Still, there was one emissary whose master could not be punished. Or, at least, could not be punished . . . yet. The fact that the emissary was here, and being seen in public, was an endorsement of sorts, as the remains of the Golden Horde were not yet vassals. But soon they, and the Bulgar Slavs, would fall in line. Constantinople and Alexius posed no challenge. Chernobog's geo-political machinations followed a very different logic from that of his merely mortal foes.
There was power in the geography, both on a physical and a spiritual plane. Other powers and their minions, such as that accursed Elizabeth Bartholdy, did not fully grasp that. They would. But by then it would be too late.
"Nogay Tarkhan." Jagiellon greeted the emissary with what for him was considerable affability. The man still stood too straight. He bowed. He had not abased himself. "And what news from Gatu Khan?"
"He still remains Gatu Orkhan. The kurultai broke apart before his election could be finalized."
Jagiellon stood up slowly. He was a huge man and he towered over the tarkhan. He turned to the assembled lords of all of the vassal tribes and states to the east and south. "You are all dismissed," he said. "The tarkhan and I have things to discuss privately."
Nogay stood stock still, perhaps alarmed by the hasty departure of the others. Some of them were known to him. Many of the southern clans which owed fealty to Jagiellon were blood relations of the clans within the remnant of the Golden Horde that lived on the western shore of the Black Sea. The Crimean Tatar were close kin. They were intermarried too with Bessarabians under Jagiellon's sway.
When they were alone, Jagiellon resumed his seat. He had stood solely for the purpose of intimidating the tarkhan with his immense size. That done—satisfactorily, he gauged—he had no desire to remain on his feet. The Black Brain found the grand duke useful, and the man had become so heavy in middle age that standing for any length of time risked damaging his lower limbs.
As he lowered himself into the throne, a slight scuttling noise drew his attention to the side. A rat had emerged from a hole in a corner of the throne room and was staring at him, its whiskers twitching with caution.
Caution only, not fear. Rats had little to fear in the grand duke of Lithuania's palace. As a matter of policy, Jagiellon made only minimal attempts to suppress the rodents. He kept just enough feral felines to prevent the rats from overrunning the palace altogether. He—or rather, the demon who controlled him—found that a multitude of rats had the effect of frightening his subjects, in a subtle kind of way. Perhaps they feared their overlord might feed them to the rats in the cellars.
As, indeed, he had done on a number of occasions.
Once the grand duke's eyes moved away, Mindaug sent the rat scurrying along the wall. As soon as Jagiellon began to speak, he would have the rat move close enough to overhear the conversation.
Mindaug leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, visualizing the scene in far-off Vilna through the rat's eyes. There was some peril here, of course. Mindaug would be subjected to considerable pain in the event Jagiellon took notice of the rat again and decided to kill it.
That was a minor danger, however. First, because it was unlikely that the grand duke would succeed in such a project. As a young man, Jagiellon had been a truly formidable physical specimen. His reflexes had been astonishing for someone his size. But age and sedentary habits—not to mention his gross culinary indulgences—had added so much fat to his frame that, though still immensely strong, he was no longer as quick as he'd been years earlier.
The grand duke was still surprisingly quick, for such a huge man. But not likely to be quick enough to catch a rodent. Even if he did, the pain inflicted upon Mindaug would be intense but brief. And there would be no lasting damage. The method Mindaug was using to control the rat had some problems. The effort of controlling the noxious little creature was considerable; the effort of trying to filter meaningful words through its tiny brain harder still. After two hours, Mindaug would be mentally exhausted. But the great advantage was that Mindaug could sever his connection with the rat—or have it severed by another—without suffering any permanent injury.
No, the real danger lay with the Black Brain, not the monster's human shell. There was always the possibility that Chernobog's suspicion would be aroused, should he notice that a rat in his palace was behaving oddly. The demon himself was not given to using small animals as spies. Those methods were too humble and subtle to appeal to his basic nature. However, he would know that such was possible, for someone with sufficient knowledge and skill.
There weren't many in the world who had that knowledge and skill. But Chernobog was likely to know that his former servant Count Mindaug was one of them—and he had a grudge against Mindaug. Which was reasonable enough, of course, given that Mindaug had betrayed him.
Should the Black Brain come alert, there was the real possibility that his demonic powers—which, unlike his human sheath's body, was not subject to fat and unexercised muscles—could move fast enough to catch Mindaug before he could extricate himself from the rodent. Should that happen . . .
Well. The result would be most unfortunate. The best Mindaug could hope for was that Chernobog would be satisfied with locking the count into his rodent form with no hope of escape. In which case, Mindaug's lifespan would become that of a rat—two years; three, at best—and, still worse, it would be a life emptied of all interest. Even if Mindaug could maintain his intelligence in those circumstances, which he thought dubious beyond a few weeks, what good would it do him?
Count Mindaug's great interest and passion was knowledge, and knowledge required the ability to read. It was hard enough to make sense of spoken words through a rat's little brain. Mindaug had never been able to get one of the wretched rodents to learn how to read. That was their greatest limitation as spies.
