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  "There'd be war between the Empire and Hungary!"

  Francesca nodded. "For a certainty. With--for a certainty--Milan and Rome sucked into the vortex as well. Genoa also, be sure of it--soon enough, the Greeks as well." She resumed her slow, silent pacing. "Ever since he took the throne, one of Charles Fredrik's policies has been to stay out of Italian affairs. He's resisted--harshly, at times--every attempt of the Montagnards to drag him into this morass of endless bickering. 'The Po pisshole,' he's been known to call it."

  Despite her own mild reflex of Italian chauvinism, Kat couldn't help but laugh a little at the crude expression. And admit, privately at least, that there was some justice to the barb. It was a fact that Italians--northern Italians, especially--were prone to endless and ultimately futile feuds and vendettas. Had not her own beloved Grandpapa, an otherwise sane and even kindly man, been obsessed for years with his feud against the Valdostas? A house which no longer even existed, except in vague rumors and her grandfather's heated imagination.

  "What can we do, Francesca?"

  Francesca shrugged. "Us? Nothing. You must tend to the affairs of Casa Montescue. I can think of few things which would be better for Venice than to have that house back on its feet again. Me?" She chuckled. "I'm just a very fancy whore, girl." She spread her arms wide, in a gesture of helplessness. "Do I look like the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire?"

  Kat sighed. "No." Then, giggled a little. "I've never met him, but . . . I don't think he's got your cleavage."

  * * *

  The Emperor's "cleavage," at that moment, was quite invisible. Covered as it was not only by the thick velvet of his imperial robes of office but by his own thick hands, clasped and folded across his chest as he listened to his adviser.

  Baron Trolliger came to the last item on the agenda. "Oh, yes," he sighed, "that obnoxious Father Francis is still pestering you for another audience. I assume you'll want to me brush him off again. He's seen you once already. That's more than enough for the demands of courtesy. Irritating man! I'll tell him--"

  "Send him in," interrupted the Emperor.

  Trolliger stared at him. "He's just a priest, Your Majesty. Not even, from what I can tell, one in the good graces of Rome. He's certainly not an official emissary from the Grand Metropolitan."

  Charles Fredrik's lips twisted into a wry smile. "I should think not, given his purpose here. I rather imagine the Grand Metropolitan has been tempted more than once to strangle him--even more so, the Father Lopez from whom Father Francis takes his directions."

  The look of surprise vanished from Trolliger's face, replaced by impassivity. For all that the baron was one of the Emperor's closest advisers and agents, he knew full well that there were matters which Charles Fredrik chose not to discuss with him. This mysterious business of giving an obscure and apparently unimportant priest another private audience was obviously one of them.

  "As you command, Majesty." Trolliger rose from his chair and began making for the door.

  The Emperor stopped him. "I'd just as soon you were here for this audience, Hans. Have a servant bring the man."

  The baron cocked an eye at the Emperor. Then, sighed. "I suppose this means I'll be traveling soon."

  Charles Fredrik smiled and spread his hands in a gesture which expressed, in part, uncertainty. But which, mostly, expressed irony at the complicated world of political intrigue. "Most likely."

  Trolliger managed, more or less, not to scowl.

  * * *

  An hour later, after Father Francis had come and gone, the baron was making no effort at all to keep his scowl hidden. "It's insane, Your Majesty. What these lunatics propose amounts to creating a Petrine version of the Servants of the Holy Trinity. As if the Servants aren't enough grief already. And then--then!--they want your permission to operate freely in imperial territory. I don't even want to think about the mess that would create."

  Charles Fredrik studied his adviser under lowered brows, his heavy hands clasped over his purple robes of office. "I've already got a mess on my hands, Hans. Or are you so naive as to think that the mission which the Servants sent to Venice was as innocent an affair as they claimed?"

  Trolliger's lips grew pinched. The Emperor chuckled. A suggestion of "naivete" was perhaps the ultimate insult in the baron's lexicon.

