It cut him, for she was right and he knew it well. He had fobbed her off despite her worries about her father, myrra and the colony at Nod’s Rock. And the way the new colony at Palestro seemed to be sinking into listlessness; that was an image he had tried hard to wipe from his mind. She had asked for help and he had deferred her. Again and again. He reached up with a chafed hand and cradled her cheek. She leaned into it.
“Citala. I promise you again, here, that as soon as we reach Maresto then we will go to your father, come to an agreement. Do what must be done.” He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. “I have no wish to lose you.”
“And I will stand by you all the way there,” she said quietly.
He smiled. In his heart he was not really sure whether the queen still had feelings for him. Or whether she had lied about Sarant being his. Or, deep down, even whether he still harboured feelings for Cressida in spite of the love he knew he felt for Citala. He suddenly felt as if the old Danamis, the callous and selfish fool of a year before, might somehow rise up again to rule him. And he hated himself.
The she-mer blinked slowly and clapped him on both biceps. “There, you are ready! Where is your blade?”
“Hey ho! Heads up!” It was Gregorvero who had come around the deck into the helm. He gave a nod to Citala. “Captain, we’re laden, lashed, and ready to shove off when you return. Assume you’re still expecting a hasty departure?”
Danamis nodded. “The quicker the better, my friend.”
“Captain!” shouted Talis from across the main deck, “The landing party is armed and ready on the quay.”
Gregorvero lowered his voice. “Nico, be careful up there. I’d sooner trust the word of a Darfan merchant than any behind the walls of the palace. If the queen does not appear where and when she said she would then you must get out. Straight away.”
“I hear you, Gregor. It’s dicing with the Devil, but Cressida won’t lose heart. She’ll see this through.” He turned back to Citala who held out his Southlander blade and scabbard. “We will be in and out before anyone even notices,” he said, winking.
She placed a hand on his wrist. “Elded will watch over you, Danamis son of Danamis,” and Gregorvero gave a cough and hurriedly blessed himself.
BRIGHT MORNING SUN blazed through the leaded windows and painted coloured patterns upon the grey flagstones of the royal temple. Situated in the middle terrace of the palace grounds, the temple was not particularly large and now it was crammed full of the nobility and the royal household, cheek by jowl and none too happy for it. The High Prelate of Perusia in his tall, square felt hat of ultramarine blue stood near the altar, waiting for the chorus to finish their song—the signal for the dowager queen and the crown prince to enter. The feast day of Saint Giacomo required the Saint’s skull to be brought forth in its silver casket where, up upon the dais and the unadorned altar of white marble, the queen and her son would kneel, kiss the casket and offer prayers.
Captain Piero Polo stood in a side pew, looking bored but less bored than the Sinean ambassador whose eyes were nearly closed like some dozing cat. The ambassador’s guards stood behind him, impassive, while one of Polo’s sailors picked his nose. Polo looked around him again at the sea of faces, most of whom he knew: the council, the barons and counts, the wealthier merchants of Perusia, the honoured guests from the outlying duchies and free cities that weren’t currently warring. Baron Raganus sat fidgeting on his bench as if he had boils on his rump. But one face was missing—Nicolo Danamis. That struck him as odd given his special relationship with the queen. Perhaps a problem aboard his vessel, he thought.
The last echoes of the choristers having died away, a trumpet fanfare sounded the entry of the royals. The palace guard entered at a slow marching pace with their red tasselled glaives, and in their wake came the queen, veiled in blue, her son at her side wearing a hooded cloak of penitence like some common monk. The long tubular bells began to clang, dirge-like, while the royals made their stately way down the aisle towards the altar. The queen seemed to float along, her face hidden under a gossamer veil. Prince Sarant was at her side, walking—or rather ambling thought Polo, with a rolling gait—like some sailor fresh from sea. Behind them came Captain Caluro, tall and self-assured, dressed in gleaming breastplate, tall black boots and a red cape that reached the floor.
