This Rough Magic

by Mercedes Lackey

  "What do we want?" asked Benito calmly. "A few more dead Hungarians? Or a lot of frightened ones? If you ask me, scared ones will make them weaker than a few more dead bodies. They sent their best, with a traitor, to ambush us. They were outnumbered by a smaller group of men. I don't see them telling their commanding officers that, though! By the time they get back, there will be thousands of us in the hills. I reckon we offer them a choice. They can live, stripped bare-ass naked, or they can die and we'll strip their bodies."

  "Strip them?"

  Benito grinned nastily. "They all wear those stupid helmets and that sash over their cuirasses. I suppose we can be grateful this wasn't a full-armor mission—they'd have been harder to kill—and I don't think armor is easy for people who've never worn it. I need a group of men in those clothes. I want anyone who sees us to take us for Magyar. And if we do that once, is there any reason for the Hungarians to assume we won't do it again? Fairly good chance we'll get some of them to shoot at each other. And they'll never be sure that patrol they see over in the distance . . . is it really their men over there?"

  Giuliano nodded. "It makes every kind of sense. We'll make them nervous about everything. There'll be accidents."

  "Tell me about it!" said Benito. "I nearly got shot by our supporters for wearing a Croat hat."

  Giuliano sighed. "Well. We must get to it. Get those uniforms, get out of here. We need to get this camp broken and moved before dawn. My traitor uncle might have told them how to find this place as well as just showing them, and they might come looking. Moving our wounded is going to be difficult."

  He sighed again. "Most of them are going to die, I'm afraid. We lack medicines or surgeons and quite a few, like Erik, can't ride. We can't abandon him. He is our leader. And he's a symbol of some fear to Emeric, or he wouldn't have sent this Aldanto hunting."

  Benito shook his head. "Giuliano, Erik is not ever going to get better. Neither are a good three of the others, in their case for simple medical reasons. But Erik . . . My brother is the physician, and I wish he was here now, but I'm sure that what is wrong with Erik is magical. There is only one person that I know of on this island who could treat that: Eneko Lopez, or his companion Francis. And they're inside the Citadel. Erik meant a lot to you men out here, didn't he?"

  Giuliano nodded. "He is a legend. More now, I suppose. The peasants refer to him as the ice-and-fire man. Or the hand of God."

  "Right. I want to break into the Citadel—again. I'm beginning to feel like a ball tossed between inside and outside! I'll need at least fifteen, maybe twenty volunteers who are prepared to do something insane to keep Erik and the other badly wounded alive."

  "Signor Valdosta, you always do the insane," said Thalia, who had come up quietly behind them. "I will volunteer. I owe you and Erik my life. I was not sure if I was grateful at the time. But I have decided I am glad to be alive after all."

  "I wish you'd call me Benito. Everyone else does."

  "She insists on calling me 'master,' " said Giuliano. "No matter how often I have said that we're comrades-in-arms now. And of course, yes. I am with you too. I owe him my sanity, my life, and it was my blood-kin that betrayed him."

  "The bad news is that I won't take either of you. You've got to take over here, Giuliano. Recruit to replace what we've lost. And you, Thalia, you've got keep him tough. He's too nice for this. But he is also too valuable to waste. He's a good man."

  "I know," she said quietly. "You and Erik saved my life. But he gave me back myself. My dignity."

  "I'm an olive-grower," said Giuliano irritably. "Not a saint or a soldier."

  "You're also the best man for the job. And as Doge Dorma was silly enough to invest me as a captain in the army of the Republic, I hereby give you a field-brevet to lieutenant. I'd do more, but as a captain I am limited to promoting you to below me. And I wish the two of you would stop wasting time and get a priest to marry you, as I don't think either of you will settle for anything less."

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  Thalia looked down and wrung her hands. "It is too soon. Master Lozza will mourn his wife and child. I will mourn my man. Someday he will marry someone from his own order."

  Giuliano looked Benito in the eyes. "I'll thank you to keep to your own business, Benito. Thalia . . . and I, both lost precious people."

