Burdens of the Dead Page 42

She almost laughed. She had him now. “The Lion doesn’t care about worship. He gets his power from the land. And I know, I know that with all of the unmarried, poor girls in Venice, girls who dream helplessly of a great and powerful man who will lift them out of their life and carry them away, there will be a steady supply of young women who will be happy to come to you as brides.”

  Cynical? Maybe. Exploiting those girls? Well…not really. Life in the Cold Halls might be bit depressing. But there was no doubt that it was luxurious. Many of those girls would sell themselves in a second for the life of an expensive courtesan. For a life with an admittedly handsome, distantly kind god in luxury that exceeded that?

  Maria would make sure they knew exactly what they were getting into, but she was absolutely certain this was going to work. She’d thought about it long and hard.

  And the one thing that might cause a problem with a young girl, down in the Underworld, sometimes left alone and perhaps bored for hours, days at a time, was not going to be possible. There would be no seeking of lovers elsewhere. Not with Hekate guarding all the gates.

  “If you can find me a new bride by the appointed time,” Aidoneus said, with more than a glint of enthusiasm, “Then I shall remake the bargain.”

  Now Maria looked at the god sharply. “I was not so bad a wife to you.”

  “Better than some have been!” the god hastened to say.

  “Humph.” Maria wavered between feeling insulted and relieved. She settled on relieved. Besides, it was just as well that she might have been giving less than a completely favorable picture of herself. Aidoneus would not have been willing to re-bargain, if he’d been completely pleased.

  “Now, where would you go, my dear?” he asked. “I do not think Hekate will oppose your leaving. The gates are hers, the boundaries mine, but the living cannot cross the boundaries easily.”

  Maria bit her lip. “Alessia. Iwould go to Venice, my Lord.”

  “Very well. Take my hand, my lady,” he said formally.

  And he led her out into the daylight streaming in through the windows of the Casa Montescue.

  They stood there in the light, the pale lord and the earth-mother. She kissed him. Long. It would have to last him eight months. And then she was interrupted by a squeal, and a shriek, and little running feet. “Mummy!”

  Aidoneus turned to leave as she scooped Alessia up in her arms. “Don’t go,” she said, suddenly stabbed by his expression. “I want you to meet my daughter.”

  Aidoneus bowed formally. Alessia responded with a giggle and a shy smile.

  “Alessia knew you were there. I did that much for you,” said Aidoneus humbly, looking at Alessia.

  “I thought so. By the way she looked and talked, I thought so. But I couldn’t hear her, or hold her, or speak to her.”

  Aidoneus took a deep breath. “Then, I truly understand why watching her was not enough for you. She is a charming child. I hope that we may remake our bargain, come the equinox. May I have permission to watch over you, and her? I have become attached to you, and I feel some responsibility.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Benito about it,” said Maria. “But he and I would have some privacy, Aidoneus. It’s going to be difficult.”

  The lord of the vast halls of shadow nodded, his eyes wide.

  Venice

  Within days, Maria was in the thick of things again, plunging into life with the zest of someone who had only been able to view it for far too long. And the first thing she got involved with were the trials for everyone still alive that had been involved in ‘Lessi’s kidnapping.

  Over pastries—how she had missed pastry!—and a light wine, she, Kat, and Marco sat in a window overlooking the canals. She came straight to the point. “I was watching. I saw some people you may not have. And you’re doing it wrong, Marco,” said Maria. “The people need to be involved. The populi minuta, not just the Signoria di Notte. Otherwise we’ll have wild rumors, things going up and down the canals, and maybe the wrong people getting hurt while the right people get less punishment than they deserve.” She waved down at the canal, which under a steady spring rain was not much to look at. The few boats that went by, and their crew and contents, were shrouded in anything that might shed a little rain.

  “The mob makes mistakes, Maria,” said Marco.

  She nodded. “They do. And so do the judges. The judges need to let people in to watch these trials. And they need to speak in a language that people can understand. I’m going out there, tomorrow, with ‘Lessi. I’ll get the mothers on our side. We’ll make it plain that getting torn apart is a soft option, Marco.”

