The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

  * * *

  Maria worked her oar in silence for a while. Then she said "Marco, what did your Spook say?"

  "Kat? She's not 'mine.' " Marco sounded almost wistful about it. "She's a wonderful girl, isn't she? And you heard what she said . . ."

  Maria clicked her tongue in irritation. "Tch. Lord and Saints, Marco. Not Kat. That burned-face troll that follows you around! Ugliest guardian angel in the universe."

  "Oh. Harrow." Marco shrugged. "He's just somebody who—knew our mother."

  "And the other name?" asked Maria, intently. "Aleri?"

  "Well," said Marco thoughtfully. "There was a high-up Montagnard in mother's time by that name. Francesco Aleri."

  Benito wished like hell Marco's memory was less good. He really had to talk to Caesare about this before Maria went in like a bull in a china shop. Aleri would have to die. But Maria must be kept well clear. Best to change the subject before Marco remembered something else inconvenient. "So now you're crazy about Kat, Marco. What happened to the dream girl in the boat?"

  Marco laughed happily. "Kat is the dream girl in the boat, Benito."

  There was a long moment of silence from both Maria and Benito. Benito wound his jaw back up. Bossy-boots Kat, with too big a mouth, and a tongue that could scour brass?

  "What!?" he croaked—in unison with Maria.

  * * *

  Late that night, there came a knock on Eneko's door. When the priest opened it onto the dimly lit Ghetto alley, a burly man with a badly scarred and burned face seized the Basque by the lapel of his cassock and forced his way inside. Then kicked the door shut behind him.

  Eneko made no attempt to resist. The man's strength was enormous.

  "Why are you following the boys?" the man rasped.

  "I'm not," replied Eneko calmly.

  "You've been watching them," snarled the scar-faced man. "I've seen you—you and the other two. And tonight, at Zianetti's—"

  Eneko laughed softly. "I wasn't trying to talk to them. I wanted to talk to the girl they were with. The one they call 'Kat.' "

  The man released the cassock and stepped back a pace. "Why?" he demanded.

  "None of your concern," said Eneko, shaking his head. "But I will tell you that I mean her no harm. I simply wanted to pass a message on to another through her. Unfortunately, she left too quickly."

  The man grunted. "The whore."

  Eneko cocked his head. "That's not a term I use. But . . . if we're speaking of the same woman, I wonder how you know who she is."

  The man took another pace back. "I'm charged with protecting the boys. I watch everything—everyone—they come into contact with."

  "Charged by whom?" asked Eneko mildly.

  The man shook his head. "None of your concern." He turned on his heel and left, not bothering to close the door.

  Eneko followed, standing in the entrance. "Stop," he said softly. The man, now halfway down the alley, paused and looked over his shoulder.

  "Should you ever have need," said Eneko, "I will help you with your task. Those boys are vitally important."

  The man's eyes seemed to widen a bit. "Smart, for a priest." Then he was gone, moving more quickly and silently than Eneko would have imagined such a scarred lump of a man could possibly do.

  When he turned back into his room and closed the door, he found Pierre and Diego already there. The door to the adjoining cells was open. Pierre held a cudgel in his hand.

  Seeing the cudgel, Eneko clucked. "We are not a militant order, Pierre."

  "Define your terms," came the instant retort. "And remember that I'm a Savoyard peasant, not a theologian."

  Chapter 60

  Swords clashed in a high-speed flurrying dance of steel. Not for the first time, Manfred wondered how Erik could be so damned quick. The edges were blunt, there were buttons on the points, and they wore quilted jackets. So why did Erik always leave him feeling he had been half skinned and half beaten? He put in another determined rush. If he was going to feel like that, so was Erik.

  "Hold." A voice commanded. They put up the practice swords. "You must go to Abbot Sachs's chambers." Von Stublau looked sour enough to curdle milk. "He has some Venetian lord to see you." He looked disdainfully at the training rapiers. "Pah. Too light for a knightly weapon."

