Strykar smiled. “What? Like Giacomo Tetch?”
Danamis’s chin dropped to his chest as he sighed. “That’s right. Stick it in again, my friend.”
“You cannot trust anyone anymore, Nico. And whoever it is, if they’ve tried once to kill you, they will try again. You need to find out where you stand with the king—and damned quick.”
Danamis looked up again at Strykar. “Why did you come back for me?”
Strykar laughed. “I got to thinking as I was walking back. You looked like you were about to sink a gallon of stale Milvornan on your own and I thought, given the circumstances, that probably was not in your best interest.”
“Thank you, for saving my life.”
“I always said you were a good risk. A successful mercenary has to have an eye for that sort of thing. And well, damn…” He was about to mention how moved he was (and surprised) that Danamis had mortgaged his ship to pay his debt, but then thought better of saying that with the others present. “We’ve shared adventure before—good and bad, haven’t we?”
“Ah yes, never was there a more loyal friend, cousin,” jibed Timandra. “I will stay on ship to tend to the captain—along with Brother Acquel—if you allow.”
Strykar nodded. “I’d have all of us stay on ship but for the fact that the lads hate it below deck. But I’ll leave a few here to stand guard and relieve them tomorrow with another lot. And Master Gregorvero, you had better keep a watchful eye on any new men you sign up.”
Gregorvero bristled. “Don’t tell me how to run my ship, aventura.”
Strykar threw up his hands. “Just pointing out the obvious—as an aventura. But even a fool would recognize we’re all on our own here.” And he stepped out of the cabin.
Danamis swung his legs over the side of his berth. “Strykar means well, Gregor. And we can’t be too careful now. Mistress Timandra, if you would kindly hand me my shirt…”
“Aye, well he’s a swaggerer just the same. Apologies to you mistress, I know he’s kin.”
“You left out braggart,” she said as she put away what was left of the medicines into a little casket. She nodded to Danamis and left.
“Nico, we’ve got about a week’s worth of work on the fo’c’sle and bow, but we’ve secured stores and timber. Bassinio’s finding us some good hands who want to sign on despite the fact that his face looks like a shank of overdone pork. Seems there are plenty about looking for vessels to ship on. But I’d give my right hand to have some proper soldiers lent to us by the king... if you can convince him.”
“My next mission, my friend. Assuming I can stand up straight anytime soon.”
ACQUEL STOOD AMIDSHIPS at the railing, trying to avoid getting in the way of the seamen who cursed at him as they went about their business of resurrecting the Royal Grace after the battering at Palestro and the attack by the Darfan corsairs. He smiled at the sight of Timandra emerging from the stern, and as she came down the stairs to the main deck, he suppressed a tiny thrill of anticipation. Immediately, he felt self-conscious and foolish and the smile evaporated.
“Mistress Timandra, how fares the captain today?”
“He’s damned lucky that his attacker was poor at his trade. The wound looks clean but one never knows with such things. We’ll be staying aboard for now so that I can dress the wound again later.”
Acquel found himself staring at her lips as she spoke. “Staying aboard? God knows they’ve had enough of me here. Not earning my keep.”
She scowled. “Let them think what they want. Dressed as you are they don’t know that you are a monk trying to save all their miserable souls.”
“You’re still trying to get me to put on the grey again, aren’t you?”
Her gaze went to the magnificent city that spread before them, its gilded towers and domes sparkling in the sun. “I’m trying to remember what it was like back in the Black Rose, when I had a business and a purpose. Before all of this happened… And before you arrived.” She glanced at the chain around his neck. “I wonder where Poule and the rest of them are now? Do you think they made it back to Maresto?”
“God willing they have by now.”
Around them the cries of bargemen and dockworkers echoed off the warehouses beyond. A loaded carrack, its deck heaving with bales, eased its way off the wharf opposite them. “We are surrounded by people, Acquel—thousands more out there in the city. But I’ve never felt so alone. Yesterday I suggested to Strykar that he should send a messenger overland to Maresto to let Count Malvolio know what has happened to us. A good rider could get back there in a few days.”
