Burdens of the Dead Page 8

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Marco, doubtfully. Guilt combined sympathy here, though. He and Benito had been poor and protector-less on the canals of Venice. His brother had been good at living like that, but he had not. And he had not had the terrible melancholia to cope with too. She was a pretty little woman, despite the signs of distress. “I’ll find something for her.”

  “Thank you M’Lord,” said the priest earnestly.

  “What is her name?”

  “Marissa di Pantara.”

  Marco knew of the family. They had had money, once. Like so many, the trade that made Venice wealthy was not kind to everyone, and Fortuna could not smile upon all.

  * * *

  Benito found that time had not dulled Venice’s memory when they stepped ashore at the Fondamenta Zattere Ponto Lungo. He got waves, cat-calls and whistles…and a few fluttery eyelashes and blown kisses and more waves from upper-story windows. Maria glared at them, hard enough to cause a few windows to be hastily closed.

  “Here you are, with a wife and baby, and they still make eyes at you! Shameless!” She glared at him from under lowered brows.

  “Ah yes,” said Benito, waving back—and ducking. “Makes you wonder what sort of woman could make me leave all this and go back to a war, living off boiled roots and Kakotrigi wine for her, to say nothing of breaking into a besieged fortress or two.”

  Maria looked away, a bit guiltily, and shook her head. “You really can take the wind out of a woman’s sails, Benito. But they’d better stick to waving.”

  “They’ll have to unless they plan to go to Constantinople. Waving goodbye is all the opportunity they’ll have. Now let’s take a gondola to Marco and Kat. I spoke to Captain Parosos. He’ll have our baggage sent there for us.”

  So they found a gondola.

  The women—and men—still waved and grinned. Some shouted “Keep him off the bridges!”

  “Seems like they remember young Benito,” said the gondolier to Maria.

  “They’d better not all be remembering him,” said Maria tartly. “And stop smirking.”

  As the gondola poled on through the familiar canals of Venice, nostalgia and remembrance tugged at both of them. “I’d forgotten how much I loved and hated this place, ‘nito,” said Maria quietly. “I don’t think I even knew back then that I felt that way away about it.”

  “Loved, I understand,” said Benito, holding his daughter. “But hated?”

  “Well, the cold in winter. And being wet and just never being able to get really warm and dry.”

  Benito nodded. “Being hungry, being scared too. I suppose that that could have happened anywhere though.”

  “But it did happen here. And the buildings and the water bring it all back to me. I wouldn’t mind poling a boat again, though. Not in the rain in winter though.”

  “Ach, your old boat’s still on blocks at Similano’s yard,” said the gondolier.

  “I told Rosa to sell it,” said Maria.

  “I reckon she thought you’d be back and need it,” said the gondolier, spitting in the water. “La Serenissima never lets go of you, really. I was Outremer and in Trebizond for nearly ten years.”

  “The other thing about Venice is you can never be alone, and without someone knowing what you’re doing,” she said acerbically.

  “Yes, I missed that too,” said the gondolier cheerfully. “Here we are. The Casa Montescue.”

  The Casa’s staff was of course overwhelmed with excitement and delight with the arrival of Benito. So was Kat. Marco was out helping the sick, as usual. A runner was sent to find him.

  Benito had enough faith in his brother to know he’d be delighted to know that he and Katerina were to be Alessia’s wards. Delighted? That was putting it mildly. There would be a baby in the house at last. And maybe…maybe the presence of one baby would make enough magic to bring another.

  Chapter 13

  Venice

  Like dark tendrils the poison that had crept out of the Casa Dandelo, the trade in slaves had corrupted everything that its vileness had touched. Slaves had been ideal for those who desired such flesh. Slaves had no-one—at least no-one who could do anything. And if the price was right, the Casa Dandelo would sell. And with the illegal trade came other things. Black lotos. Murder and kidnapping. And of course extortion and the treason it could buy. The old adherents and customers of the Casa Dandelo still had ties to the Montagnards, and to Fillipo Maria of Milan.

