"Take it up with the abbot!" snapped Von Gherens. "Better make it quick, too. We're leaving."
Fuming angrily, the Prussian knight-proctor stormed back into the embassy. Von Gherens, grinning, turned to his knights and said: "Let's go. Just in case Von Stublau develops the nerve to interrupt Sachs and Sister Ursula."
"He'd better knock first," muttered Manfred, not quite under his breath. Two of the younger knights chuckled softly. Erik frowned.
"That's in very bad taste," he growled.
"Not as bad as Sister Ursula, I'll bet," responded Manfred cheerfully. The two young knights burst into outright laughter.
Erik sighed. Once again, reproving Manfred had proven to be as useful as pouring naphtha on a bonfire. . . .
* * *
The barge carrying Erik and Manfred met up with the rest of Dorma's flotilla not far from Casa Dandelo. It was quite an impressive show of force, even before the Knights and their bombard arrived: three barges packed with Schiopettieri, and another three coming behind. The last three, to Erik's surprise, were empty except for skeleton crews. He wondered as to their purpose.
As soon as Dorma's barge came alongside, Petro hopped into Erik's vessel. The easy and nimble way he moved reminded Erik how young Lord Dorma was—not yet forty, he'd heard—for a high Venetian notable. The man's bald head, pudgy build, and judicious manner normally made him seem older.
"I'll ride the rest of the way with you," Petro announced, smiling. "I believe I should, since I'm officially in charge of this—ah, I believe we're still calling it an 'investigation.' And you'll be spearheading the—ah, I believe I'll call it an 'entry.' "
He eyed the little bombard. "Can you fire that from the bow of the boat?"
Gerhard Bach looked indignant. "Are you cra—" He broke off, coughing, as if he'd just remembered he was addressing a high-ranking Venetian official rather than a young knight-squire. "Ah, no. Sir. That'd be a very bad idea. The recoil would probably hull the barge. It's not designed to be a gun platform."
Dorma frowned. "Then how—"
"I'll figure something out," replied Bach cheerily.
Dorma shrugged. "I leave the matter in your capable hands, then." He turned to Erik. "Any questions?"
Erik looked at him uncertainly. Yes. How in the hell did you ever get the Council of Ten to agree to this—much less the Doge? But he decided that question would be impolitic. If rumor was to be believed, Dorma himself was a member of that secretive body. As for the Doge . . .
Petro coughed. "I might mention that the Doge has given me his blessing. Well. In a manner of speaking."
Again, he eyed the bombard. "I told him we needed to test a new mechanism. He was quite engrossed in his clocks at the time. I took his wave as a gesture of assent. It seemed a reasonable interpretation."
Erik nodded solemnly. It seemed a reasonable response. And less likely to get him in trouble than any words he could think of.
Manfred, as usual, suffered no such inhibitions. "Foscari'll probably have a heart attack when he finds out. On the other hand—" the big young knight swept his arm in a half-circle "—I think you're about to become the most popular official in Venice."
Erik and Dorma turned their heads, following Manfred's gesture. Erik was startled to see the size of the crowd that had already formed alongside the canal, with more and more people pouring in from little side streets. And as the flotilla passed by a small side canal, he could see that it was full of gondolas. All of them were packed with onlookers, for all the world as if they were going on a family promenade. As soon as Lord Dorma's flotilla passed the mouth of the canal, the much larger flotilla of gondolas came following behind.
At first, Erik was surprised that the crowd was so quiet. Almost completely silent, in fact. But before long he understood. Venice's canalers and working classes were still not sure about the nature and purpose of Dorma's flotilla. True, it looked as if . . .
But the Venetian authorities had a long history of looking the other way, when it came to the transgressions of the Dandelos. So who could be sure that this would not just turn out to be another empty gesture?
"They're wondering about us," murmured Manfred. "Look at 'em whispering back and forth, all through that mob. On the one hand, the Knights are supposed to be nothing but tools for the Emperor—which means the Montagnards, to them. On the other hand . . ."
He examined his fellow Knights, standing in the barge, and grinned. "We are a rather fearsome lot to be hauling around just for show."
Erik wasn't sure whether to smile or frown. Once again, Francesca's influence on Manfred was showing. Not so many weeks ago, Manfred wouldn't have been able to analyze a foreign crowd so surely and readily. For that matter—not so many weeks ago—the thought of doing so would never even have crossed his mind. Wine, women, and song, it had been—and very lightly on the "song." Since he'd met that one particular woman, however . . .
He doesn't even drink that much anymore. Will wonders never cease?
But he had no time to pursue the thought further. The grim and imposing edifice of Casa Dandelo loomed ahead of them. Even at a distance, it was obvious the Dandelos had forted up. There was not a person to be seen anywhere in the immediate vicinity.
Except one.
"What in the name of God is that boy doing?" demanded Von Gherens. "Crazy kid!"
Erik stared at the small figure perched on one of the timbers holding up the roof of Casa Dandelo. "Perched" like a bat, not a bird. The kid was hanging upside down.
