by Eric Flint
“If Kari was anything to judge by, yes. And I should think it’ll stay barbaric for about a week after Erik, Bortai and the Mongols get there.”
“That long?” said Manfred. “I may have to go and check this out for myself. After all, Vinland is part of the League of Armagh, and so is Brittany. Anyway, it’s cold out here, and I came to tell you Falkenberg is preparing some hot mulled wine in our cabin.”
Venice
Maria Verrier, in the comfortable quarters of the Casa Montescue, found herself with both the time and need to reflect on the latest happenings and the situation she found herself in. There were sufficient servants that she never needed to lift a finger in the casa, and it upset them very much when she did. Alessia, of course, took a fair amount of time and energy, and there was no way on Earth or below it, that she would let that child out of her ambit again.
Alessia did play by herself and slept for hours longer than Maria did, and of course she spent time with Marco, and Kat if she got half a chance. Children seemed to know Marco was a good toy just by looking at him. Kat—Maria had to laugh. Kat could take on the darkness, smuggling, and shoot someone calmly with a wheel-lock hand-cannon if there was need. She’d fought for family and her casa with cool courage. But she was still wary and a little nervous around small children. She’d get used to them with one of her own, Maria reflected.
But she had too much time for that reflection. Venice’s stregheria had made clear they did not want her, and then had betrayed her. Venice’s canalers were fond of her, but they—and she—had moved apart. Corfu, and the Mother Goddess, and the service of the women there were not something she could really do any longer.
Effectively trapped in the casa, she turned to something the casa had quite a lot of, by Casa Longi standards, and a vast amount of by anyone else’s standards. Books. She started reading. Reading and writing she had learned later in life than most, and hadn’t enjoyed very much, either.
But now, as she practiced more, that changed, too.
Chapter 19
Tyrol
The trip through the Alps was extremely chilly, muddy and relatively unpleasant, except where the ground was still frozen. Count Mindaug, having been beguiled by the early spring mildness, began finding the nomadic life less charming. The same wagon that had so often in the weeks gone by seemed cozy and comfortable, now sometimes reminded Mindaug of an engine of torture. His back ached, his behind ached even more, and both of his shoulders were bruised from being flung about by unexpected slips and slides and twists of the wheels.
There was still considerable snow around, too. Despite the spring, it was necessary for Count Mindaug and his two servants to spend some nights in various hostelries along the way. People did seem curious as to where they were going and why, so the count set out to provide them with what they wanted. The books were going to Baron Otto von Wisselbacher, outside Villach. The name was chosen from memory. The man was a minor magician and bibliophile with whom Count Mindaug had had brief dealings many years ago.
That justified their direction, their cargo, and it seemed an acceptable reason. But, he decided, he would need a profession in Italy as well. If the Duchy of Milan was absolutely not hiring magicians, it was probable the rest of them would also not be—in the same sense. That could push up the price for his services nicely. And, it seemed, these Imperials, and probably the Italians, were terribly trusting. He could be a magician. Not Count Kazimierz Mindaug, the castellan of Braclaw and voivode of Zwinogrodek, but a charlatan—good enough to fool most people, but as unmagical as a brick and thus attracting no unwelcome attention from the great powers. Not, at least, until he had a secure bolt-hole and more security and defenses.
There was something very appealing about the idea. Mindaug knew a great deal about many chemical and physical processes, which could pass for magic to the untutored, and he could write very convincing cantrips. He even had quite a few of the chemicals that such deceit would involve. True, he had them for arcane purposes, but who would know?
He began thinking his way through his large collection of lore for suitable tricks. He had a number of books on alchemy, and had a very helpful translation of a book from China, which included recipes for making various pyrotechnics, and the colors that burning them could produce. With this in mind, he bought some beeswax and made a few experimental candles, to the fascination of his two servants. Part of the fascination was the careful notes he made of the ingredients and the weights he used.
“Is it magic, master?” asked Tamas, watching him write.
“No, no more so than your making a loaf of bread or pot of stew. You use the same quantities of flour every time you make a loaf, do you not?”
“I’ve got a little rhyme my mother taught me,” said Emma doubtfully. “But the writing is magic. Just like all books.”
Mindaug, who had gone to some lengths to not even hint that he trafficked in magic, discovered that both Tamas and Emma had assumed he was a magician because he read books. Writing definitely confirmed this assessment. Far from being terrified of it, they were rather proud of him. Still, he did his best. “This will not be magic. It is just knowledge of what will burn in what color, and what will make smoke. I plan to pretend to do magic. It is a trick.”
He went on to discover they were quite aware of tricks, but could still regard that as magic, just magic that could be learned. He lit the candle some few yards away from the wagon one evening. He put it a little distance off, because in his experience, such things smelled, and he didn’t want the smell getting into the books. As he had intended, the candle burned for a while and then began to produce smoke. Emma squeaked and both she and Tamas hid themselves behind him.
This proved very wise, as the candle spat several great, slow-burning sparks with a shriek, instead of producing a nice bright yellow glow, and then exploded.
It showered him with wax fragments, frightening the horses and Mindaug, and terrifying Tamas and Emma thoroughly.