“And did he?”
“Did he? He said I was a sutler’s widow, not a field commander, and told me to keep my mouth shut.” She laughed. “And then he wrote out the letter and arranged a courier at a counting house!”
“You are a field commander, Timandra. To me anyway.” She tapped him on his forearm as Strykar appeared on the docks, walking alongside an elegantly dressed young man; a man of some importance or, more likely to Timandra’s eye, a man in the service of someone of importance. The man extended a red brocade-swathed arm holding a small beige packet. Strykar took it (a little hesitantly she thought) and the man (even taller in his high felt toque) gave a court bow and turned on the low heels of his long-toed shoes.
Strykar stared at the packet a moment then looked back after the messenger who had already disappeared into the throng of the fountain square. He then briskly strode to the ship and pounded up the gangplank. He was still studying the packet as he ascended the stairs up to Danamis’s cabin.
“Let’s go see what that is all about, shall we?” Timandra pulled Acquel by the hand (he did not resist) and they crossed the deck aft.
“I don’t think they will want to be interrupted,” said Acquel as they mounted the stairs.
“Then they can tell us to leave,” said Timandra. She knocked and strode into the cabin without waiting for a response. Acquel followed, hands folded in front of him. Danamis abruptly stopped reading aloud from a parchment that dangled three large wax seals and ribbons.
“The king?” asked Timandra.
Strykar swore an oath and raised his hands. “Woman! Must you have your nose in everything?”
Danamis winced as he shifted his weight on the bench. “Let them both hear. They’ll find out soon enough anyway.” And he raised the parchment and read aloud.
“‘Greeting unto Lord Nicolo Danamis, Admiral of the King’s navy in Palestro and knight of the illustrious order of the Silver Boar…’”
“Really?” interrupted Strykar.
Danamis gave a sheepish grin and stuck out his chin before carrying on. “‘You are summoned to appear at court, midday on the morrow, by the order of his Excellency the Baron Raganus, Lord Chamberlain of the kingdom of Valdur. It is requested that you be accompanied by Captain Julianus Strykar, commander of rondelieri of the Company of the Black Rose. This letter is proof to grant passage to the palace to you and your party.’”
Danamis put the letter down on the table and placed his hand on his wounded side, his breath hissing between clenched teeth. “It seems I am not destined to get much time to recover my strength before facing our king. But at least he will see me.”
“They must have known you were here within hours of dropping anchor,” said Strykar. “But how did they know I was here too? Goddamned spies everywhere. I suppose that fracas at the tavern has spread the news even further.”
“And they undoubtedly know that Tetch is now in control of Palestro.” Danamis shook his head. “I should have sought an audience as soon as we made land. God knows what they are thinking—or planning.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Strykar. “You need another new suit of clothes after yesterday.”
Timandra spoke up. “It says ‘your party’. Who else will go?”
“I need an escort, twenty to thirty men. And I will need my standard carried aloft.”
“And a mount, I dare say,” added Strykar.
“Then I will help get you ready for tomorrow,” said Timandra. “We need to get you fed and watered and we’ll have to dress that wound again twice before you leave. You should be lying down too, not hunched over on that bench.”
Danamis’s laugh turned into a pained cough. “Very well, I surrender to your ministrations.” And he gestured to Acquel. “And those of the Faith.”
Once outside, Timandra turned to Acquel, a sly look on her tanned face. “And when they are off to the palace, you and I will go and see the master oculist and try to get some answers to our little mystery!”
Acquel nodded obediently but a large part of him was not sure he wanted that mystery solved.
CAPTAIN FLAUROS WAS barely breathing as he peered through the crack in the door. He stood transfixed, both fascinated and horrified by what his eyes were drinking in. Lucinda della Rovera was seated in a high-backed chair, bolt upright and rigid. He could see her eyes moving rapidly as if she was following someone or something across the room, but he knew she was alone. Her lips were moving as if in conversation, but there were no audible words. The Magister said she was favoured of the Lord, a holder of a special gift—a profetessa possessed of far-sight. He was not so sure. Everything he had witnessed smacked of witchcraft, plain and simple. He was enthralled by the possibility of it.
