The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

  Manfred grabbed him. "Don't be a fool, Erik. The demoiselle is right. If there are two of us—ah, occupied with her—they're likely to look elsewhere. Come on, Erik. Get them off. Especially that surcoat."

  The woman began expertly removing the horrified Erik's trousers. "I have some wigs. Some of my clients like a little masquerade. And you'd better call me Francesca. As charming as 'demoiselle' is, my clients do know my name."

  * * *

  Looking up at Manfred's hairy thighs standing over him was, Erik decided, the best view from a moral standpoint. Even if it was not attractive in any other sense. He couldn't just close his eyes when a murderous bunch might burst in on him at any moment—

  Not with him trapped in this position. With Francesca's silky thighs straddled over him—muscular thighs, for all the soft smoothness of her skin—if he looked forward his view was of large naked breasts. Better to look at Manfred, even if large hairy . . .

  The situation was grotesque! Especially because Manfred and Francesca didn't share any of his own sense of modesty.

  He couldn't quite see just what Francesca was doing with Manfred, but the noise didn't leave much to the imagination. And she didn't have to roll her hips on him like that! It wasn't as if he could do anything.

  * * *

  When the Schiopettieri captain wrenched open the door moments later, he was greeted with the sight of three naked people on the bed, indulging in what his wife would have called "unnatural acts" that he himself would fantasize about for weeks thereafter. The slimmer dark-haired fellow who was being straddled was plainly putting in a tremendous effort, to judge by his bright red face.

  Francesca removed part of her oxlike client's anatomy from her mouth. "We're busy, Luigi. You'll have to come back later," she said lazily.

  The Schiopettieri captain shut the door hastily.

  * * *

  "Give it a minute and I think you can leave. Unless you'd like to finish off also," she added coquettishly, tickling the hastily dressing and red-faced Erik in the ribs.

  "Nothing Erik'd like more," said Manfred, smothering a guffaw. "But I'm afraid we've got to go. Just how do we get out of here?"

  She took a key from the drawer. "I was in a house that caught fire once. Since then I have always made sure I had a way out. There is a door at the end of the passage with a hoist-beam for bringing furniture up from the Canal."

  "Ah. Going to be a splashy, wet landing. You don't want to drink this canal water if you can help it, Erik," said Manfred.

  Francesca smiled lazily at him. "You'd make an even bigger splash than I would. Wait a moment. I have some rope."

  Manfred nodded. "Sounds good. Beats jumping."

  Erik wondered why there would be rope in such a room. Then, seeing the paraphernalia in the closet from which Francesca withdrew the rope, found himself blushing more fiercely. He had never seen such things, although he had heard of them.

  But by now Erik had finished dressing, and the relief of being no longer unclothed brought back his usual calm. He turned to the still-naked Francesca, carefully looking only at her face. "Will you be all right? Should we take you with us?"

  Francesca shuddered. "Three stories? When the building's not burning? No thank you! I'm not planning on staying in this establishment much longer anyway. But when I do leave, I will use more conventional means. I am certainly not built for the climbing of ropes."

  Her smile widened to a grin. "My strength is in my legs. I shall use them to walk out of the front door. Quite soon, in fact. This house does not have sufficient cachet for someone of my . . . talents, shall we say. I have no intention of remaining a mere brothel puttana, although it has taken me a while to gather resources. Now, I shall move to the Casa Louise."

  She chucked his chin. "Just remember that you owe me a favor. And now, get out of here before Luigi comes back."

  * * *

  They slid down into the darkness. It was just as well they hadn't jumped, thought Erik. When he dropped lightly off the end of the rope, he found not water but the deck of a vessel. The boatman who had been waiting for the Schiopettieri didn't expect the "prisoner" to land on his boat. Not, at least, when that prisoner was armed and unescorted except for an even larger friend. But with Erik's Algonquian war hatchet at his throat, he wasn't going to argue about taking them away from there.

  They left him tied up in his own boat, on the edge of the Grand Canal, a hundred yards away from the Imperial embassy.

  Manfred looked back with regret. "You know, that Francesca had a certain something."

  Erik shuddered. "She had a great deal of everything. But still. I owe her a debt."

  "I owe her," said Manfred, shaking his head. "That sort of thing doesn't come for free. That's a mercenary profession if there ever was one."

  "Even ladies of that stamp must have kindly impulses," said Erik stiffly.

  Manfred pulled a wry face. Despite being five years younger than Erik he knew a great deal more about whores. He remembered the look on Francesca's face when she'd first seen Erik's surcoat. It had been . . . calculating. The Knights were all at least minor aristocracy. Many were confreres, merely serving a three-year novitiate. He would certainly not put it past that worldly-wise woman to know that. He'd already prepared himself for a hasty argument on price when she'd suggested hiding them, until she suddenly changed her mind or thought of something else. A few moments of Erik's reactions to a naked woman would have convinced the stupidest harlot that this one was a pure young knight. Francesca'd been very speculative, very suddenly. Manfred gave a low chuckle. He could see that perhaps he'd have to protect Erik against predatory female wiles. Well. It might not be unpleasant. "Yep. Maybe she did," was all he said.

