Black Madonna s-20

by Carl Sargent

  The reassurance seemed to make the man a little less unhappy, if not exactly cheerful.

  “Well, I must thank you for your time, signor,” Geraint said. “I very much appreciate your frankness. You have saved me and my govermnent much time. Should this man ever return, I would be delighted to be informed. I hope that you will allow me to send you a small token of my esteem and gratitude when I return to London. I really do appreciate your openness and honesty.”

  He meant it. The man had revealed a state of affairs that might, indeed, have become obvious sooner or later. But with so little time left to them, it had to be sooner and his honesty might just save them enough time to find their quarry before the world’s computer systems crashed.

  They shook hands and departed, wandering slowly back through ever more crowded streets to where they were staying.

  “This is extraordinary. That they couldn’t film him and that everyone saw someone different. And they couldn’t track him… What kind of man is this?” Michael was shaking his head in wonder.

  Someone bloody extraordinary,” Geraint said. “But now we know for sure Blondie is with him.”

  “I just don’t see how he could have done it,” Michael said. They must have had the police out after him. They probably still do.”

  “Of course they did and he gave them the slip,” Getaint grinned.

  By now, they were back in the piazza, and saw Serrin and Kristen just leaving the campanile. The marangona bell was tolling already, announcing the public holiday for those still not apprised of the Doge’s blessing, and crowds were beginning to build in the square. A few people already wore the black eye masks and dark cloaks of day attire for the celebrations, and tables were being brought into the square, though no more than a few from any of the cafes. The city ordinances were relaxed, but guardsmen were quietly checking that the square was not unduly cluttered. By midnight a huge crowd would be expected here and obstructions were going to be kept down to a minimum.

  “Enjoy your sightseeing?” Michael asked Kristen.

  “It’s amazing, you can see all over the city. Serrin says you can see Padova on a really clear day.” Kristen was beaming.

  “Possibly a slight exaggeration,” Michael teased. “But it’s a great place to view from, that tower. If you can climb all those steps, that is.”

  “Tell me about it,” Serrin croaked.

  “At least I’ve got the excuse of a bad back,” Michael chuckled. “You’re getting old.” He poked the elf playfully in the ribs.

  “And I have the excuse of a leg shot to hell,” Serrin reminded him.

  “Sorry,” Michael apologized. “I’d forgotten that.”

  “Wish I could.”

  Streak waved cheerfully to them across the piazza. He sat, narrow-eyed, scanning the square, his jacket perhaps a little bulky for the morning’s warmth.

  He’s keeping watch, Michael realized, and he’s got his usual armory inside that jacket. But it doesn’t seem like he’s going to need it today. Our man is, or at least was, here. We were right to come. But why was he doing what he did? How did he do it? And most of all, what does he want to do now and how do we find him? He remembered what Kristen had said. What would you do if you were Leonardo? The problem with that is tie simply didn’t know. The genius had every interest imaginable and picking which one might apply might now seemed impossible.

  He wandered over to the painting of the Last Supper that Serrin had mentioned to him. It didn’t disturb him as much as it did the elf, but there was no doubt something was drastically wrong with the scene. The accusing nature of the disciples on the left was obvious. The seemingly disembodied dagger-wielding hand was obviously wrong; it belonged to no body portrayed.

  How on earth did no one see this? Michael thought. How did he get away with this with the Inquisition around, with vicious and venal churchmen all around, all too ready to accuse a talent of whom they had the petty envy of the professionally self-righteous? Whatever this is all leading to, it isn’t small beer. And, somehow, I think I can see how the collapse of the Matrix is, like Merlin said to Serrin, actually not the most important thing.

  So what is?

  His reverie was shattered by an extraordinary sight. Trundling into the square, northward from the piazzetta. was the most peculiar vehicle Michael had ever seen. It looked like a medium-sized armored snail on wheels, and it was decked out with a mass of flags. The flags bore what appeared to be abstract designs, but as it got closer they seemed to show flowing waves of water and arcs of light. The people in the square assumed this was some early part of the carnival celebrations and cheered at its approach.