  “I suppose you are right,” said Marco. “And you know, the lotos trade has suffered a bit, despite the addictive nature of it. It’s…well let’s say there were always people who believed they were different. Richer, cleverer, stronger, and so they thought they were somehow immune. The stories were exaggerated, they could take it if they wished and not if they didn’t.”

  “Everyone would like to believe that the rules don’t apply to them,” Maria said sourly.

  Marco nodded. “I don’t think we can change that. But now…The trade is tainted with the Dandelos child-trade. It’s something that even the ennui-filled rich don’t want to be associated with.”

  “Except,” said Kat, dryly, “that the abusers of children now know the addicts will feed their perversion in exchange for black lotos. We’ve shrunk the tumor, but made it nastier still.”

  “We will cut it out, or at least as much of it as we can find,” said Marco.

  That, by his tone, was the end of it. Maria nodded. At least now the people would know exactly what was going on. There would be no rumors. But there would be talk, and lots of it. The people would know the name and rank of ever person pulled into the kidnapping. The judges would know that the people would take matters into their own hands—and possibly even come after the judges themselves—if they gave someone leniency because of wealth or rank.

  No one was going to walk free of this. And with the women of the canals aware of what had been going on under their noses, there would be a hundred eyes on every corner, watching sharply for anything that looked like a lotos-eater.

  She decided to change the subject.

  “In the meanwhile, Katerina, you and I need to have a long talk about fertility,” said Maria. “I probably haven’t ever really spelled it out to you, but I have certain magical skills in that area. And you can both stop blushing. The Lion wants my help, you both need it.”

  “Um. Might not need it,” said Kat, quietly.

  “Wh—what?” Marco leapt to his feet, and hugged her. “You didn’t tell me!”

  Kat blushed even deeper. “I wanted to be sure.”

  Maria came and hugged them both. “I can find out for you for sure too. That is in my gift.”

  Chapter 56

  The Black Sea

  Later, Benito was to learn that the greater part of Jagiellon’s ships searching for his fleet had taken shelter where they could and not made the return voyage in time. Even where they had found shelter the storm had been fierce. In the Dniestr estuary, many had gone aground, and in the swampy Danube estuary, they had been attacked by Golden Horde tribesmen.

  But that morning was a time for uncertainty. And the Venetian-Genovese-Aragonese fleet wanted to make sure that uncertainty was something that was on their side too. Benito called on Hekate, according to the spells of the three-fold way, and brought down the sea-mist. Within its cover, they crept toward Hacibey and the fleet that the tritons said waited to defend the mouth of the Dnieper.

  Less than half of Jagiellon’s fleet-at-sea were able to meet them off Odessa in the early morning. The Black Brain’s naval forces still outnumbered the ones under Benito’s command, but he was confident that his hardened seamen would be more than a match for the enemy.

  * * *

  Benito tried to lean on his grandfather for advice, as the fleets neared each other, but Duke Enrico Dell’este was having none of
it. “You’re in command, not me.”

  Benito had been afraid he’d say that. When it suited him, the lord of Ferrara could be as hard as the steel he worked, and he had firm opinions on the proper way to raise youngsters. Those opinions definitely fell into the toss-the-little-bastards-in-the-water-and let-them-learn-to-swim-or-drown school of thought.

  After a few minutes, the Old Fox relented—just a bit. “Don’t get too fancy,” he gruffed. “These aren’t real seamen you’re facing. Just river pirates.”

  That modicum of advice crystallized the thoughts Benito had already been having. The oncoming horde of vessels were of the type favored by Black Sea pirates. They were single-masted oared galleys, about fifty feet long by ten feet wide, each packed with to fifty men. They rode low in the water, with nothing much in the way of bombards. They relied almost entirely on boarding tactics, swarming their opponents with their great numbers.