"I guess he wanted the best possible view," said Manfred. He loosened his great sword in its scabbard. "So let's not disappoint him."
Chapter 61
Benito's eyes were riveted on the bombard nestled in the hold of the barge, with three of the knights squatting next to it. From Benito's vantage point, high atop Casa Dandelo, he could see the bombard clearly. But he knew that from the angle of Dandelo observers below, the bombard would still be invisible.
That, as much as anything, finally convinced Benito that Dorma's expedition was serious. Like most canalers and lower-class Venetians, his first reaction on hearing the news that Lord Dorma was going to "inspect" Casa Dandelo was jeering. Oh, sure. Dorma'll trot through the place and come out announcing that all is well.
But the bombard . . . hidden from sight . . .
And—the fact that there were Knights in the expedition. If Benito had lost his childhood enthusiasm for his mother's Montagnard cause, he still retained a certain romantic image of the Knights. The champions of Christendom; defenders of the right; bold and brave and true. If the image was tarnished—and had been tarnished even more by the general behavior of the Knights in Venice over the past year—it was still there, lurking in the corners of his mind.
Besides, not all of the Knights were simply lackeys for the Servants. Was there a canaler in Venice who hadn't heard the story, by now, of how some of the Knights—one in particular—had defied their abbot when he ordered a girl and some children hauled out of a church and put to the inquisition? Benito had heard that story several times over the past months, in several different places and from several different pairs of lips.
The stories varied in detail, of course, as city rumors will. Except on one point: all of them agreed that the knight who had first defied the abbot was a Nordic wolfman of some sort. A young blond maniac, who had been ready to carve his fellow knights into bloody pieces over an issue of law and principle.
The barge was closer now. If they hadn't been wearing helmets, Benito could have seen individual faces. Eagerly, he scrutinized what little he could see of the Knights past their helmets and nose guards. Which was not much, unfortunately.
Then Benito noticed that one of the knights—one of the three standing in the bow of the barge—was a very big man. And he remembered that, according to some of the stories he had heard, the blond one had been aided by a supposed giant.
I wonder if . . .
At that moment, one of the knights standing next t
o the very big one unclasped his helmet and removed it. Then, quickly wiped his forehead and brushed back his long hair; in the way that a warrior will just before battle, to make sure that his hair will not slide forward in the helmet and obscure his view.
His very long and very blond hair . . .
The knight glanced up at Benito as he did so. Then, after shaking his head in bemusement—crazy kid!—replaced the helmet. The whole thing had not taken more than a moment, but long enough for Benito to see the knight's face clearly.
A face that seemed a thing made entirely of angles and sharp planes, for all its obvious youth.
Yes! It's got to be him! I'm sure of it!
Benito's excitement was cresting. Suddenly, he was certain that this expedition was no thing of "show." Not in the least little bit.
I've got to see it!
He made up his mind right then. Curling quickly back into an upright position, he planted his feet firmly on the crossbeam of the roof. Then, looking across the canal to the rooftop across the way where Maria was perched, watching him, gave her a quick and cheerful wave. And a thumbs-up.
Moving quickly, before Maria could have time to start yelling orders at him to cease and desist, Benito took out the little prybar he had brought with him—just in case—and began working at the iron bars of the small window he was squatting beside. Those were some of the iron bars he had sawn through two nights earlier, and it was quick work to pry a couple of them loose. Benito glanced down to make sure no one would get hit, and pitched the bars into the waters of the canal below.
Then, he paused. Better wait until . . . He looked at the barge holding the knights. He could see Petro Dorma also. Benito recognized him from his many public appearances. The Lord of the Nightwatch was perched in the very tip of the bow, preparing to offload. The barge had almost reached the Casa Dandelo.
A moment later, the barge came alongside the wharf. Lord Dorma and the three knights in the bow hopped off and strode to the main door of Casa Dandelo. One of the knights—the big one—began pounding on the door. Lord Dorma was shouting something.
Benito couldn't make out the exact words. Mostly because he was doing his best to close his ears entirely, so he could claim later that he hadn't heard Maria's—now very loud and profane—shouted orders at him to stop what you're going, you crazy little bastard!
He grinned wryly. Well . . . he was pretty little, and he was certainly a bastard. "Crazy," on the other hand . . .
I prefer to think of it as "bold."
Maria's cursing could probably be heard in the Jesolo by now. Get away from that window, you blankety-blank stupid little blankety-blank . . . what do you think you're doing?!
Benito avoided looking at her—his eyes were fixed on the bombard, which several of the knights were wrestling onto the wharf—but he did give her an assuring little wave. Relax, Maria. I know what I'm doing.
A complete lie, of course. Even Benito thought what he was about to do was at least half insane. Voluntarily entering the lair of the Dandelos?
But . . . I have got to see this!
Lord Dorma shouted something which sounded very . . . final. Then he and the three knights at the front stepped back. The other knights, by now, had nestled the bombard against a heavy stone abutment on the wharf. One of them took out a smoking slow match—
They must have already loaded it.
