The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, her voice low but firm. “You need to come with me.”

  She led him across the camp and he quickly realised they were heading for the officers’ enclosure. He stopped and turned to her. “You told him. So much for your friendship.”

  “Don’t second guess me. This will be in your interest.”

  As they entered Strykar’s tent he saw the captain and also Poule, standing and waiting for him. Timandra closed the flap and Acquel faced them both, hands at his side. Strykar said nothing but Poule walked to the wooden field chest that lay near Strykar’s table and hefted a large bundle that lay on top. He tossed it down at Acquel’s feet.

  Strykar gestured towards it. “It contains a side sword and a pair of boots. It’s all old but serviceable. And that wrapping is an oilskin cloak.” He turned and scooped up a purse from his table. He handed it to Acquel who accepted it warily, his face screwed up in puzzlement.

  “You’re letting me go?”

  “I would never force a man I’ve fought beside to put his head into a noose. There’s little justice enough in this world without me making it worse. Go where you must, brother monk. And I wish you well.” He extended his hand to Acquel.

  “Too bad you’re not staying a while longer,” said Poule, smiling. “I could have shown you a mandritto cut that would have been useful. At least you already know your dagger fight.”

  Acquel swallowed hard and looked over at Timandra who was forcing a smile of support.

  “You are a good man, Captain. I will pray that the saints look out for you. You will always have my thanks.”

  Strykar laughed. “You can put in a word with Elded for me.” He waved his arm. “Go on, and try to be at least a little stealthy about sneaking away tonight.”

  Acquel smiled and picked up the bundle. “Farewell to you all!”

  He gave a slight nod and then brushed past the tent flap, gone. Timandra turned to her cousin. “Thank you, Jules. I don’t want him to go, but I know he must.”

  Strykar came to her and put an arm about her shoulders. “He’s a miserable sod but I confess I will miss him. I do wish him well.” He lifted her chin and saw the tears streaming.

  “My God,” he whispered, “you love him.”

  “CAN YOU NOT hear her singing?” Danamis had one foot on the railing, one precariously on the deck, and his right arm gripping a shroud line.

  Strykar’s wry grin widened. “I’m sure the music of your ship is wondrous. But I’m here at the orders of my prince. Your voyages tend to wear me out before my time.”

  The caravel had caught a good southwesterly, her huge amber-coloured triangular sails stretched full, and she was making excellent speed northwards past the west coast of Maresto. Danamis had named her the Vendetta, pleasing not only himself, but Gregorvero and the old hands too. They had run the gauntlet out of Maresto harbour under cover of night, spying the lanterns of two Palestrian warships close by. But there was no challenge. This was just as well as Vendetta carried no big guns. Only four falconets, two on the fore deck near the tall prow and two at the stern, the better to outrun any threat. Bassinio had been left behind in Maresto to command the old carrack and the remaining crew, who had been ordered to once again take to their tools to repair the battered vessel.

  Vendetta had stopped only once so far, dropping anchor off the island of Piso. The crew had watched with approval as Citala had shed her cambric chemise and dived over the side. Most of the men assumed she needed a bellyful of raw fish as merfolk didn’t eat pig or cow. But Danamis knew where she was going and why. She was gone for several hours but returned at the end of the day, clambering up over the side and disappearing into the stern cabin.

  Now, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, the ship was running with the wind on the larboard quarter, the bow diving into the rougher waters of the great Mare Infinitum. Danamis leapt back to the deck and clapped Strykar on the shoulder.

  “Come my friend, let’s take our meal!”

  Strykar was watching the mermaid as she walked fore of the mainmast, stopping to speak with the sailors, most of whom she towered over. “They seem to be used to her presence now where before they were wary.”

  Danamis nodded. “It was her idea to talk with the men. She says it is the only way to build trust between her people and ours.”

  “Still, it’s all damned strange. They probably just want another look at her tits when she goes swimming. It’s all I can do to keep Brognolo on the men’s backs. But they can only keep their heads down so much you know, cleaning their harness and such.”

  Danamis scowled. “Your lot will treat her with respect on my ship. She has a part to play just as you. And she’s clever. It was her idea to lead the men in morning prayer yesterday. That took them by surprise.”

  “Me too,” Strykar snorted. “I imagine you’ll create a stir in Ivrea when you meet with the Count.”

  Danamis lifted his chin and placed his hand on Strykar’s bicep. “You’re not questioning my wisdom in bringing her along, are you?”

  The mercenary chuckled lightly and shrugged. “Me? It’s your ship and expedition. I’m here to supply steel when needed. It’s just… you need to be careful about assuming folk will accept the mermaid as easily as you… and me, of course.”

  Danamis released his hand. “I value your counsel, my friend, I truly do. But maybe I have more confidence in her charms and her wits than you do.”

  Strykar scowled. “Fie on you. I have great admiration for the lady—and the risks she’s taking. I have far less admiration for tongue-wagging Ivrean merchants and their wives. That’s what gives me bellyache.”

  Danamis nodded. “Don’t worry. We will navigate those shoals if we meet them.” He stepped to the side and shouted forward. “Citala! Join me in my cabin, if you will, my lady!”