Kazimierz Mindaug resolved that any future experiments would be performed at a greater distance from himself and his camp, with smaller quantities. Still, in itself, it was fascinating. He could magically produce remarkably similar effects. Perhaps this could enhance or substitute for it.
* * *
The second of Archimandrite von Stebbens’s poacher-trackers did stop in the village over the ridge, barely five miles from Mindaug, where the thirty Knights waited. It was difficult to move and house so many, and yet stay close to the quarry.
The first man, who had been on watch with him, disappeared so effectively that he might as well have been murdered by Mindaug in some vile ritual, for all they knew.
Unfortunately, he’d found the poacher who did stop merely clung to the feet of a Ritter. The poacher gibbered insensibly for some time, until Ritter Hartz poured water on his head.
Von Stebbens gave the man a mug of wine instead. It clattered against his teeth. “What happened man?” he demanded, getting ready to shake the fool.
“M’lord, defend me. I need magical protection. You should not have sent us out against the wizard without it.”
“We will defend you. What happened?”
Wild-eyed, the man looked around. “I’ll tell you…in the church. We’ll be safe in the church, won’t we?”
They took him to the little village church. “Demons don’t come into the church, do they?” he asked fearfully, kneeling.
It was some time before they could get any sense out of him. “I want the priest. I want to confess my sins first.” And not even a good shaking could move him from that. So they had to wait. “Check on the thaumaturgic watch, Hartz,” the archimandrite instructed, while he waited.
The Ritter came back at a jog. “They report there is no sign of movement or magic, my lord.”
The poacher came back from the altar with the local priest. “I have granted him absolution,” said the country priest, “but he is a troubled man, sir. Tell the archimandrite your story.”
The little poacher nodded. “Hans and I, we were hidden about thirty cubits away from each other, Hans in some bushes and me in the ditch on the edge of the road in the dead grass, watching the fiendish sorcerer. And next thing…the magician walks toward me, lights a magic candle and then there’s a huge cloud of magic smoke. Then this screaming yellow demon flies out, all sparks and terrible baleful light, and it pounces down on poor Hans. It knew exactly where he was hiding. He screamed. I knew it was going to drag him off to hell, so I crawled away…but they still shot me. I felt the curse-bullet hit. But there is no blood. No blood,” he said hysterically. “Look!”
He showed Von Stebbens his cheek, which had a red mark on it. It did not look magical or accursed to the archimandrite, but it would leave a bruise.
“It could have been a stone or ricochet.”
“It was a shot!” insisted the poacher-scout, his voice rising hysterically. “In the dark. Magic, black magic. You can’t shoot someone in the dark otherwise. They could never have seen me.”
And there was no way he was going back to his task.
Too late, Von Stebbens began to see the folly of telling the peasant trackers what an evil magician Mindaug was. There was no inducement that could make this one ever dare follow him again.
But more worrying was the fact that he and his fellow Knights, prepared to attack and magically neutralize the count, watching for any magical sign, protective wards at the ready…had seen nothing at all. The archimandrite had been waiting on orders by messenger. Waiting for the instruction to pounce on Mindaug. There would be magical safeguards and escape mechanisms, and he would have preferred the go-ahead to kill Mindaug first, before he had a chance to use either. They had a line on whom he been heading toward and Baron Otto von Wisselbacher had been under observation for some time. He was not in the same league as Mindaug, although very rich. They could strike and question with a great deal more safety, there.
It would be necessary to take chances if Mindaug had found some way of circumventing their magical watch. He might well be aware of their observers. He could be playing a cat-and-mouse game. He certainly had a reputation for deviousness. The Knights placed the ward candles, and set about the prayers of summoning, and then made magical contact with Bishop Pelmann in Mainz.
Such contacts were always difficult, and the sending of precise messages hard. And then, the bishop had to go and consult with Emperor Charles Fredrik himself, before they did it all over again. The Emperor wanted him alive, and so, it seemed, did the Knights. But they would take up position before dawn and strike at first light. With someone like Count Mindaug, combat at night was to be avoided.
* * *
Only, during the night, the snow began to fall. By morning it was apparent that they weren’t going anywhere.
Of course, the comfort was that surely the villainous count was not either.
Except…he was.
“Weather magic?” asked Ritter Hartz, looking at the blizzard outside. Visibility was down to a few feet, and the snow already piled soft and high.
Archimandrite von Stebbens shook his head. “Even small weather magic is hard and loud in the thaumaturgic sphere. This would be no small magic. For Mindaug to use something that powerful that precise, and yet have no trace of it leading to himself? That is hard to believe, even for such a one as he. If it were true, then he could have destroyed us like a man brushing off a fly. And if so, why bother to travel slowly and in such discomfort? He’s been very afraid of something—and I doubt very much if it’s we Knights.”
“He has the luck of the devil.”
“He may quite possibly be in league with Satan,” said the archimandrite, with a sigh. “Let us see what the Aemiline hesychast can do.”
* * *
Von Stebbens was appalled by the methods Brother Dimitrios used to guard himself. Instead of the usual wards used by all Christian magicians of the archimandrite’s acquaintance, the Aemiline hesychast seemed to be satisfied with mere candles at the four points—and, more bizarre still, four mice held in small cages stationed next to the candles.
