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  The two women came in, one sweeping the old, dried leaves before her, the other strewing the new leaves. When the chamber was prepared, the two acolytes went to lower the ladder. Few would come tonight, for it was raining so hard that it would be difficult to come and go undetected. Here, in the middle of the Venetians, there were few devotees anyway. But this was the second oldest temple on the island, a place where the life-flame had been kindled many thousands of years ago. The temple had always had at least a holy mother and three or four devotees.

  The priestess had not expected a group larger than three or four. But as she stepped out of the shadows she saw that tonight, despite the rain, there was an unfamiliar face, a comfortably middle-aged woman.

  The priestess saw with a twinge of disappointment that the newcomer was beyond child-bearing age, unfortunately. Months had passed, and there was still no one willing to take up the almond. The rains had come, the crops—if the invaders left anything of them—would be no worse than usual, but this could not last forever.

  Not for the first time, the priestess wondered how much of this was because of the Christians and their priests. For centuries, She and they had lived, if not in harmony, at least not in conflict. But just after the death of the last bride, the priestess had sensed that there was something inimical to the Goddess that was searching for the source of Her power.

  Shortly after that, the attacks began. And shortly after that the four stranger-priests had arrived, and the two hawks that were the eyes for the hostile power. Was it coincidence? It hardly seemed possible, and that was especially so once the priestess had learned that these four priests, and their leader in particular, were closely linked with the Grand Metropolitan of Rome.

  True, they had close ties to the Hypatian Order, which, unlike the Servants of the Trinity, were not known for the persecution of those who were pagan. In fact, it had been the Hypatian Siblings that had dwelled here quietly for so very long. But this particular priest had a reputation for militancy that was not typical of the Order. And directly after arriving here, he had attempted to work magic.

  She had put a stop to that, needless to say. No one worked magic upon this island without Her approval. But how long could that hold? Great and evil powers were being bent against Her, to usurp Her Power, and without a bride, the Cold God could not defend Her.

  The priestess drew her thoughts back to the ceremony, and the new woman who had come. After purification and the rituals she must speak with her. But now the withered bay leaves swept up from the floor must be fed to the life-flame.

  The women repeated the old, old words. "Out of death there is new life."

  * * *

  It was, as the priestess suspected, someone from outside the walls. She had known this would come; to an extent, she was only surprised that it had taken this long. The captain-general was not, by nature, a cruel man, but he was a foolish one to think that he could demand the labor and allegiance of the populace and not assume the responsibility for them.

  And attempting to close the gates against those who deserved shelter here was nothing but an exercise in futility, as the presence of this woman showed.

  "My brother is with the boatyard. The sea took my Yani three years ago. My daughters are married. My sons are at sea," the woman said, simply. "My brother is here. The captain-general refused to allow the men to bring their families. But the men brought us in anyway, by the boatyard gate. There are several of the timber-sheds that are not in use, and now that the Hungarians are outside the walls there is nothing happening in the Little Arsenal anyway. It is crowded, but it is safer than outside." She sighed. "Why does the Goddess allow these Xenos to trample our soil?"

  "Men's business, my daughter. We do not make war, and they do not make children. Invaders come and go, but the Goddess remains."

  She did not speak aloud the question that was in her own mind.

  . . . for how long?

  * * *

  Caesare Aldanto walked past the man who had been crucified upside-down outside King Emeric's tent as if he wasn't there.

  Emeric was sprawled in his gilded and gemstone-encrusted throne. Aldanto bowed mechanically. "You wished to see me?"

  Emeric stared at the blond man. He stood up, and put his hands on Aldanto's throat. "You interfered with the admiral of my carracks and sent them north in pursuit of four vessels. You interfered and used my name to direct the Dalmatians in an attack on the same vessels. We lost a number of the galliots. According to my admiral you have only captured one of the Venetian vessels. Why should I allow you to live?"

