“Cressida,” said Danamis as they strolled in the burning sun, Citala and Caluro two steps behind, “If you sign that treaty then Valdur will be a vassal state of the Silk Empire. You and the prince must come away with me. To Maresto.”
The queen stopped. “What? Abandon the throne? What are you thinking, Nicolo?”
“No, my queen. Not abandon the throne. To lead the fight for it. Against Torinia, the chiefest threat. If I take you to Maresto it will get you and the prince out of Perusia. It will give you time to stall the Sineans because you won’t be signing any treaty before you leave.”
“Nicolo, this is the old pirate talking,” she replied shaking her head.
“No, it’s not. The Sineans will bend you to their will as more arrive. Polo can taste control already. You place Raganus and the council in charge while you and Sarant campaign in the west, Raganus will inform the ambassador that you will look favourably on the treaty upon your return. A pronouncement from you, giving your intentions, to be read out after you’ve left.”
Cressida looked at Danamis, speechless.
“Cressida, they need you, and Sarant, to give legitimacy to their intentions. If you are at war they cannot act without being the aggressor. I doubt very much the Milvornans will attack Perusia with three thousand Sineans here as your guests. And not before they know the outcome of the war in Maresto. Piero Polo will have to suck his teeth and wait for your return before pressing you to sign the treaty.”
She looked down at the flower beds, alive with diligent honeybees oblivious to all else. “He won’t let me leave. He will detain me despite my palace guard and good Caluro here. They will never let me get to your ship.”
Danamis smiled at her. “That is why I have a plan, my queen. Will you go to the palace temple on the Feast of Saint Giacomo? The day after tomorrow.”
“It is as always. The prince and I will attend the temple along with the High Prelate of Perusia who officiates.”
Danamis nodded intently. “You must be seen to be there. But, you will not be. They will see the queen and the prince but it will not be either of you.”
Cressida frowned. “Doubles? A ruse?”
“We need to find those who would take the risk—and who could pass for you and Sarant, at least at a distance. Your man Caluro and the guard will keep the secret and make sure Raganus follows your orders.”
She placed her hand over her mouth as the daunting nature of the task hit her. “My God, you are mad Nico....”
“Cressida... there is no other way. You must trust me. By the time Polo finds out we will be on the ship and away.”
She looked into his brown eyes; the eyes of the man she had fallen in love with a decade ago. “I do trust you, Nico. But in this we will need far more than trust or luck. We will need Elded’s grace.”
Danamis gave her a tender smile. “I can provide the luck if you can have a word with Elded and the Lord above.”
She grasped his arm. “Then let us set your plan into motion. I will not submit to Sinean blackmail nor Polo’s arm-twisting. And I may have an idea on who might help us. With the deception, that is.”
“That is my Cressida of House Guldi!”
They turned to face Citala, who lingered a few paces behind along with Caluro (who was still transfixed by Citala’s grey-skinned features). Cressida caught a look from the mermaid that carried just a hint of mistrust. But she quickly checked herself as she realized that it was not quite mistrust; it was the look of a jealous lover.
“Citala,” she said, “I am grateful of your company and also for your rescue of Danamis on the journey here. You are immensely brave.”
Citala bowed. “Danamis has been a friend to the mer and believes in my mission to bring our people back to this land from exile.”
“He has told me of this before. And now perhaps you yourself can tell me the story of your people.”
“It would seem that we will have the time for such things once we journey upon the sea again.”
Cressida gave her an awkward smile. Danamis cleared his throat. “My queen, we must plan in detail your steps from the palace to the ship on the day. You cannot bring much with you, and only a few servants at most. And you must bring the royal seal lest it be misused by Raganus.”
Cressida nodded. “That had already occurred to me. It will be done.”
“And one more thing, Captain Caluro will be key to our deception. For he will have to escort your imposters to the temple. It would be suspicious if he was not there.”
Caluro took a step forward, hands spread. “Your majesty! I will not leave your side. It would be too risky. To leave you with this—”
“Pirate?” said Danamis.
