"I have here a digest of some of the latest reports to come in from our various agents," said Petro. "Some ships just got in, bearing word."
"I would appreciate it still more if they would bring that jackanapes of a grandson of mine back here. What have they to say?"
"The most interesting one comes from Puglia, of all places. It would seem that Emperor Alexis is trying very hard to recruit some mercenary commanders. Fortunately for us, his reputation precedes him. His promises are worthless. And he has very little hard cash to offer."
"I can think of a few that it might be worth our while to pay to have go to his 'rescue'," said the Old Fox. "Most of the condottieri are not worth half the money they are paid. And what else, Doge Dorma? You have asked me to help with your strategy. I cannot do this without information. In northern Italy I have a fine network of spies and agents. I know who is buying supplies to outfit campaigns. I know who is moving where. But I really cannot afford to do the same for Byzantium and places further afield. My pouch is not as deep as that of Venice."
"And I wish that the Council of Ten would agree to let me spend quite as lavishly there, as you do here," said Petro. "But for what it is worth, now that we know what we are looking for, we have confirmation from Odessa. Some of Jagiellon's troops are building up in a camp outside the city. And although the agent I have there has not been able to leave the city, he has some rumors of a fleet. Several shipwrights have disappeared from the city, taken in the early morning by soldiers of the voivode. On the other hand we have no news from the Golden Horde, except via the same agent. They were due to hold their kurultai—that's essentially a vast electoral meeting to choose a new khan—in a week's time. The kurultai typically go on for a while, but even so, they must have a new khan soon. Other than that, Alexis prepares himself for conflict, but is trying to do so in secret. We have a great deal of detail about that, and about the defenses prepared for Constantinople."
"I truly hate trying to plan a campaign with such extended lines of supply and communication. By and large the fleets are going to have to operate completely independently. The Black Sea fleet is still sitting in Trebizond. We could have used their strength. I am not even sure just when they will be able to sail. I cannot get a straight answer from Admiral Douro."
Petro laughed. "Benito will get answers out of him, or if not from him then from the masters at the Arsenal, as I found last time. Benito was good at it."
"I am glad to hear that I am good at something, anyway," said Benito Valdosta, from the doorway.
"Benito!" bellowed Enrico Dell'este. "You hell-born boy! What has taken you so long, eh?"
The gruff comment was completely at variance with his beam of pleasure. He had spent most of his life carefully distancing himself from his two grandsons, for their own safety. It was likely that Marco Valdosta would succeed him. The boy would do well, would be much beloved by the populace—the root of Dell'este power. But there was no doubt that the younger brother—as much a devil as the older one was a saint—filled a larger place in Enrico's heart. True, given half an opportunity, Enrico would kill the man who had fathered the boy, for what he had done to his errant daughter. But that was not Benito's fault. Enrico had moved far past any feelings of that kind. The boy had proved himself every inch a Dell'este!
He wore the colors of the house of Dell'este on the tassels of his sword-scabbard, Enrico noted with pride. He hugged him, fiercely. "I ask again, what has kept you so long? Petro, let us have some good wine!"
"Lodovico kept me. And some good wine. Quite a lot of good wine. If I have any more I will be awash, and I will want to see the town, instead of concentrating on these maps. Lodovico sent me here, eventually. I have yet to find my brother. Lodovico has gone in search of his daughter and son-in-law for me."
"As far as I know," said Petro, "he is treating patients at the St. Raphaella chapel."
"I should have guessed," said Benito. He pointed at the table. "I have been collecting maps myself. But you have a few more than I do."
"Still not enough, and not enough information either," said Dell'este grumpily.
"Well, I have some more. And I have taken some steps." Benito bowed to the Doge. "Which I hope you'll approve of. Time being of the essence, I did these on my own cognizance."
"Why am I suddenly afraid?" asked Petro Dorma with a small smile. "What have you done?"
"You know the letter that I sent you about Iskander Beg? About reaching an agreement to reopen the Via Egnata to trade."
