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  Benito grinned. He liked this side of Antimo very much. “Then let’s figure out just how hostile we can get Thrace to be.”

  Chapter 51

  Constantinople

  Every morning, Benito went out to the pier and back. “Just for exercise,” he claimed. He wasn’t going to drop his blood in the water, but he hoped for a fin and a toss of seaweed hair, and some better news from the sea.

  And one day, he got them. “Back, are you?” said Benito, as the triton flexed his sea-colored shoulders and tossed his hair.

  Androcles shrugged. “We like to ride the storm-waves, but the seas on the other side of the Bosphorus are barely worth being out in now.”

  After two and a half months in Callipolis and Constantinople, Androcles’ news could hardly have been more welcome to Benito. There had been a sequence of the nasty storms from the north that the Black Sea was known for. That had played havoc with any ideas he’d had about an early sailing date. Now, it seemed, the weather was settling. Benito knew that, inevitably, their foe knew about the fleet in Constantinople. He almost certainly knew what they planned to do. But it was a long way from Constantinople to the Gulf of Odessa.

  Even more welcome—and surprising—news arrived that very day. A trader from Thessalonica arrived on a small coastal trading vessel that took advantage of local knowledge of the coast and weather to hop hastily from safe anchorage to safe anchorage and asked for an interview with Benito Valdosta. Normally, the man would have had as much chance as any of the other Greeks wanting to do this—which was to say none at all. But the trader parted with a suitable bribe, and asked that Benito be told that he had news from a kinsman in Illyria.

  When that phrase arrived in Benito’s ears, he had the fellow into his office with great rapidity. Soon he and the Old Fox were pouring over Manfred’s letter and pondering over its contents and the implications of the news out of the lands of the Golden Horde.

  “The most important news is that they’re alive and reasonably safe,” said Benito, exhaling. “I thought I might have sent them to their deaths.”

  “Not for want of trying, by the sounds of it,” said Enrico, shaking his head.

  “With Erik and Manfred? You do have to try very hard,” said Benito, grinning all over his face. “It sounds as if they’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest and a half. And swatted most of it to death.” Oh, he wished he could be there…or that there were two of him. One for there, one for here.

  “Whatever else they’ve done, they’ve reduced the threat to Constantinople,” said Enrico, sounding as relieved as Benito, but for different reasons.

  Benito bent his mind to their own strategy. Manfred and Erik could handle themselves, and he no longer needed to worry that they were about to be bitten by a viper they didn’t suspect. “Good. That means that I can take a lot more men with us. With Jagiellon forewarned, as is almost inevitable, it could be that we’ll need them.”

  “By the looks of this, we should call for the Ilkhan’s tarkhan,” said Enrico, tapping the letter. “Just as soon as we have these other documents from this White Horde translated. One piece of treachery is enough. Let us make sure that they contain no second trap.”

  Benito nodded.

  The fleet could sail. And soon. He went to give orders with a singing in his heart. That meant out of Constantinople, and hopefully home to his wife and daughter. Spring was coming…spring was coming. And in the meantime, he sent workd to the tarkhan that there was word from the Golden Horde.

  A little later he was called to a meeting with Tarkhan Qishkai. The tarkhan had taken for himself—Benito did not ask how—a little palace apart from the Imperial palace. He and the Old Fox met the man in a room like a jewel-box, ornamented with mosaics and warmed with a brazier. They gave him their news, and passed over copies of the pertinent parts of the letters as they sat on padded benches beside the brazier, which gave off faintly perfumed heat.

  The man was a professional diplomat, but the relief was still visible in the set of his shoulders. “It appears that fortune has favored us. The attempt to cause a breach between the Ilkhan, the Golden Horde and the Holy Roman Empire has not succeeded. This is the best news you could have given me, short of telling me that you could transport me to the clans on a flying carpet.”

  “By my reading of the matter you may still have some fences to mend, especially with the Golden Horde,” said Enrico, dryly. “And it wasn’t so much fortune as skill and force of arms that won the day, despite being surrounded by superior numbers. I just thought I might mention this. But at least you will not have the Knights of the Holy Trinity arrayed in battle against your forces.”

