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  Benito had the unpleasant realization that his life was in the hands of a bunch of poor people he didn't know very well, who would be well rewarded for selling him out and who would be killed if they were caught harboring him. Worst of all, he didn't understand what they were saying. He resolved to learn Greek, if he got out of here alive.

  * * *

  With his heart pounding, his mouth dry, Spiro heard the Greek officer yell: "What are you doing out here?"

  "We're fishermen," said Taki. "What do you think? We're on our way back home to Levkas. We got caught up in the blow last night and came too far north."

  "Stand by to be boarded."

  A dozen or so marines boarded the boat. The Case Vecchie did his best "I-am-a-poor-scared-fisherman" look. It wasn't hard to do the scared bit, Spiro realized. But he rapidly realized what a genius Taki had been to insist on catching fish last night. The fish, under damped sacks, were still cool and fresh—the most convincing evidence possible that this was, indeed, nothing more than a fishing boat.

  The officer with the marines looked about—obviously searching for refugees, or maybe arms, supplies, valuables. There were few places anyone could hide, so it was a very cursory look. The nets, the boxes of fish, the small crew all said fishing boat.

  "Why did you come so far north?" he demanded. "Orders went to all the villages that no one was to fish within sight of Antipaxos."

  Taki cringed. "My lord. In the dark we drifted too far. We didn't mean to . . ."

  The Byzantine officer hit him, sending him sprawling across the fish. "Fool. By the smell of you, I think you drank too much to celebrate the catch. It wasn't the wind that got you here, it was the wine. If we find you this far north again, we'll sink you. Do you understand?"

  Taki, on his knees now, nodded furiously. "Yes, milord! It won't happen again." His voice quavered.

  "It had better not." The officer pointed to two of the marines. "Here, you two. Take one of these boxes. We could use some fresh fish."

  "Milord, my fish," protested Taki.

  "Consider it a fine for breaking the law," said the officer. "And think how lucky you are not to have your filthy little vessel sunk."

  Taki did the grovel magnificently. "Thank you, milord. But . . . can I at least have my box back? I'm a poor fisherman, milord . . ."

  The officer laughed. "No."

  * * *

  The galley receded. The apparently hard-working crew of the fishing boat started to laugh. And laugh.

  "Prissy-assed malákas." Taki blew a raspberry at the departing ship and then grinned at Benito. "You're my witness, Case Vecchie. They boarded my ship in the Venetian Republic's waters, stole my fish and—worst of all!—stole Venetian property."

  Benito looked suitably mystified. "Venetian property?"

  "The fish box. It belongs to the fish market in Kérkira. It is the property of the Republic of Venice—which is what that prim little official at the fish market tells me every time I come in. Property of Venice! And he took it!"

  The crew started to laugh again.

  "Piracy! That's what it was," said Spiro, trying to keep a straight face, passing over a jug of wine.

  Benito took a swig and nodded sagely. "We'll swear out a charge against them in front of the podesta, and let him have the ambassador summoned, for a severe reprimand and a demand for reparations."

  "Especially for the valuable catch," said Kosti. "The idiots chose a box of trash fish."

  "So when do we turn and run across the straits to Bari or Brindisi?" asked Benito.

  Taki raised an eyebrow. "We're not going to run across the strait. There they have twenty-five lousy little leagues to patrol. But they can't patrol the whole Ionian Sea. You're in for a haul, boy. I hope you don't get seasick easily."

  * * *

  Emeric looked with satisfaction at the bluish haze of gunpowder smoke blowing gently across the channel. The forty-eight-pound bombards took a huge amount of powder and a long time to load, but they were his second choice for reducing and penetrating the walls of a besieged fortress. Evening was drawing in, but the bombardment would not stop for that.

  His first choice was treachery. Months before the assault on Corfu, he had begun to prepare the ground for it. Far better than the captain-general, he already knew the number of Corfiote refugees within the walls of the Citadel. He knew how much food there was in their garrison's storehouse, and he was already getting daily reports from Fianelli. He knew a great deal about the likes and weaknesses of the various officers, too.