Cats were worse. Dogs, hopeless. Some day Mindaug planned to experiment with owls. In addition to their superb eyesight, he thought their talons might be suitable for turning pages.
He had the rat right behind the monster, now. He commanded the little creature to scuttle underneath the throne and then hold perfectly still. Partly, to avoid any risk of detection; mostly, so Mindaug could concentrate on the coming task. Filtering sense through a rat's brain really was quite difficult.
Later, after the grand duke had finished with his agent in the Golden Horde, Jagiellon called for the voivode from Odessa and the admiral from the secret vast shipyards he had built close to the mouth of the Dniepr where his fleet was being assembled.
The voivode had no doubts about the fragility of his position, but he had news that he believed would please his master. "We have begun pressing sailors, Grand Duke. They are river men mostly, but at least they have been on board a vessel before. We have thirty round ships and some seven galleys, and nearly forty galleasses now outfitted. The galleasses are doing patrols already with the other vessels and the crews are learning their trade."
"I will send fresh levees. Ten more galleys must be in the water before winter," ordered Jagiellon.
The voivode bowed. "It will be done, Prince."
"The men to be transported on the round ships will begin to arrive in the last weeks of March. See that their the camps are prepared."
"Could I ask the numbers, Prince?"
"Some thirty thousand. That will be adequate for the purpose. The first four thousand will arrive with the barge fleet from Kievan Rus with the cordage and sailcloth. Now go. I am going to select from the candidates who have been sent down from the north."
The voivode of Odessa looked both curious and afraid. As well he might, Jagiellon thought. The man was too efficient for his own good. Unfortunately, he was also too efficient to kill right now.
This was a problem for Jagiellon, and one which he had become faced with all too frequently. Ruthless ambition and greed had provided some of his best vassals, but such a vassal always wanted to be overlord. It was necessary to watch them, intimidate them, and occasionally reduce their ranks. T
his voivode was very close to that brink.
The grand duke was not overly concerned with the matter, however. In long years, only Count Mindaug had succeeded in escaping the Black Brain's culling. And someday he expected to catch Mindaug and be finally done with him.
Mindaug kept the rat hidden under the throne until well after nightfall. Then, let an hour pass after the grand duke left the chamber before he had the rat emerge.
That done, he sent the rodent in search of one of the palace's handful of cats. That took no more than five minutes.
The feline was presumably surprised to find a rat doing all but leaping into its maw, but its brain was not big enough to retain the memory for long. The chance that the Black Brain would detect anything amiss was essentially non-existent. Even the chance that Chernobog would have detected the lingering traces of Mindaug's presence in the rat had been miniscule.
Miniscule—but not non-existent. Mindaug valued methodical caution above all other virtues.
The pain was intense, true. Cats were efficient killers, but not merciful ones. But the moment passed, soon enough, and Mindaug was able to concentrate on what he had learned.
He was not surprised by the scope of Chernobog's ambitions. Still, he had not realized how extensively the Black Brain had succeeded in penetrating the Golden Horde. Mongol society was not easily subverted by outsiders, even ones with the grand duke's powers.
That much was simply a matter of abstract interest, at the moment. But Mindaug could no longer ignore the possibility that his present refuge might become threatened. Countess Elizabeth was extraordinarily shrewd, but she had two intellectual blind spots.
The first—inevitable in such a foul creature—was that she had delusions concerning her ability to postpone forever having to pay the price for her bargain.
The second was that she consistently underestimated the sometime effectiveness of purely human political and military action. Mindaug thought that blind spot was also due to the creature's foul nature. No matter what methods were used, successful action in the political and military spheres required a great deal of effort. Among Elizabeth's multitude of vices, laziness took its rightful place also.
So. It was time for Mindaug to consider his alternatives.
Chapter 10
Benito Valdosta read the message from Petro Dorma very carefully, for the third time. The orders contained therein came as something of a relief, in part. They would get him away from a myriad of petty problems, and might stop him from murdering some Libri d'Oro idiot.
On the other hand, the idea of leaving his wife and daughter while he led a naval campaign was considerably less than attractive. However, unless he misread the time line, it could just work out. The Byzantine emperor would be expecting both trouble and relief in spring. If Benito had his way, he'd have trouble long before. In autumn, if possible. There was always the risk of storms. On the other hand it would be a very unwelcome surprise for His Imperial Idiocy.
It could be a worse surprise for the fleet in the Dniepr. The most serious flaw in this plan could be the arrival of the Golden Horde. Benito wished that he had more knowledge of what was happening in the lands of the Golden Horde, to the west of the Black Sea. He began to toy with the idea of spying or at least surveillance, possibly from the lands of Iskander Beg. He wondered just how Petro Dorma had come by all his information in the first place, and if Benito would be able to access those channels. The old established order in Venice tended to regard him as a loose cannon. "I can't imagine why," he thought to himself, with a chuckle, getting up to go and collect a map of Constantinople from a cupboard. He could imagine Admiral Douro's delight at the news that Benito Valdosta was coming back to the Arsenal.