  That worked very well for Poulo Bourgo. His new master had nothing magical coming into the bounds of Venice. But other places were a different matter. Ordinary messages could travel down the same channels to Venice as were used by contrabrand and the flesh-trade.

  And thus came the news of a little girl arriving in Venice—much younger than most of the victims the network traded in. A victim his master in Vilna wanted the duke of Milan to get.

  The duke wanted her as a hostage and not for their usual reasons. But snatching and transporting children was familiar enough to Bourgo’s associates.

  This group of people had no more love and respect for Benito Valdosta than most of society had for them. They feared him, though. That was apparent during the meeting the former mercenary found himself at, with various conspirators—all in various attempts at disguise. Of course Poulo recognized some of them.“We need someone on the inside,” said the man from Milan.

  Poulo Bourgo had never actually met Carlo Sforza. But the man’s tallness and forceful nature were well known. He had seen him in the distance and now his profile betrayed him. Poulo had had occasion to run into several of the officers of Sforza’s mercenaries. He’d been looking for work at the time, but their commander had not been there, or hiring. Sforza had been able to pick and choose in those days. He’d come down in the world since then. Not far down, but down.

  It was surprising that he’d attend the meeting in person, but that was Sforza’s reputation. Direct, forceful, in personal control.

  “Let your master know that has been arranged,” said Poulo.

  “For maximum effect you need to wait until Benito Valdosta has left Venice,” said the tall man from Milan.

  Several of the others nodded fervently. That was not the only reason they would be pleased to wait until Benito was far, far away. They did not want to face what would come when he learned his baby girl was taken.

  And when Benito returned, as he would?

  They planned to be just as far away as their money could take them.

  * * *

  At that moment, Carlo Sforza was actually on a hill just beyond Nogara, watching as the Scaliger mercenaries prepared for battle. The former allies were not much of a challenge. In fact their condottiere, Marcus Baldo, was about as far back from the lines as it was possible to be without hiding in a privy outside one of the villas they were attempting to use as a defensive position.

  The villa had a straw roof, too. Had the fool never heard of fire?

  Milan

  Fillipo Maria Visconti, the duke of Milan, was the driving force of the Imperial Montagnard faction in Italian politics. The name was something of a misnomer, and had been for decades. The Holy Roman Empire had long since distanced itself from the Viscontis and their cause, and made clear that it wanted no part in the endless small wars of Italy. The dukes of Milan retained the formal pretense of serving the interests of the great power across the Alps simply because it sometimes enabled them to act more surreptitiously than they could have otherwise.

  This was perhaps one of those times. The well-known fact that the Milanese dukes and their relatives conspired constantly in the Montagnard cause might disguise the fact that this particular conspiracy had a very narrow purpose.

  The duke beamed on his second cousin, Count di Lamis. Di Lamis was a tall, assertive-seeming man, but not one who had turned that to appearance to martial endeavor. Rumor had it that he was scared of blood. Fillipo Maria had sent him to the meeting which the surviving Visconti loyalists of Venice had requested for t
wo reasons. First, he was expendable if it proved to be a trap. Second—you never knew, and the duke believed firmly in serendipity—he might be mistaken for Carlo Sforza, which could prove handy. The count bore a certain resemblance to the condottiere.

  “So just who is this fellow, Augustino?”

  The tall count shrugged. “He calls himself Poulo, and he’s elderly looking with white hair. His accents suggest he’s fairly low-born—but he’s effective. It seems he has a finger in a fair number of criminal matters, but he supports us. Or at least he wants to see the back of Petro Dorma.”

  Fillipo Maria steepled his fingers. “What does he want from us?”

  Augustino di Lamis looked faintly puzzled. “Nothing much, now that I think of it. Not the usual demands for money or weapons. Or even the assurances of titles and lands. All he asked for was a squad of cavalry stationed at or near Villa Parvitto—to carry the child onward as fast as possible, when they have captured her.”

  “Villa Parvitto? Where is that?”

  “Technically, in Scaliger territory. Now in Veneto, in the border-lands. It appears to belong to one of his confederates.”

  Fillipo Maria allowed a faint frown to shadow his face. He was wary of traps. “Why my soldiery?”