  One of the things that had made Emeric so sure Corfu would be an easy conquest was the past history of the captain-general. True enough, the man was not corrupt, but he was a vain and incompetent fool. His handling of the insurrection in the Venetian enclave in Trebizond had been so bad that it had gotten him sent to a station where there would never again be a need for military action. He was a bungler, but a bungler with political connections. In the Venetian Republic, a bungler whose godfather is the Doge could go far. Unfortunately for Captain-General Tomaselli, there was a new Doge.

  The garrison commander, on the other hand, was a disaster from Emeric's point of view. Commander Leopoldo would have to die. Emeric had bought several of the soldiers within the forces at the commander's disposal. Most of the troops serving the Venetian Republic were mercenaries, for sale to the highest bidder. It was just unfortunate that they did not have a mercenary commanding officer. So: Commander Leopoldo would have to be assassinated. When he was engaged in some firefight—best to do it unobtrusively.

  Emeric went back into his tent and drew the circle. Scratched the pentacle and began the ritual that would allow him to speak to the chief of his spies within the Citadel. At this time of day, Fianelli would be in his cellar waiting.

  PART VII

  June, 1539 a.d.

  Chapter 49

  Francesca shook her head. "To be honest with you, Eberhard, this place is positively Venetian with intrigue. There is a strong pro-Byzantine faction, of long standing, among the Libri d'Oro. Not surprising of course, since Corfu's local aristocracy are Greeks themselves. Fortunately, they distrust Emeric of Hungary. But they long for Venice to lose power and for their own stars to be ascendant under Alexius."

  Eberhard snorted. "That wastrel would be more likely to sell their precious island to pay off some of his debts. Or just to have more money to spend on his vices."

  "Precisely," Francesca agreed, nodding. "But not having the knowledge that you do, Ritter, the pro-Byzantines here entertain some very unrealistic ideas. So far as they know, Alexius is cut from the same cloth as his father, which would make them Byzantine allies rather than vassals. And, most importantly, would put Corfiotes—or at least Greeks—back in the seats of power here. They resent the way the Venetian overlords here on the island often treat them. It's the sneering, really, not anything material. But noblemen—especially sorry, idle ones like most of these wretched Libri d'Oro—take offense easily."

  "And how well placed are they to act on those unrealistic ideas?" asked Manfred, looking concerned. "I've known people to be prepared to die for some really stupid things."

  "I am still compiling a list, Manfred. But so far, they have some bodyguards and some interesting working positions."

  Manfred nodded, frowning. "One thing in our favor is that the Hungarians are present in such force. Nobody, not even the most self-deceiving pro-Byzantine Libri d'Oro, can believe that Emeric is going to give up this prize so easily."

  Eberhard shook his head. "Self-deception is the greatest strength of such people, Manfred. Petty noblemen with neither work nor war to keep them occupied will often spend all their time wallowing in perceived insults and fantasies of retribution."

  "True," said Francesca. "But Emeric's vicious reputation does work against him. So long as it does not appear that Alexius is allied with him in this venture, we may be able to keep the faction quiet. Quieter, anyway."

  Manfred poured another cup of wine. "I never thoug
ht I'd be pleased to hear that Emeric was such a murderous, treacherous son of a bitch. So who else do we have stacked against us? A pro-Hungarian faction?"

  "Fortunately, Emeric's reputation works for him there, too—or rather, works for us. There is, however, a Montagnard faction, that believes you have come to take over the island under the pretext of this war, and are very much in favor of the notion." Francesca dimpled. "Of course there are a few who also think it is true, but are opposed to the idea. And I have found evidence that someone is buying information. That suggests Emeric has some spies here in the Citadel."

  Eberhard had been staring at her with more and more astonishment as she spoke, and now his mouth was actually agape. "How do you find all this out, Francesca?" he asked in disbelief.

  "Among other things, Maria introduced me to the main artery of gossip in the Citadel. Sooner or later everything gets told to Stella." Francesca's smile faded, and turned to a frown. "She also told me another thing I must discuss with Eneko Lopez. She says there is a cabal of true magicians here, and they are not Christian."

