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  The idea seemed both delicious and dangerous. Except . . . he was not all sure how to do this. She was very soft and scented against him. "We must not go too far," she said throatily. "Yet."

  "It is as you said, Angelo," said the saturnine man. "She has him in her clutches. She takes him north, to her lair. But he heard the call. I saw him turn when you played it."

  Angelo nodded. "It is in his blood, and that blood will answer. Now, somehow, we have to get him loose from her. We have only three days. Tonight she will stop at her nunnery. She needs her blood."

  "We need blood too, Angelo," said Grigori with a toothy grin. "At least meat. A cow or a sheep."

  Angelo shook his head. "A chicken will not be missed too much and will have to do for us. She doesn't want dinner. She needs pain and blood to sustain her youth. Now, brothers. We need to run. If we have a chance, we must take him."

  Grigori grinned again. "I'll hamstring him, you tear his throat out. Mind you he doesn't look like he'll give us much of a chase. He looks to be a pale, weak thing."

  Angelo looked grim. "She will chase us. And it will be no quick death if she catches us."

  They followed the coach, discretely, at a safe distance. It was hard, deep in the farmed lands, away from the forest. But at least it was twilight, and anyone who saw them might assume that they were just great dogs, running.

  Chapter 4

  "I was not in any real danger, Maria. They take honor seriously over there. And now we have a peace agreement, and maybe more."

  "With them," Maria hissed, glowering at him. "Illyrians! How could you!"

  "Given a choice between another war right now, and reaching an agreement that could keep the Corfiotes sleeping peacefully in their beds, I thought that it was not a bad idea," said Benito calmly.

  "The Illyrians drove the great Mother's people to take shelter here. Made us call on the Lord of the Dead to put the sea between us and them! Kérkira's women can never forgive them. There can be no peace between us."

  "Maria, you have an Illyrian rug on your floor. You bought that happily enough, thinking that you had got a bargain. This is a business arrangement too, and Petro Dorma will be well pleased, I think. Besides, you were born and bred in Venice, not here. The people of Venice's canals are 'us,' not the women here."

  Benito tried to keep his own voice completely cool. He had no love nor trust for Corfu's ancient religion. He tolerated it. Barely.

  "They are my people now," she said stiffly.

  Benito was too tired for an argument. He shrugged. "Then maybe you should actually ask them what they think, instead of getting on your high horse and talking for them. Thalia seemed to think that it was a good idea."

  "Oh." That seemed to take the wind out of her sails a bit. "You've been drinking."

  Benito nodded. "Slilovitz. For breakfast."

  Maria sniffed. "Don't they have food?"

  "Ewe's cheese and bread that's rich in stones," said Benito, feeling a tooth. "Trust me. I needed slivovitz to be able to eat it. Seriously, Maria. Illyria is a hard, poor country. I'd rather they weren't using us as a larder to raid. Let them trouble Emeric and the Byzantines instead. Besides, you'd like the Lord of the Mountains. I must see that you never meet, or you might run off with him."

  Her eyes filled with sudden tears. "You know that's not true, Benito. I love you. It's just . . ."

  "It's just that I didn't tell you before I went," he said skating away from the other man in her life, the Lord of the Dead. Aidoneus was always somewhere in the back of Benito's mind, as was the fact that he would have to lose her for four months, come winter. It made their relationship just that bit more tricky, along with the fact that the church would not marry them, as a result. That drove her further into the arms of the Mother-Goddess worship and paradoxically toward Aidoneus. Life was never simple.

  "Partly," she said. "And partly . . ."

  "I know. And now is there any chance of real food? Without rocks or slivovitz? And how is our baby?"

  "Grumpy and sleepless without her father. And fast asleep now, having kept me awake half the night. I suppose I could find you a bite to eat. There is some cold frittata."

  Benito grinned and hugged her. After a moment she responded. "Our time together is so precious, 'nito. And I miss you like fire when you're away."

  "Better away for one night than fighting a war again," said Benito. "But yes. I missed you too. I need you, remember."