  "No, I didn't think so," murmured Charles Fredrik. He rose to his feet and moved toward the narrow window nearby. "Then tell me, Hans--what are the Servants doing in Venice? Not to mention all those Knights they've assembled there." Now at the window, he cocked his head and gazed at his adviser.

  Trolliger shrugged. "I don't know, Your Majesty. My spies tell me--"

  "Nothing," interrupted the Emperor curtly. "Nothing worth knowing." He slapped the stone wall. "They're up to no good, Hans. I can feel it in my bones. And I've felt for some time anyway that the Empire was relying on them too much. At this point, I don't have a single magician worthy of the name who isn't a damned Sot. Where does that leave me--especially if Jagiellon is undertaking a campaign against me? Which I am now certain is what's ultimately at the bottom of these mysterious doings in Venice."

  Not even Trolliger could keep a look of surprise from his face. "Jagiellon?" For a moment, he fumbled for words. "But--he's the archdemon in the Servants' pantheon of evil. Has been ever since he came to the throne four years ago."

  "So?" shrugged Charles Fredrik. "It wouldn't be the first time in history that people got too close to their enemy, would it?" He scowled through the narrow window. "Which is what I suspect happened to Jagiellon himself. Until he seized the throne from his father, there had been no indication that Jagiellon was anything more than another ambitious and bullying Lithuanian prince. Since then . . ."

  "There's something dark about the man," admitted the baron. "Even by the standards of the Lithuanian nobility."

  " 'Dark'?" snorted the Emperor. "Say better: 'black as night.' " He rubbed his heavy jaw thoughtfully. "Why does he wear that mask at all times, for instance? Simply to disguise the scars he claims to have received when he tried to fend off his father's assassins?"

  Charles Fredrik turned away from the window and resumed his seat behind the heavy desk he used for working audiences. "I think not. I don't believe for an instant that Grand Duke Jagiellon is truly blind. Nor more than you. I think he keeps his eyes covered so no one can see the monster shining through them."

  Trolliger took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "That is," he admitted, "my deepest fear also."

  "Exactly," said the Emperor, nodding. "Which means that if Lithuania is behind the situation unfolding in Venice, we face something far worse than simple political intrigue. And if that's true, then I think I'd be a fool to keep relying on the Servants of the Holy Trinity."

  "The Empire is Pauline, Your Majesty. The populace and the dynasty both. To allow--"

  "Bah!" The Emperor's thick hand slammed down on the desk. "Do I care about the quarrels of theologians? I have an Empire to maintain, Hans. Be damned to all that!"

  Again, the baron took a deep breath; again, let it out slowly. Then abruptly nodded his head. "True. And, as always, I am at your command." He pushed back his chair, beginning to rise.

  "Venice it is, then. God in Heaven, I detest that city."

  The Emperor waved him back down again. "It's not quite that bad. I think we can rely on Father Francis to pass on my message to his Father Lopez in Venice. No reason for you to go there. Instead--"

  Trolliger didn't so much resume his seat as fall into it. The baron was quite familiar with the intricacies of northern Italian politics. He could see immediately the logic of the Emperor's train of thought.

  "Oh, no," he groaned.

  Charles Fredrik grinned. "Ferrara's not so bad. A very pretty little city, in fact, as I recall."

  The baron's scowl would have frightened ogres. "Who cares about the city? Have you ever--personally--negotiated with Enrico Dell'este? You think they call him 'the Old Fox' for nothing?"

  The Empero
r's grin didn't so much as waver. "That's why I have advisers and trusted agents."

  Chapter 27 ==========

  Maria had observed that hooded look in Caesare's eyes for the last few days. He was planning something again. That always worried her. He seemed quite back to his strength now, and that new wound had nearly healed entirely. But still--it always worried her.

  She often wished she'd fallen for a man who had some kind of ordinary, safe, boring job. But . . . he was so fine.