  Manfred chuckled. "Sleepy little seaside town, eh?"

  * * *

  In the living quarters which Sibling Eleni had provided for them adjoining the chapel, Eneko Lopez was scowling. "There, Francis—again. Did you sense it? And you, Diego?"

  Both men nodded. "Someone is using Satanic magic in this Citadel," muttered Diego. "That was fairly close, although I couldn't sense the direction."

  "And that one! A sending ritual requires blood."

  "Most Satanic rituals do, Francis." Eneko shook his head. "At least that one doesn't require human blood."

  "That's not my point, Eneko. We're under siege. Soon enough, finding a goat or chicken to slaughter isn't going to be so easy."

  Lopez thought about it, for a moment. "True. We should speak to Francesca. Unless I miss my guess, she'll be running the counterespionage work here before much longer. The podesta is an old man and the captain-general is . . . well. Not competent."

  "So charitable, Eneko!" chuckled Francis. "I would have used a stronger expression."

  Lopez smiled thinly. "Well, charity is a Christian virtue."

  Diego didn't seem to share in the humor. "Finding a stray goat or a chicken will be getting hard. But with thousands of people packed into this place, finding a human to slaughter won't."

  Eneko and Francis stared at him. Diego shrugged. "I would remind you that charity is not a Satanic virtue."

  "We'd best talk to Francesca about that as well," murmured Francis. "Although . . ."

  Gloomily, Lopez finished the thought. "How do you keep track of people to see if any are disappearing—when half the people in this Citadel are here illegally to begin with? Thanks to that jackass Tomaselli!"

  "Charity, Eneko, charity," cautioned Francis.

  "I am being charitable," grumbled Lopez.

  "Not to jackasses."

  * * *

  Through the open door of the taverna in Paleokastritsa, Erik could see that the sky across the straits of Otranto was traced with clouds the color of salmon-flesh. The closer view was even more distracting to him. Neither Svanhild's profile nor the memory of salmon in the ice-fed rivers of home were helping Erik with the matter in hand: planning an irregular campaign against Emeric's forces.

  "Essentially, we need two things. We need information, and we need safe bases."

  "What's wrong with Paleokastritsa?"

  Erik shook his head. "Its defenses are good, but not that good. It'll fall eventually, either to a determined assault or more likely to siege. There is no second way out of the town. And we think like foxes now. Foxes always need a second or third exit to their lairs. We'll rely on friendly towns and peasants for food and information—but never from the same one twice in a row, and we'll never stay in any of the settlements. If we bring the wrath of the Hungarians down on any Corfiote town, not only will we have betrayed them, we will have betrayed ourselves. We'll get no more help from the peasants."

  He looked at the faces around the table; no one disagreed. "You all know what the Hungarians are going to do, every time we strike: they'll destroy the nearest village, if it shows any signs of our presence. The peasants are in hiding now, but they'll have to return to their holdings soon. Farms and crops don't wait. We need the countryside sympathetic to us and hostile to the Hungarians."

  Ambrosino nodded. "It makes sense. Well, there is a spot I used to use when I was hunting. Not a village for three miles. You've got an excellent view of the surrounding countryside, there is water in the cave, and there are two ravines leading away. There'll be a bit of grazing down in the ravines, too. I thought of building a hunting-box up there, but it was just too expensive to get the materials up. There are wild boar and bears up there. Good hunting. And I've eaten worse than bear."

  "We'll check it out tomorrow," said Erik. "We also need to organize proper scouting of Emeric's forces."

  * * *

  "We'll put you in at that fishing village," said Taki, pointing to the Italian shore. "The locals are at sea, by the looks of it, so we won't have to try and explain that we're not stealing their fish."

  "As if we would," said Spiro, virtuously.

  "Unless we got half the chance," snorted Kosti. "I thought we might visit a decent-size harbor and taste the local girls and meet the local wine."

  "You mean meet the girls and taste the wine," corrected Taki.

  Kosti shook his head, grinning. "I prefer it my way around."

