Timandra swore and leapt up, her hand springing to her dagger. “What is it?” she hissed.
Looking beyond her, Acquel saw a human head staring at him no more than a few feet away; a head the size of a bull’s. For a moment, it looked disembodied in the poor light of the dying fire. But now he saw that it was connected to a body, a body of a lion-like creature, as large as a great warhorse. Timandra swore and fell back into him. His own feet were frozen to the ground. The creature padded forward silently on its powerfully muscled legs until they could smell its rank and rancid breath. It was bearded, with thick brown lips and skin the colour of bronze. The hair on its head, black and matted, flowed into a lion’s mane, the fur cascading wildly down its back and sides. It looked at them and tilted its head in an expression of puzzlement, so human in fact that Acquel instantly felt his guts turn to water and his balls shrivel. It was a mantichora, alive and breathing as if it had sprung from a woodcut illustration in the library of the monastery. It blinked slowly, eyes the size of cooking apples, and its mouth gaped in a horrible smile, aping human emotion. He saw rows of triangular teeth like those of a shark, whitish strips of chewed meat dangling between them. What Acquel thought was a giant serpent swaying behind the beast he now saw to be its swishing tail. He slowly moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. A sword he did not even know how to use. And then, it spoke. It was a voice so low it rumbled against Acquel’s chest.
“I will have you before you draw it out halfway, man.”
Acquel stood still, his eyes locked on the hideous face of the creature.
It sniffed loudly, nostrils crinkling. “Much choice there is here. You, woman, or both.” Its eyes moved towards the road. “Or horseflesh… if I feel like running them down.” Its words came from deep in its chest, bass and terrifyingly unearthly.
Acquel began muttering a prayer, a short one to Elded, over and over. The mantichora’s eyes narrowed, the glistening greenish orbs shrinking to slivers. “There’s something about you, man.” It sniffed again and raised its head slightly. “I don’t think I like you.”
Acquel found his voice, albeit a timorous one. “Leave us be. We mean you no harm. Take a mule if you must.”
“It’s not having our mules or us,” hissed Timandra as she sidestepped Acquel, her dagger drawn. “Get back to your hole or I will take out your eyes before I go down!”
The mantichora’s rippling shoulders and forelegs drooped slightly, its head lowering. It broke into a broad grin and something like laughter issued from its throat. It pursed its massive lips and tilted its head, sniffing the air about Timandra.
“This one has fight. And another’s blood. I can smell it upon her.” A wide tongue spilled out and touched its lower lip. It took a half-step closer to Acquel, and then halted again, suspicious. “You carry something… different. I can smell that too.” It let out what Acquel thought to be a sigh. “So much is changing. I can feel it around me. That which was sleeping is now waking again. It speaks upon the wind as it gathers strength. Do you not feel it under your feet?”
The mantichora edged forward two steps, its head shaking in amusement. “And what have I found? A strange fellow who reeks of the priesthood and a little she-killer with the heart of a marten. No, this is not for me to feast upon. Far too foul.” It suddenly let out a cry of savage exultation and sprang past them through the trees, branches and twigs snapping and cracking under its great weight as it pounded into the forest. Acquel turned and reached for Timandra and they stood there, shaking, too fearful to move. Not long afterwards, a high-pitched neigh, a pitiful and helpless sound, echoed and was cut short. Acquel belatedly drew his side sword and backed himself against the tree. Timandra slumped down at its base, her head hanging.
“Do we try and find the other mule?” he whispered.
“No, we stay here until light. And pray it doesn’t change its mind and return.”
Acquel looked out into the wood, lit silver by the sinking moon and teeming with shadows. He kept thumbing the edge of his sword, finding some illusory comfort from the sharp steel in his untrained hand. After a minute, he spoke again to Timandra.
“What did it mean? About you. Another’s blood. ‘She-killer’, it said.”
“I told you I was a sinner.” Her voice was flat, weary. “The creature spoke the truth.”
Acquel sank down to his knees and huddled up close to her, the sword pushed into the soil. “What did you do, Timandra?”