However, that was a trivial problem compared to the one he was going to face when he broke this news to Maria. That would require a lot more than mere military tactical skill. It might just involve the ability to dodge flying china. Living with Maria could be a lot of things, but it certainly was never dull. He considered the best possible ways of approaching the subject. Regretfully, he decided that sneaking off without telling her probably would not be worth the pain. In the end, the truth might just serve him best, even though he doubted that it would serve him very well.
Still, the problem would have to be faced, and soon. Petro wanted him back in Venice within three weeks.
* * *
Maria watched her daughter indulging in the traditional pastime of chewing her toes. She had begun to worry about winter. That was a thought that was never too far from her mind. She would have to leave Alessia and Benito and go down into a vast and unearthly realm to spend her four months with Aidoneus, the Lord of the Dead.
She really, really did not wish to go, but that was the bargain that she had made. No matter that she had risen to be a scoulo wife, and now the wife in all but name of the acting governor of one of Venice's most valuable colonies: she was a canaler born. There was a code of honor that went with that. Canalers had very little, except for that code. They made their bargains, and they lived and died by them.
She sighed. Honoring her bargain also meant that she was going to have to leave her daughter with Benito for four months. She knew he was surprisingly capable. But that did not make it any easier.
Benito came in, without his usual smile, but with a piece of paper in his hand. "Read this," he said, handing it to her.
Maria had learned to read late in life. It still took more concentration than she felt happy about, but Kat's letters from Venice had made her a little more practiced. Still, she had to read this message twice. She closed her eyes, and put her hand to her head. "I thought that we had won some peace."
"The only kind of peace that Grand Duke Jagiellon will ever recognize is total surrender to his will," said Benito. "And that is not a peace I would have my daughter live under. I saw what he did to Caesare. He must be stopped." There was a certain implacability to that statement, a grimness that belonged to a man far older. At times like this, Benito frightened her a little. And yet this was what made him the man that he was. A man who had literally gone to hell for her and brought her back.
"Yes, but why must it be you that stops him?" she asked plaintively.
Benito grimaced."Because Petro Dorma thinks so. Of course I'll have Admiral Douro as well."
"You are not to kill him," said Maria sternly. "And anyway, if there is danger Corfu needs you."
"If Jagiellon succeeds in taking control of the Bosphorus it won't just be Corfu that is in danger," said Benito. "His armies will ravage everything from Alexandria to the gates of the Mediterranean. This is a fight we must take to him. We must destroy his fleet. We really need to deny him access to the Black Sea if the Byzantine empire is going to be a weak reed."
"Oh? And why don't you just conquer all of the known world while you're about it?" Maria had never entirely come to terms with the sheer size of the world. Part of that was because she had spent her formative years in the narrow canals of Venice. In a way, her world had been defined by the confines of the Lagoon. Travelling first to Istria and then to Corfu had changed her perceptions a little, but there still seemed far too much world to get her head around.
One thing that she was sure of: the Black Sea was both far off and large. Yet she also knew that Benito was almost impossible to stop once he got going.
He chuckled. "I think that the whole world might take more than two or three months. I might just have to settle for Constantinople."
She was taking this far too easily. Benito knew that he ought to just be grateful and not to pursue the matter. But he loved her very much, too much just to take the easy way out.
"Explain why you are not throwing dishes at my head," he said gently, taking her into his arms.
She was silent for quite some time, leaning into him. Eventually, she said slowly: "I suppose it's because I wished that you and Alessia would go to Venice while I was . . . away. Kat and your brother Marco are there. They will be good to our daughter. Also, Petro
Dorma is the doge. He is responsible for the well-being of all of Venice. I do not think he is a man who would lightly ask this of you. He must have real reason to fear. And the canals are still full of my relations. But," she said fiercely, "this is my Corfu now. Mine. You will see that it stays safe." That was a strict instruction.
He nodded. "Too many people have bled and died to keep it free and safe for us to neglect it now."
"And you will be careful?" she said, her eyes narrow.
"I never promise what I can't deliver," he said with a wry grin. "I promise I'll take reasonable care. Well, as much as possible."
"Huh!" she snorted. But she did not pull away from him. Instead she snuggled closer. "Alessia has fallen asleep. And I don't think you have to go back to that office just yet."
Benito knew just how much work there was waiting for him. But, all things considered, it was probably less important than staying here right now. So he picked her up, the muscles he had built up while working in the Arsenal paying a handsome dividend, and carried her through to their bed. Briefly, he thought about where he would get good maps of the Golden Horn, but then he focused on more important and immediate matters.
Chapter 11
They got out of the carriage in order to be ferried across the Danube. Vlad enjoyed that brief respite. The open air was full of strange scents carried on the morning breeze. Although he would never have dreamed of saying so to his angelic seeming rescuer, he found the scent that she used cloying. She had insisted on keeping the curtains in the carriage closed this morning.
The far side of the river was the site of a small town. Vlad hoped for some breakfast, and, by the hopeful looks they had cast at the inn, so did the outriders. But Elizabeth showed no signs of hunger or a desire to stop. As soon as the horses were poled up, she had the coachman drive them onward at a spanking pace.
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