All eyes were upon them at the altar, the High Prelate bowing with clasped hands. As the queen leaned forward and began to bend her knees down to the wool sack kneeler on the steps, her veil was pulled off from behind. Polo’s eyebrows raised as he watched the young prince step backwards for he had apparently trodden on the long veil. Polo now focussed on Sarant, and saw that the boy appeared slightly shorter than he remembered. Alarmed, he pushed forward to the annoyance of the nobleman in front of him. Polo then saw the stunned look on the Prelate’s face. A murmur rose up, starting nearest to the altar and then rippling outwards, a wave of voices. Someone shouted, “Where is the queen!” and that was when Polo saw that it was not Cressida who knelt, scrambling to retrieve her veil. The prelate pulled back the prince’s hood to find Nanino, the court dwarf, staring up at him rather sheepishly. Confusion erupted and the decorum of the temple evaporated in an instant. Caluro, expressionless, gathered up the woman and began to lead her out of the temple, the dwarf in tow. Polo’s eyes narrowed when he saw Caluro’s brisk but rather calm reaction. Unsurprised.
“Elded’s balls,” he muttered as he turned to his retainers. “All of you! With me!”
DANAMIS AND TWO of his men waited just inside the inner gatehouse. He had left the better part of his forty-strong party outside the palace walls, milling about as if awaiting entry. An act not itself exactly unsuspicious but there was little he could do about it. Now he leaned against the wall, watching the great oak doors of the palace and waiting, praying, for the queen and the prince to arrive. It seemed like an age. A hundred ill thoughts crossed his mind, each one chipping away a little more of his confidence.
It was the small side door that opened at the palace and Danamis sprang up as two rather tense looking young guardsmen emerged. Behind them, three women and a child. Cressida was dressed in a long undyed woollen cloak, a hood obscuring her face. The boy, dressed as a page, had on a wine-coloured beret two sizes too large that flopped over his brow, offering some concealment. The two other women bore large wicker baskets and he was pleased that Cressida had borne his advice in mind to take only what was necessary. A queen could always buy or borrow whatever she needed.
He and his men moved to meet her.
“Captain Danamis,” said one of the guardsman, “Here are your charges.”
Cressida raised her head and he saw her smile deep inside her hood. Danamis noticed the prince watching him, a look of deep scepticism on the boy’s face.
Danamis gave him a reassuring smile. “Are you ready for an adventure?”
The prince’s hand moved to rest upon the hilt of the short dagger he wore. “I would rather be staying here, Captain. A king belongs in his castle. This whole course of action strikes me as most unwise.”
Cressida’s right hand smacked the back of the boy’s head. “We are ready, Captain Danamis,” she said, voice firm. “Lead the way.”
Danamis nodded. “The rest of my men are beyond the gates. We must waste no time.”
One of the guardsman spoke up. “Captain Caluro has ordered us to stay with you—right to the ship.”
“I am grateful for another two swordsmen. Shall we?”
Outside the gates a small crowd had formed near the Palestrians, who themselves were doing their best to look like they were lost and looking for a tavern. Talis gave Danamis a look of relief when he saw he and the passengers appear. Danamis put an arm around him and spoke into his ear. “Form the men up into a square. The women and boy in the centre.” Talis put thumb to forehead and began to muster the sailors. Danamis turned to Cressida. “My lady, we must proceed at a brisk pace. I don’t know how long we will have until the rus
e is discovered.”
“Did you think I’ve forgotten how to run? I used to run well enough when you were chasing me,” she said. She seized Sarant’s hand even as the boy began to protest and moved into the jumble of rough soldiery, her handmaidens following. Danamis saw another two cloaked and hooded figures approach. Both with walking staffs. It was Citala and Necalli.
He stepped forward, his head shaking. “You should have stayed at the ship. This is no time for the merfolk to be implicated if this all goes wrong.”
Citala was unchastised. “And if it all goes wrong you will need all the help you can get. Necalli insisted on it. His promise to your father, you remember?”
Master Necalli nodded. “She is right. We must stand by you.”
Danamis pulled at his mouth. “There was a time when I used to give the orders. Very well, you are both with me here at the rear.”