  Augustino smiled toothily. “He was laboring under the delusion that I was someone else, and seemed to assume I’d send soldiers.” It wasn’t the first time this mistake had happened.

  “Ha. Excellent!” Fillipo Maria rubbed his plump hands in glee. “Perfect in fact. Couldn’t be better. At a stroke we implicate Carlo. If things go wrong and this fellow is caught and the Signora di Notte’s torturers squeeze this information out of him, Sforza will get the blame. He’s campaigning in Scaliger territory, doing quite well, so it looks likely to be him. It’ll inflame old wounds between him and that bastard son of his, so when I disown him for this deed, he won’t go to Venice. And wherever he does end up he’ll take the enmity of the Valdostas and probably Dell’este with him.”

  “Yes, but what if this Poulo succeeds? He seemed well in control, and very familiar with the whole process of kidnapping children.”

  Fillipo Maria shrugged. “Then we have a hostage. It’s not going to make Venice and the Valdosta clan any more nor less my enemies than they are already. And we’ll see that this Poulo fellow is betrayed and rats that it was Sforza who organised it. Carlo is bound to me by need then.”

  Venice

  Back from his meeting of conspirators, Poulo Bourgo moved to take complete control over the shadowy network of black lotos and the even more secretive world of those whose tastes ran to very young victims. There were certain brothels that catered to that trade too. On his way to pay a visit to one of them, Poulo was surprised to see one of Carlo Sforza’s closest confidantes, and someone he had once met himself, talking to none other than…Marco Valdosta.

  So. Sforza was up to something. Maybe treachery—but that was not really his reputation. Direct force was, and this looked like he was preparing a direct route to deal with one of the main problems Venice posed to the Visconti, and indeed to Chernobog.

  Killing Valdosta would certainly be one way of doing so. It was a very risky option, however. Lurking within the innocuous-seeming young Valdosta was a vastly more powerful creature, here in the lagoons.

  Perhaps Sforza’s aide planned to take the child?

  Poulo waited. It was imprinted onto his very being that he should stay away from Marco Valdosta. When the willowy Marco left, with a cheerful wave, Poulo followed Sforza’s man up to a set of rooms above the sotoportego.

  The man was seated, door open, feet up. He had a book opened at a place-marker already, but Poulo was not fooled. He wasn’t reading. Too ready…Poulo knew, these days, he could kill the man, but that was not his purpose.

  “And what can I do for you, signor?” asked the fellow, coolly. He plainly did not have the vaguest idea that Poulo had met him before, which was not surprising. “There are pox-doctors and sellers of love-potions and enhancements to your virility elsewhere. I can’t help you with that sort of thing.”

  “More like what I can do for you. We’re on a similar task for the same master. If you get her and find things are a bit tight, make for the Villa Parvitto.” That was intended as something of trap—or a signal. After all, Sforza would have provided the waiting escort there. This man would know.

  “I think you have the wrong man. What is ‘Villa Parvitto’? Do they have good beer? That’s my next task. The beer here is barely worth drinking. And I don’t work for any master, my friend. I am what they call self-employed. A gentleman of fortune. Now, I have book to read. Go away.”

  Well, if he wanted it that way. Still…

  “Just into Scaliger country. Remember that if you need an out.”

  “Who are you?”

  “If you don’t know you don’t need to know,” said Poulo, and turned on his heel and left.

  Chapter 14

  Odessa

  In Odessa a very frightened little man made painstaking notes about the numbers of troops passing beneath his window. He was unsure how or even if he would get the information to his paymaster. But if he had nothing to sell, he would never have enough money to leave.

  Vilna

  Jagiellon was wise to the workings of agents and double agents. Spies and betrayal were meat and drink to him. Economics was not. The Black Brain knew a great deal about several planes of existence. If anything, he knew least about this earthly one. Trade was something Chernobog had always understood poorly. Power meant that you took what you needed. The only purpose of trade was to corrupt and to move spies into the territories of those who did not understand absolute power. Right now it was more important to keep them out of his territories than to send them out. He had solved the potential problem of spies by closing the port. Odessa was slowly starving. People even dared to mutter against the voivode. At this stage it was still merely frightened resentful mutterings. It would have to get a great deal worse for the utterly cowed population to even contemplate rebellion.