  She nodded, and buried her face in his shoulder. Together, a little later, they walked to Alessia's crib. Benito felt his face soften as he looked down on her. "Did she give you a hard time last night?"

  "She's your daughter," said Maria. "So, yes. And I was worried about you. Boars can be dangerous."

  "They're not a patch on an Illyrian with a sense of humor, or sailing with Taki after Spiro's finished the wine. Come, let her sleep a bit longer, and let me get some real food. And then maybe . . ."

  Maria smiled wryly. "And then she'll wake up."

  "She's trying to prevent any competition for your affection."

  Later—when, as predicted, Alessia was awake—Benito went back to his office. Inevitably, there were a slew of minor matters that people thought would be better if he dealt with in person. Perhaps some of them would, at least for the people concerned. He also had to go and talk to Belmondo. The governor was in semi-retirement, but still wielded some influence back in Venice.

  Benito was keen on having Belmondo's wife—and the old man himself, purely as an ancillary—shipped off to somewhere like Vinland. So far, Renate Belmondo seemed to have understood that in choosing to accept Benito's Maria as a willing bride for the Lord of the Dead, and, what was almost worse, having put Alessia at risk, she had made herself an implacable enemy. An enemy who would take her slightest miss-step as a reason for dire consequences.

  Renate may possibly have had reasons, and made innocent misjudgments in an effort to do her best. Benito could see that now. But he was never going to tell her that. He'd learned to believe in checks and balances to power, no matter how good that power was. It was faintly amusing to know that Renate and the non-humans of the island considered him to be a check on their power. They were a little afraid of him. Bringing Maria back from the kingdom of the dead had engendered some respect from them, it seemed. That was good. Non-humans had advantages over most mortals. Reminding them that they shouldn't abuse their powers was no bad thing, Benito felt.

  Chapter 5

  The sun beat down like a hammer from the cloudless sky of Outremer as they rode toward Ascalon. Well, Manfred had to admit that the hammer part could also be from the amount of wine he had drunk last night. The glare off the polished armor added insult to the throb in his head. After the departure of Eneko Lopez and his companions—and as a very odd companion indeed, Francesca de Chevreuse—and a small escort of the Ilkhan's warriors, things had gotten a little rowdy. Manfred, in between wishing for a drink, had time now to think about that escort. It would seem as if the Ilkhan's local representative, the Bashar Ahmbien, was sparing no effort to please the delegation from the Holy Roman Emperor. They even had a writ of safe conduct as the escort of an emissary, with the seal of the Ilkhan himself.

  Ahmbien also had spared no effort in seeing they got on the road out of Jerusalem quickly. He had even intervened to deal with some awkwardness resulting from Erik having assaulted three of the local constabulary while they had been trying to arrest young Kari.

  "It was a misunderstanding," Erik said. Looking genuinely embarrassed he admitted: "I took them for back-alley knifemen."

  Manfred enormously enjoyed his gentle reproach to Erik. He hadn't had many opportunities. "Tch. As if those assigned to patrol the bad parts of town ever indulged in that kind of thing! Anyway, luckily you didn't kill them. The Ilkhan takes a dim view of that. Their cracked heads will mend."

  "I am sorry. I will pay weregild."

  "I already have." Manfred did his best to shake his head in a good imitation of disapp
ointment. "I do hope word of this never reaches Iceland. Think what your poor mother would say!"

  Erik peered at him suspiciously. "You have no idea, Manfred. Mama is . . ."

  Manfred's composure failed then, and he collapsed into helpless laughter.

  Erik did a very fine bit of glowering before starting to laugh himself. "I should have left them to arrest Kari. The best place for that boy is in jail, or out on the open prairie. I can't imagine what possessed the Thordarson clan to bring him along."

  "Maybe they thought there would be enough space for him to be a horse-borne hooligan. From what I've heard, the Vinlanders are used to more space and less people."

  Erik nodded. "It is what calls to me about the place. There are mountains and valleys and plains . . . and then more. It is so vast and fertile."

  "And warmer than Iceland and far from your Mama, after she hears that you assaulted three officers of the law."