Cressida raised her hand. “Enough. The Admiral is right. It would not be believable if you and your men were not at my side as we progressed to the Temple.”
Caluro shook his head. “Your Majesty.”
“More than that, Captain, I must ask you to stay behind and guard the council. You are the only person I can trust to keep Raganus steady and to keep Polo at arm’s length. You will see that everything in my pronouncement is adhered to.”
The captain sagged slightly in his disappointment. “Yours will be done, my queen.”
“Good,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “Now, let us plan the details of our little expedition, shall we? There is a bower over there to take shade in. Citala, you have a part to play in this too and your opinion is valued as much as my two commanders here. Join us!”
AN HOUR LATER, they were back under escort and heading the way they had come, winding their way through the labyrinthine corridors and towards the entrance to the sprawling palace. Caluro, Danamis, and Citala walked in front, the two soldiers from the Vendetta behind them, followed by six of Caluro’s men.
“She is brave... and beautiful,” mused Citala as they walked, her head shrouded once again in the voluminous brown hood of her cloak. “But she is still a prisoner in her own palace. And that is a sad thing.”
“That may be so, but no more of that now... or here.”
Caluro had been silent, a fixed scowl on his long, mule-like face since they had left the gardens. He spoke up now, sotto voce that his men might not overhear. “You had best be right in all this, Admiral. All of it. Because if even one strand unravels you will have me to answer to. She is my charge. She always will be.”
“Understood, Captain,” said Danamis. “Understood.”
They entered that last octagonal chamber before the great double doorway to the courtyard. And coming towards them was another party, under escort by the palace guard. It was Piero Polo and his men. They halted a few paces from each other, Polo making a sweeping bow and doffing his hat. Danamis did the same.
“Captain Danamis, Admiral of the fleet! Well met this day! We are on our way to discuss trade business with Raganus and the council. And you?”
Danamis looked beyond the craggy explorer, eyeing the Sinean soldier who stood tucked between the two crewmen who served as Polo’s retainers. “The same,” he replied, the hint of a smile on his lips.
Polo nodded. “And good day to you Captain Caluro,” turning to acknowledge the towering commander who was clearly irked he had not been informed of the visit to the palace.
“It would have been better had I known of your intentions,” growled Caluro.
“Ah, yes, there was no time for the usual protocol I’m afraid,” said Polo offhandedly. “I do apologise but affairs of state keep no civil hours.”
Polo dipped his head, looking up into Citala’s hood. “And who is your escort, my lord? I do not recognize—ah! A mer woman. I had heard of your... guest from the sea. It is an honour.” He gave a flourish and a court bow. Danamis felt Citala push closer into his side. “We must meet at the harbour—all of us, no? Nicolo, we can give you a tour of the Sinean vessels! Admiral Hieronimo too! You will be fair amazed, my lord, with their shipwright skill. Veritable floating cities.”
Danamis looked at Polo’s crewmen, th
eir black doublets unbuttoned, hose drooping with laces undone. Their red arming skullcaps, spotted black with tar stains, sat far down over their foreheads, making them look even more witless than they probably were. Unshaven louts, he thought to himself. His eyes moved to the red coifs again. The same red arming coif that the dead informant had been wearing when Danamis found him with a stiletto in his throat. He slowly reached behind his cioppa and slipped his hand into his leather pouch on his belt. He pulled out the red arming coif from the dead man which he had been carrying around for more than a week. A reminder. Danamis extended it towards Polo in his left hand.
“I think you might want to return this to your quartermaster. For another in your service. Maybe one less careless with his tongue.”
He watched Polo’s reaction. A moment of surprise and then swift recovery of his expression, the familiar look of joviality upon him. But he did not move to accept the red coif. “My dear Nicolo, what is your meaning? Have you found this on the quay?”
Danamis’s right hand moved smoothly across his waist to his left hip, his palm resting on the pommel of the slim Southland blade that had once belonged to his father’s castellan. “I think you know where it came from. And who its wearer was.”