Enrico raised his eyebrows. "You did not tell me about that, Petro."
"It is a commercial possibility," said the doge. "The problem lies with the Bulgars, if we wish to use that route to access the Black Sea. Otherwise, it is probably cheaper and easier to move cargoes by sea rather than overland to Constantinople."
"You should occasionally see things in other terms besides commerce," said Enrico dryly. "If it is possible to cross the Lord of the Mountains' lands with a decently large land army . . ."
"It will not work," interrupted Benito. "Iskander Beg is not going to allow foreign soldiers to use his land as an access route. For starters, it would probably break his hold on the mountain tribes. For a second, he has to live with two nations that are hostile to us on his borders. We do not intend to try and hold Constantinople. At least, I hope not. Iskander Beg would be left with a furious neighbor. He can hold the Byzantines, or Hungary. But if they both attacked him, which they would if they saw him in close military alliance with us, the Illyrians would at best be severely punished."
"True enough," admitted the Old Fox. "But we could at least use the Illyrians to gather some decent intelligence."
"Well," said Benito, "I hope that I have done that and a little more. There are commercial possibilities too. I gather you had a message delivered from Jerusalem by magical means."
"Yes," said Petro. "The more conventional paper confirmation arrived by fast galleass a few days ago. It filled in some of the detail that was missing from the magical communication. Our friend, Prince Manfred of Brittany, has been a busy man."
"Not as busy as he's going to be," said Benito. "I have sent him and the remaining Knights of the Holy Trinity across the Balkans, to escort a party of Mongols and the Ilkhan envoy to the Golden Horde. Apparently, he is in rather a unique position to negotiate with them, and the Ilkhan Mongols can hopefully shift the election of a new khan for the Golden Horde in our favor."
Petro pulled a wry face. "It's too late for that, I'm afraid. They've had their electoral meeting."
"I knew it was too good an idea to work," said Benito irritably. "Well, at least Manfred is in a good position to negotiate with whoever they have elected kahn. He may still save us some fighting. And at least he is safe as a diplomatic envoy among them."
"Like the fleet sitting at Trebizond, I wish we could get hold of him to tell him what was happening," said Petro.
"Ah. The fleet has already left Trebizond," said Benito. "Apparently the Mongols tried to negotiate a passage with the Venetian vessels. But they had already sailed. I heard that from Eberhart."
"That's very early. Something must have been worrying them. They can hardly have full holds yet," said Petro.
"Those two factors considerably alter our strategies," said Enrico. "I presume you've arranged for information to flow back with your devious Illyrian friend. Can he be trusted, by the way?.Never mind, that's a stupid question. You would hardly have sent Manfred of Brittany off with the Illyrians otherwise."
"Yes to both questions. Iskander Beg is both a devious and dangerous man. He's also an extremely honorable one, in my judgment. The greatest danger that we could suffer is that someone could kill him. He makes a wonderful thorn in the side of Emeric of Hungary." Benito smiled. "He admits, by the way, that he left Emeric alive after the Corfu campaign, because he would sooner have an enemy he knows is an incompetent idiot, than have to deal with the successor who might be more able."
The Old Fox raised his eyebrows.
"A sensible man, if not one of nature's optimists."
Benito shrugged. "There is little enough about his land to encourage optimism. It's hard and poor, most of it. And the tribesmen thrive on raids and feuds that go on for generations. But he is a thinker, and a clever and learned man, despite where he lives, and his rustic people. He has studied your campaigns, by the way, grandfather. I think if he had more resources, and possibly more people, Byzantium and Hungary would have to watch that they were not consumed by him. I would rather have him as a friend than an enemy. Venice might be wise to let him profit a little from the overland trade, even if it costs us some short-term profit. But, if Manfred can reach some accommodation with the Golden Horde, that would open up a route to the lower Danube." He smiled at Petro's expression. "Yes, I thought that would appeal."
"Petro, you look like a fox dreaming of unguarded hen roosts," said the man who was called the Old Fox himself.