  Benito realized he was going to miss these fishermen. He was going to miss being at sea, where all the responsibility devolved on Taki. Now he'd have to manage for himself, and it was a long way home to Venice. He had written up the prearranged message for Erik. It would pass as a bill of fishmarket landings. The Bonito on the listing would tell Erik to hand over the money.

  Benito now felt guilty. He'd done his dangerous bit. But Taki, Spiro and Kosti would have to get back through the cordon before they saw the paltry bit of silver. The only trouble was, short of the jewels—all he had was paltry bits of silver himself.

  "Likely if we go to one of the big ports there'll be questions asked. We'd end up having to pay port fees!" Taki sounded as if he'd rather have his teeth drawn.

  The idea seemed to horrify the others too. Spiro shook his head. "Besides, Kosti, we need to get home. There is a war over there and we've got people to look out for. Your mother. My sister—and you watch your mouth about my sister."

  "Wouldn't say a word. Not while you're listening, anyway."

  Spiro took a swing at him on general principles.

  * * *

  So Benito climbed off the boat and onto the Italian shore with no more than his clothes and the three fishermen's good wishes in his ears. After several days at sea, the ground seemed to be moving up and down.

  He turned and waved. Taki's ratty old boat was already moving out to sea at a fair clip.

  Benito turned his face to the shore and his more immediate problems. He was now faced with the problem of where, exactly, to go. It was midmorning, and he was outside a tiny little whitewashed fishing village near the toe of the boot that is Italy.

  Originally someone, maybe Erik, had said he should ride up the coast to Venice. That was before Erik had seen him ride. Also . . .

  Well, it seemed very easy when discussing it with people like Erik, who knew how to do this sort of thing. "Get to Italy and ride to Venice." The first question, in a spot like this, would be: Ride? On what? By the looks of the fishing settlement even a donkey would be wildly optimistic.

  Maybe he should follow the course of the cowardly Capitano Selvi, and head for the Tyrrhenian sea; then, travel up the west coat of Italy. The immediate question was: Should he cut across the Calabrian Apennines—or remain along the coastline?

  The mountains looked threatening. Unfamiliar. In the distance up there he could see a hilltop village—other than that, the area was forested, with the forest only being interrupted by patches of
what could be vines and white rock. A lot of white rock. It all looked very big and daunting.

  He saw an urchin from the fishing hamlet—calling five tiny houses a village was gross flattery—approaching cautiously. Ready to run, curiosity overwhelming obvious fear. He looked at Benito as if he expected him to sprout wings and horns or at very least large teeth.

  Maybe thirty yards back were three others of still younger age, all peering, big-eyed, nervous but fascinated by this strange apparition. It didn't look like the village saw a lot of strangers. Benito waved at the kid, who was, at the outside, six years old. The older boys would be at sea, he supposed. "Ciao," he said.

  The kid backed off two steps; then realized Benito wasn't following and that "Ciao" was not really a threat. He said "Ciao" back, and was rewarded with a smile from Benito. And then the kid let go with such a rapid fire of local patois that Benito managed to understand one word in ten. Some of the words sounded like Greek. Spiro had said there were a fair number of Greek settlers here.

  "Whoa." Benito spoke slowly and pronounced his words with care. "I want to buy food. I want to ask directions."

  He still had to say it twice.

  * * *

  The fishwife in her peasant blacks was a little more intelligible. Slightly. She was just as curious. Benito didn't see the point in too much secrecy. "There is a blockade on the straits of Otranto. I'm from up north and I want to go home. So I scrounged a voyage over here. Where is the nearest big town? And can you spare some food for me? I can pay."

  He pulled out a copper penny, guessing that even these didn't arrive too often in a place like this. The smile and the haste with which she produced some rosso wine, cipudazzi—little red onions pickled in olive oil and vinegar—and tiny spiky artichokes, told him he was dead right. She bustled off to bring him some fresh bread and some maccu, a broad bean and fennel purée; also some fresh figs. It was a repast he was sure would have been the family's main meal. Benito hoped the husband would bring home a good catch.