Lackey, Mercedes & Flint, Eric & Freer, Dave - [Heirs of Alexandria 01] (111 page)

"What?!" They both exclaimed simultaneously. "Damn him," added Kat, snarling.

Benito walked toward the nearest window, still covered with heavy drapes. "Let's get some light in here, what say?" He shrugged. "Nothing's ever perfect. Aldanto had a galley ready�in case things went wrong, I guess. That'd be just like him. When the fog cleared and the Lion's Shadow spooked them, he took advantage of it. Just in time, too. Petro Dorma is spitting mad about it. And he's looking for you pair of lovebirds." He looked quizzically at them. "So what are you going to do now?"

Marco took Kat's hands. "Kat. You realize that this doesn't change anything? I made my promises. I'm still married to Angelina."

Kat smiled. "Marco. I'll be your mistress if you want me. I'll be your friend if you don't. But I
won't
leave you again."

The shaman raced frantically through the water, trailing blood from several gashes. Behind him, their jaws leaving their own red trace, came the vengeful undines.

Insofar as the shaman could think at all in his state of panic, he was sure he could elude his pursuers. He was well into the open waters of the gulf now, beyond the lagoon, and he was a better swimmer than the undines.

The thought was not especially comforting. Undines were not the only menace he faced. The shadow of the Lion, sweeping across the lagoon, had not only cast terror into the minds and hearts of Venice's enemies. It had also emboldened Venice�and its friends.

Among those friends, often enough, the tritons of the gulf and the open sea could be counted. And those, more fishlike than the undines, he could
not
outswim.

For that matter, the blood he was trailing might draw sharks as well. And if the sharks were no friends of Venice, they were no friends of his either.

Again and again, he cried out in his mind for the master to rescue him.
Open the passageway! Open the passageway!

There was no answer. No passageway.

When he sensed the disturbance in the water, quite some distance away, the shaman veered aside. That was the sound of a ship breaking up and men spilling into the water. No threat to him, in itself�but it might draw tritons. Occasionally�not often�the sea creatures rescued drowning sailors.

But his master's voice, finally appearing, commanded otherwise.

Find the ship and its sailors. Seize the strongest one and bring him to me.

The shaman did not even think to protest the order. Partly, because he was too glad to finally hear his master's voice. Mostly, because he had never heard that voice groan with such a terrible agony. As if the master himself were trailing his own spoor of blood.

The shaman was indifferent to the master's pain. But not to the rage that pain had so obviously brought with it.

When the shaman found the sundering vessel, he had no difficulty selecting the strongest man of its crew. He was the only one who had not drowned yet; and was already sinking below the surface himself, gasping with exhaustion. Fortunately, his golden hair made him easy to find.

The shaman seized the collar of his tunic in his sharp teeth. He hoped the master would open the passageway soon. The drowning man was larger than the shaman in his fishform. He did not think he could tow him any great distance�certainly not while keeping the man's mouth above water. The shaman was nearing exhaustion himself.

But the master was apparently alert. A moment later the passageway formed. Gratefully, the shaman plunged into it, bringing his golden-haired burden with him.

Dripping water, but no blood now that the shape-change had closed his wounds, the shaman lay sprawled on the floor of the grand duke's private chamber. Gasping for breath and feeling as if he could not move at all. Next to him, the golden-haired sailor gasped also. His eyes fluttered for a moment, blue gleaming through the lids, as the man began to return to consciousness.

The shaman sensed the huge form of his master looming over them. When he looked up, half-dazed, he was paralyzed still further by the sight. The grand duke's forehead gaped open; his face was coated with blood. The shaman could see his master's brains through the terrible wound.

The shaman had long since understood that his master was not really human any longer. Had he any doubts, that wound would have resolved them. No human being could have possibly survived such an injury, much less have been able to move and talk.

"I must have food," hissed the grand duke, in a voice almost hoarse from screaming.
"Now."

Glancing toward the great stove against the wall of his master's private room, the shaman could see that the fire was already burning in its belly. Drops of blood spilled from his master's head wound were sizzling on the side of the huge fry pan. The cleavers and flensing knives were ready on the butcher's table nearby.