  Benito shrugged. "You both also nearly died tonight. And I'm not blind or stupid. This is a war. You could both still be killed while you fuss on about not hurting the other one's feelings. I don't think either of you didn't love your spouses. I just think you're hurting each other now. As for this difference in rank: Worry about it if you're still alive at the end of the war."

  Giuliano put a hand gently onto Thalia's arm. "I don't wish to hurt you, Thalia. You were hurt enough."

  "You are hurting me now," she said with a sniff. "You . . . all the other men in the camp. They make suggestions. Passes. You just taught me to fight. They mock you, too. They are scared to do so in the open because of your swordsmanship, master."

  "If I married you, would you stop calling me master?"

  She gave a watery sniff. "You don't want to do that."

  "Actually, in among the ten thousand other things Erik's injury has forced on us, I want to do that most. But I don't want to hurt you more than you've been hurt. I don't expect much . . ."

  "Would you two, hug, kiss, and get on with it," grumbled Benito. "I've got a crazy plan to go through with, and I need to find a wagon and something to hide the wounded in. And I've got some bodies and prisoners to strip, and some blacking to clean off the breastplates."

  "Is that an order, sir?" asked Giuliano, putting his hands on her shoulders.

  "Yes. And you, too, newly promoted sergeant. It is about time we had a few female sergeants. They're naturally good at telling men what to do."

  "Yes, sir," said Giuliano, putting his arms around her. She folded into them as naturally as breathing. "You're good at managing people's lives, Benito."

  "Yes. I wish I'd been as good at managing my own. Now, do you think anyone in that crowd speaks Hungarian?

  Chapter 86

  Late the next afternoon a wagon, escorted by a mounted patrol of Magyar, joined a number of other wagons heading into the camp. Erik's raids had forced Emeric's troops to dig earthworks and station guards, but a wagon with a Magyar driver and a military escort excited no comment. It didn't even get stopped. Benito reflected that Erik had missed some wonderful opportunities.

  Benito put his earlier time within the Citadel to good use. He'd stood on the inner battlements making sure he'd get through the ruins of the town and the maze of tent-areas belonging to the different units of Emeric's army. Eberhard of Brunswick had stood up there with him while he watched, and had explained the interactions between the various tribes and nationalities in Emeric's kingdom. To the old statesman, those were potential danger areas of misunderstanding to be avoided.

  To Benito they were something to be used. The Magyar, the elite of the army, Emeric's pets, weren't very popular, according to Eberhard. If you had to choose for least love lost between two groups, the levies from southern Carpathia detested the Magyars most. The Slovenes came a close second. And in the watching of detachments moving to and fro to the front, Benito knew where these two groups were encamped. They were on the southern end of the Spianada, behind a half-screen of buildings that the officers of both sets used for slightly more comfortable quarters—just out of cannon-shot. There was an open patch that both sets of troops used as a parade ground.

  Benito took his set of "Magyar" there with the wagon and parked it on the edge of the parade ground. His men dismounted. Some played dice. Some just lounged against the wagon. It was covered with a tightly tied-down tarpaulin. Benito hoped the poor devils inside weren't roasting as the afternoon sun blazed down.

  Nobody came over and talked to them, except for one Slovene officer. Benito didn't understand a word. However he could offer a pretty good guess.

 
; Stephanos, with his few words of Hungarian, was posing as the group officer. Stephanos snapped one word—"orders"—with as much arrogance as he could muster and jerked his thumb at the ornate pavilion on the hill. Benito thought he could have done a better job, but then he had to give Stephanos credit for looking the part. The man had been a taverna owner at the start of the war. In younger days, however, he had spent some years in Rugosa as a clerk, working for a Venetian buyer—who couldn't operate there, and had needed a trusted man. Stephanos was a positive graybeard to Benito, but he had the posture and attitudes of someone who is used to being respected.

  Stephanos's Hungarian, unlike his Illyrian, was limited, and certainly wouldn't fool a Magyar trooper for an instant. But it worked fine on the Slovene.

  Benito got to drive the wagon, with Nico. Nobody seeing Benito ride would have believed him to be a Magyar cavalryman. Just after dark they set out for the northern causeway. It meant crossing the entire front—but the Croats were on that side. They had two fluent Croat-speakers from Istria, whom Benito had recruited from Captain Di Negri's Venetian volunteers.