  For all the apparent eagerness with which they were coming toward Benito’s smaller fleet, shouting war cries, he sensed the uneasiness beneath the fury. Chernobog’s navy was nothing more than a pack of glorified pirates, really. Buccaneers with delusions of grandeur. On the other hand, no one in that day and age had the reputation of Venetians and Genovese when it came to naval warfare—and Chernobog’s captains and sailors would know that reputation themselves.

  “Let’s bleed them first,” he said. He turned to one of the small group of lieutenants standing nearby. “Send the galleys forward. Tell them to fire three volleys—no fewer, make sure they understand that.”

  The lieutenant nodded and hastened over to the signalmen standing by. Seconds later, the first of the signal flags starting rising up, passing the orders to the fleet.

  Although they were the biggest and heaviest vessels in the fleet, the Venetian war galleys could move faster than any other ships at sea—at least, for the short distance that their rowers could manage before becoming exhausted. Quickly, the galleys passed between the ranks of the smaller galleasses and galliots and took up positions in the fore, facing the enemy. Once there, the rowers had simply to keep the ships steady while the cannons did their work.

  The beaks of the galleys had been removed to give the heavy guns positioned in the bows a clear line of fire. There were three such guns on each ship, each capable of firing a thirty-pound shot—or, far more effective in these circumstances, an equal weight of scatter shot. There were over a hundred three-ounce balls fired by each gun, three guns across, and six galleys abreast—a total of two thousand rounds sweeping across the low decks of the oncoming fleet.

  The carnage was hideous. And, as Benito had guessed would happen, terror piled onto rage on top of underlying anxiety caused Chernobog’s forces to lose any semblance of discipline and order. The small galleys charged forward still more furiously, desperate to close the distance and thereby render the cannons inoperable.

  Another volley. Then the third that Benito had ordered—and he’d cut that very close indeed. The galleasses and galliots barely had time to surge forward to protect the galleys before the enemy fleet arrived.

  What was left of it. True, only two ships had been sunk, but the crews of most of the vessels had been badly bloodied. And they had no discipline at all left. It had been shaky to begin with, as you’d expect with such crews, and the carnage had shredded what little did exist. The pirates-in-all-but-name who finally closed with the fleet of the Venetians and their allies had no thought but to clamber aboard the enemy’s vessels and butcher everyone they found.

  Unfortunately for them, clambering aboard high-walled galliots—even more, galleasses—was a far more difficult enterprise than they were accustomed to. These were warships designed to fend off boarding operations, not merchant vessels. The captains and crews were trained to do the same, keeping the ships close together to make it difficult for the enemy to penetrate the line and surround any one vessel.

  To make things worse, the crews had rigged over-hanging nets that they quickly brought into position, which left the boarders in much the same position as a fly trying to “board” a spider’s web. These spiders had stings, too—lances that speared through the netting and slaughtered still more of Chernobog’s sailors.

  Still, it was a fierce fight, for the first half hour or so. At one point, a number of enemy ships threatened to break through the line, which would have enabled them to begin the swarming tactics that they favored. But a group of Genovese galliots led by Captain Di Tharra drove them back.

  As for Benito…

  He didn’t do much of anything, truth be told, once the battle started. Despite his natural instincts—glares and scowls from his grandfather played a part, admittedly—he did not order his flagship into the fray. His job, this day, was to co-ordinate the tactics of his fleet, first of all.

  That didn’t take much, though. He hadn’t even ordered the Genovese reserve forward, since Di Tharra hadn’t needed to be told what to do. So…

  Benito concentrated on the second principal task of an admiral in the middle of a major fleet action: Looking stern, stalwart, self-assured—in a word, admiralish. If such a word existed, which he doubted.

  By mid-afternoon, it was over. Most of Chernobog’s fleet was still afloat—even intact, allowing for horrendous casualties. But they’d had all the fight beaten out of them. One by one, and then in small droves, they fled from the battle zone.

  At that point, in his excitement at the prospect of victory, Enrico forgot his former resolve and gave his first and only order of the day.