Their small army set off down the wide cobbled street that led back into the centre of the city, the harbour visible below them. They walked quickly, purpose undisguised. The merchants of Perusia darted into their shops fearful of a riot or raid. Danamis knew if his men had attracted unwanted attention on the way up, they were certain to have even more on the way down as they jostled and clanked. At the tail end, flanked by Citala and Necalli both looking tall and sinister in their dark cloaks, he would every so often glance behind to see if there was pursuit. The fifth time he cast a glance back he was rewarded with more than the looks of distrustful townfolk and whispering housewives: there was an armed party storming towards them at a fast trot.
He let out a curse. “Talis! Ho there!” The forty of them came to a halt, line slamming into line. “Get back to the ship with the passengers! You men here in the last line. We stay and fight.”
Talis swore an oath and urged the rest of them on at a jog, the sailors grabbing the queen’s baggage, one of them roughly seizing the yowling prince and trotting along with the heir apparent under his burly arm. Cressida kept up, a hand on each side of her hood to safeguard her identity, and the band dashed pell-mell down the long sloping terrace of white-washed houses and shop awnings. As his eleven remaining men turned to face the newcomers, Danamis drew his sword and threw back his cloak over his right shoulder. Necalli slowly pulled back his hood, eyes blinking in the strong midday sun. Citala did the same and hefted her staff in both hands.
Closer now, he could see who his pursuers were. It was a gang of Piero Polo’s men, reinforced with a few sword-wielding Sinean soldiers. He couldn’t quite make out their number but the odds were not good.
“Citala, my lovely. Would it be a waste of my breath to tell you to get behind us?”
She laughed.
He called back to his men. “If I fall, you all make a run for it. Understood?” He was met with a ripple of grunts and “ayes” as the line tensed ready to receive what was coming their way. Polo’s men slowed and spread out to cover the width of the street, all wearing the now-familiar scarlet red arming cap and gripping their side-swords and axes. Two black and red satin-clad Sineans pushed their way to the front, brandishing their own unique weapons: short double-edged swords with miniscule guards. And behind them was Captain Polo himself, red-faced and barking out commands.
Instinctively, the Palestrians spread out to prevent the enemy from flanking them. And before another second had passed, Polo’s men sprang upon them. It was as nasty a street fight as Danamis had ever seen. The clang of steel and desperate yells echoed between the tall houses on either side as Danamis fended off a gap-toothed and curse-spitting sailor while trying to keep an eye on Citala. It nearly cost him his head as another one of Polo’s henchmen aimed a side stroke at him from off to one side. He jumped back and parried before flicking his own blade with a shot from the elbow. As the first opponent stepped in and threw another blow, Danamis sidestepped and grabbed his sword arm with his left, just for a second. It was enough for him to thrust the man in the throat, dropping him to the ground in a brief spray of blood.
He saw Necalli swing his staff with both hands and lift a sailor off his feet, sending him sprawling across the cobbles. But his heart flew to his mouth when he saw Citala square against a Sinean soldier. He needn’t have worried. The Sinean wasn’t sure what manner of creature he was fighting and it showed when he raised his sword up into a hesitant guard. Citala didn’t wait. She was on him, raining down furious blows with the staff and it was all the Sinean could do to parry and step back from her attack. Before Danamis whirled away to deal with another problem, he caught a quick glimpse of the Sinean’s jaw parting from the rest of his head as Citala’s powerful swing struck the man. Danamis bumped into one of his own who was backing out of a vicious sweep of a blade and then he turned to catch an incoming blow aimed at his skull.
The fight rapidly became a confused frenzy as of wild dogs set upon one another. As fate would have it, Danamis turned to find himself staring straight into the bulging brown eyes of Piero Polo. He paused for an instant, swore to himself, and moved in.
“You’ll have to do your own killing now,” said Danamis, raising his blade in both hands.
“Abducting a queen, Nicolo? You’re nothing more than a corsair after all. And you’ll not be mourned.” He gave a yell and lashed out with his long blade. Danamis held his ground, beat it aside, and cut downwards in a riposte. Polo twisted out of the way but Danamis managed to clip his shoulder as he moved.