  One of the wounded from inside the covered wagon groaned. "Shut him up!" whispered Benito hoarsely.

  They were approaching the two earthwork and masonry fortresses that had been constructed to deal with any sally. By the looks of it, a lot of work had gone into these since Benito had left.

  They stopped the wagon just short of one of the forts. The two Croat speakers dismounted. Benito held the wheel-lock pistol between his legs. If things didn't work now . . . It would mean they'd failed to fool the guards. Then it would be whether they retreated, and tried to leave the Hungarian base in the morning—because there'd be no leaving now—or decided to rush the causeway forts. Having looked at the causeway and the improved forts, Benito knew that one in ten of them might make it.

  Halfway. Before the Venetians started shooting.

  The two returned and said something in Stephanos's drilled-in Hungarian. The twenty fake Magyar dismounted, grumbling suitably, looking hangdog. A number of grinning Croats had turned out to take the horses and watch the Magyar's discomfort. The Magyar and the Croats had a healthy respect for each other. That didn't mean they didn't enjoy seeing the other lot suffer.

  Really suffer. Proud Magyar having to do manual labor—off their precious horses—which had to be left with the Croats' flea-bitten nags, was a sight to be enjoyed.

  Mocking cheers and jeers followed them struggling to haul the heavy wagon by hand along the causeway. Dragorvich's engineers had built a snaking set of ramparts along it, and the farm wagon had to be backed and hauled around these. Several of the engineers and a group of sappers actually gave them a hand.

  Tch. What a degradation for the crème de la crème. It served them right for being stupid enough to be caught drunk on duty. They were lucky the punishment was so slight. If it had been the king who'd caught them, they wouldn't just have to take a load of gunpowder casks to the front for Count Dragorvich. The sappers might have wondered why they hadn't been told about this latest plan. But, in an army—especially Emeric's—nobody ever told common soldiers anything.

  Since Manfred's sally, a forward post had been added to the defenses. By the looks of it, the Venetians had been pounding them. The wagon would certainly go no further.

  The officer from the forward post emerged and snapped something caustic. Probably: "What the hell are you doing here, you idiots? Get that damn wagon out of here!"

  The poor fellow wasn't expecting a blow to the head with a knife pommel. The Corfiotes and Venetians moved fast, into the forward post. Now there was no time for subterfuge. Just violence.

  Benito and the eight cutters didn't wait to see how it went in there. He flung off the Magyar helmet and tore the sash off and joined in cutting the cords that held the cover, flipping it over so the carefully chalked inner lining of the canvas sprang onto its banner-support poles.

  Benito just had to hope shots being fired in that forward post would be taken as normal around here. In the meantime he had a stretcher to carry. Erik and the other three couldn't run themselves.

  They started running forward. Benito just hoped the shooting would only start in earnest after the wagon got to burning. The wagon was neatly jammed across the causeway, supporting a banner of the winged lion of Saint Mark.

  Shots rang out from the walls. They'd been seen. "SAN MARCO!" yelled Benito, with what breath he could spare. The other runners were shouting too. He looked left, back at the causeway. The wagon was burning merrily. The chalked outline of the Lion of Saint Mark reflected back golden.

  They were almost at the corner tower. And then round it. Now the Hungarian forces were firing too. "Press against the wall. San Marco! San Marco! A rescue!"

  "Who in the hell is down there?" bellowed someone from the wall.

  "Valdosta! Wounded men! Help!"

  "Valdosta?"

  "San Marco! Help us! We've got wounded men."

  The north postern spilled light. Benito saw pikemen come hurrying—but wary, and with their pikes ready. "Valdosta?" yelled someone from their ranks.

  "Here!" Benito waved a hand. "Help us."

  "It's all right boys! It's him. It's the madman!" Benito recognized the voice of large Alberto, Umberto's Arsenalotti friend. The Citadel's pikemen surged forward, grabbing them, grabbing stretchers, shouting "Valdosta." Cheering. Even laughing.

  Benito didn't feel like laughing. Only eighteen of his band of heroes were here to enjoy the cheering.

