This Rough Magic

by Mercedes Lackey

  He smiled, and his tone softened. "A good plan is one that keeps our casualties light and costs our enemy dear. Keep making them, Benito Valdosta."

  Manfred cleared his throat. "And that brings us to discussing the defenses of this place. With all respect, Captain-General, we have veterans of a dozen sieges here. We offer you our expertise as well as our arms."

  "Your arms are appreciated," the captain-general said stiffly. "But this is a Venetian fortification, under Venetian command."

  Manfred opened his mouth to speak and Francesca kicked him.

  Von Gherens unfortunately wasn't in kicking range. He snorted. "You're undermanned, underprovisioned, and badly organized. You—"

  "That will do, Von Gherens!" barked Eberhard, in a tone so stern it made even Manfred blink. "I apologize, Captain-General. The Ritter spoke out of turn."

  "And we appreciate your hospitality and especially this drink," added Francesca throatily, holding out an empty glass. "But is it already being rationed?

  The captain-general lost his train of angry thought and gawped, as she poured charm on him. "My apologies, signora! Of course not. Allow me." He poured out another.

  After a moment's hesitation, Von Gherens put out his glass. "I spoke hastily there, Captain-General. Apologies."

  "Accepted," said the captain-general stiffly. He limped forward and filled the knight's glass. "Anyone else?"

  Benito watched Francesca calmly empty the glass into the purse hanging from her chatelaine, while the Venetian officer's attention was on Von Gherens.

  "Perhaps later," she said, putting down the glass. "Right now I am dying to put off these salty clothes and have a wash." She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  Erik nodded. "Yes. The armor, especially the joints, must be cleaned and oiled. The salt water does it no good."

  Von Gherens groaned. "That was the worst aspect of your plan, Benito."

  The captain-general rang a bell. "I'll have one of my men show you to your chambers."

  Francesca smiled at him. "Thank you, Captain-General Tomaselli. You are too kind."

  "You may call me Nico, signora," he said bowing over her hand and kissing it.

  Benito felt rather than heard the low rumble from Manfred. He also caught Francesca's wink to the prince, while the Venetian officer's head was down.

  * * *

  "Well, it's a nice bed," said Manfred, testing it. Naturally enough the bed complained. "But I don't know if it was worth you nearly seducing that Venetian ass for."

  "A good bed is past price, darling," said Francesca, carefully emptying her purse. She looked at it sadly. "You will have to get me a new one, Manfred. I think the leather will be quite ruined by that vile drink."

  "I thought you liked it?" said Manfred, with an evil grin. "You nodded when fancy-pants asked you. I saw you."

  "I had to nod. I couldn't speak. I'm afraid the disgusting stuff may have ruined my vocal cords forever. Besides, if I had opened my mouth I might have been sick." She sniffed cautiously at the reticule. "Bleh. Even if it doesn't ruin the leather I refuse to live with the smell."

  "And there I thought you'd finally learned to drink." Manfred shook his head sadly. "I'll admit the stuff was strong enough to make me pause. He might run a lousy garrison but he certainly has a drink that would put hair on your chest."

  "I certainly hope not!" said Francesca. "But it was all part of the show, Manfred."

  Manfred stood up and reached for her laces. "I better check about the hair," he teased. "What do you mean? 'Part of the show'? I hope you don't mean the hair . . ."

  She lifted his hands aside, kissed them and said: "Later, when you don't smell of oil and old iron and fish and seaweed. What I mean by 'part of the show' was that it was our little captain-general's attempt to show how tough he was. Think of it. This is a backwater of Venetian defense. It's a major point in their resupply and trade routes, but for a commanding officer—well, it's not a place Venice expected to be attacked."

  "A junior posting."

  "More like a backwater posting. He's not so young."

  She patted Manfred's broad shoulder. "Now, think. You are a given such a posting—a good trade spot but militarily a sign of being relegated to someplace where you can't do any damage. And suddenly—a siege! He hasn't done too badly, really. From what we've been told, had he been a totally arrogant ass like that fool who told us Greeks were no good, the fortress would have fallen to Emeric's sneak attack. Instead . . . someone did some preparation, saved the citadel, and saved a good many lives outside. It doesn't look as if he's doing too badly, so far, all things considered. Venice will be proud of him, that's what he's thinking. And then . . . in come a couple of hundred of the Empire's greatest knights, in the most dramatic style, poking a stick in the eye of the enemy. Led by a prince of the blood who offers to assist him in conducting the defenses."