  Erik pulled a wry face. "There is truth in that. She is very strict in her interpretation of right and wrong. She would never have accepted Francesca."

  "You had enough trouble at first."

  "I was wrong," Erik said simply. "I will miss her, you know."

  "Not as much as I will," said Manfred, with a wicked grin.

  Erik blushed. He was still, even after Svanhild, very prudish about some things. Manfred smiled. He'd had a pleasant few minutes giving Erik a hard time. It was a good thing that they hadn't killed the Bashar's officers, though.

  Erik rode beside him now in silence. That suited the way Manfred's head felt, but headache or not, certain things were niggling at his mind.

  "Just who is this Borshar Tarkhan?" he asked, pointing an elbow at the Mongol group who rode ahead of them. "I got the official story from Eberhart, but frankly it just doesn't wash."

  Erik looked at the column ahead. "Eberhart says he claims to be a diplomat, but thinks that he might just be something else. I do not know the language yet, but look at the posture of his escorts. They fear him. He is a non-Mongol, yet he outranks them."

  "A spy? Something else? And we are escorting him? People might take it as our stamp of approval if he causes trouble, Erik." Something else got through to Manfred's mind. "What do you mean 'know the language yet'?"

  "I have decided that my penance will be to learn this language. It would have stopped me being an embarrassment to you yesterday, with Bashar Ahmbien's officers."

  "Erik, get over it. I wasn't embarrassed. Amused as hell, yes. Jerusalem has been less than funny. I know you well enough by know to know perfectly well that you just made a mistake, an understandable one."

  "Nonetheless, if Eberhart is right, I want to understand what they're saying. We have a new horseboy."

  Manfred blinked."What?"

  "A brat Kari found for us. He speaks fair Frankish, and fluent Mongol. I will be taking lessons."

  "As long he also actually knows which end of a horse produces manure and which end bites, and keeps the tack in good order, we can use him. Although getting Kari to choose a horseboy may turn out to be a mistake."

  "I hope so," said Erik. "I hope he'll be more trouble than he's worth. I have made Kari responsible for the boy. He says he has no parents. That may give Kari something to do besides get into trouble himself."

  Manfred shook his head. "The problem with clever ideas is that they have a habit of not working out quite the way one plans."

  David, the son of Isaac, was the horseboy in question. He was finding out that the trouble with clever ideas was that they didn't always work out quite as one planned. It had seemed such a good scheme too. True, the Mongol overlords had very short tempers with horse-thieves. With thieves of any sort—the Yasa code was harsh. Thieves died, even if they were young thieves.

  But that was for those who stole horses from them. They were fairly disinterested in horse theft from visiting crusaders—as they referred to the people of the Holy Roman Empire. They had a grudge there. They were none too keen on their vassals being great horsemen either, and taxes discouraged horse ownership amongst the non-Mongol commons. There was still a market for stolen horses, though, and these foreigners had some very fine animals. And, it would seem, no idea that they might need close guarding. He could lead off a string of them from the stables to a buyer from Samaria and be back in Jerusalem—why did this foreigner think anyone would ever want to leave Jerusalem?—by morning. Even if they did come looking for him, he would just be one boy among many in the backstreets of Jerusalem.

  Then he'd discovered the first problem with being hired by someone who didn't speak Frankish too well. There appeared to have been a misunderstanding. He'd thought that he was being hired to work in a stable in Jerusalem. He'd been unable to bolt when he discovered they were saddling up for the ride out of the city. Well, he disliked being out of the city, but he could steal horses out here just as easily, and use one to get himself back home.

  Then he'd found that the column was being escorted by the Bashar Ahmbien's guard. He could take a chance on foreigners, but no-one messed with the Ilkhan's men. There would be no help for it but to leave on foot as soon as he got the chance. His older brothers would laugh at him. Likely his father would beat him—as he hadn't recommended him to this man who barely spoke Frankish, let alone Mongol.

  David scowled. It was after mid-day. He should be peacefully asleep. And he'd never ridden this far before. He was going to have to cross a lot of countryside before he got back to civilization again. He'd have to see what in the way of light goods he could steal to make the exercise worthwhile.

