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  Both eyebrows rose. A good sign, or a bad one? “Explain.”

  “The bashar of Jerusalem made use of the good offices of certain pilgrims to Jerusalem. Pilgrims of high rank in the Holy Roman Empire.” How tangled his web of deception was! Orason felt his scalp prickle with sweat. “There was…an aspect of diplomacy and politics in their pilgrimage. They were glad to oblige, therefore, in dealing with the Venetians who do a great deal of trade in the Black sea, and have vessels capable of taking envoys and messages to the Golden Horde. Our relationship with the Republic of Venice is a little tense over certain issues. It made sense to use the Franks as an intermediary.”

  A frown. A very bad sign. “Thereby tarnishing our reputation among the Franks. Who were these ‘pilgrims,’ Orason?”

  The worst news of all. “The highest among them was Prince Manfred of Brittany, who is the nephew of the Holy Roman Emperor.”

  The Ilkhan sighed. “It is to be hoped that this Baitini scum does not try to kill him too. Better relations with the Holy Roman Empire…I am not sure that this is in our interests, anyway. But that sort of tarnish on the reputation of our Khanate and our diplomats, we cannot tolerate. We will have to be prepared to make certain gestures. And we had better see if we can reach some accommodation with the Venetians or the Genovese about transporting our new tarkhan, and sufficient escort to see our will done.”

  Orason stifled a sigh of relief. The ax would fall on other necks this day. The Ilkhan was usually temperate even in the face of dreadful news, but it was never an easy thing to step into the den of the dragon and tell it that its pearl had gone missing. “It shall be as you order, Ilkhan. In the meanwhile, there has been something of a contagion with the fleeing masters of Damascus’s Baitini. I have taken the liberty of sending word to the commanders of the military units.”

  “They like to work in darkness. Let’s give them some curfews and military patrols to deal with,” said the Ilkhan irritably.

  Trebizond

  The streets of Trebizond had been one of the early beneficiaries of the steps taken by the Ilkhan. And now, with the Baitini humbled by the Hypatian humility, the streets began to edge back toward normal—arguments and chaffering—and people quietly marveling how close they had come to the brink. The Hypatian chapel was rather fuller than usual. And the Podesta Michael was still breathing. Not conscious, but breathing.

  * * *

  Chernobog, in those other realms, passed through this place. She saw him, and she no longer wept, with her dogs at her side. But her attention was taken by something to the west. She was stronger now.

  Hades

  Maria occupied herself in the quiet life of the netherworld. It was hard, here, to stir passions. She understood why Aidoneus needed a human bride to bring some life to his kingdom. She’d felt terrible just leaving Benito once Carlo Sforza had plainly rescued him, but although that had scarcely been fair to Benito, it was the letter of her bargain and her word. She’d asked to be allowed to rescue her daughter. That was done now, and she was back to being the queen of the gray realms. Alessia was safe, and seemed none the worse for the horrors she had seen and the trauma she had weathered. Maria was pent in the netherworld again, able only to look, and not touch, and not speak, with those above. It would probably take Hekate’s help to be able to do so anyway.

  And now, belatedly, Maria wondered why Hekate had taken a hand.

  The subject was raised by Aidoneus, as they walked among the asphodels. “Hekate’s intervention is strange. She has begun to re-assert her traditional roles. She has taken up her guardianship of my gates again, and her dogs watch to make sure the living do not accidentally enter. Nothing passes the gates that she does not permit. Do we see the old gods being reborn, I wonder?”

  “That old man with the winged horse…was he a god? If so, I hope not,” said Maria. “I didn’t like him. Even though he seemed half mad with age, there was something very nasty about him. Crafty, in a low and mean way.”

  Aidoneus nodded. “Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker, ruler of the oceans. He was once one of the great ones. He fades, though. He was once a seducer and a ravisher of note, my dear wife. I would have kept you away from him.” He said the last with a slight smile, but Maria knew him well enough by now to tell that he was actually dead serious. There was plainly no love lost there.