  Manfred swallowed. "It was well meant, Francesca."

  "I know," she said, gently. "But then I'm not a thin-skinned minor noble with a dying military career. And I nearly ruined my toes kicking you. I wish I could have kicked Von Gherens too."

  Manfred grinned. "He'd have asked why you were kicking him."

  Chapter 38

  Benito was assigned a room in the Castel a mar. After washing, he found himself in no state to sleep. So he set out to do what he had been told to on arriving in Corfu: reporting to the Dorma Factor.

  Asking directions, Benito set out, got himself thoroughly lost and eventually found his way to the man's residence. He was not at home. So Benito left a message and walked across to the hospital to see how Falkenberg was doing.

  "You can't see him," said the monk. "He's finally asleep. He's in pain, young man. Sleep, even assisted by laudanum, is the best thing for him."

  "Tell him . . . I'll come back later. Is he going to be all right?"

  The monk shrugged. "If he doesn't get secondary infections. We've prayed over him. We've used such skills as we have. We have used a fragment of the blessed Saint Landry's hand."

  Benito wished, desperately, that his brother were here. But all he could do was thank the monk and leave.

  He stood outside on the street, looked about, and bit his lip. Finally, with a feeling in his stomach as if he'd been kicked there by Von Gherens, asked a passerby: "Where can I find the home of Umberto Verrier?"

  The man shrugged. "Never heard of him."

  "He's a master caulker. Just come out from Venice."

  "Try the store-yards down at the outer northeastern gate."

  So Benito passed out through the inner curtain wall, and on down to the store-yard. Given the way his day had been going so far, he was not surprised to find that Umberto had taken a belated breakfast and was now back at home, which was inside the curtain wall.

  "Look for the last house before the road to St. Agatha's. Between the hills. He's got a goat in his yard. You can usually hear it. It leans over the wall and bleats at passers by. They feed it. Only man I know with a watch-goat," said the Corfiote laborer, grinning. "It's got a weakness for Kourabiedies."

  Benito knew exactly which house the man was talking about then. He'd passed it on his way to look for the Dorma factor, and again while walking to the hospital. He sighed. It had been that sort of day.

  "What's wrong?" enquired the burly laborer.

  "Nothing much. I've just walked down from virtually next door. Anyway, thanks."

  The man grinned, showing missing teeth. "You're welcome. I saw you coming in from the ship this morning. And working with old Umberto. He's not a bad soul, for a Venetian."

  So Benito walked back up. He found the house. The goat leaned over the wall and bleated at him. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the door and knocked.

  Maria opened the door, baby on arm. "Benito! What are you doing here?"

  "You know this young fellow?" asked Umberto, smiling and getting up from the table. "He gave me a lot of help this morning. Come in, young man. We never got formally introduced. I know your f
ace from Venice. This is my wife, Maria . . . but you already seem to know that?"

  Benito bowed. "Maria was very good to me while I was growing up. I'm Benito Valdosta."

  "Marco Valdosta's brother?" Umberto looked faintly awed. "The ward of the Doge?"

  "And more trouble than he's worth," said Maria. It wasn't exactly welcoming . . . but at least she wasn't yelling at him.

  Benito held out his hands pacifically. "I'm trying to reform. Really. Back when Maria met Marco and me, we were both bridge-brats and always in trouble."

  Maria snorted. "You were. Marco wasn't. He was a trainee saint even then."

  Benito grinned. "Even when he ran off into the Jesolo, after writing love-letters to Angelina Dorma?"

  Maria shook her head, a reluctant shadow of a smile coming to her face. "He was a young idiot. He grew up."

  "Oh, I agree. About the saint part and the idiot part, which he never grew out of. I still love him dearly." He sighed. "And if this wasn't such a hideous situation, I'd wish he was here now."