  Emeric allowed the pain to flow from his hands into his intended victim. But Caesare Aldanto didn't scream and writhe. He didn't even blink. He answered in the same calm voice that he'd used earlier.

  "Because I had credible information that they were coming to the relief of Corfu. The ships had Knights of the Holy Trinity on board, including, according to our captives, Prince Manfred of Brittany. I considered that you would wish them sunk rather than at large on Corfu. There were also a number of powerful and dangerous magicians on board. We were not aware of that. That is why three of the ships escaped."

  Emeric was somewhat shaken by the lack of response from the blond Milanese man; it took him aback, and left him thinking madly down directions he had rather not have gone. There could be little doubt now—Aldanto was indeed a puppet-man. He stepped back. Always before, he'd known his power stood between him and any threat of a knife-wielding assassin. With this man . . . he was potentially in his enemy's grasp. He had no doubt at all that Grand Duke Jagiellon was indeed his enemy, even if their purposes ran in the same direction for now.

  Or could this be a trap?

  Then logic reasserted itself. Jagiellon's man would hardly have risked his position and Emeric's displeasure if Jagiellon did not desperately wish the Knights to be sunk at sea.

  "I was not told about the prisoners," said Emeric, moderating his tone by a degree or two. "Why have they not been brought to me?"

  Aldanto shrugged. "Ask your admiral. But in truth only a handful of seamen were captured. The captain elected to remain with his vessel and blow her magazine up when she was boarded. The captives were taken from one of her small boats. The charges failed to sink her, but there were considerable losses among our boarders."

  PART VI

  May, 1539 a.d.

  Chapter 42

  "It strikes me very much as a conspiracy," said Eberhard. "I agree with your assessment, Francesca, but of course it is still likely to place us in very bad favor with the governor—the podesta, as they call him—and the captain-general, if and when the messages get through."

  Manfred shrugged. "What they don't know, their hearts won't grieve over. Besides, Francesca has already cleared it with the governor."

  Francesca looked innocent. Too innocent, Benito thought. "He's an old dear, but quite ineffectual. The conduct of war or siege is officially the military's business. However, I did ask him if the prince might be allowed to send messages to the Emperor. He said it was hardly something he could refuse permission for, but that it was of course impossible at the moment. I smiled and thanked him."

  "Well, I suppose if the messenger happened to go via Venice, you could hardly blame him for telling the authorities about the situation here," said Eberhard with a perfectly straight face. "How are your preparations going, by the way?"

  Manfred grimaced a little. "Well, the early morning detail guarding the outer wall was easy enough to organize. Our men are tired but still wish to do their part in the defense of the Citadel. The boat . . . well, that's the reason I suggested to Francesca we might have to go to the captain-general. I've tried to find one to buy, without making a great to-do about it. But this isn't Venice, you know. Most of the boats in the Citadel belong to the shipyard. Of course there were lots of fishing boats out in the town. But they're rather far out of reach."

  Francesca tilted her head to the side. "And I said, you and Benito should perhaps go and talk
to Maria and her husband."

  Benito shook his head. "Maria would give us a shipyard vessel in the blink of an eye. But Umberto—well, he's a good fellow, but he's a rules and regulations sort of man."

  "He might still know someone with a boat to sell." She looked consideringly at Erik and Benito. "I think we need to think about your appearances, also. You can't go like that."

  Benito caught on immediately. "I look as if I could possibly be a local. But Erik wouldn't pass in the dark. We'll need hair dye and old clothes."

  "Something to stain Erik's skin too," said Francesca, looking pointedly at both hair and skin.

  "I'm not planning to go passing as a local," said Erik, a little stiffly. "I'll stick to the hills and forest patches. These Hungarians won't even see me. I might blacken my face for the night-work. . . ."

  Francesca smiled. "She'll still love you even if you're dark-haired, Erik. And never mind the Hungarians. It's the locals who will run from a blond-haired man, and you will need them if you are to find her, I suspect. We've got a map of how to get to Count Dentico's villa, but they might easily have moved out. You'll have to get directions from the locals. It won't help that you can't speak Greek and will frighten every local silly."