Polo snorted, but his eyes bored into Danamis’s. “I am sure my men lose these upon the docks every week.” Polo’s two sailors spread apart, sensing the rising tension. The Sinean, a young man dressed in black silk, short straight blade at his hip, stepped off to one side, watching Danamis as he did so.
Danamis’s right hand slid from his sword’s pommel to encircle the grip. “Why, Piero? Why, after all these years? I can see your eyes give the lie.” His voice was like ice. And then he felt Citala’s grip upon his wrist, vise-like, telling him that now was not the time nor the place. But Caluro stepped in between the seamen even as the two groups fell back a step.
“Gentles! I know not what score is at stake here but you will not settle it in the palace.” His sonorous voice dropped a tone further. “So, stand you down. Now.”
A large smile broke upon Polo’s face, his protruding eyes slightly glistening with false tears. “Ah, Nicolo my boy. You have much to learn about the world.”
“Yes,” replied Danamis as he stared down the explorer. “I’m learning that loyalty is a commodity in short supply in Valdur.”
“Upon my life, I think you are mistaken in whatever accusation it is you make.” Polo smiled again, shaking his leonine head in awkward denial. “Captain Caluro, we take our leave of you.” He gestured to his men and they stepped off, giving Danamis and his two men a wide berth. Danamis slowly wheeled in place as he followed them, the Sinean casting a distrustful glance back towards him as he adjusted his swordbelt. Caluro looked down at Danamis whose eyes were alight with rage.
“Bad blood must out in the end, my lord. I can see there’s no love lost there.”
“I am running out of so-called ‘uncles’, it seems,” said Danamis, his anger subsiding as Citala stroked his forearm. She spoke quietly. “It was this man—Polo—that tried to have him killed last summer in this very city.”
Caluro whistled softly. “I remember the incident. But a red cap? Your only proof of guilt?”
“It is no proof, I’ll warrant that,” growled Danamis.
“I’ll kill him for you, Captain,” piped up one of Danamis’s sailors, a broken-nosed veteran of a hundred voyages. “Just give me the word.”
Danamis turned and clapped him on the shoulder. “That is good of you, Malaro. But that is a job for me and me alone. One I will savour when the time is right.”
Twenty-Four
THE HIGH-PITCHED SCREECHES pierced eardrums and rattled men to the core, rending the air at such irregular intervals that all but the most inured flinched or ducked their heads, eyes clenched in fear.
“For the love of all the saints, don’t they ever sleep?” Strykar, sitting against the inner wall spat across the stone parapet and stuck his hands over the glowing brazier in front of him. Seated next to him, Lieutenant Poule jabbed the embers with a stick in frustration. “The creature must be getting a hot poker up its arse every time it drifts off to sleep.”
So jangled were his nerves, Brother Acquel found himself chuckling. They were high up near the main barbican and gate on the side that led to the Ara at the western edge of the city. It was late, the chimes for midnight having just sounded below them a few minutes earlier. Acquel pulled his cloak closer for, despite the start of summer, Livorna was cut into the foothills of the great mountains to the north and the air at night was still chilly. Strykar had not allowed torches to be set in the walls lest those patrolling the parapets be struck by enemy bowmen below. All along the wall, groups of Templars and militia huddled together, dozing or conversing in hushed tones.
He sat up as figure approached, having come up the spiral stone stairs of the barbican. It was Volpe. “Hail brothers,” he whispered cheerfully as he squatted down with them. Strykar grunted his greeting and Poule merely lifted a hand.
“Did you see the High Priest?” asked Acquel. “How fares he this evening?”
Volpe shrugged. “His body is sound but his mind is disordered still. He has been at prayer since taking his sup.”
“Yes, he has seen something... in his mind. A premonition perhaps, but something powerful and frightening.”
Volpe nodded. “A vision while he hovered between life and death. He has seen what knocks at the gates to this world.”