  Behind them, Streak’s hand reached into his jacket pocket. As he did so, the gesture was matched by that of two men standing, cloaked and masked, just outside Florian’s, the cafe almost directly opposite Quadri’s.

  The vehicle stopped.

  Streak’s silencer kept the sound of the missiles down to an absolute minimum. Behind him, a maid was vigorously using a vacuum cleaner on the cafe floor and carpets. He hoped it would cover the noise.

  As the first of the men in cloaks dropped to the ground, the vehicle began to fall apart a few meters from the campanile. Guardsmen were rushing to the area now to see what was happening.

  A bullet missed Kristen’s ear by no more than a few centimeters. Serrin heard the sound and flung her to the ground beneath him, looking around wildly for the unknown assailant. Streak nodded his head with satisfaction as the second cloaked man hit the ground. Next to him, a puzzled and obviously terrified middle-aged tourist woman was beginning to develop the first symptoms of what would undoubtedly turn out to be a suitably histrionic hysterical fit.

  As the armored snail disintegrated, its metal plates appeared to evaporate as they hit the surface of the piazza.

  A young man stood up inside the vanishing wreckage utterly immaculate in black jacket, pants, and cloak with the full gold face-mask of the carnival. A long pony-tail of blond hair hung down his back. He bowed low to the cheering crowd, kissed an utterly bewildered guardsman on both cheeks, and skipped away eastward. Geraint shot after him like a greyhound after a rabbit.

  Serrin crafted a barrier spell for himself while Streak’s eyes darted everywhere among the crowd. Around the two men on the ground at Florian’s a knot of people was gathering and guardsmen were rushing to the scene. Michael could do little. Unable to keep up with Geraint because of his bad back, he could only bustle toward Serrin and Kristen.

  The snail had completely vanished. The illusion had been allowed to decay.

  The youth sped like the blazes, laughing as he went. Geraint knew he couldn’t catch him, and was about to abandon his forlorn pursuit as his quarry headed for the bridge over the Rio del Palazzo. Then he turned suddenly and called out to his panting pursuer.

  “My master sends his regards and trusts he will continue to enjoy the game,” the stranger called out cheerfully and then vanished across the bridge into the labyrinth of streets beyond. There was nothing for Geraint to do but return to the piazza.

  Streak, staying put, was dismayed to see that the fallen assassins were being taken inside the cafe from which they’d appeared.

  They were going to be taken away by friends and there wasn’t much he could do about it. The crowd of people in the way were slowing the approaching guardsmen sufficiently that any backup inside the place-and surely they must have some-would get them out in time. If only that damn stunt hadn’t had the police all going the wrong way! What the blazes was that thing?

  Still, no one saw the narcoject. Better bet than the Predator here. You could always plead self-defense with a non-lethal weapon.

  Frag it, he told himself maybe I should have used the Predator after all.

  Having scanned the square enough times, he risked walking over to Serrin and Kristen, back on their feet now, and Michael.

  “You okay?”

  “Who the hell-”

  “Couple of guys over at Florian’s,�
�� Streak told them. “I dropped them with some dozies. Keep them out of action for a while. Didn’t think I could risk the real thing. I might have been wrong.”

  “Owe you one,” Serrin asserted with real feeling. “I don’t understand why my spell lock didn’t pick them up.”

  “You got an enemy detector?” Streak had worked with combat mages long enough to know the basics. Serrin nodded.

  “Then they weren’t after you, was they? They was trying to whack Kristen,” Streak said cheerfully.

  “Why?” Serrin was appalled.

  “Don’t ask me, I’m just the guy who stopped her getting filled with lead,” Streak said. “Oh, and what was that thing that just rolled into the square and where the frag is it now?”

  “It must have been an illusion,” Serrin said. “I didn’t have time to observe it closely. Not with being shot at, hitting the dirt, that sort of thing, you know?”