“They are my watchmen,” explained Dimitrios, with a little smile. “Well…watchrodents, I suppose I should say, since three of them are female.”
“But…” Ritter Hartz shook his head. “How do you expect them to protect you?”
“Protection is for mighty mages, young man. My magics are far too modest for such martial methods. Like my little mice, I will run and hide the moment any sign of danger appears.”
He lay down on the thin mat positioned at the center of his peculiar “wards.” Then, he crossed his hands on his chest and closed his eyes.
“You needn’t worry, Ritter,” the hesychast murmured. “I shall be quite safe, I assure you—because this fearsome Count Mindaug fellow will never notice me at all.”
* * *
Since this was his first contact with Mindaug, it took Brother Dimitrios’s wandering mind a fair amount of time to find the wagon. But, eventually, he sensed the contented feelings of a mouse, basking in a degree of warmth that was unusual for the season.
Thereafter, it took Dimitrios very little time to track down those sentiments, and before long he was peering at the world through the eyes of a mouse hidden on a small wooden ledge in the interior of a lurching wagon. At the front of the wagon, somewhat hunched over, sat a small man holding the reins. Dimitrios couldn’t see his face from the mouse’s vantage point, but he was almost sure this was Count Mindaug.
Less than a minute later, his supposition was confirmed. The mouse’s gaze shifted, and now Dimitrios could see the stacks of crates that filled most of the wagon. Those had to be the Lithuanian sorcerer’s notorious books.
Brother Dimitrios had many virtues, but perhaps the greatest he possessed was patience. So, he spent the next many hours simply observing…
Not much of anything.
Chapter 20
Northern Italy
On the other side of the Felsen Ridge, the count and his servants were making haste for the pass. It had taken Mindaug a little time and the acceptance of his absolute authority—and some brandy—to get Tamas and Emma calmed down. And then, Tamas had started sniffing as if he smelled something bad. “It’s going to snow, master. Soon.”
Perhaps it was the brandy. Or perhaps it was wisdom, or perhaps it was just the idea of being stuck here in the snow without as much as a village alehouse for shelter, that made Kazimierz Mindaug say: “Well, we’d better pole up the horses then and move.”
The moon had risen now, and although there were scudding clouds, it was possible to see the track. A little further on they came to a fork, and chose the more traveled route, which took them slightly downhill and was definitely in better condition than the rutted steep track that was the alternative.
They walked on, Tamas leading the horses, into the increasing dark.
The downhill and the quality of the track had both been temporary situations. Indeed, the count might have been inclined to think them illusions. They were, by the occasional glimpses in the moonlight, out on the mountain, with no sign of habitation and no easy place to turn the wagon. Indeed, they’d had difficulty negotiating some of the turns. The only comfort was that it was plainly a well-traveled track, with deep wheel ruts into which the wagon’s steel-banded wheels fitted. That was just as well, too, because a flake of snow settled on the count’s nose, as he sat on the box.
They stopped. “What is it?” called the count to his man.
“Pole across the track, master.”
Mindaug and Emma got down to have a look. It was plainly a deliberate barrier, and on kindling a lamp, there was a stone-built cross between a hut and a fortress there—unoccupied. “It must be a toll post. Protection from bandits around here, I shouldn’t wonder.”
The hut was a two-story affair, with a stable beneath. It had a stack of wood at the back. As it was snowing steadily by then, Mindaug made the decision to stop. The horses were stabled, rubbed down with
hay and an old sack, and given oats. Mindaug himself took a hand because, by the looks of Tamas, he might just fall over before the horses were cared for, and they were too valuable to risk here.
In the meantime, Emma had a fire kindled and had shaved dried meat into a pot, along with crushed wheat to make a broth of sorts. It was warming, and they were out of the snow, and were probably three hours travel on their way. It did not look as if the single-room hut was normally lived in, but rather used as some kind of billet. There was a rough table, a couple of straw pallets, a fireplace, and not much else. Still, it was warm, out of the wind, and out of the snow. They slept peacefully enough.
Morning brought a leaden sky and occasional flurries of snow, although it looked a lot worse to the north. And they were in daylight, at the top of the pass, with the trail winding through snow and then into clear fields. Far below, there was a village with smoke rising from its chimneys.
It was somewhat amusing, thought the count, that he’d spent the night in the place he’d been concerned about getting past—the border post between the Holy Roman Empire and the Italian states. By the looks of it, the weather-wise locals had abandoned their post and gone home. The question now was whether they could do likewise. Well, at least to abandon the post. Go home? The count thought of the draughty castle at Braclaw that stayed chilly even in summer, despite its huge log fires. He had lived out his early years there, and then been taken to be introduced to his first steps in magic. As a younger son, it should not have been his inheritance, but the others…died. Jagiellon had burned the castle, by way of revenge, when the trap on Corfu had failed and Mindaug had had to flee to Hungary.
Home was a concept which obviously meant something to other people, just not to him. He called Tamas, and they went to look at the trail. The snow lay fetlock deep and powdery. “Can we get the wagon down it?” the count asked.