She kept looking at the bed of moss at her feet. For a long moment she did not reply. And then she spoke, her words soft. “I am a murderess. That is my sin, Brother Acquel.”
He looked at her, not quite believing or understanding. “What did you do?” he repeated, a note of fear creeping into his voice.
“Pandarus wasn’t stabbed by a man. He was stabbed by me. I lied to the others—to Strykar—and said it had been someone my husband had cheated.”
Acquel put his hand on her arm. “Your husband was… beating you? Had he tried to kill you?” He could feel her tears dripping onto his hand.
She shook her head and let out a sobbing laugh as the tears coursed down. “No! I just hated him. That’s all. He was a brute with not an ounce of love in him. It enraged me, sweet God above, it enraged me. But he did not beat me. He ignored me. So I killed him.” She shook her head. “I wasn’t even drunk.”
Acquel struggled to find words, any words, to give her comfort. But it was like groping for a coin on the ground in the dark. All these weeks with her, the many times she alluded to her sins and then changed the subject. Here now, at last, she had bared the truth. “Timandra, you have carried this on your soul for a long time. But so too can I see your pain and your regret. Elded forgives you. God will forgive you. ”
She turned her wet face up to him. “Don’t you see? It is why I needed you. Why I have looked after you. I wanted you to be my path to salvation. My holy man.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “I thought that by helping you I might help myself. You are chosen by the Lawgiver for some purpose.” She laughed weakly. “Even in that I was a calculating bitch. But I began to care too much for you.”
Acquel felt his heart ache with sadness and yearning mixed such that he did not know his own emotions. He pulled her into his chest and hugged her tightly. And all her defiance melted at once and she held onto him, sobbing gently in the dark. He stroked her head and, both exhausted, they each nodded off, past caring about the return of the mantichora.
BIRDS AWOKE THEM both, the first rays of dawn shooting through the trees, turning the ground mist golden. Their clothes were sodden with morning dew. Acquel was cold, his stomach gnawing, and the events of the evening still only half-believed.
Timandra drew herself away from his chest. “I’d better see if we still have one mule,” she muttered, pulling herself up and leaning on the tree for support.
Acquel climbed to his feet, stiff and pained. “Don’t wander off too far.”
“Do you still want me with you?”
He pushed her hair from her face. “I need you with me. And I will never tell anyone of your confession.”
“And once in Livorna, what then?”
“I will go to the Temple. I have seen it in my dreams. I must find the door—the chamber—that the Saint has shown me. That’s where the truth lies. The truth that has been hidden from all of us and the reason they killed the brethren. And then I must find the Magister.”
She pulled her shawl up on her shoulders, a chill coursing through her back. “And what of the guardsmen? You’ll be captured once you enter the Ara. What can you expect to do there? Kill the Magister?”
Acquel retrieved his sword, wiped it on his sleeve and returned it to its scabbard. “I’m not running anymore. Elded will guide me. I know how to get in by the gate at Low Town and where I can get a monk’s robes. I will slip into the Temple at night and then down to the undercroft.”
She looked at him, frightened. “Acquel, you don’t have a blessed idea
of what you’re going to do. Or even of what you’re looking for.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, as he reached down for his satchel. “But I will once I get there.”
KODORIS DID NOT pause to knock on the door to the chamber. He slammed the handle down and burst in. Lavinia was perched on the edge of the bed while Lucinda sat in a chair, a handmaiden brushing out her fine blonde hair. Lavinia sprang up but Lucinda didn’t flinch as he strode across to where she sat.
“You,” he motioned to the servant. “Leave us at once.”
The horn hairbrush clattered to the tiles as the girl scrambled to gather her things, bowing and apologising. Lucinda looked up at the Magister, her eyes narrowing.
“You may be the Magister of the Ara but you still must knock before entering a woman’s apartments, sir. This is plain boorishness.”
Kodoris swallowed his rage. “We can discuss my manners another time, canoness. When were you planning on informing me of your return? Your empty-handed return.”
“When I had made myself presentable and not caked with the dust of the road.”
Kodoris crossed his arms as he stood over her. He was no longer a young man but he was yet a strong one, still broad of chest and taller than others in the priesthood. But Lucinda was not intimidated.