  “Next time,” Geraint said as he returned to join the conversation, “shoot at that little blond bastard. Know what he said to me?” Without waiting for the obvious reply, he told them.

  “The game?”

  “I knew it was something like this,” Michael mused. “We have to learn to play his game somehow.”

  “That thing,” Serrin said slowly, as if searching through his memory as he spoke, that tank thing, it reminds me of something. I didn’t get long to look at it, but I think it was like one of Leonardo’s designs. I think I saw something like that in the book I’ve got.”

  “Part of this game?” Geraint wondered.

  “So what’s next?”

  “What’s next, guys and gals, is that we ought to get indoors in case there are any more prats in cloaks wanting to take a pop at us. We’ve got to consider our options, and make some plans instead of falling around out here,” Streak said. “Unless you’d like to be shot at again, that is.”

  “Let’s get inside,” Serrin said at once. “And let’s consider how the frag we play this game. Some game, if my wife’s getting shot at.”

  “I think,” Streak said, “that those guys were playing one of a very different kind. The kind where there’s guaranteed to be tears before bedtime.”

  25

  They decided not to move elsewhere in the city. Though their whereabouts were obviously known, it would be easy enough to trace them if they moved. Michael also pointed out that Claudio was someone they could trust, and he could alert them if strangers came snooping or asking about them. Serrin decided to conduct some rituals to protect them against magical assault. They didn’t know who’d attacked them that morning, but the Jesuit fundamentalists were the most obvious possibility and their mages would hardly be weaklings.

  “Now we’ve got to make an active move. Do something to show our man we’re playing his game,” Michael said.

  “Like what?” Streak asked. “This is your kind of thing, Michael matey. I just shoot people.”

  “Speaking of shooting people” Geraint said with a wince, “when do Juan and Xavier get here?”

  “Any time now,” Streak said. “I was right, eh? We’re going to need ‘em.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Before Michael could return to his deliberations, there was a knock on the door. Streak had his Predator in his hand at once, but Michael waved him away.

  “For God’s sake, no assassin is going to knock, Streak.”

  “Don’t you sodding believe it,” the elf said, but sat down and reluctantly picked up a magazine and kept the gun leveled behind it as he pretended to be reading. To his disgust, the magazine seemed to be full of lavish illustrations of Italian gardens. Streak had many interests, but gardening was definitely not one of them. If the magazine didn’t have guns, military hardware, or members of the opposite gender in states of undress, he was definitely not interested.

  Lucrezia popped her head around the door, her mane of flaming curls as prodigious as ever.

  “I come to see about your costumes, Mister Michael,” she said. “And there is a card for you.”

  “Thank you very much,” Michael said. He took the card, read it, and his eyes widened. He passed it to Geraint without comment.

  “I take the lady separately from you gentlemen?” the woman asked, clearly a little puzzled to find them all crammed together in the same room.

  “Perhaps you can measure me and my wife,” Serrin suggested, seeing that Michael obviously wanted to discuss whatever was on the card. The two of them left with Lucrezia for their own bedroom.

  “Please be in the square at midnight, when a most interesting event will take place,” Michael read aloud for Streak’s benefit.

  “Signed by one ‘Salai’,” Geraint said, looking over his friend’s shoulder.

  “Very neat. He was the closest to what might be called an apprentice of Leonardo’s. Traveled with him for many years. As I recall, he was something of an asshole. According to the history books, that is.”

  “That seems about right,” Geraint said with feeling. “So this is when he makes another move. The question is what we do until then,” Michael said.

  “Whatever it is. it’s got to communicate with our target,” Geraint said.

  “That means something public.”

  “Post a message on the BBS?”

  “That would be logical. I suppose. What do we say?”