She had led him and his men to Perusia based solely on a whim, he thought. There was no intelligence that the greyrobe was there. He knew that her sister was somehow guiding her, and that must be who she was communing with as he watched her mummery. But equally, she herself could not apparently find the monk. This begged the question: what could she do? Now they were in Perusia, ensconced in the apartments of the grand priory. No one, not even the abbot himself, questioned their purpose. Why shouldn’t an aristocratic canoness go on pilgrimage to the royal enclave? He was tiring of playing the servant though. She was clever; giving him orders one minute and playing the teasing beauty the next. He distrusted her and burned for her in the same instant. Flauros wiped a hand across his mouth, took a few steps back, and knocked forcefully upon the door.
He waited for what seemed an age. And then she beckoned, her voice faltering. He pushed open the door and walked into the chamber, richly adorned with dark blue velvet curtains covered in little golden suns.
“Captain. You have need of me?” She had resumed her natural pose, her delicate hands resting on both arms of the large ornate chair.
Flauros gave a barely detectable bow. “My lady, I was hoping you would be able to give some… guidance of where we begin our search tomorrow.”
She smiled. “I have told you they came by ship, and now I have further news. They are still on it, though it be here in the port.”
“With respect, my lady, there are hundreds of vessels in Perusia on any given day. That is not much to go on.”
“I have more. The ship flies a special flag. It is a sword and dolphin entwined—they are red upon a white banner.”
Flauros now broke into a smile. “My lady, that is a help indeed, but it will take time to cover the harbour—and we must also hope that their flag flies still at the mast.”
She scowled. “Have not you yourself seen this monk with your own eyes? Surely you would recognise him when you see him again. I have now enabled you to narrow your search.”
He bowed his head. If pigs could fly. He had only ever glimpsed the greyrobe covered in mud and lying on the roadside. And it would take a few days to find the ship she spoke of, maybe less if they dared ask who flew such a flag. But he did not want more attention drawn to their hunt. “My men and I will set out to the docks in the morning. Will you accompany us, my lady?”
She folded her hands in her lap and gave him a pleasant look, almost affectionate, and all composure regained. “I would very much enjoy a visit to the harbour, Captain Flauros. We are fishing after all, are we not?”
Flauros turned to leave, paused, and turned back to face Lucinda again. “I’m still bothered by the way Demedrius vanished like he did. On foot, he should not have gone far—and he’s a dolt besides. Probably wouldn’t have the sense to climb a tree. But he disappeared like a will o’ the wisp after attacking you. Don’t you think it strange?”
Lucinda’s face was a mask of blank charm. A few moments passed and then she replied. “I think it likely he was set upon by wolves—and devoured. For me, the matter is at a close.”
Flauros bowed and smiled broadly. “My lady, something tells me that Demedrius would stand a better chance against a pack of famished Valdurian wolves than against you. But… yes, I suppose that was his likely fate.”
And only then did Lucinda give the barest twist of a smile, a tiny crinkle at the corners of her eyes.
Twenty-One
IT WAS THE music of the soldier on the move: the rhythmic clanking of metal harness and plate as the armed party marched along the smooth cobblestones of the road leading up to the palace gate. In the vanguard stepped ten of Danamis’s soldiers, in three files, their barbute helms polished but dented. The lead man hefted the Danamis dolphin and falchion standard on a pole the height of two halberds. Next followed four of Strykar’s men, sans round shields but nevertheless gleaming in their breastplates and chainmail, their swords swinging at their hips. Behind this bodyguard rode Danamis and Strykar on proud but elderly stallions, hired at a shameful price and tacked-out in worn leathers and caparisoned in threadbare ancient parade velvets that gave them the look of mangy dogs. Danamis wore his red studded brigantine (despite his wound), his new boots and a great felt cap and brooch. He also wore a new woollen robe, dark blue with golden trim, to replace the bloodied and holed one that had helped foil the attempt on his life. Strykar rode along next to him, right hand on the hilt of his sword, an ornate silver sallet helm perched squarely on his square head. Their rearguard — such as it was, comprising a further twelve of Strykar’s men—loped behind with occasional lewd gestures towards the braying apprentices and street children who capered alongside. Strykar had been reluctant to take any more in the escort—despite Danamis’s bruised honour—for fear of leaving the ship and those who remained behind exposed to attack. Just from whom he wasn’t sure, but nevertheless, it was clear that the Royal Grace and her commander had drawn enemies in Perusia already.