  "Right," said Caesare that evening, after they'd eaten. "I've got some documents coming down from Milan. Stuff from a contact back in the old days. The worst of it is one of my informers tells me half the town also knows about it. My old friend Aleri will have his watchers out for sure. I hear that someone, probably that Montagnard bastardo Aleri, has tipped off the Council of Ten. I've got stuff in that parcel for Ricardo Brunelli, stuff which will bring a nice sum in Rome, and some things I want none of them to see. This is worth a good bit of money, and we're short. So I'm going to use people they're hopefully not watching. I haven't used you, Maria, for much of the serious stuff. And I'm pretty sure you boys aren't marked at all."

  He paused, pulling a wry face. "The parcel is being dropped off at old Grazzi's factory on Murano. That's close to your regular Wednesday run anyway, Maria. Marco goes across under that tarp and jumps out under the Ponto San Donato. Marco, you wait a bit and when no one's around, you can go and pick the stuff up. I'll give you a ring to show the old man. Then you come and meet up with Maria. Then, coming back, Marco can slip off under the Ponto at the Calle del Erbe, go across and into Ricci's for a brioche and glass of wine, as if he was just on his way to work at the booth on the piazza. One of the barmen, the Greek, is one of mine. I have him absolutely by the balls and I'm damned certain nobody knows it yet. He'll come up to you and say 'I'm Nicothedes.' You give it to him. Then you go to work at Ventuccio's as usual."

  "I'm much better at sneaking than Marco!" protested Benito. "Let me do it. I'll be out of Maria's gondola like a greased rat and into old man Grazzi's so quietly--"

  Caesare looked coldly at him. "If you'll just wait a moment, boy. Your job is the tougher one. The way this works is the other side doesn't know exactly when it's coming into town. They'll be watching me. They'll be watching my associates. They'll be looking for any break in the pattern. So you're going to be both yourself and your brother. He normally leaves here a good bit before you."

  Benito punched Marco's arm. "He likes to dawdle along the way."

  Caesare smiled wryly. "Fortunately. You--in his clothes--will go as far as Ricci's. That hat he's been wearing to show off to the girls is quite distinctive. Then you cut out and come back here over the rooftops. Then, in that green cotte of yours, you go out again and to work. Marco can't do the rooftops. It's a pity you're shorter than he is, but ten to one it'll be foggy tomorrow morning and at that time of day the light's bad. You'll also have to get Marco out of here and into the bottom of the gondola, maybe two hours before Lauds. Maria's gone long before then, but they'll be watching that water-door. She must leave alone."

  Maria looked at the boys. Marco looked nervous. Benito . . . well, Benito looked delighted.

  * * *

  Marco had found it a grim morning so far. Firstly, Benito--whom he normally had to roust out of bed--had woken him in the pitch-black; then made him dress in the dark and climb out of a tiny window next to the kitchen-chimney. It wasn't meant for someone his age and size.

  Benito had led him across what seemed a mile of coppo tiles to eventually bring him back to Maria's gondola. He lay cold, and decidedly uncomfortable, on the duckboards under the tarp. The tarp smelled of old spilled wine--probably from the barrels she sometimes transported. The wait seemed interminable.

  He tried thinking about Angelina. But the thoughts were just frustrating. He still hadn't got up the courage to speak to her, and doubted he ever would. Angelina Dorma. Case Vecchie. Miles above his touch now.

  But . . . oh, so beautiful.

  The water-door banged. Moments later, the gondola rocked as someone stepped aboard. It had to be Maria. No one else whistled quite like that. She didn't say a word to him as she cast off and began to scull. They were out in the open water, judging by the rising and falling of the deck beneath him, before she said: "You can probably stick your face out, if you want a breath of air."

  Marco did. The air was indeed wreathed with fog. Well, that much Caesare had predicted right. Hopefully, the rest would go well also. "Where are we?" he asked.

