by Eric Flint
K
“He knows who I am. I think that confirms what Von Stebbens said. And that this could be a trap.”
“He also knows the story, but that is not quite as I remember it,” said the patriarch. “I see you frowning at the text, my young friend. I read Latin easily and fluently. Allow me to have a look at the book, please? I shall read it and translate.”
Marco handed him the book, and the old man held it out at arm’s length and read it to himself. Then he said: “It is recognizably the story as I had read it, although it is not as poetic and there is a great deal of extra material.” In the slightly singsong voice of a man reading text aloud, he continued: “The wyrm Orkise had come to the mountains and was devouring all of the peoples there. Its fang was as sharp as the finest needle, and it left no more mark than the bite of a flea, but the terrible poison was such that their flesh broke into mulberry swellings and they died. And the people appeased it with the sacrifice of their maiden daughters.”
He lowered the book, now that he had stopped reading from it directly. “Then it tells how Diderich and his knight go to the rescue. Diderich is separated from his companion Hildebrand and must fight off the armies of Orkise, heathens who fear he will break their pact with their god. Hildebrand rescues the young woman, revives her, and defeats Orkise because he has the scent of heaven about him which prevents the poison of Orkise, and does not look in the eyes of the wyrm but in his bright shield. His lance bears the burning bush. That may be a reference to the burning bush in which God appeared to Moses.”
“Or just a burning bush,” said Marco. “What else?”
“Let me read on.”
A little later he said, “Well, broadly it is the same story. They celebrate, and then save the soul of Sintram the son of Hilfrich of Arone who was being swallowed by Orkise, and Orkise is banished as a result. Hilfrich is rewarded by having his sons made nobles of Diderich’s realm. That’s more or less what it means, anyway. It reads ‘and thus Sintram’s father’s seed will hold the lands of Arone.’”
“I thought Orkise had been killed?”
“The word is defeated. And one of the books I read did have a whole section on a war with the son of Orkise. So it could be…a title, perhaps.”
“And what exactly is this Orkise?”
“The wyrm, a sort of early German word for dragon, but more like a gigantic snake than what we regard as a dragon. It says here it stinks of what it feeds on, death and rats. The rats are its kine, it uses them to give it the milk of dying souls.”
“Charming! But I don’t see how it helps us.”
“There are several other markers.”
“Read on,” said Marco.
The patriarch turned to another passage—an earlier one. “Ah. This is part of the Small Rose Garden of the dwarf, Laurin. The most perfect and beautiful of gardens, which Diderich did not wish to damage, seen only in the light of dawn. Surrounded by the thread which must be broken for anyone to enter. There is a great deal more about the heavenly scent of the roses. And this I had not read before: after Laurin was defeated and then being spared by Diderich, the dwarf allowed him to gather the petals of flowers broken by Witege—Diderich’s treacherous companion, who charged in where angels fear to tread. Hmm. It actually says he went foolishly where only angels tread, breaking the thread. I think it may be a reference to the afterworld in some way. Laurin is a heathen dwarf king who is married to the sister of one of Diderich’s heroes. As I recall, her death is lamented in the tale of Diderich and Wenzlan. They free her. It says Diderich rewarded his heroes with pomander bags of the petals, which they wore around their necks so the wondrous scent could protect them from all ills.”
That, to Marco, did bring in his brother, his brother’s wife, and how he, too, got her back. He would ask Maria—or maybe ask Benito, if he got back soon, to ask Maria; she was so moody right now. But that wasn’t a tale the patriarch was privy to.
The other marker proved to be a reference to the battle for Ravenna, which said that the land had been devastated by the minions of Orkise. “That does fit in with the history of the land and the history of the plague.”
“I just don’t see what I can do about it, or how this helps. We know this Orkise doesn’t like fire, and that the scent of heaven cures. We haven’t met Orkise, and we don’t have the scent of heaven.”