The little procession was poor by the standard of the week in Perusia. The Sinaens, humourless but imposing in their yards of bright silks and bizarre headwear, had already made their stately progress through the city and to the palace environs. And there were few taunts from the local boys as the visitors made their way up the streets under their stupendous dagged awnings and parasols, their armed escort of two hundred glaive-wielding soldiers marching in uniform step, black enamelled armour clacking like the sound of a thousand giant lobsters. The dukes of Milvorna and Colonna and their entourages also had arrived and made their way to the palace, each procession in turn stirring up the crowds as retainers flung sweetmeats and small silver coins into the throng.
As the townspeople, visitors, and swelling population of cutpurses knew, this was all just the preliminaries to the real festivities: galley races in the bay and a grand tournament of tilting at the barrier and foot combat in the lists. The latter would be seen by a lucky hundred townsmen chosen by lottery. For two weeks a feverish off-street market had been spinning up for tickets, both genuine and counterfeit. Banners and garlands hung between the tall houses on Perusia’s narrow streets and the city had a feel more like All Saints’ Day than of an ambassadorial mission. The city had swelled as outlying towns had practically emptied to come and see the spectacle. Few could remember a more exotic group of foreigners coming to Valdur’s shores, or from such a vast empire and from so far.
Strykar gobbed a ball of phlegm at a particularly annoying boy who was trotting alongside, eliciting a curse and sending the lad diving off into the crowd. “I doubt this is what you expected, Admiral. But the best I could finance on short notice.”
Danamis choked-up on his reins
slightly, his eyes moving to the open windows above them either side. “I am more worried now about a goose-fletched quarrel being buried in my back than looking like a Goddamned fool.”
Strykar laughed. “At least we would gather some sympathy from the Perusians. I feel like some country clown expecting a seat at the groaning board when it’s bloody more likely we’ll get scraps under the table.”
Danamis inclined his head towards his companion. “I’d be less worried about food and more about getting arrested for not announcing our arrival earlier. I’m still wondering what I’m going to tell him.”
“Well, you best quicken the pace of your cleverness, my friend. We’re practically at the gates.”
As Danamis well knew, very little came as a surprise to the palace and the captain of the guard and his men were already standing outside the massive studded oak doors to the gatehouse, the portcullis standing ratcheted and raised. The gates were bracketed by two vast scarlet gonfalons suspended from the parapets, their golden griffons rampant and nobly posed. Danamis raised a gloved hand to his brow in a salute which was graciously returned by the officer. The two great doors slowly opened inwards, screeching a coarse-sounding welcome to the curious-looking party. They passed inside the gatehouse and outer walls to find themselves in a middle terrace, looking upon the smaller inner wall, the royal temple, and the palace within.
“My lord Danamis,” said the captain, his voice echoing off the russet stone walls, “if you would be so kind as to dismount here, my men will take your horses. Your retinue can remain here and we will see that they are refreshed.”
Danamis nodded and raised an eyebrow at Strykar. He threw his right leg back over the cruppers of his mount and stepped lightly down to the pavement, his teeth clenched in pain. Strykar dismounted, patted the neck of his temporary ride, and joined Danamis as they followed the captain up to the inner gatehouse. Once inside, they were joined by another party of liveried guardsmen who led them into the inner ward of the palace grounds and to the residence. The castle was ancient, but Sempronius and his father had put much effort and money into making the residence as splendid as any great ducal estate. It was a fortress on the outside but within, an explosion of carved wood and marble, gilding and brocaded hangings. Soon they found themselves walking along a high-ceilinged corridor, three guards and the captain in front of them and three more behind, and all bearing tasselled halberds.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 20
