons. “Who, M’lord?”

  “Marco Valdosta. And it will not be easy. He’ll be watched by the Council of Ten’s spies, possibly Ferrara’s and almost certainly Visconti spies. We know how they work and will arrange a cover, but it is dangerous. And if rumor is to be believed he has divine guardians, too. Or at least magical ones.”

  “I understand,” said Francisco, with a wry smile. “Well, M’lord, I’ll do my best.”

  “He may be joined by his younger brother, Benito. That one is not a healer. If he arrives I need you to send me word. The barman with one eye at Marisco’s will arrange it.”

  “Yes, M’lord.”

  “To make your life slightly easier, I believe Valdosta has been attempting to read Alkindus’ Quia Primos. The translation, not the original. And not the Greek.”

  Francisco scowled. “The translation is dreadful.”

  “I thought I remembered you saying that, Francisco,” said Carlo Sforza, with a slight smile. “I did have a fever at the time, though.”

  “You don’t forget much, M’lord.”

  Carlo knew other people forgot things. He did not. It gave him an edge in what could be a dangerous profession. Many of Carlo Sforza’s fellow condottiere were experts in the art of avoiding real conflict, unless it was a sure thing. They were good at noise and fury, and martial displays and soaking their employing cities and states. Mercenary soldiers preferred to work for pay and loot, and to avoid dying. Without a reputation for seeing to that aspect, a mercenary commander struggled to find the men who were tools of his trade.