  “ ‘Mona Lisa wishes to meet Leonardo’?” Streak suggested. “Thats the kind of thing I usually browse.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Michael said disapprovingly, “but I hardly think-”

  “Maybe it’s not so totally off the wall,” Geraint said. “I mean, it probably should be something like that. It’s got to be jokey, I think. That damnable farce out in the square was supposed to be some kind of entertainment.”

  They started to throw ideas around without really getting anywhere, and it was almost a relief when Lucrezia arrived with her catalogue and measuring tape. She dealt with the elf last.

  “Watch that inside leg, Signora,” Streak said slyly. “I’m a red-blooded elf in my prime.”

  Grinning, not taking offense, she slapped him playfully in the ear. The elf reeled back, a shrill singing tone ringing inside his head.

  “Frag me, missus, I wouldn’t want to argue with you for real!” he complained and became as meek as a lamb, politely accepting the costume she suggested for him.

  When Lucrezia left, Geraint and Michael burst into the laughter they’d been choking back after the elf’s chastisement.

  “Serves you right. I warned you,” Michael sniggered.

  “Rakk it, what a right hook,” Streak said as Serrin and Kristen rejoined them.

  “Everything gets delivered after lunch,” Serrin said. “What happened to you?” He peered at the elf’s deep red ear.

  “Nothing,” Streak mumbled.

  “Our Lucrezia disciplined him for being a cheeky bugger,” Michael told Serrin with a smirk. “He’s going to be awfully well behaved for a while.”

  “Right.” Serrin grinned. “Now what about business?” They told him what they’d been discussing, then picked up the thread where they’d left off.

  “It needs to be something more pointed,” Serrin said. “Oh, by the way, here’s that thing we saw in the square.” He opened the book at the appropriate page and showed them the design for the military machine, which did indeed look extraordinarily like a primitive First World War tank.

  “I wonder if we might not try something like asking Salai to attend a supper,” Serrin said. “And maybe call it ‘Mary’s supper’ ”

  “You’re thinking of the painting in the square,” Michael said.

  “Yes. I’m convinced that the Magdalene is actually the subject of that picture. It’s so obvious when you really look at it.”

  “It’s certainly not what it appears to be,” Michael agreed.

  “And if we included a line from that apocalyptic essay by Leonardo, the one about the floods, for good measure, we’d show that we understood more now than maybe
our man thinks we do.”

  “It’s worth a try” Geraint offered.

  “We need to post it on as many BBSes as we can and leave a drop,” Michael said. “We can’t know if he’ll be monitoring, but-”

  “Surely he must be. If what he does for fun is wipe his traces clean from the Doge’s system, routine BBS scanning ought to be pretty simple,” Geraint said.

  Michael sat down with his deck. “Okay. Consider it done. I’ll leave Smithers to plant it.”

  “Smithers? Who the frag is Smithers?” Streak demanded.

  “One of his frames,” Geraint told him. “This one does the routine clerk stuff so he calls it Smithers.”

  “Don’t ask about Tracey,” Serrin said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Streak replied. “What a weird bloke he is.”

  “I won’t take that to heart,” Michael said cheerfully. “Better than being boring, eh?”

  It took less than a minute to post the message they finally composed, make the nominal payment transfer, and arrange the email drop. Now all they could do was sit back and wait.

  “Now what?” Streak was becoming restless, agitated because he was still feeling the adrenaline rush that shooting people always gave him.

  “Apart from this I’m not sure that’s much else we can do. We know something’s going to happen in the square tonight, so-”

  Michael’s words were interrupted by a signal from his deck that Smithers had observed and located a reply to his posting. Eagerly, he downloaded it.

  “Slot, that was fast,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” They all crowded around.

  “ ‘Your understanding is superior to what we had expected. We look forward very much to further developments. Yours respectfully, Salin.’ Hmm.”

  “Respect, indeed,” Geraint growled.

  “Don’t be touchy,” Michael said. “look, he’s pleased with us.”

  Are you a toy poodle or something?”

  “It seems to imply that we’re being invited to get closer to him. ‘Further developments’.”