  "On our way across to Murano. We should be there soon after the Marangona starts to ring. This fog'll hold a while yet. You should be able to get off nicely hidden by it. By the time we get back it'll have burned off though." Maria grinned sardonically down at him. "Then you'll have to run instead of lying flat on your back while I work."

  In the distance the Marangona bell began to ring, calling the Arsenalotti to work. Two minutes later, Marco was clinging to the rotting bricks on the damp underside of the bridge. Nervously, he waited. Then, without anyone seeing him, he climbed out and made his way to the glassware factory.

  The old proprietor was waiting for him--obviously as keen to get rid of this parcel of potential trouble as Marco was eager to get back to meet Maria, and get his part in this over with.

  He waited. And waited. It was getting brighter next to the bridge. More and more people were about.

  When she did finally arrive, Maria wore a scowl that would have frightened cream into unchurning itself back into butter. "Don't get on," she said. "We got trouble."

  Marco looked around, warily.

  "Tch." Maria clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Not here. Think I'd be stupid 'nough to bring trouble? Back in Venice. The Schiopettieri and the Capi di Contrada are searching all the small craft coming across from the east. Someone must have tipped them off."

  "What do we do?"

  Maria shrugged. "I go back to town. I've organized a lift across to the mainland for you. There's a pirogue heading for Mestre. You remember Tonio's cousin Alberto? His boat. He's down the glass warehouse at the end of the Fondamenta Serendella. You go there and slip onto his boat. Then in Mestre you cadge or buy a ride over to the west-side quays. You'll miss some time at work but Caesare has leverage with Ventuccio. I wouldn't come home with the parcel. See if you can get to Ricci's and deliver it to that Greek of Caesare's--Nicothedes. Now, I'm running behind schedule. I'd better get along or it'll look suspicious, and they might start wondering where I've been. They're probably going to search and harass me anyway. It'll keep 'em busy."

  And with a flick of the oar she was gone to face the waiting Schiopettieri.

  Marco got himself along to Alberto's scruffy pirogue. Two hours later he was near emptying his meager purse to get across the west quays. He was going to be very, very late for work. He was also very, very nervous.

  * * *

  Benito, hurrying along to Ricci's, literally ducking in one door and out the other, had his plans go awry too.

  He slipped the new hat that was Marco's pride and joy off his head as he got inside the door. This time of morning there shouldn't be many people around. The Marangona bell had only just started to ring over at the Arsenal.

  Except . . . the pasticceria was full.

  Full of Schiopettieri.

  Benito, hearing the door close behind him, felt sick right to the pit of his stomach. Then just before he bolted, he realized that his only "crime" was wearing his brother's hat. Personally, Benito had always felt the hat was ugly, but wearing it was still not a crime. Hat or no hat, the Schiopettieri weren't interested in him.

  In fact they were discussing something he'd love to have stayed to listen to. Venice was buzzing with rumors about "magical murders" and "demon killings." If he heard the horrified talk aright, there'd just been another. And this time it sounded as if someone had actually caught sight of whoever--or whatever--had committed the deed. No wonder the Schiopettieri were in having a drink so ea
rly.

  As Benito wormed his way across to the side door that would give him access to an alley with some easy-to-climb beams, he picked up snatches of the conversation.

  "--suckers like an octopus--"

  "--blood everywhere--"

  "--poor priest was shaking so much he could hardly speak--"

  And then he was out, heading upwards to the rooftops. Later he walked along to work as usual. Which was fine until one of the older Ventuccio came and asked him if he knew why Marco wasn't coming in.

  After that, it was torture. Waiting in worry and uncertainty always is. Where the hell was Marco?

  * * *

  Marco alighted from a barge-load of chickens at the Fondamenta Zattere ai Gesuati. To his relief, there were no watching Schiopettieri. Now it was just a short cut across the Accademia, take a traghetto across the Grand Canal, and off to Ricci's. He was already trying to think of a good excuse to use at Ventuccio when he realized he was being followed. Or thought he was, anyway, he wasn't sure. Someone big, in a black cloak.