  The voivode of Odessa also poorly understood his overlord. He thought he was merely a cruel and monomaniacal man who could possibly be reasoned with.

  He screamed. His arm, raised in supplication a few moments before, was definitely broken, and Jagiellon had merely brushed him aside as a man might a beetle. “Grand Duke,” he gasped. “Agh! I…do but fear that if they get any sign of outside sympathy or support…they may rebel.”

  “And where would that come from?” asked Jagiellon, seemingly unaffected by the clenched-teeth whimper of his vassal.

  “There…there are some of mixed blood. Mongols. The Vlachs too…agh.”

  “The Mongols we have dealt with. The Vlachs are a slave race, by and large. Go. I have other affairs to attend to. Do not waste my time again.” The kneeling voivode struggled to his feet, trying to support his arm, and, not daring to do otherwise, bowed and fled from the throne-room.

  * * *

  The Black Brain had, however, been aroused from the affairs it pursued in nether hells. It turned its attention to the progress of the fleet and the thrust to the south.

  Jagiellon had had reports. But he preferred to hear about it from the source. And he had puppet emissaries—those who were literally his eyes and will. He would have had more, perhaps even that foolish voivode, had it not required no small expenditure of power and time. They had also proved an ineffectual way of command. Vassal generals and princes often did better driven by their own greed, fear and will. Of course he always had to have some control over them. It was in his nature.

  * * *

  A little while later a blank eyed man roused himself from where he lay, rather uncomfortably, in a supply tent. He was cold and stiff and walked with a jerky and unsteady gait, as a result. No one spoke to him as Jagiellon looked around the shipyard. Most of the workers there were aware of what was looking at them. Neither Jagiellon nor Chernobog knew very much about shipbuilding. Jagiellon had never chosen t
o interest himself in such mundane tasks before he encountered Chernobog. Ships such as these that plied mere oceans of water did not occur in Chernobog’s normal realm. However, both of them could recognize the signs of industry. There was plenty of that. Rigging and ratlines were being strung on some of the vessels already. Others were still being clad with their outer planking. That ran to plan too: if they were going to be forced to wait for another season, they may as well build more vessels.

  Chernobog left the human-vessel right there. Someone would take it back to the tent. Instead he occupied the body of a cavalry commander and looked out onto the vast parade ground. Levies from across the lands that gave fealty to Prince Jagiellon were engaged in drill. In part Jagiellon had already known this. The Black Brain kept a far closer grasp on military matters. It was a necessity. The levies came from several linguistic groups. Many of them were hereditary enemies. To a greater or lesser extent the Black Brain managed and controlled their officers. It required a vast capacity. But then Chernobog had that, even if it sometimes poorly understood the abilities and limitations of mere human soldiers.

  The army being readied for the round ships—some forty thousand men, now—was but a small portion of the force that Jagiellon was mustering. He would have to strike in the north and the center, once he held the gate to the Mediterranean. For the last few years he had kept up a slow war of attrition, without any major attacks, while building more reserves. He’d learned that it would take large numbers to bring down Europe under the leadership of the Hohenstauffens.

  This time they would feint north. The war-hardened Holy Roman Empire, led by the Knights of the Holy Trinity, would stop the attack, as they had many others. But the underbelly of Europe was distinctly soft and unprepared. With any luck Emeric of Hungary would attempt to take advantage and attack either Italy or the Holy Roman Empire—not realizing that this would leave him vulnerable on his own eastern borders. Jagiellon would settle for a bridgehead into the heart of Europe through Hungary. The part of Jagiellon that was the black brain, Chernobog, cared little for these geographical conquests, normally, but these were physical prizes which were not without value in the spiritual world. And besides, pouring across the northern Carpathians from the lands of the Kievan Rus would allow Chernobog to seize the physical earthly holdings of an old enemy, Elizabeth Bartholdy. There would be a certain satisfaction in that.