"He's probably," said Benito speculatively, "dreaming of the possibility that Alexis will successfully bottle up the sea route to the Black Sea ports. That would exclude the Genoese, and any other traders, and give Venice a large advantage, if not a virtual monopoly. Even for a year or two, that could make an almost obscene amount of money."
Petro eyed him suspiciously. "If you should ever consider entering the services of another state, Benito, I will have a hard time persuading the Council of Ten that you are not a practitioner of black magic and an enemy of the Venetian Republic, and a suitable target for our assassins. And that," he said to Enrico, "is by way of a joke, my friend. So you can take that expression off your face. Venice loves him far too much. He's just too astute for his own good."
"I took business-cunning lessons from the best," said Benito, grinning at the former head of the trading house of Dorma. "So how is my old enemy Admiral Douro slowing things down this time? I must get across to the Arsenal later. I have some friends to chase along."
"I'll walk with you," said Enrico Dell'este. "We can take a canal-boat. It will be better if you surprise them, the way you surprised me."
A little later they were out of the Doge's palace, and away from the easy listening of spies. Benito turned to his grandfather. "Your man Antimo Bartelozzi, grandfather. Would there be any possibility of sending him to Constantinople? On a certain commission for me . . . well, for Venice. I'll have to talk to Petro about money."
His grandfather looked at him strangely. And shook his head. "You can't send a man to a place where he already is, Benito."
"I should have guessed."
The Old Fox clapped his favorite grandson on the shoulder. "And I should have guessed you'd ask. Petro knows, but not whom."
The sun was setting. Benito paused for a moment, to gaze upon the sight. Some trace of melancholy must have come to his face, for Enrico asked: "Thinking of your friends?"
Benito hadn't been, actually. He'd been thinking that mid-summer would soon enough pass, and that before too many more months went by Maria would vanish into the underworld. There, she'd spend the winter as the wife of Aidoneus.
As always, the thought was . . . hard to handle. But Benito didn't want to get into that discussion with his grandfather. So, he nodded his head.
"Yes. I have no idea when I'll see Prince Manfred and Erik again."
If I ever do, came the additional thought. But he left that unspoken. There was enough of melancholy, for the moment.
The Old Fox clapped him on the shoulder again. "Some wine, I say!"
Benito smiled. "Splendid idea."
PART II
August, 1540 A.D.
Chapter 23
The trail was wreathed in mist. It was cold and damp, and it clung and eddied about the riders, swirling around them. For Dana of Valahia it was just the final chapter of this entire terrifying misadventure. Why had mother decided that they had to leave at midnight? She was exhausted, and so was her horse. If they'd left quietly just after complin or even a little before lauds they'd have got just as far from Poienari Castle by now. As it was, it was a miracle they hadn't been caught.
Actually, they had been caught, while leaving through the wicket gate. Fortunately, by one of their own guards, not those horrible disrespectful Hungarian boors that King Emeric had sent just after Papa died. The guard commander had kept his silence. If only he'd come with them instead!
Dana could only curse her brother Vlad and his escape. Before that, Mother had talked resignedly of an arranged marriage, which Dana didn't look forward to. But wasn't that better than running away and living like vagabonds, hoping the Danesti cousins would hide them? Mother thought it better than letting them take her daughter as a hostage too. Dana wasn't so sure anymore.
They'd gotten lost, in the dark down in the valley, out of the moonlight. Dana would have sworn there was only one trail and the one fork. But the solitary scared manservant was no better at finding the trail than she was. They should have taken the fork. It would have taken them up the steep switchbacks to St Tifita's chapel, and then back down onto this trail twenty miles further on.
Instead, just when they could not afford the time, they had taken the long trail. She had told her mother that they had passed it. Told her at least three times. Bertha had not been listening. She was too sunk in panic, too afraid. And now, the dawn was just starting to come on. Any moment, the sun might break through the mist.
They had not yet come to the point below St Tifita's where the shortcut would have come out. They came around the corner, and found the trail blocked. Now, just when they could least afford to lose even more time! The trail was full of multicolored carts, donkeys, ponies, geese, even a few goats. And lots of raggle-taggle gypsies, their bright eyed dirty children herding livestock, the adults tending the carts.