The grand duke seized the half-drowned sailor by his golden hair and lifted him up, as easily as he might an infant. But then, seeing the man's face for the first time, he paused.

"Him," he muttered. Despite his fear and exhaustion, the shaman was fascinated to see the way the grand duke's forehead wound was beginning to close up. Much more slowly than one of his own wounds would heal during a shape-change, of course. And the shaman could only imagine the agony the grand duke was suffering. No wonder that the master craved his... special food. It would speed the healing immensely, and alleviate the pain.

The shaman was so fascinated by the sight that he didn't pay attention to his master's odd hesitation. It wasn't until the grand duke lowered the golden-haired head back to the floor that the shaman tore his gaze from the wound and looked at the eyes below.

He wished he hadn't. Even before he heard his master's next words.

"I may have use for this one. I can get another shaman."

The grand duke's giant hand seized the shaman by his long hair and dragged him toward the butcher table. The shaman fought in a frenzy along the way, but he might as well have been a toddler for all the good it did. Once on the table, a blow from the grand duke's fist ended his struggles.

Which was perhaps just as well. The shaman was too stunned to really feel the blade which began flaying him. His screams didn't start again until much of the skin was already gone. But, by then, the master was ready to prepare the blood sauce. A quick slice of the knife ended the screams.

When Caesare Aldanto finally returned to full consciousness, he discovered himself sitting at a table. A man he didn't recognize was working at a stove nearby. Huge man, he was�inches taller than Aldanto himself, and perhaps twice as broad. Adding in the walrus fat so obvious under the heavy robes, he probably weighed three times what Aldanto did.

When the man turned around and approached, Aldanto hissed. Partly because of the wound on the forehead, the likes of which he had never seen except on the body of a corpse. Mostly, because of the black and inhuman eyes under the heavy brow.

The man�the monster?�shoveled something out of the fry pan directly onto the table. "Eat now," he commanded. "There is no time for platters."

Caesare stared at him, then down at the food before him. When he recognized what it was�the tattoos alone made it obvious�he hissed again and began to draw back. A savage blow to the head half-dazed him. Then, a hand with the strength of an ogre seized him by the hair and shoved his face into the food.

"Eat it like a dog, slave. I have no use for fancy table manners. Neither do you, from this time forth."

"I think it would be best if I were escorted into Venice by your troops instead of my own, Enrico." The Emperor scanned the countryside along the Piave, the muscles working in his heavy jaws. "Bad enough I've brought them this far. But so long as Venice itself doesn't get its back up, I'm not too concerned about the reaction of the rest of Italy. Not at the moment, at least, when the bastards are cowed."

The Duke of Ferrara nodded. "I agree, Your Majesty." He hesitated a moment; then: "But I urge you not to be
too
cautious, either. The Scaligers of Verona have managed to infuriate just about everyone by now. Venice, Ferrara, and Rome by their actions; Milan and the rest by their failure."

Charles Fredrik's lips parted in what a shark might call a smile. "You think the time is ripe to take them down a peg or two?"

"Break them in half, rather," growled the Old Fox.

"Well said," snapped Baron Trolliger, riding to the Emperor's left. Unlike the Emperor, Trolliger was wearing armor. He seemed as annoyed by the martial equipment as he was with the state of the world in general. Trolliger was a courtier, not a soldier. Or perhaps it was simply that he detested travel.

"See to it, Hans," murmured Charles Fredrik. "Use Wilhelm Gneiss and his Bavarians. You can leave the military details to him. But make sure the Scaligers are bloodied. You needn't besiege Verona, I don't imagine�but tell Wilhelm not to hesitate if necessary. I want the territory under the control of the Scaligers shrunk�in half, as the Duke of Ferrara says. Spread the pieces around as seems best to you during the negotiations." He glanced at the Old Fox. "Make sure Ferrara gets the biggest slice."

"I've always been partial to Legnano," said Dell'este, almost idly. "Pretty town."

After Trolliger trotted off, riding his horse about as awkwardly as a man can and still stay in the saddle, the Emperor glanced behind him at a figure who was riding her own saddle with considerably greater ease and skill.

