Saluzzo spotted Bianca then. Leaving the knife stuck in the body, he rose and took two strides toward her.
"Paulo, what—"
Saluzzo was a powerful man. His slap sent her sprawling on the steps. The next slap, on the back of her head, dazed her.
Fortunately, perhaps, since the pain when he seized her by the hair and began dragging her up the stairs would have been considerably more agonizing otherwise.
"Bitch. I'll teach you!"
By the time they reached her bedroom and Saluzzo flung her onto the bed, Bianca had recovered her senses. Furiously, she began muttering the words that would destroy the man. Saluzzo didn't even hear them, he was so consumed with anger combined with lust.
Before she finished the incantation, though, Bianca had suppressed her anger. The situation, she realized, was ideal for a different use of magic. Someday, she might well have to flee her house in a hurry—a task that would be made considerably easier if Saluzzo remained behind to attack her pursuers with demonic fury.
That, of course, would require turning him into a demon—the shape of one, at least—which could be done, under the right circumstances.
These were the right circumstances. Rage and lust, combined, were the key raw ingredients.
"I'll teach you to fool around with anyone else," Saluzzo snarled. He'd already hoisted her skirts and forced her legs apart. Now, he slapped her again and started untying his breeches.
"Paulo, please!"
Another slap. "Time for your lesson, slut."
* * *
The period that followed was unpleasant. Even painful, toward the end, as Bianca's murmured incantations began effecting the first transformations of Saluzzo's form. But Bianca had been through worse in the past, and would face still worse in the future. Immortality, as the countess often remarked, had its price. Many prices, in fact.
Fortunately, Saluzzo was raping her on the bed—still better, on a bed in the upper floor of her house, almost twenty feet above the soil of Corfu. Had he been assaulting Bianca on the ground itself, her magics would have drained away. The more so, since the sort of transformation she was carrying out on him was closely connected to earth magic. It was not quite the same as making a golem, but close.
* * *
"What's the matter, Eneko?" asked Francesca, leaning forward in her chair. "You look suddenly ill."
"You cannot sense it?" The priest's voice was brittle; his temples held in both hands.
Puzzled, Francesca shook her head. "Sense what?"
"The magic. That is a hideous spell being used. The one who uses it—it's the female, this time, not Fianelli—is reckless beyond belief. I'd never dare use a spell that powerful here on Corfu, without wards—not that I'd ever use that spell anyway—because . . ."
He croaked. Surprised, Francesca realized it was the sound of strained laughter.
"Of course, I imagine she's not concerned with the danger of attracting demons. Since she's one herself, in all that matters."
Magic was something Francesca knew very little about. So she focused on what, to her, was the key point. "You're sure it's a woman? Not Fianelli?"
Eneko raised his head slowly, staring at her through eyes that were nothing much more than slits. "Oh, yes. There's a succubus—of sorts—loose in this fortress, Francesca. And she's even more dangerous than Fianelli. More powerful, at least, when it comes to magic."
Francesca leaned back in the chair, her lips pursed. "A woman. Could it be Sophia Tomaselli?"
Before Lopez could respond, Francesca raised her hand. "Yes, Eneko, I know the fetish she placed in Maria Verrier's house was a fake. But perhaps that was just a subterfuge—a way to protect her from charges of practicing real witchcraft, in case she ever got caught." Francesca chuckled, throatily. "It's the sort of thing I'd have thought up."
Eneko's smile was thin. "At a rough estimate, Francesca, you are eighty times more intelligent than Sophia Tomaselli. But it doesn't matter. You forget that Pierre went to see her in her cell, after she was arrested. The Savoyard's the best witch-smeller I've ever met. He says, quite firmly, that while the Tomaselli woman is evil enough, in a multitude of small and petty ways, she's got no more demonic power than a carrot."
Francesca must have looked a bit dubious. Lopez's smile became still thinner. "Please, Francesca. I have learned not to second-guess you when it comes to intrigue and espionage. Please don't try to second-guess me when it comes to magic. Whoever the female is, it is not Sophia Tomaselli."