  "But very fashionable," said Manfred with a grin, knowing this would irritate the surly Altmark knight.

  "Enough, Manfred," said Erik before the slow-thinking knight had time to respond to Manfred's lure. "We train with broadswords on the pells, Ritter. But these give us more of a chance to learn how to respond to a live opponent. Come Manfred, the abbot and this Venetian lord won't thank us for keeping him waiting. Help me out of this jacket. We need to get some kind of mask also, if we're to do this 'fencing' properly."

  Manfred pulled the quilted jacket off his mentor, and turned so that Erik could do the same for him. "We're neglecting the legs, too. We need a trainer, Erik. A master of this Italian bravura style. I'll ask Francesca."

  Erik turned hastily, to see if the supposedly celibate knight-squire had an audience. But fortunately Von Stublau had left. "It's not a bad idea, Manfred. I don't care what Von Stublau says—for marine warfare, anyway, armor is history."

  "I like armor myself," grumbled Manfred, as they made their way up to the abbot's rooms. "But I'll admit having a horse to carry it helps."

  * * *

  The Venetian waiting for them with the abbot was the balding one of that group of Signori di Notte that they'd met after they'd saved Lord Calenti from being magically murdered.

  Abbot Sachs was doing his best to be pleasant. It sat ill with the cleric. "Ah, Ritters. Signor Petro Dorma has requested specifically to speak to you two."

  "You were quite correct in your surmise," said Dorma. "Each of these vile murders—except possibly one, where the fire destroyed the entire building it was in and therefore we can't be certain—has been found to have recently involved a missing item of clothing."

  "Mammet witchcraft!" barked Sachs.

  Petro Dorma cleared his throat. "Well, the expert on magic I have spoken to says there are several other possibilities. But I wanted to thank you gentlemen for your efforts on behalf of my fellow Signori . . . and also to tell you the sad news about Father Belgio and Lord Calenti. Despite our hopes, Lord Calenti died last night. And in a separate type of murder, someone killed Father Belgio as well."

  "Father Belgio was not killed by magic?" asked Erik, intent.

  Petro Dorma shook his head. "No. Just straight assassination. A misericord pushed in behind the ear while he slept. A thoroughly professional killing."

  "Why?" Manfred demanded. "He didn't seem the sort of man to attract enemies."

  Sachs snorted. "He was a man of God. That's enough for these Godless Strega."

  Petro Dorma's expression was pained, for an instant. "We have had Strega murders from time to time, Abbot. Poison, not steel, is their way. We're following several lines of inquiry. That is only one of them."

  Dorma paused for a moment, studying Erik and Manfred. "I came for another reason, as well. There was another magical murder last night. In the slave quarters of Casa Dandelo, of all places! According to my investigator who examined the scene, once again the victim had lost—or claimed to other prisoners to have lost—all of his clothing." Petro Dorma frowned. "Whoever murders these people by whatever demonic means, and for whatever reason, there is certainly no respect for rank. From Lord Calenti, to a slave."

  Again, Dorma paused. Then: "But the reason I asked Abbot Sachs to speak to the two of you is tangential to the murder. Rumors are flying all over Venice that the Dandelos abducted a citizen into slavery, just before the killing. A canaler by the name of Maria Garavelli. She apparently took advantage of the confusion caused by the magical murder to make her escape."

  Erik's jaws tightened. In the months since he had arrived in Venice, he had developed a detestation for the type of chattel slavery tolerated in the Republic—throughout most of the Medite
rranean, in fact. Slavery had been legally abolished in the Holy Roman Empire for more than a century. And while it was still officially practiced in his own League of Armagh, Celtic and Norse thralldom had little of the sheer brutality and degradation of the Mediterranean variety of servitude.

  "I'll bet that's causing a stir," snorted Manfred.