“I am beginning to doubt my faith in your abilities—both of you,” he said, as he glanced over to Lavinia who had seated herself, hands folded in her lap. “It should have been a simple task, particularly since I lent you a contingent of the Temple guard. And where is Captain Flauros?”
“I am not responsible for Captain Flauros, Magister. Perhaps he has duties to attend to.”
Kodoris’s face began to match the colour of his robes. “I expect a full account of the journey. And why it was not successful. And I will have it now.”
Lavinia giggled. “The greyrobe is on his way here, Magister. Just as I told you.”
Kodoris looked at Lavinia and then back to her sister, his mouth falling open. “He’s on his way? When?”
Lucinda smiled smugly. “He will be here, at the Ara, within a day. Two at the most. Lavinia has seen him.”
“Them, sister,” corrected Lavinia. “His woman companion is with him. It’s her I see mainly.”
Kodoris’s brow arched as he turned back to Lucinda. “Will you know when he sets foot into the Temple and the cloisters?” His conscience was already prodding him, an ever more strident voice in his head, to weigh carefully what the sisters told him. And to guard his own counsel. For days, the revelations in the Black Texts had run through his head and the wall he had built around his own motives in defending the status quo was beginning to collapse as if it was made of sand.
“Perhaps,” Lucinda replied. “The question is, what is he looking for? I think you know the answer to that.”
Kodoris gritted his teeth, and then with great effort, relaxed his face into a thin smile. “And if you are committed to defending the One Faith, you will keep that secret to yourself, canoness. Leave the greyrobe to me. You just tell me when he arrives.”
He knew she could easily read his mind if she chose to do so. But there was no familiar pulling sensation in his temple, no shooting pain in his forehead. She was not bothering. Which told him that she wasn’t interested in what he was thinking. And that worried him greatly.
One resolute knock sounded on the door. Even as Kodoris turned, Lavinia was off the bed and dashing across the chamber. She opened the door and squealed.
“Captain Flauros!” She curtsied, arms flowing expansively as she backed into the room.
Flauros entered, dressed in his red cloak and black breastplate, and locked eyes with the Magister. He was expressionless but gave a bow of his head, his right arm folded against his stomach. His eyes shifted briefly to Lucinda, who was looking at him with amusement as if she enjoyed seeing his discomfort, knowing full well he had not reported to the Magister.
“Captain. Paying respects to your charge before reporting to me?”
“I was told you were here, Magister. That is why I am. I’ve been at the barracks since my return. Looking after the affairs of my men. My first concern.”
The look of disdain from the captain, perhaps even loathing, hit Kodoris like a mailed fist. He had underestimated Lucinda. It appeared she had put her time with Flauros to good use.
He looked at Lucinda, her face perfectly composed, beaming. He turned back to the captain, his own face a mask of control. “You have found me, Captain. Now accompany me back to my chamber that you may tell me what happened in Perusia.” He didn’t wait for a reply but bowed curtly to Lucinda and Lavinia and left, Flauros sidestepping to allow him to pass.
Flauros bowed to Lavinia, who put her hand to mouth, eyes laughing, and then nodded to Lucinda, a knowing smile on his lips.
Lucinda returned it and sealed it with a gentle kiss of her fingers.
Thirty-Four
ALARBUS, FORGEMASTER OF Ivrea, dropped his arm. There was an abrupt deafening roar of an explosion mixed instantaneously with a whump that vibrated beneath the feet of everyone on the battlement. Danamis watched as a four-foot tongue of bright amber flame shot from the muzzle of the six-foot great saker, the gun jerking back on its wooden truck, ropes and pulleys snapping taut. A pungent cloud of white smoke drifted out over the walls, a few wisps blowing back over the gun carriage. Danamis could not prevent an enormous grin from splitting his face. Out over the water, at a distance of some 300 yards, a huge flume of spray erupted as the cast iron shot struck a swelling wave. He rubbed his hand along the still warm barrel of the orichalcum gun, his fingers tracing the elaborate embossed arms of Ivrea: a ram’s head guardant.