Marco took the book with him, while the patriarch promised to send messages on to the archimandrite saying they had more communications with the magician, and to Father Thomas Lüber.
Marco also wrote a letter to Francisco.
“The—I don’t know what to call it—god-demon your magician referred to is definitely real and was involved in the snakebite incident. I have placed various magical protections on the woman, but I fear the worst. I must beg you to be careful, Francisco, with this Kazimierz. The Knights of the Holy Trinity seek him and they do not do so for no reason. I fear he may seek to entrap you, and Sforza, in his plots.”
Chapter 37
Val di Castellazzo, Duchy of Milan
“Now,” said Francisco, after he had been ushered into the main house of the villa and provided with a seat. The chair felt almost uncomfortably soft, after hours in a saddle. “You sent an urgent message saying you needed to see me, Master Kazimierz. Or did you deal with the matter with my commander?”
Before he could reply, Klaus spoke up: “Please, Captain, can you tell Master Kazimierz that his inventions are worth more to the commander than that poncy new wife of his?”
The bombardier, looking apprehensive, was standing in one of the open doorways to the salon, flanked by portraits on either side. As usual, Francisco had no idea who the paintings represented.
Kazimierz spoke up. “This is, in part, what I wished to discuss with you, Captain. We had a visit from the Lord Protector’s wife yesterday: she wanted poison. Demanded it, in fact, and because of her rank, well, I was in a difficult position. She promised me that the Lord Protector would reward me appropriately.”
Francisco looked over at him, frowning. “Sforza would probably impale you for supplying poison to anyone. He disapproves of it, in the strongest sense. You should have told him.”
Master Kazimierz’s dark eyes gleamed. “How satisfying. So I had heard, and it was to some extent confirmed by his comments about the poisoned beer. Thus it is a good thing that the substance which I supplied to her lackey this morning, was not poison. You may ask my guards about the man, and what token he displayed. My stableman recognized his horse, so we know who he is. He came with the intent to kill me after getting the poison. I disarmed him, and did not give him poison, but a substance which was more awkward. It does have an effect, which may be of some value to Carlo Sforza—it was used to catch wine thieves, because even the smallest amount turns the urine red, as beetroot juice will. It has no other particular effects. But I anticipate a problem when she finds out.”
It was Francisco’s turn to try to find speech…and to find no answer but a laugh of sheer delight. “Oh, dear. I can see how it might worry you, Kazimierz. But it is a marriage of convenience for Carlo. She has no particular power…”
“I beg of you, do not underestimate this woman. She is extremely dangerous. I would check the color of my own urine and that of your master. She reminds me of Elizabeth Bartholdy.”
Bartholdy? This man had plainly moved in very rarified circles in Hungary—not to mention dangerous ones! Once again, Francisco resolved to find out more about the mysterious man behind the huge mustache.
“I thought she was supposed to be very beautiful? Lucia is too much like her father to be beautiful,” said Francisco.
“Bartholdy,” said Kazimierz grimly, “paid a terrible price for that beauty, in the end—and many girls paid a bad one along the way, if not as bad as hers. This woman Lucia Maria del Maino… Please, Francisco. If you discover the sign of the poison, take it as a warning. Do not confront her, just leave quietly.”
“She really did frighten you. Don
’t worry, Carlo will deal with her.”
The man said nothing, but he did not seem comforted. “So who was this lackey?” asked Francisco.
“One ‘Lord Laglissio’ according to the stableman. He was extremely angry to have needed to have shown her token to the troops in order to get through to me. He is nothing. Merely an errand boy and killer… She…is far more. Do not confront her, I beg you.”
“She’ll find out just what she is if she tries to cross Sforza. I suspect he has been poisoned. If I find out it’s her, I will kill her myself, and the devil take the consequences,” said Francisco grimly.
“My fear is the devil already has, and killing her will actually make it worse. Did you send that book to your friend Marco Valdosta?”