  * * *

  Jagiellon prepared his favorite dish for the shaman. There were properties about it that would help to heal the shape-changer, even if the skin was only that of a palace servant. In the meanwhile, the shaman huddled in a corner in his feather-and-bell-hung spirit cloak. He sat there shivering, making the bells tinkle, and flickering his fingers across the surface of the tattooed Quodba-drum.

  The noise—which reverberated outside the mere physical plane—was an irritation, but Jagiellon ignored it. He had no choice if he wanted to retain the services of this very powerful shaman. The shaman was enacting a kind of self-healing and pain-stilling. He was, despite his formidable skills, still a primitive man. Or something near that anyway. Right now, Jagiellon could have killed him effortlessly. The shaman was in too much agony to care.

  But Jagiellon needed to send him back. Whatever it was about Corfu that hampered his own magics was powerful, intensely so. Jagiellon could not afford to let it fall into Emeric's hands. He knew that Emeric was a cat's-paw for someone whose interest in mere geographical possessions was limited: the sorceress across the Carpathians.

  Soon, therefore, the shaman must go back. The power of Corfu would be centered on a specific place. The shaman must be the first into that place. The slave was useless now. His wounding had been physical and dire, and Jagiellon was not sure if he was going to bother to repair him.

  Chapter 87

  "So I was thinking," said Marco, "maybe I could try to contact Benito."

  Sister Evangelina shook her head. "Even our most powerful mages cannot contact Eneko Lopez. Corfu seems to have become an island in a magical sense also. Besides, Eneko Lopez advised you not to try scrying out of the confines of the Venetian lagoon, did he not?"

  Brother Mascoli smiled gently. "According to my researches, Corfu has always been a magical island."

  Marco looked stubborn. "Look. The danger with my scrying was that the focus of my vision was too wide, that evil can enter and attack me. I can defend myself now. I've been practicing, as you know. With Kat, whom I know and love, I can narrow that down. Eneko didn't say 'never,' he said only in a case of dire need. I think there is now need."

  Mascoli nodded. "And blood connections are always stronger. There is a magical resonance between them. But still, Marco, even if you could narrow your search and only reach Benito, and protect yourself, Corfu cannot be reached."

  "I grant there is need," said Evangelina, "but is it dire?"

  "I be
lieve so," said Marco quietly. "I believe Benito needs me."

  * * *

  "Is there anything that can be done for him?"

  "God willing, yes." Eneko Lopez scowled. "Although here on Corfu . . . But we will do our best."

  Manfred let one of his meaty hands rest on Erik's forehead—a surprisingly gentle gesture for so big and powerful a man. "I owe you a debt I can't ever repay, Benito. May God forgive me for letting him go. Or I should have gone with him."

  He shook his head. "What a mess, Benito. I always thought . . . other people died in combat. Since this siege started, I'm beginning to realize that 'other people' can be your closest friends."

  "If Eneko succeeds then he's going to need close friends, Manfred. She's dead. Caesare's men, or at least their horses, killed her. I didn't know Erik like you did. But . . . before this happened he was very much in love. He—they—were about as happy as a couple can be. When he got there, she was dying already. He went berserker. He killed half the Hungarians himself. Then Caesare nearly killed him with this magical blow."

  "And what happened to Caesare Aldanto? I swear this world isn't big enough for both of us to live in." It was said with a calm assurance that was no less terrifying for its calmness. All the more so, coming from a prince of the Holy Roman Empire.

  "I shot him. I think he's dead. Some monstrous eel thing took him down into the water."

  "Chernobog's minion!" exclaimed Brother Francis. "The hagfish."

  Manfred put a big arm around Benito. "You shot him? Well done! Are you sure you hit him?"

  "Certain. I wasn't more than three yards off. I shot him in the gut. Liver and spine would have been hit too."

  "How did you get so close? Melee?"

  "I did what he taught me. Distracted him. Convinced him I was going to fence with him. And then I shot him when he thought I was dead meat."

  "Well done!" repeated Manfred. "He never taught you anything better in his life. Now, you look exhausted." He managed a grin. "These jack-in-the-box visits to the Citadel are all very well, but they're not good for you. Go and rest. I'll sit with Erik."