  The three, plus the ship’s master, sat down in more generous confines than the ones aboard the Royal Grace. The Vendetta, though somewhat narrower of beam, was a longer vessel, the spaces a little less cramped. Danamis had stocked the galley well in Maresto: Gregorvero was almost humming to himself with joy as the diminutive and wizened cook they had signed on laid out the smoked ham and herring, black bread, cheeses and bowls of vinegar-soaked olives. The master hefted the brimming wine pot and splashed out a liberal dose into his cup.

  Citala smiled. She was getting used to the company of these landsmen now, despite their strong and usually rank scent, and found their humour good-hearted and brash—like the mer themselves. But clothing was a different matter. She reached over and rubbed the chemise around her shoulder, pulling it away from her itching flesh.

  “These clothes that I must wear... I find them uncomfortable. Rough. All of the time they are on me. I do not understand how you tolerate this… feeling.”

  Strykar suppressed a snigger. Danamis smiled at her. “We are accustomed to these things. You are not. But in our world it is not proper for a woman to go naked about the town.”

  “Well,” remarked Gregorvero, “there are some women.”

  Citala blinked, not really understanding, and Strykar and Gregorvero shared a laugh. Danamis gritted his teeth and decided to change the subject.

  “Strykar, since you came aboard you haven’t mentioned Brother Acquel.”

  Strykar tore off a chunk of dark rye. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Did you turn him over to Alonso’s men?”

  Strykar paused and looked at Danamis. “Do you think I would have done that? Send him back to the priests? I let him go. To hell with them all. Bad enough the Widow was moping about like some lost soul when I left her. She’ll be a handful for poor old Poule in the next few weeks. She… she was close to the monk.”

  Citala smiled. “You speak of the holy man that I met at the Duke’s palace. I liked him. But he is troubled. He carries what we call na-kuli.”

  “And what is that?” asked Danamis as he watched her thin dark lips sound out the word.

  “It means a
heavy burden. But more. That one is unable to share this fate, or to lessen it. He is alone.”

  Strykar exchanged a knowing glance with Danamis.

  “That rings true enough,” replied Danamis. Strykar grunted.

  Citala looked down at her trencher, debating whether to share more of her feelings about the young holy man. But she thought better of it and kept quiet.

  “My lady,” said Danamis, “why did you send away your warriors after they loaded the treasure on board? Rarely does anyone in Valdur dispense with their guards by choice.”

  She placed the herring back on her trencher and rubbed her fingers. “Too much change, too fast, is not always good, Danamis. You saw the looks on your men’s faces when my people climbed up over the side. Better for the Ivreans to see just one she-mer than several warriors when we get there.” She smiled again. “We have sworn an oath, you and I. I trust you, Danamis. And your men.” She levelled her gaze at Strykar and Gregorvero. “You will look out for me in this new city and… I will look out for you.”

  Strykar’s eyebrows lifted. “Well spoken, my lady.”

  Gregorvero cleared his throat and looked about the table. “My lady… how is it you can stay out of the sea? I mean, for very long.”

  She laughed, that strange trilling noise, a sound of amusement that Danamis had come to like very much. “We are not so very different from you. I breathe the air you breathe. We don’t live under the sea but we spend much time in it. We grow uncomfortable in our skin unless we return to it often.”

  Danamis thought she may have revealed too much already. For it begged the question: where did the mer live? He changed the subject before Citala could say more.

  “When we make it to Ivrea port,” he said, “we are a merchantman—not a warship—there to buy swords and guns for Maresto. Strykar, you should keep your men aboard to guard the treasure below. It will be hard enough explaining the presence of so many armed men on a humble merchant ship but I’ll have to come up with some excuse that’s believable.”

  Strykar nodded. “The lads won’t be happy. But they’ll obey.”

  “God willing,” said Danamis, “we won’t have to stay more than a few days.”

  “Assuming they will sell us the orichalcum guns,” added Gregorvero, sprinkling a dose of pessimism. “Not to mention lending us the men who know how to fire them.”

  Danamis reached for his cup. “Every man has his price, master Gregorvero. We just have to find out what Count Leonato’s is.”

  A WEEK PASSES slowly at sea. Although a few vessels were seen at a distance, none hailed them and the Vendetta was left to make its progress unhindered. Danamis had time to consider matters. His opening gambit with the Ivreans for one. And he caught himself watching Citala’s daily promenades more and more often. He relished his playful words with her together as they stood on the raised quarterdeck, watching whales breach and gulls dive to feast. So too, he noticed her command of Valdurian growing stronger with each day and he marvelled at her quickness both in mind and body. Always, her strange eyes drew his own to hers. And slowly, but surely, his heart was starting to follow. As conscience pricked him lying in his berth, he would remind himself that infatuation with this exotic creature was understandable. But it would never be right. He forced himself to contemplate his courtesans, abandoned to their fates in Palestro. A reminder of the man he was.