  The tarkhan smiled broadly. “Well, the Golden Horde are very traditional. They haven’t really embraced modern weaponry. But it would appear that the reputation of the knights is well-deserved.” He clapped his hands, and a servant appeared with mulled wine.

  Dell’este nodded sagely, taking a flagon. “I can find you a few foes of theirs that would agree with you. But anyway, at least your master the Ilkhan is relieved of that care.”

  “We are most grateful for this news, but,” the tarkhan said, pausing, “if I may prevail on your good-will a little further. It would be to our mutual benefit if we could reach the lands of the Golden Horde, so I may deal with this traitorous renegade. The Ilkhan has set a considerable price on his head.”

  Benito cocked his head to one side. “I’m not sure that would be possible. We sail to war, Tarkhan Qishkai. We’ve got a fleet to deal with, dockyards to destroy, and then we’ll probably venture to the northwest coast, to see if contact can be made with Prince Manfred and his entourage. You’d be better advised to remain here until, or if, we succeed. Then trading vessels will venture out. We’re not taking horse-transports with us. They, and some of the knights, remain here.”

  But the tarkhan waved that aside as a petty consideration. “Should we reach the lands of the Golden Horde horses will be the least of our worries, M’Lord Valdosta. And I have a considerable escort. We are in conflict with your enemy too. You could use some extra men, if you are leaving some of your knights behind. And having us with you will make it easier to contact your Prince Manfred. No hand in the Golden Horde will be turned against us. The same would not be true of you, foreigners coming into their territory. They would attack first, and ask questions later.”

  Benito pursed his lips. The man was right. But… “You make a good argument. But it is not without risk, Tarkhan. We cannot guarantee your safety. We cannot guarantee our own.”

  The tarkhan’s gaze was steady, and his voice firm. “To fulfil the Ilkhan’s express order with all possible speed must be my first desire. And it would appear that this is the best way I could do so. The Bulgar remain our foes. A matter of an old slight—but they carry a feud, nearly as well as we do.”

  “Don’t ever start a fight with the Illyrians then. They’ve got feuds which have gone on so long the original slight has been forgotten for centuries,” said Enrico, with a little snort. “I am sure this can be organized, Tarkhan. We’ll need to consult with our Genovese and Aragonese allies first, of course. And it may be necessary to split your men up onto a number of vessels.”

  The tarkhan smiled again. But Benito noted the steel behind the smile. He might be affable, he might be many things, but one thing he was not, and that was weak. “If necessary, that could be done. I shall compose a letter to my master now, and convey the good news, and the steps I am taking. I thank you once again for telling me this and conveying those documents to me. Your prince has fallen among very powerful people. They will protect him with their lives. Their honor is famous. So is their princess, both for her beauty and her wrestling skills.”

  “Sounds like Manfred will be right at home and Erik will be as uncomfortable as it is possible to be,” said Benito, laughing at the thought. “I hope she throws our Icelander around a little.”

  “Oh, he can’t afford to lose. She bets a hundred horses against her hand in marri
age,” explained the tarkhan.

  “Ah. Well, he’d not want to win then,” said Benito, laughing even harder. “Besides the fact I don’t think he has a hundred horses. It’s a pity.”

  * * *

  The issue of getting the tarkhan’s presence on the expedition around Admiral Borana and Count Alfons was more complex. Not that they minded—but they wanted to be the carriers. And of course, there was the thorny issue of who would stay and administer Constantinople. Benito surely didn’t want to do so, Enrico Dell’este had more interest in his grandson than the possession—in whole or in part—of another city than Ferrara. Admiral Borana and Count Alfons both relished the idea. On the other hand—they needed someone capable of holding the city against their return.

  “Look, why don’t we split the roles. The civic administration is a corrupt mess anyway: we’ll leave Borana to do that. If we can have a Venetian as military commander,” said Benito. “Borana will huff and puff…and we’ll give in, and agree to Augustino Leito of Ferrara as a compromise.”