  Maria smiled properly now. "He and Kat are both idiots—at least by your standards, Benito—but I also love both of them very dearly. They're our Alessia's godparents, you know."

  "I know," said Benito. "She couldn't ask for better ones."

  Umberto beamed on both of them. "Well, why don't you come in and have a glass of wine with us, you being by the way of things a sort of god-uncle to my daughter. Then you can tell us what we can do for you. You have a place to stay?"

  Benito had to swallow hastily. He nodded, looking around.

  Maria and Umberto's little home was small, Spartan, and lovingly tended, from the simple tablecloth to the little wicker cradle in the corner. Umberto certainly hadn't been able to smother Maria Garavelli in worldly goods. But he'd given her what she'd needed: a home, stability, and a reliable father for her baby. Someone who wouldn't go doing crazy things that might get him killed.

  "I have a place to stay, thank you. I just came to pass on Kat's messages. She sends her love to you and to little Alessia. She said I must tell you to write. I also came to offer my help if there was anything useful I could do for you . . ." he finished lamely. It didn't seem like a very good reason for seeking someone out. He looked at the baby and Maria, standing Madonna-like. "She looks well-fed."

  "At least you didn't say she looks beautiful like everyone else does," said Maria, tartly. "Here. Hold this well-fed baby while I get the wine." She passed the plump bundle over.

  Benito found himself with a soft, milky-breathed baby in his arms. After the initial shock, it didn't feel too bad.

  * * *

  The habited woman on her knees tending the flowers outside the Hypatian Order chapel looked up as Eneko Lopez and Father Pierre approached. "And how can I help you, my sons?" she asked pleasantly.

  "We're looking for a Sibling Eleni," explained Pierre.

  The Sibling got up, dusting her knees. She had the ageless sort of face, ornamented by bright brown eyes, that Eneko tended to associate with Hypatian Siblings. There was something about the cloistered life that kept age at a distance.

  "That is me. Actually, there is only me here. How may I help you?"

  Eneko nodded. "It's rather a long story, Sibling, but we have here a letter from the Grand Metropolitan of Rome. We were on our way to Jerusalem, before our ship was diverted here."

  The nun smiled. It was clear then, as fine lines appeared around her mouth and eyes, that she was, if not old, certainly no longer young. "If it is a long story, let us go into the chapel. God doesn't mind listening out here, but it is cooler for us there."

  She nodded politely at Eneko. "Your reputation and description go before you, Señor Lopez. I'm afraid I don't know you," she said to the priest accompaning him.

  "Father Pierre," he said simply, smiling.

  "Ah." She said nothing else until they were within the tiny chapel, and seated on some stools she brought from the back of the building. "Well, now, how may the Hypatian Order on Corfu serve you? You've come to heathen parts, I'm afraid." She shook her head, but with more fondness than irritation. "The locals attend church faithfully, but I know for a certain fact that many of them continue their worship of a pagan deity. A bloodthirsty goddess of some sort, I suppose. That is, I suppose she is bloodthirsty, because the men seem to hold her in some fear. The women—well, they keep their secrets to themselves."

  She sighed. "It's all nonsense, of course, but they are happy in their nonsense, and we try to educate them slowly. The island is simply stiff with such superstitions."

  "You would not mind, Sibling, if we enact the ritual of the veil of divine privacy?" Eneko shook himself. "I've just seen two birds of prey high in the sky. I know there is a war on and the hawks and eagles come to feast . . . but I'll swear I've seen those birds following us since we left Rome."

  The Sibling spread her hands wide. "You may do as you wish, Father Lopez. You know the Hypatian Order believes strongly in the appropriate use of Christian magic whenever needful."

  * * *

  The chapel was built with a careful alignment to the four cardinal directions. Statues of the archangels Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Uriel stood on plinths in their corners. Eneko and Pierre set about raising the wards. Soon the distant sounds of the Citadel were shut off inside the veil. It was with a feeling of relief that they returned to their stools.

  "We have had scryings both of great deeds and portents of magical conflict here, Sibling," Eneko said, certain now that nothing could overlook him. "Evil in the shape of Chernobog, and an ancient power that we could not identify."