  On the morning of the ninth day, the high cliffs of Ivrea, mountains beyond, hove into view. All was grey: the sky, the sea, the city. A fine steady misting rain fell upon them, cold, soaking, and unwanted. The ship passed by the stone jetty of the city and made its turn into the harbour under the cannon of the round watchtowers and the gaze of the garrison. Danamis’s standard snapped out defiantly in the steady breeze. From the stern, he stood with Strykar watching the parapets above. Citala stood near the mizzenmast, the hood of her long brown cloak pulled up, concealing her from view. A barbute-topped soldier leaned over the wall and gave them a wave of welcome. The Vendetta was skilfully eased up to a mooring, the dockmen lending a hand to secure the cables as the crew scampered to make the ship fast, Gregorvero’s commands echoing off the fortifications that rose above them. Danamis counted the other vessels in the harbour. Six merchantmen and two war carracks flying Ivrea’s standard. Not particularly busy for a free city of the kingdom.

  He looked up towards the city, so different from the ones of the south. Ivrea clung like a mountain goat to the high slopes. Round turreted towers dotted the view, these seemingly preferred to the square towers of Perusia and Palestro. And where in the south red sandstone blocks were the preferred construction, here Danamis could see that rough stone and mortar was used, the result coarse, ugly and uninviting. But that fit with the reputation of the place.

  Strykar elbowed him, drawing his attention back to the quay. A party from the garrison was approaching fast, polearms waving as they moved at a trot, their long-bearded commander at the fore.

  “And so our Ivrean adventure begins,” muttered Strykar. He added, “My men are below.”

  Danamis nodded, clapped him on the shoulder, and pounded down the stairs to the main deck. As the soldiers approached the edge of the quay, he took a station at the gunwale amidships, hands on the thick oak railing.

  The garrison commander stepped forward and shouted up to them. “Palestro, are you?”

  “That we are. I am Nicolo Danamis, Lord of Palestro and the king’s admiral. I am here to request an audience with the High Steward.”

  The commander’s scowl did not soften. He pulled at his unkempt beard for a second and then folded his arms across his blackened breastplate. “You still have to pay the mooring tithe.”

  Leaning forward over the side, Danamis flashed him a brash smile. “That we can do, sir! That we can do.”

  Thirty-Two

  THE RONDELIERI COLUMN parted either side of the street as if the bouncing shot of a bombard had bowled through them. But it was a mastiff, nearly the size of a bear, that bounded past them all. It was wearing a purple tabard over its back and a cylindrical leather satchel around its neck that rested on its broad chest. It gave a booming bark that echoed off the houses and, without stopping, loped downhill.

  Recovering from the surprise, Danamis looked over at Strykar for an explanation. Citala, wrapped in her cloak, clung to his arm as she pressed against him. She had only recently seen her first dog in Maresto, and that from a respectable distance. The beasts still filled her with apprehension and this huge brute the more so.

  “Faster and more dependable as messengers than men,” said Strykar as the column of ten soldiers regrouped and started up the cobbled street again. “The dogs are used by the High Steward and the Decurions as couriers on account of the steepness of the place. Some merchants use them too.”

  Danamis put his hand on his falchion hilt and resumed his climb on aching legs. “Dependable, you say?”

  “Aye. And anyone who interferes with their run is likely to lose an arm. Each dog is trained to travel between only two stations. So a lot of dogs are needed. And a lot of shit to sweep.”

  They had ascended the main centre thoroughfare of the city to the halfway point. Here, there was a small market square from which a crossroad led to the east and west, the latter towards where Leonato’s palazzo lay. The sky hung low on Ivrea like a damp and dirty woollen blanket. The cramped stone houses looked all the same and the air was filled with the stink of coal fires from the forges and the smelters. High above them the coal smoke mixed with the mist of the looming mountains where the great mines had been dug out over centuries. This was, after all, a city that belonged to the craft of ironwork.

  More than a few stall holders and townsmen turned their heads as the group walked past. Danamis had felt a sullenness about the place since they had set out. It was like a plague town without the plague; a heaviness in the air that spoke of mistrust, unhappiness, or fear. He noticed that Ivreans dressed from his grandsire’s era: knee-length tunics on the men secured wi
th a waist belt and large hoods that covered their shoulders. Of the few women he had seen it was their fashion to cover their hair entirely by coiling it up into two great linen-swathed bunches either side of their heads. Some seemed to have shaved their hairline high, halfway up their crowns. And not one of them smiled.

  They reached the hulking palazzo, a massive single fortress, round and squat where in the south such palaces were built four-square. A small company of soldiers stood guard at the large black studded oak door, watching apprehensively as Danamis and Strykar approached. And if they themselves looked dirty and stupid, thought Danamis, at least their armour and arms were of high quality. Side by side, he and Strykar walked up to the post and the guards brought their polished glaives up to cross their chests.

  “We seek audience with the High Steward,” said Danamis. “I am the king’s admiral, Nicolo Danamis. And he is expecting me.”

  One of the men, his eyes large, spoke up. “We was told you would be coming this afternoon.” And he knocked three times upon the door and waited, looking back nervously towards Danamis as he did so. The door creaked open and a palace retainer, dressed in a breastplate and gorget as if expecting a fight, filled the doorway; a tall sallow-faced man who glowered down at the soldier who had already retreated a few paces.