"Get them out of our way," said her mother, her voice slightly shrill. "Quickly."
The manservant pressed forward, yelling at the gypsies and flapping ineffectually at their livestock, their jeering children, and the stolid horses drawing the carts. Nervously, Mama began pushing her way after him. Dana followed, trying to keep her horse as close to her mother's as possible. They hadn't gotten very far into the crowd when a tall old man with wavy white hair and a crooked beak of a nose leapt down from the seat of his cart and grabbed the two bridles.
"Unhand our horses, gypsy!" Mother was making a determined effort to sound autocratic and in complete control. It was rather spoiled by the squeak at the end of the last word.
"Just trying to help, lady," he said in a deep gravelly voice, his eyes under those heavy brows bright and sharp. He didn't look like he had ever helped anyone in his life. Or been polite to them either. But he did doff his hat.
"Let go of our horses. We are in a hurry, varlet," said the dowager duchess.
He shook his head. "The boys saw the Hungarians climbing the trail to St. Tifita's, Lady. They're ahead of you. And coming up behind you on fresh horses. But we can hide you."
"Are you mad?" Her voice squeaked again. Then she slumped in the saddle. "Oh God. There must be another trail . . ."
"For goats, maybe." The gypsy raised an eyebrow at their mounts. "Not for spoiled horse-flesh."
"But you're gypsies . . ."
"We don't mind lowering ourselves a little," said the gypsy. "For the House of Valahia, that is. We have an arrangement with your family, you might say. It's why we are here, Lady. Word came from the north that the Drac has returned to his own. We come to honor a bargain."
Dana had worn old clothes at her mother's instance. Mother too was dressed in an old riding habit that she would not normally be seen dead in. They both wore hooded cloaks. How did this man know who they were?
"Bargain . . .?" said Bertha.
"With the old Drac." The silver haired gypsy grinned. "He gave us the right to camp on the field below the cliffs of Poienari Castle." That seemed to be a joke.
"Mother . . ." said Dana.
"Be quiet. I must think. Dear God." Bertha turned to the gypsy again. "Drac. In the north. Do
you mean . . . my son?" There was hope and fear in her voice.
"Yes. He comes to fulfill the old bargain, maybe. The Hungarians kept your man from it."
There was a shrill whistle from the ridge. "That's Radu. The Hungarian troopers are arriving. He can hear them from the ridge."
"Mother, my horse is going lame. Let them hide us," said Dana.
The gypsy nodded. "Good girl." As if she wasn't the daughter of the dowager princess of Valahia and the sister of the prince, but one of the ragamuffin children crowding around them!
He reached up a hand. "Here. Let me help you down, and then you get into my cart with my Silvia. No time to change your appearance now. Hide under the sheepskins."
The gypsy helped her down from the saddle, and someone else helped her mother down. They were hustled to the bright-painted cart hung with a clatter of pots and kettles, and pushed inside by a little woman who looked every inch a fairy-tale witch.
"You keep still," she hissed. "Climb under the skins in case they look inside."
Looking back, Dana saw that the saddles and tack had already been stripped off their horses, and some brat was smearing her beautiful grey with mud. The old woman pushed her forward. "But our saddlebags . . ." protested mother. Gypsies were thieves. Everyone knew that. And they had as much silver as they'd been able to gather and mother's jewelry case in those saddlebags.
The old woman cackled. "Stay alive first. Then you worry about your saddlebags and your pretties."
There was a pile of old sheepskins and blankets in the cart. They ducked under the hanging bric-a-brack of a traveling pot-mender, and bunches of drying herbs and tools, to reach them. The old woman lifted the skins up, and the two of them slipped underneath.
They were probably full of lice, thought Dana. But at least they were lying down. Dana felt her mother cling to her. What had happened to the footman, she wondered? Somehow she doubted if the gypsies' hospitality extended to him.
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 17