Francesca spread her fingers in a gesture that, subtly, indicated assent. More precisely, that she was beating a demure but hasty retreat.
"I wouldn't dream of questioning you, Eneko!"
The two of them laughed, abruptly.
"Still," Francesca continued, "I think we should start with Sophia Tomaselli. We should question Morando again also, of course, but I doubt he'd say anything. If this mysterious woman—"
"Female, Francesca—not 'woman.' Trust me. The distinction, if you understood it, would be even more important to you than to me."
" 'Female,' then. If this female is an accomplice of his, at this point he'd never tell us. Even that she exists, much less her identity."
"Why? He seems eager enough to tell us everything else."
"Because Morando is expecting he'll be executed, when he's returned to Venice. A traitor's death, too, his legs broken first." For a moment, she glared. "Thanks to those idiot men! That includes you, Eneko! A lesson: Never tell a man you're going to execute him, if there's any chance he might still have information you want. You just eliminated any motive for him to keep talking."
Eneko scowled. "He was guilty of—"
"Who cares?" Francesca slapped the armrests of her chair with exasperation. "Why does a whore have to keep reminding priests and devout knights that justice belongs to the Lord? Ours is the province of practicality, damnation!"
Eneko's lips quirked. "I believe it's 'vengeance' that belongs to the Lord, Francesca, though I understand the point. Nor, by the way, have I ever called you a 'whore.' "
She shrugged. "It's just a word. Means nothing to me, to be blunt. And to get back to the point, Morando won't tell us anything because perhaps the only hope he has left—however faint it may be—is that his accomplice, if she remains at large, might somehow rescue him from his predicament. Yes, yes, it's a very faint hope—criminal associates are hardly noted for their personal loyalties and devotion. But, who knows? There might be some deep tie between them. And, even if there isn't, a man expecting a noose will hope for anything."
"Ah. That's why you think Tomaselli would know—"
Francesca shook her head. "We should question her also, but I doubt we'll get anything useful. The problem in her case being somewhat the opposite. Too much talk instead of too little. That woman is driven by spite more than anything else. At one point in her interrogation, you may recall, she named half the women in the fortress as being witches participating in regular Black Sabbaths. She had Maria Verrier copulating with Satan himself, while the podesta's wife—" She threw up her hands. "Ah, never mind! But you see my point. How reliable is the information given to us by a woman who'd insist that Renate De Belmondo—at her age!—was . . . well. You remember. You were there."
Lopez grimaced. He'd been present for most of Tomaselli's interrogation. Sophia, hysterically, had swung from protesting complete innocence at one moment to claiming, in the next, that she was the least guilty of several thousand women in the Citadel. The accusations she'd made regarding Maria Verrier and the podesta's wife had been particularly grotesque.
"I see your point. But, that being true, what do you mean by suggesting we start with Tomaselli?"
"We need to start tracing Sophia's associations. Not by asking her, but others. I'll have Mouse start working on that."
"Mouse" was the nickname Francesca had given to the best agent she'd started employing, since she arrived on Corfu. Eneko had met the man three times, but could never quite remembe
r what he looked like afterward. When he'd commented to Francesca to that effect, she'd simply looked very smug.
"I'll tell Mouse to start with Stella Mavroukis, Maria's friend," Francesca mused. "That woman knows all the gossip there is to know about this island. Kérkira and the Citadel, anyway."
"What would you like me to do?"
"Eneko, would you be able to recall—precisely—when each instance of this 'female magic' took place?"
Slowly, Lopez nodded. "Yes, I think so. Diego sensed it, too—and sometimes Francis and Pierre—so we can compare our memories. Yes. I should be able to reconstruct it. What good will that do?"
"Maybe none," replied Francesca, shrugging. "But you never know. This sort of work is like trying to piece together a broken tile. The more pieces you have, the more likely it is that you will succeed."
Prince Manfred came into the room, at that point. His cheerful smile vanished like the dew under Francesca's glare.