  Dorma pulled a wry face. "To call it a 'stir' is to understate the matter considerably. Bad enough that the Dandelos tried to enslave a legal citizen. To make matters worse, the girl is a well-known canaler from a large family of caulkers at the Arsenal."

  Manfred whistled softly. "All hell's going to break loose, then. They abducted a daughter of the Arsenalotti? Are they insane?"

  "I have no idea what motivated the fools. They are trying to deny everything. But the facts seem well enough established." Dorma scowled. "And, at this point, I no longer care what their reasons might have been. If the authorities do not act decisively—" He nodded at Manfred. "As you say, 'all hell will break loose.' "

  By now, Erik understood Dorma's purpose. "And you want us—Manfred and me—to be part of the, ah, what shall I call it?"

  " 'Punitive expedition' will do quite nicely," said Dorma firmly. "Yes, exactly. There are enough factional tensions in the city. If some Knights of the Holy Trinity are involved in the affair, no one will be able to claim the raid was done for partisan purposes." He glanced at Sachs. "The Dandelos are known to have Montagnard leanings."

  Erik was a bit puzzled by the abbot's apparent willingness to go along with Dorma's plan. But Sachs cleared up the mystery immediately.

  When the abbot spoke, he almost seemed to be choking on the words. "Naturally, Lord Dorma. Given the recent unpleasantness . . . misapprehensions of the Knights' motives . . ."

  Erik almost laughed. You mean the mess you've stirred up with your idiot witch-hunts.

  "Both the servants and Knights of the Trinity are only too pleased to help serve God and your Venice," finished the abbot, lamely. "Eh, Ritters?"

  Erik nodded. "It would be our pleasure."

  Manfred bowed deeply. Which was a good thing, thought Erik. It helped to hide his grin.

  Dorma bowed in return. "Thank you. If you would be ready by Lauds, tomorrow morning, I will have some of my Schiopettieri come to meet you here. I'll take my leave now." He sighed. "Affairs of state, business, and at the moment, family. The last are the worst, believe me!"

  Sachs motioned to the two knights to stay, and showed his guest out. When he returned, his face was sour.

  "A silly business, asking knights to serve as common policemen. But . . ." He shrugged irritably. "You are to make yourselves available for Lord Dorma. Whatever he wants. You are dismissed."

  * * *

  Erik was not surprised to find Petro Dorma waiting for them around the corner. He had been certain that Dorma had said as little as possible in the presence of Sachs.

  "You'd like more than just the two of us, I imagine."

  The Venetian lord nodded. "Yes, please. At least half a dozen, as heavily armed as possible." He smiled grimly. "I want to overawe the Dandelos from the very beginning. And for that purpose, Knights of the Holy Trinity will serve far better than Schiopettieri."

  He hesitated. "Of course, I do not expect you to do anything which would jeopardize your good standing with the abbot."

  Manfred snorted. Erik just smiled. "We were told 'whatever Lord Dorma wants.' That seems clear enough." He and Manfred exchanged glances.

  "Von Gherens, for sure," said Manfred. "Let him pick the others. Except I'd like Gerhard Bach along."

  Erik's smile widened. "Bach, eh? Yes, I agree."

  Dorma looked back and forth from one to the other, his eyes expressing a slight question.

  "Gerhard Bach's our gunnery expert," explained Manfred cheerfully. "He's got a new little bombard he's been dying to test under field conditions."

  Dorma seemed to choke a little. Then, after a moment, grinned himself. "A bombard, you say . . . Well, why not? The main door to Casa Dandelo may not open quickly enough."

  "I can guarantee it won't open quickly enough," growled Erik. "No matter how fast they try."

  * * *

  "I must talk to Francesca," said Erik, as they walked down the passage after parting company with Dorma. "We've got some time. And—" He glanced at Manfred. "At this time of day she won't be, ah, occupied."

  Manfred looked at him with some amusement. "So long as it's only talk. But why?"