"Would you allow us a moment in private, Enrico?"

"Certainly, Your Majesty." The Duke of Ferrara trotted his horse away with the same superb skill that the old man handled a sword or a hammer. The Emperor waved Francesca forward.

When she drew alongside him, Charles Fredrik glanced at her manner of riding and made a face. "How do you manage that, anyway?"

Francesca smiled. "It's the fashion in the Aquitaine for ladies, Your Majesty. I learned to ride sidesaddle when I was barely old enough to walk." She plucked the dusky folds of silken lace-trimmed twill covering her thighs. "I could hardly wear something like this straddling the horse."

"It's quite a costume," agreed the Emperor. His tone was... meaningful.

Francesca gave him a sidelong glance. "I did not think Your Majesty would appreciate it much, if I were seen in my usual costume. Discretion and modesty seemed... well advised."

"Smart woman. Not�" The old man gave her a sidelong glance of his own. For a moment, his eyes seemed those of a much younger man. "�that I wouldn't have appreciated the other, I'm quite sure."

Francesca said nothing. Her smile was almost that of a Madonna.

Charles Fredrik cleared his throat. "And why
didn't
I see that other costume, Marie-Fran�oise de Guemadeuc? Since your arrival at Innsbruck, you've both dressed and behaved as a most modest and chaste demoiselle. In my experience�which is considerable�most courtesans would have cheerfully pitched over a prince for the sake of snaring an emperor."

Francesca hesitated, a little play of subtle emotions running over her face. Before she could speak, the Emperor continued.

"Three possibilities come to mind. The first is that you have a rigid sense of honor, which would preclude that course of action on the grounds that it skirts incest. But since you are Aquitainian, I think we can dismiss that possibility out of hand."

"We
do
have a reputation." Francesca's accompanying chuckle was soft and throaty. "Indeed, I agree. We may dismiss it out of hand."

"The second possibility, then. You have formed an attachment with my nephew which transcends the obvious bond between a courtesan and a young nobleman." He stopped abruptly, cocking an eye at her.

"Um. I
am
fond of Manfred, Your Majesty. Genuinely so, in fact. But�"

Charles Fredrik heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I'm not dealing with a madwoman."

Francesca's chuckle, now, was neither soft nor throaty. Indeed, it was almost an open laugh. "Please. Manfred is charming, vigorous, good-humored�often genuinely witty�and far more intelligent than he likes to pretend. His company, more often than not, is quite delightful. Far more so than that of most of my clients. But anything more serious..." She shook her head firmly. "There's nothing in it, neither for Manfred nor myself. Although I'm good for him now, Your Majesty. That I do believe."

The Emperor nodded. "I also. I have no objection to a continuation of your liaison. Actually, I'm in favor of it." He cleared his throat. "You do understand, of course..."

"Yes, yes�certainly. Now that Manfred's identity is in the open, he can hardly remain simply one of my clients. A rich young knight can share a courtesan. A prince requires an exclusive mistress."

It was her turn to clear her throat.

Before she could speak, Charles Fredrik snorted. "Yes, yes�certainly. I know it'll cost me." He examined her briefly, spending more time on the modest but expensive clothing than on her well-covered but intrinsically immodest figure. "Plenty."

The way in which Francesca smoothed the fabric of her dress was demure propriety itself. "Perhaps�"

"Which brings us to the third possibility," said the Emperor loudly. The gaze he now bestowed on Francesca was almost angry. "Every now and then�not often�a whore becomes
truly
ambitious. And�if she's smart enough�realizes that the ultimate coin in this sinful world is trust."

Francesca meet the fierce eyes with calm ones of her own. "Trust which would be quite shattered if I abandoned the prince for the emperor. For the one as much as the other."

The Emperor nodded. "Good. Now�it is time to speak honestly. I will allow you two lies. No more. What do you
want
, Marie-Fran�oise de Guemadeuc? Tell me all of it."

She grimaced. "First of all, I don't want that name. Francesca is now�"

"That's the first lie. Be careful, woman."

For the first time since he'd met the courtesan, her aplomb was shaken. Francesca almost jerked in the saddle.