  Maria sniffed. “He was as charming as a flea. And Hekate, it seems, hates him with a passion.”

  “He seduced her once too,” Aidoneus replied, and stooped to pick her a flower. He handed it to her, and she took it, still studying his face. “He was both cunning and charming at times. He was also powerful and some women are attracted to that, and ignore the rest, but not in her case, I think. He tricked and deceived her and then sent the sea in through her gate to flood her people.”

  “I thought nothing went through her gates?”

  “Gates in the world above. Gates of earth that kept the sea from the land where her people dwelled. Very real barriers against the sea. He broke them with an earthquake and the water from the Mediterranean did the rest. A great many souls came to the gray lands that day. She lost her people, and still he did not keep his promise and free her child. He killed the other child. Slandered and lied about her, called her a monster, and broke his word and kept the child.”

  A pang went through her, an echo of the pain she had felt when her own baby was taken. “Should I get Benito to free her child? I…we owe her. And I’m a canaler. We pay our debts.”

  Now Aidoneus actually laughed, something that came seldom to him. “Benito did. I told you, Pegasus is her child. When Benito was finished with the wind-lord, he turned the winged one loose, gave him freedom. But Pegasus has not gone back to his mother.”

  “So she doesn’t know he’s free?” Maria bit her lip. “Perhaps…”

  But she didn’t finish that sentence. Sometimes it was better for gods not to know things that mortals were contemplating.

  Chapter 42

  Illyria

  Benito had ample time to regret not bargaining for a return-trip from Pegasus. Five hundred miles by sea, with little more to do than endure the rain and read a book on classical Greek mythology, and a further five hundred overland. It took just under three weeks to get as far as Corfu, and then Benito had to go and beg for help from Iskander Beg. It was winter now, too, and the snow lay on Illyria. Benito had resigned himself already to crossing large parts of Byzantium incognito. That was a risky business, especially in winter when merchants were not often on the roads, and local soldiery and bandits were around, and were hungry. The difference, Benito had been told, was not always easy to establish.

  Benito had no trouble getting taken to see the King of the Mountains. Iskander Beg was at Xarrë—which was nearly as low as he could go and not be at sea-level. The village was set in the midst of fertile flatlands with the old port of Bouthroton on the estuary to the north west.

  There was tea, of course—there was always tea—and little sweet pastries, and sitting on flat cushions on the carpet. “Very agricultural and flat for a King of the Mountains,” said Benito, grinning at the vast moustache of the legendary lord of the fractious tribes of southern Illyria.

  “Ah, Benito Valdosta, I have missed your sharp wit!” Iskander Beg motioned to a servant to refill Benito’s tiny glass. “How comes it that my information puts you in Crete?”

  Benito sipped, and shrugged. “I get about, kinsman, I get about. Why, three weeks ago I was just outside Constantinople. I need to get back there. But sieges are so boring I thought I’d take some time off.”

  The white teeth were showing through his moustache now. “I don’t think I want a Venetian empire on my southern border, Benito.”

  Benito waved a disparaging hand. “I don’t think you’re going to get one. Petro Dorma regards holding vast amounts of territory—especially hostile territory—as an expensive waste of effort. He’d rather have trading bases and suck the money out of the territory without having to look after it
. He’s said as much to the Council of Ten. I was there. I heard him. And they agreed. Such things would take an army, which Venice does not have, and would have to pay for. No Venetian likes to pay for anything as hungry and greedy as an army.”

  The grin widened. “How very Venetian.”

  Benito laughed. “It works for us. Any word from our last joint venture, by the way?”

  “The Knights of the Holy Trinity and the Mongol? No. I still have a messenger waiting in the village nearest the border. I learned a great deal from them.”

  “Oh, such as?” asked Benito.

  “I have learned that they are not King Emeric’s Magyar cavalry. And the Mongols are not the Croats. I do not think we want any part in fighting against either.” He proceeded to tell Benito about the ambush and how the knights and the Mongols had given the hopeful “bandits” of Peshtanc a very pointed lesson. “This is Illyria. Someone will always try it out.”