  * * *

  Another crossroads. Another libation. And another unnerving appearance of the Goddess of the Night out of nowhere. “You offered your help,” said Benito to Hekate.

  Hekate bowed slightly. It appeared that she had not forgotten anything over the last two months. Maybe the lessons were going to stick. “Yes. You said that you felt there was no debt, but I feel one exists.”

  “We’re going after Jagiellon’s fleet in the Black Sea—hopefully before it can reach full strength,” said Benito. “And if you really feel you owe me a debt, I have a way for you to make everything even again.”

  Hekate frowned slightly. “I have little to do with war, Benito Valdosta. I am the guardian of gates and the chooser of ways.”

  “That’s just it,” he said eagerly. “We’re trying to close a gate, Lady. And to stop the creature you called the Black Demon of the north—it controls Grand Duke Jagiellon—from bringing an army and a fleet as a battering ram to force his way into the our peaceful ocean.” Benito pulled a face. “I’m talking to a goddess. Let’s be accurate here, the Mediterranean is relatively peaceful. Most of it is under the influence of the Peterine church. It’s a little after your time, but they have a doctrine of tolerance. That is all very well, but it needs a robust defense, sometimes. Something like Chernobog would destroy it.”

  Hekate looked inquisitorially at him, and Benito got the feeling that full declaration was always a good thing. “We’re a nation of traders, Lady Hekate. The treasures of the east flow through Venice, and Genoa. It’s our lifeblood and this would affect our trade and threaten our people. We’ll go to war to protect them.”

  “You would make better guardians of the gate and the place between west and east than the black demon of the north or his minions,” conceded Hekate.

  “Guarding it is the last thing I desire,” he said fervently. “I want to go and deal with this fleet, make all as safe as may be, and then go home to my wife and baby girl.”

  This actually drew a smile from Hekate. “Then what is it you want of me?” she asked.

  He took a deep breath. “To make sure that this gate is still open, if and when we come back.”

  Her head came up a little, like one of her dogs scenting prey. “If and when?”

  He was as honest as he had ever been. “It’s war, Lady Hekate. People get killed. We might not win this. We might win the war, but still not make it back. I’m not the crazy young fool who thought himself immortal anymore. I haven’t been for a while.”

  She was silent for a while. “Do some of your people remain behind?”

  “Some of them, yes,” he told her. “Some of the knights, the admiral of the Genovese fleet, who will be supposed to be administering the city. I don’t trust him, and I don’t think he is good for the city. But his ships are needed, and we’re better without him, but with most of the ships. Enrico goes with me. His agent, Antimo, will be organizing in the countryside along the Bosphorus. This will be his base. I trust him, but he may not be able to deal with Borana’s idiocy,” said Benito, calmly. “And that is what I would like you to deal with, if it is in your power.”

  Hekate nodded slowly. That was plainly pleasing to her. Then she asked: “The descendant of the Shardana?”

  “He sails with us. I could try to leave him here. But Borana doesn’t like him.” Benito sucked on his lower lip. “I’m not sure what would happen to him if I left him behind. At least if he’s with me, I’ll know that there is no one that’s trying to use him as a scapegoat. And he’s a damn good strategist.”

  “The Shardana always went raiding for grain and kine. It is their way. Has he a family?” she asked.

  “I believe so. A wife and children back in Sardinia.” This seemed to please her too.

  “I will do this,” she said, with a little, firm nod. “I will guard the gate. And I will give you a gift, not without its price, that will hide you and your ships in need. Let me teach you the spell of the threefold way. At sea it will call the sea-mist to cloak you.”

  “That would be much appreciated,” Benito said with a little surprise. “I will carry a lot of lives with me. I’d like to lose as few as possible.”

  “And this is why I will give it to you, Benito Valdosta,” she said, her lips curving upwards, a little. “Because you will save as many as you can.”