  "I will have to reward her," said Erik slowly. "Mary Magdalen too . . ."

  "Oh, I think she'll be happy enough with a few ducats," said Manfred calmly, with an ease he didn't feel.

  In the moonlight Erik looked doubtful. "Do you really think so? I mean it was an act of great v–v–virtue," he stammered.

  Manfred swallowed his amusement. Only Erik could describe a harlot performing fellatio on one man while straddling another as "virtue." And believe it too. For all the Icelander's ferocious skill in combat, he was an innocent country boy in so many other ways.

  "I'm sure," he agreed cheerfully. "And I think Abbot Sachs will be surprised to see you back. Unharmed."

  Erik shrugged. "Maybe it was just some kind of mix-up."

  "That'll be his story," growled Manfred, with court-honed wisdom far beyond his years.

  Chapter 23

  Well, that was certainly interesting.

  Francesca pulled on an open-fronted robe, in case someone came back, tied it around her waist with a tasseled cord, and shook out her hair. Then she turned to the ewer and basin on the top of the table across the room where it wouldn't be knocked over in a moment of passion. She rinsed her mouth with herb-scented water and spat it into the basin.

  And why did I do that, anyway?

  It was not an idle question. Francesca had reacted to the situation based on reflex, because there had been no time to think things through carefully. But her reflexes had been honed by a perilous life, and she had come to trust them. Now that it was over and she did have a chance to think, she probed her memory to discover what twisted chain of logic had led her, almost without conscious thought, to behave in a way that she would normally have not.

  Most certainly not! If men wanted her favors, they could damn well pay for them. She was no silly maiden to rescue a handsome man from danger without good reason—much less two of them, neither of whom was really that handsome anyway.

  A pair of Knots, ambushed by the Schoppies. And not just any pair of Knots, either. Whoever arranged this particular episode either had no idea what kind of a mess he would create—or intended to. I wonder which?

  She picked up the wooden comb from beside the basin and ran it through her hair, walking back to the bed as she did so. Francesca had not co
me from the streets. Before her family's ruination, they had been skilled players in the subtle and deadly intrigue which was the principal sport of Aquitaine's aristocracy. Her father had trained her in the political and diplomatic arts as thoroughly as her mother had trained her in other ways. So, a mind far better educated than anyone would have expected to find in that brothel worked at the problem, while she sat on the edge of the bed and combed her hair.

  She had known, of course, from the moment she saw the two men, that they were what her mother—as chauvinistic as any Aquitaine—would have called, disdainfully, étrangers. The embarrassed blond was too fair to be Prussian or Austrian; and his companion had called him "Erik." He could only be a Norse of some kind. And that was odd, because there were very few Norse in the Knots. The Christian Norse who belonged to the Holy Roman Empire were Danes; and the Danes were rivals of the Knights of the Holy Trinity in the Baltic. The other Christian branch of Scandinavia were the Icelanders and their various offshoots—but they gave their allegiance to the League of Armagh, not the Holy Roman Emperor.

  Except—

  Her eyes widened. Like a flash, her mind focused on the other of the two men—the very large and square one. Very large, she remembered with some amusement, and in all respects; but he hadn't been rough at all, so she didn't hold it against him. He had spoken with a pronounced Breton accent—unmistakable, to one born and bred as Francesca had been in the Aquitaine.

  And his name was "Manfred." His companion Erik had used it once.

  Her eyes widened still further. Manfred of Brittany? The Manfred of Brittany? Is it possible?

  Hair-brushing was too sedate. Francesca set down the comb, got to her feet and began pacing slowly about. Her quick mind raced, tracing the connections.

  Nephew of the Emperor . . . probably second in line to the throne . . . third in line, for a certainty . . . still a just a youth, he'd be . . . bit of a rakehell, supposedly . . . what would Charles Fredrik do with such an imperial scion?

  Of course! It's practically a tradition now with the Hohenstauffens!

  Back and forth, back and forth. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor. That, too, her mother had taught her. Noise is something you make to please a man, when it suits your purpose. Otherwise—move silently.

  Yes, it all made sense. Charles Fredrik would have reached beyond the Empire altogether, called in that ancient clan favor. Brought in someone who could be trusted in such a matter, have no ties or links to the complex web of imperial politics, and also be quite capable of—

  She winced, slightly, remembering the noise that had erupted earlier from the entry salon downstairs. Those fools! They might as well have tried trapping a tiger with a fishnet.

  She was sure of it, now. The two men she had rescued were an imperial prince—Manfred of Brittany—and his Icelandic bodyguard.

  Then, remembering Kat's description of her frightening encounter with the Knights in the church two weeks earlier, Francesca began laughing softly. Kat had not mentioned the name of either of the knights who had come to her defense, on that occasion, but she had described them. Her description, of course, had borne precious little resemblance to the two men Francesca had just finished . . . entertaining in her room. Granted, Manfred was very big; but he was not a giant. Nor—here Francesca's laugh almost gurgled—had the shy and red-faced Erik seemed quite the Nordic werewolf that Kat depicted.