—and the bombard went off with a BOOM. Even though Benito was expecting it, the noise startled him. So did the sound of the heavy front door of Casa Dandelo being turned into splinters. Not so much from the cannonball, which had simply shattered the lock, but from the weight and fury of half a dozen armored knights slamming into it.
Maria's shrieking orders and curses at Benito could be heard in the Alps, by now. He gave her a last little wave and plunged through the window, into the darkness of Casa Dandelo.
* * *
The room he found himself in was some kind of storage area. Everything was very dark, but he could see the dim outlines of a door on the opposite side. Stumbling over various carelessly stacked crates, holding God-knows-what, he scrambled to the door. Then, tested it cautiously. Despite the recklessness of his project, he hadn't lost the fine details of burglary work.
To his relief, the door wasn't locked or bolted on the other side. He opened it slowly, carefully, peeking out into the corridor beyond.
There was no one in the corridor. To his left, the corridor dead-ended a few yards away. Three other doors on that side seemed to be the same type as the door he was opening—old, decayed, apparently little used; the kind of doors which led to nothing beyond rooms for storing mostly unwanted items. By pure luck, he had chosen a perfect entry route into the Dandelo building.
To his right, the corridor angled almost immediately to the left. He couldn't see what lay beyond that bend. But he could hear a furious ruckus coming from somewhere below. The excitement he wanted to watch, obviously.
Hurriedly, not wanting to miss any of it, Benito almost lunged out of the storage room and scurried to the bend of the corridor. The lighting was so bad—just one sconce at the very end of the corridor—that he tripped over an unseen obstacle lying on the floor and wound up sprawling around the bend instead of creeping unnoticed.
Fortunately—
There was no one. The bend led immediately to a flight of stone stairs leading downward to a landing and then curving to the left again.
The noise was louder now. So was—the stench.
Benito almost gagged. Maria had told him how badly Casa Dandelo reeked of the effluvia of slave trading. But he hadn't quite believed her. Breathing through his mouth, and trying to breathe as little as possible, Benito pranced down the stairs. For all the speed with which he negotiated the steps and the landing, he made almost no noise at all.
There was no one on the landing, either. But then Benito got careless. The noise coming up from the fracas below was very loud, now. Men shouting at each other. Benito was suddenly terrified that he would miss everything. So, abandoning what little caution he still retained, he raced from the landing down the stairs. As he neared the bottom of the steeply inclined staircase, he could see that it ended in a balcony overlooking a large room. He covered the last three steps in a single bound, landing on the balcony in a crouch and then eagerly leaning over the stone railing.
Below, in the large entrance hall of Casa Dandelo, he could see Petro Dorma, backed by all of the knights, almost face-to-face with Angelo Dandelo, the head of the House. Dandelo was backed in turn by more than a dozen of his own retainers, all of them armed. Most with cudgels and knives, but at least two with halberds and another two with arquebuses.
The two men seemed to have finished shouting at each other. Dorma was turning his head, clearly on the verge of issuing orders which—just as clearly, from the tension of the knights and the arquebus-armed Schiopettieri standing behind them—no! spreading to the sides, ready to fire—was going to cause all hell to break loose!
Benito was ecstatic. Sure enough! He had a grandstand view!
* * *
Unfortunately . . . so did the four Dandelo retainers who were also perched on the balcony, not more than ten feet away from him. All of them large, angry looking—and armed with cudgels.
* * *
The moment was . . . tense. Benito stared at the Dandelo goons. They stared at him.
What to do? What to do? Two of the Dandelos were starting to move toward him.
Fortunately for Benito, his abrupt arrival had also been noticed by one of the knights standing next to Dorma. The very large one, with a very large voice.
"Hold!" came the bass bellow. Wide-eyed, Benito stared down at him. The very large knight had taken a step toward the balcony, pointing a very large (and armored) finger at the advancing Dandelo goons. "Hold right there! You men are under arrest!"
The very large and armored finger now pointed imperiously at Benito. "You have your orders, Knight-Squire Crazykid!" The finger swept back—as impe
riously as ever—to the Dandelo goons on the balcony. "Arrest them! Don't let them escape!"
One of the Dandelo retainers standing not far from the very large knight began to shout some sort of protest. The knight—moving way faster than Benito would have believed he could—slammed a very large and armored fist into the man's face. The Dandelo was flattened instantly. Blood everywhere. Benito wasn't sure, but . . . he thought the blow had broken the man's neck as well as crushed his head.
Knight-Squire Crazykid? Arrest them? Don't let them go?
Fortunately, Benito was no stranger to brazening his way out of jams. He drew his little knife and brandished it like a sword. What the hell. "Knight-Squire Crazykid"—slurred in that terrible accent—did sound a bit German.
"Stop!" he shouted at the goons on the balcony. "I'll kill any man who tries to escape!" He took two steps toward them. "God and the Right!"
The Shadow of the Lion Page 63