  Erik shook his head. "How do you cope with her always being right, Manfred? I have a little classical Greek, but the language has changed."

  "Get used to it," said Manfred with a grin. "It's usually easier to say they are right even if they're patently wrong." He ducked hastily.

  Francesca just raised an eyebrow.

  "That is a real danger signal," said Manfred. "It means it's being saved up. I'm just trying to further his education, Francesca."

  "I'll just save that up, too," she said, with a thin smile. "Now, let's go down and talk to Umberto and Maria. There will be people selling things here in the Citadel, and Maria will know where."

  Von Gherens looked speculatively at Benito. "The other thing you'll need to get him is a knife. He can't carry a Ferrara main gauche that would cost a fisherman five years' earnings, and a rapier's right out."

  Benito gritted his teeth. Changing out of Case Vecchie clothes was something he was actually looking forward to, although he knew his feet would find being shoeless a painful experience. Going without his rapier and his beautifully balanced dagger would be a lot harder. He didn't feel dressed without at least the main gauche. But Von Gherens was right; he knew that from his time as a bridge-brat. One look at his main gauche, and even an idiot would know he wasn't what he was supposed to be.

  Erik grinned. "And I suppose you'd like me to leave my new hatchet behind too? It's not a patch on my Vinland one, but the swordsmith at Mainz didn't seem to understand me clearly enough."

  The scar-faced old Prussian Ritter sniffed "I think he probably thought you wanted it for chopping firewood, not having seen you use that barbaric thing. The Hungarians probably won't recognize it either. Until it's too late."

  Erik nodded. "I can relieve them of anything else I need. And I think I've got a knife for you, Benito, in with my gear. It's better than any cheap local blade, anyway. I'll dig it out for you. It's a Shetland islander's knife. It's very plain. Could pass for a fisherman's tool, but it's good steel and well balanced."

  * * *

  "I'd have to get permission before selling you a boat," said Umberto, worriedly.

  "Do you know of anyone who has one to sell?" asked Erik delicately.

  Umberto shook his head. Then put up a finger. "It's not strictly a boat . . . but one of the Corfiotes who does some work for the Little Arsenal has his coracle stored down at the shipyard. He'd probably sell, right now. I don't see him using it for a while."

  Maria, however, seemed enthusiastic about the project. "And clothes and dye for Erik's hair . . . Well, there is Fianelli. He sells secondhand goods. I wouldn't look too hard at where they came from, 'Nito, but that won't be any shock to you. He's got some quack medicines and stuff too. I wouldn't be surprised to find some dye there. I'll go along if you like. And green walnuts will do for skin color."

  She looked at Benito. "You came to wish me farewell and Godspeed. You're doing the kind of mad thing you like doing best. I'll wish you the same. At least you're doing it for a good cause and not your usual damnfool reasons."

  Benito grinned. "And you and Umberto take care too, especially of my god-niece."

  Maria scowled fiercely at him.

  * * *

  Fianelli had what Benito was looking for. After he left, Benito muttered to himself: "Good thing Erik didn't come along with me. That man practically stinks of foulness. If he knew an obvious nonislander was trying to leave the Citadel, he'd try to sell the information. Me, he just thinks I'm seeking a disguise for an assignation."

  * * *

  That was, in fact, exactly what Fianelli thought. It never occurred to him to warn his master Emeric that an escape was being planned from the Citadel. Within a day, he'd forgotten all about the sale. Fianelli sold a lot of stuff.

  Unfortunately, it didn't occur to Benito to warn anyone about Fianelli, either. Benito had run into a lot of foul men in his short life, after all. And while he'd learned a lot about sieges from Falkenberg, he really hadn't fully absorbed yet one of Francesca's lessons: More fortresses fall by treachery than by strength of arms.