  “Pursuit! Pursuit! Send the round ships—”

  But seeing that Benito was already ordering the appropriate signals, the Old Fox fell silent and tried to look as impassive as possible.

  Which was a bit difficult, given that Benito was now muttering axioms to the effect that oldsters shouldn’t presume to teach grandsons how to suck eggs.

  The sailing vessels wouldn’t have been much use in this sort of fracas, so Benito had kept them in the rear and out of danger. But now, when the enemy ships were trying to make their escape across the open waters of the Black Sea, they’d come into their own. They could stand off and rake the fleeing vessels with cannon fire—round shot, now, to damage and hopefully destroy the ships themselves.

  By the time night fell—still three hours off, this time of year—Chernobog’s navy would be completely ruined. It would take the monster at least a year and probably two or three before he could hope to rebuild an effective fleet. And by then, depending on the situation with the Golden Horde, he might have great difficulty maintaining a presence on the Black Sea.

  “A good day’s work,” pronounced the Duke of Ferrara.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” muttered Benito, perhaps unkindly. But, if anything, his grandfather looked still more pleased.

  * * *

  The Genovese longboat’s lieutenant scrambled up the ladder. “M’Lord Valdosta. It’s Captain Di Tharra.” There were tears on the lieutenant’s face.”He’s dying M’Lord. He’s asking for you. You and someone called Androcles.”

  Benito went across to the Genovese flagship. Di Tharra was not inside his cabin or below with the surgeon. Instead his men had carried him out to the bow of the ship. The ship was oddly silent. Yes, timber creaked. Somewhere below someone groaned. But the crew themselves were wordless, silent; united in grief and respect. Their captain had had them prop him up, so that he could see the water.

  Benito took Di Tharra’s hand. It was clammy and its grasp weak. “Valdosta…” he said, barely in a whisper. “I hoped to see the triton again for a last time. But I got my wish to see them.”

  “More than most people have done, my friend.”

  “I’m dying, Benito Valdosta. I have one last boon to ask. Will you take my son to the sea, and let him meet them too? My men will see he gets my sword…and the buckler…with the tritons supporting…the uprooted tree.”

  “I will do more,” said Benito with a calm he did not feel. “I’ll get Androcles t
o hand the buckler to him.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Fetch the captain’s buckler.” The man left at a run. “And you, get me a bucket of seawater,” he said to another seaman.

  The bucket and buckler came almost together. Benito drew his knife, spoke the words of summoning and spilled the blood; then, threw blood and seawater into the surge at the bow. “Now help me get the captain to the rail.”

  Three of the sailors did so, ignoring the surgeon’s protest. And there in the swirl and of the wave around the bow, the sea-colored tritons moved and merged—more like shadows than solid creatures. Benito held Di Tharra’s weak hand up pushing the buckler into it with the uprooted tree supported by the tritons, with the conch and fish-tongue sword. Together they tossed it into the waves.

  A blue-green hand came up and caught it and pulled it down into the water, as the sailors gasped.

  Di Tharra’s face was pale but tranquil now. “He’s a good lad. I wish I could have shown him myself…but I’ve seen.” His eyes closed.

  Then they opened again. “Benito. Get him to take the conch back,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Tell him to give it to the tritons. It’s above the fireplace,”

  “What?” At first the words made no sense. Then—they made altogether too much sense. “What?”

  But Di Tharra’s eyes were closed again, finally this time, still seeing the great barnacle covered sea-colored shoulders move in the restless waves, and the head of white-foam hair tossed back.

  Chapter 57

  The Dnieper river

  By afternoon the galliots and galleases were pushing upriver through the cracking ice, up towards the shipyards on the Dnieper, while the round ships and the war galleys sailed to invest in a siege of Odessa.

  They’d expected the city to be awash with troops and well defended.

  They had not expected to have the desperate local citizenry offer them the head of their voivode on a platter. Jagiellon’s soldiery had marched northwest and only the hungry populace and their voivode’s household guard remained.