“But can you hit anything at that range?” laughed Strykar.
Alarbus, a giant of a man, face pocked and scarred from years of having molten metal spat at him, looked at the mercenary, head lowered like a charging bull. “You can anchor your ship just where that shot struck if you want another demonstration,” he said, before breaking into a mischievous smile.
“I’m convinced,” said Danamis. “You say your iron shot will break solid oak planks at a hundred yards?”
Alarbus nodded, pulling up the scorched leather apron that covered his ample belly, his eyes falling lovingly on his creation. “We’ve pierced ship hulls and shattered masts ten inches thick. You fire this saker at point blank range—she’s goddamn near enough a basilisk or a culverin—and you’re going in one side and out the other!”
Danamis looked at the gun again. Far more slender and smooth than his own crude wrought iron sakers, it was the colour of a jaundiced Southlander, a yellowish copper. But firing these guns meant that powder and shot both had to be loaded down the muzzle with a rammer. And that meant leaning out over the side or pulling the gun back in first. Either way he would not be able to fire these quickly and every shot would have to find its mark.
Danamis turned and stuck his thumbs into his belt, the smell of gunpowder still filling his nostrils. “You say you have six guns of this calibre at the forge. And plenty of shot?”
Alarbus pulled at the myriad of plaits in his long red beard. “Aye. If you bring the treasure you say you have. The Count has told me the price you agreed.”
“And I require a hundred side swords—plain, nothing fancy. And, another thing, I have need of a petard. Nothing too big. Can you manage that too?”
Alarbus shrugged. “The swords we take from the forge arsenal. But a petard? Bit unusual for a ship’s captain to want one of those.”
Strykar’s eyebrow twitched. Danamis had no use for such a siege weapon. He was evidently scheming something new.
“I like to be prepared for anything, Master Alarbus. Could be useful one day against a corsair fort on Darfan,” Danamis replied. Strykar rolled his eyes.
“Well,” mumbled the forgemaster, “I suppose I could fashion you one out of a small bronze bell I have lying around the forge. But that will cost you more, my lord.”
Danamis smiled broadl
y. “Name your price, Master Alarbus.”
IT TOOK ANOTHER day for the new sakers to make their way to the deck of the Vendetta. Brought down by teams of four mules from the forge, each gun was hoisted with a crane by a dozen cursing, sweating men and precariously lowered onto the ship. Danamis watched from the quarterdeck as Gregorvero directed the work, the carpenters hammering away at the wooden trucks, fixing metal eyes on the gunwales to feed the securing ropes. And throughout the day, the sound of the orichalcum cannon on the sea wall would reverberate as Danamis’s gunners learnt their trade anew under the eyes of the Ivrean militia.
He thought about Citala often, left up at the palazzo with Leonato, and the more he ruminated the more worry ate away at him. This wasn’t helped by Strykar berating him for his acquiescence in the Count’s request. Leonato was a man they neither knew nor liked, Strykar had grumbled at him, though he could not say why he distrusted the Count. But it was peculiar at best that the mermaid stay up at that ramshackle palazzo. Danamis tried to assuage his doubts by telling himself that he would retrieve Citala after only one more day.
As the afternoon of the second day wore on, Danamis found himself looking up towards the dark city, black chimney smoke billowing from furnaces and sitting low over the houses and turrets of the battlements. From the main deck, Talis let out a curse and berated a sailor for dropping a piece of iron shot as the human chain of sailors and rondelieri loaded each iron ball into the wooden crates in the hold. Powder bags would come last. The side swords and a few longswords had already come aboard, wrapped in canvas. The work was nearly done. The Vendetta had now been transformed from a merchantman to a not-so-obvious warship. Gregorvero was still huffing about having to saw into the ship’s railings larboard and starboard to allow the new guns to be run out, but as they sat low in their wheeled trucks the guns would never have fired level over the gunwales. Danamis tapped a nervous tattoo out on the bulkhead with his knuckles. He could not wait to be under way again, back to the south. He then caught sight of three gentlemen coming towards the ship, a gaggle of their retainers following behind. He descended to the main deck to meet the newcomers.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 33