"And you! If I succeed in piecing this all together—I will expect you to exercise your power and offer Morando a pardon. A commutation, at least. So that he can confirm whatever my suspicions are."
"What are you talking about? Piece what together?"
"Manfred!"
"Yes, darling. Certainly."
Eneko laughed. "These are the times when I know celibacy is a blessing."
"Eneko!"
"Sorry, Francesca. It's true."
* * *
His lust satiated, Saluzzo's anger had faded also. He sprawled across her limply.
"Paulo, he forced me," Bianca said, in a pleading tone. "He held a knife to my throat."
Saluzzo grunted. The sound was skeptical, but Bianca could sense there was no longer any danger that he would strike her again.
That was good. She was having a hard enough time as it was, restraining her fury. The bastard was heavy.
Her hands began stroking his back. Saluzzo would think she was still trying to placate him. In actuality, she was trying to determine if her incantations had succeeded.
Yes. She could feel the small nubs of the wings, just under the shoulder blades. They'd remain vestigial, until she spoke the words of power.
Double-checking, her left hand stroked his brow. Yes, she could feel the slight nubs there also.
Unfortunately, her apparent caresses were stimulating Saluzzo again. His own hands began moving. Bianca resigned herself to another unpleasant few minutes. There was no way, in the circumstances, to do the rituals needed to allow Saluzzo to wallow in his own sexual fantasies.
So be it. Immortality had its prices. At least he wouldn't be as rough this time.
Although—
"Ow! Paulo, you have got to start trimming your fingernails."
A bit puzzled, he raised his head and glanced at his fingernails. "How did they get so long?" he wondered.
"You're careless, that's how." She took the sting from the reproach by nuzzling him. "Just keep them trimmed, will you?"
She decided it would be best not to comment on his toenails. Those would be getting shorter soon, anyway. Shorter, wider, and much thicker, as his feet began to change. In fact, she'd have to take steps to slow down the transformation. Even a thug—and this one was Florentine, after all—would start wondering why he was walking around on hooves.
PART XII
November, 1539 a.d.
Chapter 81
"And how are you doing at fending off the pursuit of the young ladies of Corfu, young man?" asked the governor's white-haired wife as they talked in a break during the soiree that was Corfu Citadel's attempt at maintaining a facade of normalcy in spite of the siege. The attempts were pitiful, looked at from one angle; but, after being under siege for half a year, the defenders needed them.
Benito decided he liked Renate De Belmondo, even if he'd rather have been having a glass of wine down with the Arsenalotti. "Oh, I'm not trying too hard."
That was true enough. He simply wasn't interested. Other than their physical charms, the "young ladies of Corfu" lacked salt. If he'd said the moon was green, they'd have agreed with him.
It had amused Benito at first to be considered a prize. But it had come as a shock to realize that more than one of the delicately bred young damsels of Corfu's high society, never previously in a man's company without a duenna, would happily lift her skirts on the floor of her parlor for the mantle of his name, his position with the Doge and his reputation as hero. As an actual person he was unimportant. He could have been a hunchback or a pygmy able to speak in short grunts only. It was his position that made him valuable—grandson of the Old Fox, second son of Valdosta, friend to the Doge, brother to the Young Lion, confidant of Prince Manfred. Political power, a coin he held as debased to the point of worthlessness, was the true gold to them.
Then there were the real hero-worshipers. They were almost worse.
"He was complaining about the lack of spice here only yesterday, Contessa," said Manfred, grinning at Benito.
She waved her fan. "Well. If it's 'spice' you're after, I would think you'd want to consort with the ladies of our little covey of degenerates and try one of their Romanesque orgies. Except that they seem to be keeping a very low profile, these days. They used to be the glitter of these little affairs."
Benito snorted. "I think I want a girl to chew me out, not chew me up."
The contessa smiled. "The best kind, those. They probably remind you of your mother."
He shook his head. "You obviously didn't know my mother, Contessa."