  "I feel we should be walking," said Eneko. "Or at least walk from Bethlehem."

  "I will go by ship," said Francesca calmly. "In case you had any delusions about me being pregnant and on a donkey."

  There was startled silence. "That's quite close to blasphemy."

  "I just said it was out of the question. You were the one playing at being Joseph. Besides, piety is a state of the mind, not of the feet."

  There was a snort of unwilling laughter. "You do have quite a knack of putting men in their place, Francesca De Chevreuse."

  "They get so lost otherwise," she said placidly.

  Chapter 6

  "His suns soul roams the lands of Erleg Khan, my daughter," said the shaman, calmly. "I must call it back to join his other souls here under the bowl of heaven."

  Wherever Kildai's soul was, it was nowhere pleasant. Bortai's younger brother muttered, but his eyes did not open. If you opened them, the pupils remained wide, even if you took him out into the brightness of mother-sun.

  The shaman of the White Horde smiled comfortingly. "The windhorse of this boy is strong. His souls are strong too. It will return. It may take time. Erleg Khan's world below is wide, far wider than this."

  Bortai sighed and looked at the doorway. "Parki Shaman, you know as well as I do that the one thing that we do not have is time. Gatu calls for the election of a new khan now."

  The shaman shrugged. "It may take greater skills than mine. My master Kaltegg, who was your father's shaman, had more—"

  Two warriors bundled in through the door. The blade of the leader's sword embedded itself into Parki's neck. The target was in itself more shocking than the deed. Once, no-one would have dared to raise a hand to the shaman of the White Horde. Now, with the old ways dying, someone had killed him. But Bortai had no time for horror.

  She had time for a knife instead. The killer had no opportunity to free his blade before she cut his throat. Her father had believed that it was time the people returned to the path set by Chinggis Khan. To the traditions of the Mongol. That meant that she knew how to use a knife, a lot better than some low half-Vlachs scum.

  Her father's insistence on a return to the secret history and the Yasa had gotten him killed. Her, it had kept alive.

  Alive for the moment, at least. She was still armed only with a knife, and dressed in a deel, facing a foe with a sword and wearing a leather and steel mailcoat. He swung, the blade passing
through the flames. She could not restrain her gasp of horror. Even those who had given up the old faith for Islam or Nestorian Christianity would not do something like that. A Mongol knew that it would mean their death.

  Belatedly, that occurred to her attacker also. He looked at the fire, and that instant of distraction was enough for her. He died, as she'd intended, quietly. She cut the felt at the back of the tent, and, picking up her unconscious brother, slipped out into the darkness.

  Already the kurultai encampment was noisy with the sound of drunkenness. Kildai was only fourteen, but he was a solidly built boy. She knew that she could not carry him far or fast—but that now was time to follow the ancient maxim of Chinggis Khan to the letter. She must flee, and survive. There would be time to gather others to their standard if they lived. But Gatu had obviously decided that they would be better quietly dead.

  Kildai was a problem in his unconscious state, though. He would have to travel in a cart, and that would be difficult. There were of course many carts in the section of the kurultai that was devoted to her Hawk clan. But, by the action taken, getting back there was unlikely. Even if they did, if they broke camp now it would be noticed and would lead to a confrontation that they could not afford at this point. Gatu's men would be waiting, patiently, for the last of the White horde, the clan of the hawk, to flee the boundary markers of the kurultai. The guard-duty for the camp worked according to a strict rota, and the clan on guard tonight were no friends to the Hawk clan. She could not go back. They would be waiting, she was sure.

  Instead, she made her way across the camp, keeping in the darkness between the gers, until she came to the Fox people. They were Blue horde, but their grazing was poor, and they had a constant raiding warfare with the Bulgars. She put Kildai down in the deep shadow, stripped off most of her jewelry, and left it next to him in her sable muff. It would not do to appear too wealthy. She took a deep breath and walked forward between the fires they had set for visitors and traders. The small group drinking kumiss were silenced by her arrival.