The old explorer grimaced and shuffled back a few feet. “Did you really think that you could get away with this? Fool me? Fool the council?”
Danamis waved his sword, looking out to either side for the rush of another foe. “You lying bastard. You know I serve the queen. Unlike you—a whore for the Sineans.”
“Nicolo!”
At Citala’s cry, the instinct of a hundred fights took over and he instantly voided his head and shoulders away to be rewarded with the swishing sound of a sword as it cleaved the air. The sailor pressed forward and Polo seized his moment to rush in. But the new attacker found Citala and Necalli at his back and twisted around to face the mer. Danamis wheeled and parried the close-in thrust of Polo’s blade with a downward beat, his left hand moving fast to grip the ricasso of his sword. A second later he had pushed forward and driven it deep into the meat of Polo’s right thigh. The captain collapsed with a howl of pain and Danamis stepped back to survey the scene before him. Men lay sprawled all around, blood running in rivulets across the cobbles. But those on the ground were more Polo’s men than his. As the great explorer and discover of the eastern oceans rolled into a ball, his men rushed in to pull him out of harm’s way.
“Back to the ship!” barked Danamis. Two of his men hauled up a wounded Palestrian and started moving down the street. Citala grabbed his arm and pulled him away even as he watched Polo’s twisted mouth spew a steady stream of curses at him. Remembering his own agonies of a year ago, gratis Piero Polo, he was glad he hadn’t killed the man. Yet.
Twenty-Eight
VENDETTA’S PROW CUT deep into the waters of Saint Blasius Bay, white foam tossing either side and bubbling furiously along its strakes as the ship raced southwards. Portly old Royal Grace ploughed on through Vendetta’s wake, her master Bassinio piling on as much canvas as the ship would bear. And just a speck on the bay from the vantage of her stern rail, another ship followed them, one far larger.
Citala, wrapped in her silk robes, stood with Danamis in the high bow of Vendetta, as the caravel, dipped and bucked in the rolling swell. On the far side of the mast, two sailors hauled on lines through a deadeye, tightening the canvas of the square foresail while Necalli—brooding as usual—stared out over the shimmering waters.
“Nicolo, what are you thinking?” she asked, her voice soft.
He turned to her, taking his eyes off the horizon ahead.
“You mean other than when the Sineans might catch us up? In truth, I was thinking about Strykar, and what awaits us in Maresto. I hope the fight has gone well for the Black Rose.”
&nbs
p; “He is a cunning warrior from what I have seen. He will serve Duke Alonso well.”
Danamis chuckled. “Aye, that he is. And a keen eye for business too.” He paused a moment. “Used to think I was clever. Like Strykar, a schemer. But what if the situation is changed when we arrive? I’m bringing Cressida and the prince into the unknown. No news from Maresto in weeks. God knows what has happened there or Livorna.”
She reached for his arm. “Who expects you to know the future? She should be grateful she has your loyalty when those cowards around her either fawn and scrape or try and gain their own advantage.”
“She has stayed in the cabin all day. Not ventured out on deck.”
“Perhaps she is ill. Or does not want to draw attention to herself.”
Danamis nodded. “Or she is having second thoughts. About the plan. About me.”
Citala made a strange growling sound as she often did when annoyed. “Enough of that. It will be Alonso’s problem once you deliver her to his palace.”
Gregorvero tramped up the ladder to the foredeck, negotiated the mast and swung around a shroud line to reach them. “Nico, they’re gaining.”
Danamis scowled. “We had at least four hours lead on them. But if Polo is on board they won’t give up the chase. They’re bigger than a whale. So how can they be out-sailing us?”
“They can throw out ten times as much canvas as we can. And though they’re big they’ve got a narrow beam. That gives them speed despite their size. But I’m more worried for the Grace. They’ll catch her first, even if we can run on.”
“Best guess?”
Gregorvero scratched his hairy cheek. “If we sail through the night—everything close-hauled—probably after first light. That’s assuming that Bassinio can keep up with us.”
“Feed them all well tonight but no wine. And rouse the ship before sunrise to make ready for battle. I will advise the queen.”
The Witch of Torinia Page 33