  Still . . . thinking about it, Francesca could well believe that those two young men—especially Erik—could be utterly terrifying under different circumstances. Judging from the sounds she had heard coming from below earlier that evening, a number of would-be ambushers had certainly found them so.

  She had not, however. And, now that she was certain of their identity, Francesca found herself strangely delighted by the entire episode. She had chosen to rescue the two men out of half-conscious calculation, true. But . . .

  Kat's a friend of mine. So I suppose I owed those two boys a favor anyway. Not—again the little gurgling laugh—that Erik seemed to enjoy it much, even if Manfred certainly did.

  The laugh died away. Favors were favors, true, but self-interest remained. Where was the benefit to her in this thing?

  This called for more leisurely reasoning. Once again, Francesca resumed her seat on the bed and went back to combing her hair.

  She began by examining the ambush. She hadn't seen it, of course, but she didn't need to. She had seen the key piece of evidence—Erik's naked body, completely unmarked by any wound. Whoever set that trap had no idea what kind of ferocious "prey" would be walking into it. Which meant they were quite unaware of the true identity of Erik and Manfred. Whatever had been the purpose of the ambush, it had been aimed at two—or perhaps only one—junior members of the militant order. Not an imperial prince and his special companion.

  That ruled out any of the Venetian factions immediately. Neither the Metropolitans nor the Montagnards would have any reason to ambush ordinary knights. Not in such an elaborate manner, at any rate, in a well-known brothel where there was bound to be a risk of capture by the Schiopettieri. If either of the factions had a quarrel to settle with a common knight, they would have stabbed him in the streets. A quick thrust from a doorway, followed by easy escape through crooked alleys in the dark.

  Then . . . why had the Schiopettieri shown up so quickly? That was completely atypical. To have gotten here so quickly, the Schiopettieri had to have been forewarned—suborned, in fact. And whoever could wield that much influence would hardly have done it for the petty purpose of killing or injuring a simple knight.

  Nor, again, was it something either the Montagnards or the Metropolitans would have done anyway. Not for their own purposes, at any rate. It was conceivable one of them might have done so as a favor to an ally, or for pay.

  What ally, or paymaster? Not any of the powers within official Venice, for a certainty. The last thing official Venice wanted was any cause for quarrel with the Holy Roman Emperor. Charles Fredrik was a grim and dangerous man to have ruling the most powerful realm in Europe, especially one which was almost a neighbor of the island Republic. But—unlike some emperors of the past, Charles Fredrik was not given to grandiose ambitions. He was not a conqueror by temperament. Despite occasional frictions, Venice had gotten along quite well with the Empire since Charles Fredrik came to the throne, all things considered. It would be sheer insanity for the Venetian oligarchy to attack the Emperor's nephew.

  All of which led Francesca to one inescapable conclusion. She set down the comb, folded her hands in her lap, and stared sightlessly at the far wall of her room.

  Whoever was behind that ambush, and whatever the reason, it was someone whose motives were imperial. Or aimed at the Empire. This—whatever it is—goes far beyond petty Venetian squabbling.

  She made no attempt to pursue that train of thought any further. She lacked sufficient information. Instead, she considered another question:

  So. Was it a blunder, a piece of idiocy, or a calculated attempt to throw a tremendously big boulder into the already roiling pool of Venetian politics at present? For purposes which go quite beyond Venice itself?

  After a minute or so, she set that question aside also. Again, she simply lacked the necessary information to make any kind of intelligent assessment. That left her with the final and most important question:

  So. What do I do? Pursue this any further, or leave it be?

  The answer to that question came almost as fast as the question itself. If she'd had any intention of not pursuing it, her well-trained reflexes wouldn't have led her to assist the two men in the first place. And, as always, Francesca trusted her reflexes.

  For a rare moment, Francesca allowed herself a sheer grin. Not a seductive smile, but a true baring of the teeth with unrestrained glee.

  What a grand game this would be!

  The grin faded quickly enough. She was neither rash by temperament nor, certainly, by training. Patience had been drilled into her as a small girl. For the t
ime being . . .

  Meddling with this immediately or directly would make me a dangerous woman. I think I would rather not be dangerous at the moment, when I have my own pot to stir.

  There was still a lot of noise and to-do going on in the rest of the house. Good. She'd intended to leave very soon anyway, now that Katerina had provided her with the last things she needed. Francesca had planned to wait a day or two more, but . . .

  No. Tonight would be ideal. Once everything was sorted out and the appropriate bribes paid—this time, to the Madame of the Red Cat for a wonder, and not from her—things would be very quiet. The other girls would be upset, especially the young and not-so-experienced ones, the servants would be nursing bruised bodies and ill-tempers, and since by now the word had spread all up and down the Grand Canal that the Red Cat had been descended upon by the Schoppies in force, customers would be thin on the ground tonight. Tomorrow, of course, they'd be thick as fleas on a feral cat, wanting to know what happened, but not tonight. Tonight, in a hour or so, she could envelope herself in a cloak and walk out without anyone noticing.