  The small Sibling started. "Here? Here on little Corfu? Oh, no, Father Eneko! Nothing ever happens here. The locals talk about magical Corfu, but it is small magics, if there are any at all. Superstitions and mutterings about the Goddess, but never have I seen a sign of great pagan power. There are a few Jews who may be involved. A Strega charm-seller or two. Virtually every hamlet has its so-called wise-woman, who might dabble in birthing spells . . . but that is it."

  She shook her head emphatically. "Unless it is something the Hungarian invaders have brought with them, not something from here."

  "Hmm. Might we try a scrying?" As an afterthought, Eneko added: "And also a contact spell. If there is any chance of contacting him, Brother Mascoli of St. Raphaella in Venice could pass word to the Venetians about the siege, and perhaps get it relieved."

  "Of course, the chapel is yours, Father! I wish I could help you, but I fear that I myself am very unskilled in such matters." The Sibling smiled, but wistfully. "You know that the Order welcomes those with many skills—and there never seemed to be a need for a magician here, so they sent me. I'm better with small children and gardens than I am with great magic. A little magic to make my herbs grow, a soothing spell for a colicky child, that sort of thing. I do not believe these will be of service to you now."

  "On the other hand, I could not soothe a child," Lopez felt impelled to tell her. "In fact, I rather think I would give it nightmares. The Lord welcomes all who serve, Sibling."

  But a few minutes later, when concentrating on Brother Mascoli's image, Eneko Lopez discovered that now the greater magics were beyond him, too. It was a shock—like reaching for something you knew was there, only it wasn't. Or waking up to find that someone had amputated a hand.

  "Look at the archangel Uriel," whispered Pierre, round-eyed.

  Eneko turned, slowly, to look. What he was looking at . . . just wasn't there. The golden glow, haloing the statue, summoned by the invocation, was gone. There was no Ward of the North.

  "We enacted the veil ritual without any difficulty."

  "A power great enough to attack an archangel . . ." He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. "No wonder our scrying didn't work!"

  Pierre shook his head. "It's not so much 'attack,' as 'nullify.' It just isn't there."

  Eneko Lopez stared at the statue of Uriel. "It can't be the creature of Chernobog; we sent that scuttling. An
d the archangels were potent enough against him, anyway. Why the keeper of the creatures of the Earth?"

  * * *

  Maria watched sidelong to see how Benito took Alessia, waiting to be amused at his awkwardness. To her surprise, there was none. He didn't, as Kat had, hold Alessia as if she was made of fragile porcelain. He didn't, as Umberto did, seem to have a problem knowing what to hold. He took and held her as if it was the most natural of things. He supported her head . . . without being told. And he looked oddly pleased. Not something most men looked when handed a baby.

  Maria went into the kitchen, drew a jug of wine, and . . . sighed. At times like this, Benito—

  She shook her head firmly, snatched up three wine cups and returned to the outer room.

  Benito was rocking Alessia with a peculiar smile on his face. After Maria put down the wine and cups, Benito handed Alessia back to her mother.

  "You know, that's the first time I've ever held a baby. They're heavier than they look." He sat down and took the cup of wine that Umberto poured out. "Thank you."

  Maria smiled wryly. "And noisier, too. You know, Benito, there is something you could do for me. I've been trying to think how to get a message to him since I saw him this morning. Do you know Erik Hakkonsen? Prince Manfred of Brittany's companion? Sort of a bodyguard?"

  Benito grinned wryly. "You might say so. He's beaten me, drilled me till I fell over, and made my life a misery for the last ten days or so."

  "Oh," she said, sounding disappointed, but with a twinkle in her eye. "Well, then you're probably not the right person to tell him that a Vinlander girl called Svanhild, who was on the ship with us, has waited on Corfu to see him. Her and her two brothers. A whole crew of them, in fact."

  Benito jumped to his feet, almost spilling the wine, grinning. "I'll go and find him right away. He's been like a bear with a sore tooth because of this woman—if it is the right woman. Svanhild, you say she's called? I'll go and ask. Where is she?"

  Maria lost the twinkle, and sobered. "That's the bad part. She's outside the walls, somewhere on the island. I forget the name of the count whose villa they were staying in. Oh, wait—yes, Dentico, I think it is."