Strykar looked up. “What are you prattling about, monk?”
“The root of the things that you have seen with your own eyes, Messere Strykar. The Trees of Death that sprout anew. The beasts that you hear screaming up at us even now.”
Strykar harrumphed. “That bitch della Rovera has brought this upon us. I shall see to her if God gives me half the chance.”
Volpe seized a wineskin that lay nearby and gave it a shake before unstoppering it. “She is but an emissary—a messenger—for what is coming. Those who you call the old gods.”
Acquel spoke up. “She is a formidable Seeker. That is how Kodoris first found her and used her skills.”
“Perhaps she found him,” the old monk offered.
One of the griffons out in the fields let loose with a blood-curdling screech.
“Why does it do that?” asked Acquel through gritted teeth.
“It is doing what it is bid to do,” suggested Strykar. “Making us consider surrender the wiser of our options before the dawn breaks.” Acquel threw him a quizzical look and Strykar smiled wanly. “They don’t want to die any more than we do. They’re mercenaries. Aretini and his friends would rather end this quickly than suffer a slow bleed against these walls.”
“We do not have what we need to fight these griffons,” mumbled Acquel. “We have told you that.”
“I know,” replied Strykar. “Your old friend here has explained how the myrra leaf could help. But until we see what cards Ursino plays out, we must sit tight. We have an army between us and Maresto in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Poule stopped poking at the orange coals. “And suppose those beasts decide to fly up here onto the battlements? Then what? You told me what they did to our army on the far side of the Taro.”
Strykar gave him a look of grim determination. “You stay out of their way and pray the crossbowmen get lucky.”
Acquel threw a glance to Volpe and the old monk looked down, for he knew not what to say. Nor did anyone else after that, and silence fell among them. They heard the scuff of feet on the spiral steps of the barbican and Strykar raised his head. Two cloaked figures emerged from the archway and scanned the parapets.
“Hail!” barked Strykar. “Who are you after?”
The pair turned at his voice and approached, dropping back their hoods. Strykar hauled himself to his feet as he recognized the two figures. “Demerise. You’re still here?”
“You have a problem,” said Demerise.
“We have a problem,” mumbled Bero at
her side.
“Who is this... woman?” asked Acquel, stepping forward.
“We are searching for the Magister,” Demerise said. “We were told he is up here somewhere.”
“I am the Magister of the Ara,” said Acquel. “And who are you?”
“This is Mistress Demerise, a venatora of Maresto,” said Strykar. “It was she who brought me here after I escaped the Torinians.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. “Magister, I must tell you that there was a traitor in your midst.”
“But not anymore,” added Bero helpfully.
“What are you talking about?” Strykar stepped closer to Demerise, their eyes practically level.
“The castellan—Voltera. We caught him opening the east gate with a few of his men. He was about to give the city away.”
Ugo Volpe shook his head at the name and mumbled something dark, his suspicions confirmed.
“Sweet Elded.” Acquel breathed. “What happened?”
“We killed him. And his men. They nearly had the bar off the gates by the time we got there. Not much choice for us at that point.”
“Take us there,” said Strykar quietly. “Poule, keep watch up here!”
EXCITED MILITIA WERE milling around the gatehouse at Low Town as they arrived, their constable herding them like a fretting mother hen. Near the edge of the square they had laid out the bodies of Voltera and his four henchmen, all retainers from the palazzo. Strykar whistled as he surveyed the corpses, his eyes resting on the features of the castellan, frozen in shock at the moment the arrow struck his heart. “You’re sure he was trying to let in the enemy?
“There was no doubt,” said Demerise quietly as she stood next to the mercenary. “None at all.”
“And we fought off the raiding party that nearly got through the night door,” chimed in Bero.
Acquel was still in shock at the sight. He had thought Voltera more than odd and a touch unctious, but never had suspected he would aid Ursino and try to surrender Livorna. “What of the Count? Where is he? You don’t think he’s thrown in his lot with Torinia?”
The Witch of Torinia Page 28