  “I shouldn’t think they’d try it twice. Or anyone else will be hurry to try it a second time.”

  Iskander chuckled. “No. You were lucky find me here, by the way. I go east tomorrow. There are raids to conduct, kinsman, and work to be done.”

  Benito nodded with satisfaction. “That’s convenient. I need to go east as fast as possible. I’ll even put up with riding to do so.”

  “I had forgotten your legendary skill in the saddle,” said the King of the Mountains. “It’s a good thing we are taking sleighs full of equipment then. Snow in the mountains makes moving easier, not worse, as long as it is hard-packed and not too deep. We have a few little cannon we plan to reduce some fortresses with. And I must talk to various chieftains in Macedon about the news you bring. I think this may be a good time for some territorial expansion.”

  It would keep the thematic armies of Thrace and Thessally busy, thought Benito. “Our mutual profit then.”

  “Yes, it’ll keep them off your back,” said Iskander, to whom this had plainly occurred too.

  Not for the first time, Benito realized that they were rather alike in their thought processes. “It’ll make for a bloody summer.”

  Iskander nodded. “But we might as well take what advantage we can.”

  * * *

  The next few weeks were cold, and interesting. Benito got to know the enigmatic Iskander a great deal better, and to realize just what a task he had dealing with the various mountain tribes and clans—and their many feuds and raids. The Derrones would sooner kill their neighbors the Agriones than fight Byzantines, and would only combine to fight Byzantium if a third party—Iskander, whom they both respected and gave fealty to—acted as intermediary. They were tough people, but fiercely independent. If they’d been a little less inclined to fight each other, Byzantium would long ago have fallen.

  Then in Macedonia, Benito struck out on his own, heading south with a guide Iskander provided to Aenus, a small Genovese colony and trading city at the mouth of the Maritsa river.

  From there it was a mere day’s boat-ride to the Callipolis peninsula, where he nearly gave the guards stationed there conniptions by turning up at their post.

  “M’Lord,” said an unobtrusive, sandy-haired man, as Benito walked into Callipolis-town. “M’Lord, Duke Dell’este has been…enquiring after you.”

  The man had all the hallmarks Benito had come to associate with successful spy—that is, he was very ordinary. “Is he incandescently angry or anxious?”

  The spy bit his lip. “I really couldn’t say, M’Lord. Both I think. Can I send him word that you are here, safe?”

  Benito was sure his permission would not count for much. “I’m going there, as fast as possible.”

  “There is a galleass from the Genovese fleet in port.”

  That was the best news he’d had in weeks. “Good. Let us go and talk to the captain. I’m sure he can be persuaded to give both of us a lift to Pera.”

  Pera

  Enrico Dell’este looked up from his maps at the knock at the door. Antimo. He knew that knock.

  “Enter,” he said, using a magnifying glass to peer at the print and not looking up. “You can tell me just what you wrote here, Bartelozzi. I don’t imagine you have any news of that grandson of mine?” There was just a hint of anxiety in the old duke’s voice.

  “I do have news,” said Antimo.

  “What? What news? Tell me quickly, man.”

  “He’s walking up the hill,” said Antimo, smiling. “I got here faster because I don’t have men cheering and holding me up.”

  “Where the Hades did he come from?” Enrico demanded, unable to hide his relief.

  “According to my man, he just came from Callipolis on a Genovese vessel.”

  “Then that letter was some kind of forgery. Has he been a prisoner? Was there treachery?”

  “You can ask him yourself, M’Lord. By the sounds of it he is entering the tower now. You can hear the cheering.”

  “I think, Antimo, that I will not go to meet him. I will sit down.”

  “As you wish, your Grace,” said Antimo. “I shall leave you.”

  “Stay, Antimo. I…I have reasons. Observe him closely.”

  So Antimo Bartelozzi was in the room when Benito strode in, beaming. “I thought, at the very least, Grandfather, you would have reduced the wall a bit more by now.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Benito paused. “I assume you did not get my letter?”

  “I did.”