“Yes. I was in the throes of getting it to my messenger when they tried to kill me. My messenger intervened. Now there’s a woman, if you can call her that, you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of,” said Francisco, recollecting the ease with which Rhene had dealt with two men.
Kazimierz sighed. “That was why they tried to kill you. If she knew that much, then I am afraid your message was your messenger’s death warrant. Mine too, if she catches up with me.”
“Not likely, Kazimierz. My messenger is the magical creature Marco uses. A water-woman.”
“Ah,” said Kazimierz, tugging at his mustache. “The nyx of which you had asked. That is, indeed, a little more likely than most messengers to evade her. They do have the advantage of having died once already. Does this one yearn for her lover?”
“She seems ready to take on any possible one. But she kills them, so I’d advise against it,” said Francisco.
“Aha, an old one!” said Kazimierz. “They are the strongest. Well, we will just have to hope your friend can take the right action.”
“Well, I know I am going to go to Carlo Sforza right now and will tell him to watch his dear wife. Don’t worry too much about it. You’ll be safe,” said Francisco.
“I may well be. Oddly, these days I find myself worrying about others.” The man frowned. “A bad Western habit I have gotten into.”
* * *
Francisco Turner rode off with his escort, having no way of knowing that he’d effectively set Count Kazimierz Mindaug’s departure time for sooner rather than later that week. The attempted poisoning of Sforza was unlikely to result in his excellent advice being followed. Personally, cannon, or a large amount of gunpowder followed by arson, would be the best way of dealing with the woman—but the trouble with that was that she was the only real way of restricting the monster.
He could only hope that the Lion had grasped the import of the last piece about Sintram. The son had had to die—but he’d died with his soul saved and the monster under his control banished. The price he had demanded for this was cheap, compared to the disease ravaging Europe.
Now, the count needed to get a bespelled mirror to the edge of Venetian territory. A bird would have to do. The serpent could not control the air. Mindaug had always liked owls for some reason that went beyond logic, so he had a plan to use one that night.
* * *
Francisco arrived in Milan with his prisoners…and soon found himself with a dying Lord Palmeri as a patient. The man was not going to be telling any deathbed secrets: he was dying as Violetta de’ Medici’s mother had died, but faster. He’d gotten the full venom of both fangs.
“We saw the snake, but too late. It was a sort of mulberry-stain color with a yellow pattern on its head,” said Carlo Sforza, looking as shaken as Francisco had seen him. “Fast as a whip, it was. The jackass had just told me in fear and trembling that he had honestly believed the order to kill you had come from me. He’d lied like a flatfish at first but when I told him we had two bullyboys locked up safely, and I’d talked to them…well, he folded up, very quickly.”
“I think someone is using the snake to kill,” said Francisco. “There is magic associated with all of this, and I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either. Is Venice right? Is this new ‘magician’ of ours playing a clever double game, Francisco?”
“As he asked me to warn you that your wife is procuring poison, it would be a complicated game indeed. Especially as he says that what he gave her won’t kill, but will have an interesting effect on the color of the victim’s urine. It’ll turn it red.”
“She was here earlier, wishing to bill and coo, insisting on drinking a glass of wine with me. I suspect she’s just discovered that you do not always get pregnant the first time, for this Visconti offspring she dreams of having on the ducal throne. She’s putting on weight, though.”
“I trust you had your taster taste it.”
Sforza rolled his eyes. “Yes, Francisco. And she was offended.”
“That’s too bad. Now, I’d better go on trying to save Palmeri’s life.”
“It doesn’t seem worth bothering, does it?” said Carlo. “If you revive him, I’ll kill him in a particularly cruel and unusual way, to make the point that I disapprove of poisoners and disapprove of men trying to kill my officers.”
“I like them to die at my or your choosing…and to tell me who had set them to trying to kill me.”
But this time, he was doomed to fail.