  * * *

  By midnight it had started to rain. A scruffy, tousle-haired, barefoot young man and a tall, dark-haired, plain-clad, and very dark-faced man were standing in front of Francesca for inspection. "Your hair's too clean, Benito. Remember you've got Manfred's seal there."

  Manfred grinned. "He's the scruffiest personal letter I ever sent."

  Benito grinned in reply. "You had to drop the sealing-wax on my ear, didn't you? Black wax is hotter than red."

  Francesca had a close look at the tangle of black curls around Benito's ear. "It certainly isn't easy to find. Won't Count Von Stemitz be a trifle surprised? Give him my best regards by the way, when you see him."

  Hiding coin had been a bigger problem. Benito had some ten ducats in smallish change. Too much would attract suspicion. Too little and he wouldn't be able to afford to live, never mind travel. He had a battered pin in his scarf, which might possibly once have been silver, and looked like plated brass from which the plating was rubbing off. No one would look too hard at such a tawdry thing. Except . . . The cheap stones that had been in it had been replaced with two good rubies, mounted in so hard you would have to break the thing to get them out, and had a liberal coating of dirt reapplied. It looked like rubbish. Benito wouldn't have bothered to steal it himself when he'd been a bridge-brat. The stones, cleaned up, would fetch a good thirty ducats each, even from a fence.

  Benito was barefoot. In a ragged waist-sash, he carried a plain knife with a small brass guard and a cord-bound handle.

  In all, Benito looked the part. Erik didn't. His face shape was just wrong. Too angular; his hair was too straight and too fine; and his eye color was a sure giveaway.

  Francesca shook her head. "I think this is a lost cause. Maybe we could curl his hair . . ."

  "I could break his nose for him," offered Von Gherens, feeling his own skew organ set in his burn-scarred face. "Always makes a man look different, that."

  "Thank you," said Erik, putting his hand protectively over his threatened nose. "You are well suited to bodyguarding Manfred."

  "I think you should just wear this woolen hat," said Francesca decisively. "And keep away from people if you can. Claim a passing sailor got you on your mother. That could account for the looks."

  Erik smiled. Now that he was actually going to look for Svanhild, he seemed imperturbable; strangely at peace and at ease. "Why, thank you, too, Francesca."

  * * *

  Manfred grunted. "It's barely a cockleshell, Erik. If the wind comes up you'll be swamped in moments."

  Benito agreed with Manfred, but they'd had some trouble finding a boat, quietly.

  Erik didn't seem perturbed, however. At the moment noth
ing seemed to perturb Erik. The Corfiote seaman had refused, even for a considerable bribe, to guide them out. His first experience of being under fire, and the new troops arriving in the carracks, had frightened the bravado out of him. When he'd refused, Erik had just shrugged, asked a few questions, and proceeded as planned. The arrival of several more ships from the south at sundown hadn't worried him. Even the skin and withy coracle, normally used to hold a caulker working around a larger vessel, was fine by him.

  "It's light enough to lower down the wall, Manfred. And the sea out there is not the Atlantic."

  "Still looks like a cockleshell. And I wish you had your armor on."

  Erik chuckled. "Von Gherens, this is what you'll have to deal with. One minute, I'm going to capsize. The next I should wear armor so I can drown when I do capsize. Stop worrying, Manfred. Next thing you'll want me to take a horse in the cockleshell, and wood for the signal fires."

  "He's just jealous because he doesn't want to sit inside a fortress under siege while you're out there," said the older Ritter. "And don't worry, Hakkonsen. We'll keep him here."

  "You're not savvy enough to be let out on your own," grumbled Manfred.

  Erik smiled, a flash of teeth in the darkness. "I'm not dealing with the political infighting in Mainz, or tavern or brothel brawls, Manfred. I'll be fine out there. There's a lot of wild country; I cut my teeth in wilderness like this. You worry about Benito. He doesn't know how to move in it. Now let us go. I want to get moving while we still have a chance to get out without detection."