  “Ah. Well, I have several more for you.” Benito dug in his pouch. “From Doge Dorma. He is not too well. He was poisoned by Visconti agents, but is recovering.”

  Benito put the letter, bearing the seal of the Doge of Venice, on the table. “And these two were waiting in Venice for a vessel to carry them. They are from Baron De Terassa.”

  De Terassa was acting as regent in Ferrara in the duke’s absence. Enrico looked at the letters without touching them. The seals had not been broken.

  “I spoke with M’Lord Calmi about them,” said Benito. “I thought if there was a problem in Ferrara I’d best know what it was before I left. He seemed to know. Said it was a tempest in a wineglass.”

  “De Terrassa is an old woman,” said Enrico Dell’este, still not taking either letter. “Now tell me exactly where you have been, and why you could not tell me before you left, boy?”

  “I have been to a villa just north of Venice, on the edge of Veronese territory, and rescued my daughter,” said Benito evenly. “And I came back, as fast as I could, by way of Venice, Corfu, and Illyria, where Iskander Beg is now moving to attack Thessaly and Thrace.”

  “And without the fairy tales?” asked the duke Dell’este, frostily. And then, startled, he turned his head to stare at new arrivals. “Who the hell are you? Get out!”

  That was perhaps a natural reaction to the intrusion of two large dogs, and an imperious and angry-looking tall woman with a queen’s ransom in gold and jet jewelry into the room.

  He had not seen her arrive there, and the door was still closed.

  Chapter 43

  The Veneto

  Carlo Sforza was not a man who had spent much of his life musing on might-have-beens or regrets. He was a man renowned for finding the weak point of an enemy’s defenses and applying overwhelming force. Brutal efficiency was his strength, not sensitivity

  Right now he was indulging in some strange feelings, and some regrets. That boy…and the child. What would have happened, had he taken the boys, raised that one himself, had him by his side? What would Benito Valdoste have become?

  Well, he could not undo the past. But he could look to the future.

  He rode forward to meet Count Di Lamis. The count was suffering from a bad mixture of terror and attempted hauteur. In an era when most Italian noblemen had had to face combat, Di Lamis had been singly good at avoiding it. His enemies died or were imprisoned or betrayed. Lances at his throat were a novelty to him, and not one he was enjoying, by the look of it.

  “Sforza! These men of yo
urs have no respect for rank,” he blustered.

  Sforza wasted no time on niceties. “Explain what you’re doing here, Augustino.”

  Di Lamis was sweathing, but he drew himself up and looked down his nose at Sforza. “I am about Duke Visconti’s business. Get your troops out of our way. They killed several of my men. You’re going have to explain that to the duke.”

  Francisco smiled at him from next to his master. They’d done this before. No one believed Carlo Sforza could be gentle or sympathetic. “Count Di Lamis, this is a dangerous and lawless country. Can we escort you?” he asked, silkily. “Perhaps assist, if we can. It is, after all, our task to help the duke’s men if possible.”

  Di Lamis faltered just a moment. Did he suspect that they knew? Surely not. “I am on an important mission…I cannot tell you of it.”

  “Then we can’t help you. Or trust you. There is treachery about, and accidents happen out here, and no-one will know just who killed you,” said Sforza. There was no threat there. Just promise.

  Di Lamis plainly knew how Duke Visconti viewed his mercenary general. “I am ordered to…to fetch a valuable hostage. Nothing to do with your campaign, I swear.”

  “Where from? There is fighting south of here,” said Francisco. “Venetians.”

  Di Lamis began sweating again. “How close? We may indeed need an escort. To the Villa Parvitto, close to Casale di Scodosia.”

  And that was all the Wolf needed. Carlo Sforza pointed to two of his sergeants. “Take him to Bevilacqua and toss him in the deepest dungeon there, under heavy guard. I will forgo the pleasure of beheading him myself, immediately. That may come his way later.”

  Count Augustino Di Lamis went white as they grabbed him, and hauled him off his horse. “Unhand me! You dare not. Duke Visconti will see you die slowly and painfully for this. I am a personal friend of his, you cretins!”