Before this conversation could go into details about his mother, Benito was glad to see Von Gherens bumping through the butterfly crowd, like a steel bumblebee. "Prince Manfred," he said without bothering to excuse himself for interrupting. "Emeric's doing an inspection of his troops. It looks like he's planning something. You'd better come and have a look."
"Very well," said Manfred. "You'll excuse me, milady."
"You coming, Benito?" asked Von Gherens. "There is someone I want you to see."
So Benito went along, tagging behind Falkenberg, who had been doing an uncomfortable job of bodyguarding. He knew it was a put-up job that Manfred had organized to save himself from sitting through a second hour of a hard seat and bad music. Well, Benito didn't mind being out of there either.
"As it happens, Emeric really is out and about," said Von Gherens to Benito, "and we really do want you to look at one of his companions. We think we last saw him in Venice. We'll go down to the main gatehouse. You get the best view from there."
The late autumn air was cool and dry, and that dryness lent great clarity. The enemy trenches and earthworks across on the Spianada were so visible it was possible to see the rough mortaring between the stones. Von Gherens looked to a knight staring across from the battlements. "Are they still there, Klaus?"
The knight nodded. "Yes. They're just at that end of the rampart. They should move across soon."
They waited. And, sure enough, men moved from one earthwork to the next. It was a pity that accuracy on the cannons was so imprecise, and that the king and his generals were out of range of arquebusiers. "There."
The blond head stood out clearly against the dark background. Benito squinted. If only it were closer! He gritted his teeth. "It could be Aldanto. Damn his soul to Hell. It could be."
"Klaus here is long-sighted. He saw him in Venice, during the troubles there. He says it is him. By the walk."
"If Erik was here, I'd say we'd have to stop him going out to look," said Manfred. He glanced at Benito. "No, Benito. No."
"I'm not doing anything useful here. Besides sitting with Umberto and 'Lessi."
"No, Benito. No," repeated Manfred firmly.
Benito shrugged his shoulders. "I'll see you later. I want to go and look for something in among my gear."
* * *
"So," said Emeric, glaring at the Citadel, which, after all these months, still refused to fall. "We've lost four ships. All at night. All in the north. And at last count—"
His voice was rising dangerously. "—over two hundred horses. And more than seventy men." He pointed an accusing finger at Caesare. "You said you'd catch Hakkonsen. You and that yellow dog of yours. As far as I can work out, the situation has simply gotten worse. So, my involuntary and so-far-useless ally. Where is he?"
Caesare looked at Emeric with empty eyes. "We have a traitor at last. We will have either him or his woman soon. And given the kind of man he is, we will have him if we take her."
Emeric looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Where did you find a traitor? The peasants are terrified of the idea. They'd rather die. We've tried."
"Word has spread that the Libri d'Oro we captured are being reestablished on their lands."
"Ah. That policy has played handsome dividends. It is always easier to corrupt the leadership than the people. And it achieves more."
* * *
If Benito had remembered he had it, in the early days after Caesare turned out to be as false a hero as possible, he would have burned it. But it had stayed tucked away somewhere in his gear at the Casa Dorma. He certainly wouldn't have brought it along to Corfu. But, as he'd been sitting in jail, some anonymous servant had packed it along with just about anything he owned that was reasonably presentable. So, it had come into the governor's palace in the Citadel, along with a corded bag of other clothes and bags of grain and spare weaponry and whatever else he could carry easily. He'd seen it while looking for spare stuff Maria could cut up to make winter clothes for Alessia. The fabrics that the Casa Dorma had clad the younger Valdosta ward in were the absolute finest. Finer than Maria could dream of buying. And, damn her pride, she wouldn't take money.
When he'd found the silk scarf, he'd decided that he wouldn't give that to Alessia. Some residual trace of Aldanto might cling to it. Maria might just recognize it, too. She noticed clothes. And if she wouldn't take money from Benito . . . she certainly would have nothing to do with Caesare, in any shape or form.
But Benito remembered how Luciano Marina had used Maria's scarf to give them some idea whether she was alive or dead. Perhaps Eneko Lopez could do the same. With the scarf in a pocket, Benito went in search of the Basque priest.
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