  Erik shrugged. "Because she understands all this intrigue and I do not. And it is my task to keep you safe in it."

  * * *

  "The way I see it," said Manfred, going into the breech, "these 'Strega' are not in the clear at all when it comes to Father Belgio's murder. They can hire their killing done as well as anyone else."

  Francesca smiled at him the way a teacher smiles at a bright pupil . . . who has managed half the answer. She ruffled his hair and neatly evaded his arm, going to sit instead on the arm of Erik's chair. "True. But as you rightly point out, so could anyone else—if it was paid for. But," she held up an elegantly manicured hand, "it would have to be a rich anyone. The Church does not take kindly to its clerics being assassinated. And beside the chance of excommunication, their investigators are ferocious. This was professionally done, and that doesn't come cheap. And there are very few who do it well."

  She paused, thinking. "If it was paid for . . . well, the first name that springs to mind is your blond friend Caesare Aldanto. Or, as a second choice, Giuliano Dell'Arta. Although Giuliano probably makes more as swordmaster than he does killing people. Both of them have powerful protectors, and are pretty much immune to Petro Dorma. If it was done to further the aims of the factions, Bruno Di Netto is Rome's man. The Metropolitan's chief executioner in Venice. Francisco Aleri is in charge of Milan's—and he has the whole Montagnard faction at his command. They ship men in and out. The Republic's Council of Ten . . . well, they keep their secrets. So do the imperials, although I suspect Count DeMarien or Von Stemitz." She smiled. "Enough, Erik?"

  "There are how many factions?" said Erik, weakly.

  She smiled. "In Venice? Where there are three people together, at least five factions are gathered! The Venetian Republic is worse than elsewhere because Venice sits a jewel between so many interests. It is the key to the Mediterranean. And the key to the East. Emeric, the King of Hungary, Milan, Rome, the Holy Roman Emperor . . . all want Venice—or, at least, the riches which pour through the city. The Ilkhan Mongols have their own interests, also, as do the Greeks. Even the Grand Duke of Lithuania . . . just to stir up trouble, or to flank the Holy Roman Empire. And that is without the interests of the Church and its various factions, and the Strega, and the Jews. I think the latter just want a quiet life, but both factions have money for whoever will offer to leave them alone." She laughed throatily. "It's a quiet little town. I love it, even more than I did my native Orleans."

  Erik sighed. "I want to go back to Iceland. At least you only had to worry about someone trying to kill you. This is all too complicated for me."

  Manfred smiled. "Why don't we get some lessons from this swordmaster's salle? I don't think us going to visit this Caesare Aldanto fellow is a good idea."

  Erik drew a deep breath. "I still think a visit is called for."

  Francesca laughed. "What ill came of it, Erik? I thought it was the Italians who believed in vendetta?"

  Manfred laughed. "Compared to Icelandic clan feudists? Not even in the same league, Francesca! And Erik's got humiliation to avenge as well as a simple attempt on his life. Aldanto's the man responsible for getting him under your sweet thighs, don't forget."

  Francesca chucked the unfortunate Erik under the chin. "Poor man. It must have been so hard for you."

  Erik got hastily to his feet, amid Manfred's guffaws. "I think it's time we talked to Von Gherens."

  "Coward," grinned Manfred. "You talk to him. I'm going to stay here and take my punishment like a man."

  * *
*

  Von Gherens was willing. So were the four young Ritters he spoke to.

  Gerhard Bach was downright avid.

  * * *

  Fortunately, the abbot was sequestered in private discussion with Sister Ursula when the Schiopettieri barge arrived at the embassy in mid-afternoon. Erik thought Sachs would probably have had a fit if he'd seen eight armored knights wrestling a bombard into the Venetian vessel. Even a small one.

  The knight-proctor Von Stublau did pitch a fit. But with the official authority of Sachs on his side—as attested to vehemently by Manfred and Erik—Von Gherens simply ignored Von Stublau's protestations.