* * *
Lucia had not been pleased by the fact that Laglissio had failed to kill the “magician.” She’d almost killed him instead as punishment. Now it looked like it was just as well she hadn’t, as she’d need someone for Lord Palmeri’s job who had some grasp of his network and some experience. Laglissio was one of his senior men.
She’d successfully administered the first dose of poison. It was a question of time before that pig Sforza lost his wits and left her to govern, and would be unable to tell that his “son” was born four months too early.
And then…he’d excused himself saying he had to question Lord Palmeri, that the man had tried to have one of his best men killed. Lucia had no faith in Palmeri’s ability to lie under the torture that would certainly follow. She wasted no time in getting back to her chambers and giving his hat, with the scent, to the asp and saying he needed to die—now.
I like to kill. But one death is not enough for the serpent. It needs more. Soon.
“Go, and I’ll give you some more. Plenty.”
Chapter 38
Milan
Francisco had returned to his quarters in the barracks that night. Sheer bloody-mindness made him go for a run the next morning. It did not make him stupid, however. He took a troop down the canal path first, leaving men at fifty-yard intervals, with instructions that they were to mount and follow once he was past. Yes, it was a complete overkill, but it was his way of telling the world he would continue to enjoy his runs, no matter who watched. It would give him quite a beer bill at the end of his run, but then he felt he owed his host Capra of the Grosso Luccio a little profit.
It was a little misty at the tail end of his run and he nearly fell over the glass canister, lying there in the middle of his path in a puddle of water. He was quick-witted enough to realize that it meant a message had come from Marco. He picked it up, and went on. There was no point in stopping, not with fifty troopers behind him. He was relatively close to the Grosso Luccio, so he went in, ordered beer, and sank a mug of it himself while holding the canister. Opening and reading would have to wait for him to return to the barracks. He had just put the canister in a saddlebag and mounted when a man riding at a flat gallop came and wrenched his horse to a halt.
“Captain Turner!” he shouted. “Thank God I have found you! The Lord Protector is sick! The duchess sent us out, hunting for you!”
Francisco swung up into the saddle. “Where?”
“The palazzo. In the duchess’s rooms.”
They rode hard, and Francisco finished his run with a sprint through the palace, followed by his troopers. He was met at the head of the stairs by several of Sforza’s men. “He’s been carried back to his bed. The duchess gave orders.”
Francisco rushed
there. The powerful Sforza was lying on the bed, still dressed, while his man—who had been in his master’s service as a soldier for a good many years—stood as if frozen holding his master’s hand. He looked up at Francisco. “Thank heavens you’re here, Captain.”
Francisco felt for the pulse. It was there, which was his one item of relief. “What happened?” he asked, loosening the collar.
Sforza’s man Hellbore answered “He stormed out of here…he’d been fine, quite cheerful. And then he used his chamber pot and…”
Several more men came in to the room, followed by the woman Sforza had married. “Will he recover?” she asked imperiously.
Lucia did not look the part of the distraught wife. Francisco opened his mouth to speak, and then caught his wits. He had no intention of telling this woman anything of substance. “I still need to examine him, Your Grace. If you could tell me what happened, it may help?”
“He came to my bedchamber. He is, after all, my husband. And, alas, he had what I can only think was some kind of fainting spell. I ordered my maids to have a physician called. His guards then sent off for someone they assured me was his personal physician.”
“I am indeed his physician,” said Francisco, with a calm assurance he did not feel. Master Kazimierz had been correct, and he wondered if he could kill her before the guards intervened. And then it occurred to him that that, too, had been what Kazimierz had cautioned about. At the moment, Carlo was alive. Could he be kept that way?
“Thank you, Your Grace. Now I am afraid I will be removing some of his clothing and cupping him. The process will take some time. I will send a messenger to let you know how successful the process is.” He coughed. “If I might say, Your Grace, I think we need to downplay his illness, so as not to give Milan’s enemies comfort. He was planning to go to his villa near Lake Como for a period of rest. I would suggest we could inform people that that is where he is.”