  Chapter 52

  Venice

  The Doge plucked at the coverlet with an impatient hand. “I’m really much better,” said Petro. “You can stop fussing like a hen over a single chick, Marco Valdosta.”

  “I’ll stop fussing when you start listening,” said Marco, secretly pleased that his patient was restive. “And that means eating food which is easier on your insides, Doge Dorma. Not the liver of fat goose potted with white truffles.”

  “I’ve had an unpleasant reminder that I may never get the opportunity to eat it again,” said Petro, peevishly. “So I may as well enjoy it while I am still alive. While I have the chance.”

  Oh, this was a very good sign. Complaints, in Marco’s experience, always meant the patient was ready to get back to his life. “Petro, most Doges die of old age. And now that Fillipo Visconti is dead, assassination has become less fashionable. Give it a little time and you’ll be getting back that avoirdupois you shed, by eating all your favorite foods again. In the meanwhile, moderation—and you need to get up more. Exercise a little.”

  Petro sighed. “I have not the strength for it these days. It’s this diet of pap and pabulums.”

  Marco made a mock-sad face at the Doge. “And rationing your wine, no doubt. What happened to the Doge who was insisting on displaying himself from balconies, and attending all his meetings?”

  “You slew him with barley gruel,” Dorma said sourly.

  A footman knocked at the door. “M’Lord Valdosta? Sorry to disturb, but M’Lord Calmi asked me to let you know that an emissary from the self-styled Protector of Milan has arrived.”

  Petro snorted. “Are you usurping my authority there too, Marco? The Council of Ten calls to you and not me?”

  The footman shuffled, uncomfortable with being put in the middle of what seemed to him to be a dangerous almost-argument. “M’Lord, he said to convey the information that he styles himself Cavaliere Francisco Turner.”

  Petro shut his mouth with a snap. And now it was Marco’s turn to gape.

  “I think,” said Petro, “we will grant him a private interview. Well, somewhat private. Here. Inform Calmi. He will doubtless want his spies, or even himself listening in.”

  “And tell someone to find some beer and send it here,” put in Marco with a faint smile. It was easy to smile, now that they all knew that Francisco had been a guardian, not an assassin and kidnapper, and that if it had not been for his quickness in getting back to his master.

  “Beer? Why beer?” asked Petro.

  Marco shrugged. “Francisco seems to have a fondness for it.”

  Petro’s eyebrow rose. “We
ll, can I have some, as you are rationing my wine?”

  A little while later Francisco Turner was escorted to the private withdrawing room of the Doge, where Petro had graduated from a chaise longue to a Dantesca chair, and several extra satin cushions. Francisco was dressed far more elegantly than he had been as Marco’s teacher, but there was still something military about his appearance.

  He bowed first to the Doge, as was proper. “I am glad to see you in a more recovered state, Your Grace.”

  “Not as glad as I would be if Marco would loose the chains on diet,” Dorma pulled a long, sad face. “Cavalier, he has taken your advice, I recall. Burned bread you prescribed last. What of a little goose liver now? Truffles? For God’s sake, oysters, surely?”

  Francisco remained solemn. “Poisons often affect the liver, Your Grace. And rich food and wine make one liverish. It is better not to put too much strain on one’s insides, more particularly as I have not been able to find an account of anyone actually surviving that particular poison. I’m sad to say I support his position.” But, as Dorma made unhappy eyes at him, he relented, a little. “A morsel at a meal might be acceptable. No more than will cover the blade of a knife. A table-knife, Doge Dorma, not some giant barbarian hacking tool intended to cut down trees and heads equally.”

  “Well, a taste is better than none,” said Petro Dorma. “And for that, I am grateful, as I am for my life.” He left off his play-acting. “Marco says your skill and teaching helped, and your knowledge was what turned the trick.”

  “His skill, Your Grace. A little of my help with language, perhaps.” The man smiled wryly. “I did wonder if my master would thank me for it, but it appears that he feels Doge Petro Dorma might be better for Milan and himself than your death would have been.”

  “That’s not what Duke Fillipo Visconti thought,” said Petro Dorma, face unreadable.