Much Fall of Blood-ARC (2 page)

Local satraps were varied, of course, and some were oppressive and greedy. But the shadow of the Great Ilkhan rested on them. They did not dare go too far. Eberhart knew that a Mongol war with King Emeric of Hungary would be a desirable thing, although it would be better if that merely resulted in the death of King Emeric, and not the destruction of the buffer-zone that was his kingdom. But, weak reed and traitor though Alexius was, giving aid to cause the downfall of Byzantine Emperor Alexius was not desirable. Besides . . . the Black Sea . . . the Venetians were good allies, and they relied on the trade out of the Black Sea to some extent.

"You are too astute for us, noble lord," said Ahmbien, a hint of a smile peering out from behind his moustache, a moustache that would have done the hind end of a wild Irish moorland pony proud. "The Golden Horde. The descendants of Batu Khan. It would appear that some months ago the issue of succession became paramount. We believe this is of interest to you. The leadership is divided among the clans. Since the death of Batu Khan the Horde have increased their numbers and look for fresh lands. Part of the Horde favors expansion to the south."

Eberhart tried not to tense, like a terrier at the mention of rats. And failed.

His host inclined his head at him, just slightly. "And the faction we feel has a just claim, would break out through the lowlands to the north and east. Our support would carry weight among the clans."

Eberhart exhaled. Of course, there was no way of telling if Ahmbien spoke the truth or not. But at least the Ilkhan were presenting the information that there were two factions, which they had no need to do. "Of course," he said.

"We understand each other, then. An agreement of mutual convenience as it were," said Ahmbien, tugging his moustache.

"Indeed. But I fail to see what this has to do with us. Or with maritime prowess?"

"We have always been able to send messengers across the Black Sea. Not easily, but by indirect routes—Trebizond, by sea northwards to Kerch, across the Krym and then on into the lands of the Horde. We receive news the same way. Our last five messengers have failed to return. So have the ships they sailed on. We believe a great fleet is being assembled in the Dniepr gulf. We have word of at least three hundred round ships, and many galleys."

There could only be one destination for such a fleet.

Byzantium.

And whatever else the Holy Roman Empire might disagree with Ilkhan about, this they had in common. The Ilkhan did not want the allies of Prince Jagiellon to take Constantinople. Neither did any other Mediterranean or even European power. "How long has this been underway?" asked Eberhart.

"Perhaps three years," said Ahmbien.

The reasons behind Jagiellon's adventures against Venice suddenly became much clearer. The Mediterranean without Venice's galleys would present a large soft underbelly. Smaller powers—the Genoese and others—could be picked off piecemeal. Jagiellon had been moving pawns on a board so vast that others had not been able to see them all. When he had failed in Venice, he just gone on building ships. But by now . . . they should have sailed.

"The tribesmen of the Golden Horde raided deep into the north. They captured and burned a fleet of barges. Barges full of flaxen sailcloth and rope," said Ahmbien, as if reading his mind.

"Ah!" said Eberhart. "The fleet would have sailed after the failure of the attack on Corfu, but couldn't?"

Ahmbien nodded. "By next spring they will sail, unless the ships are destroyed."

"Can they be?" asked Eberhart.

Ahmbien shrugged. "The raid cost Prince Jagiellon's allies dearly. But it cost the Horde still more. Baku Khan was killed. Thus the Horde did not take and keep but returned to their grazing-lands to hold a convocation of the tribes, to choose a new leader, as is our tradition. Ghutir, the son of Baku, was named as the new Khan. But he died. Magic and poison were both blamed. Now, the succession is clouded. There is Gatu, the son of Baku's younger sister, the grandchild of the orkhan Berke. And there is a cousin, one Kildai, who is the great-grandson of Batu Khan's older sister, and is descended from Ulaghchi Khan on his mother's side. It is complex."

"Always seems to be," said Eberhart, dryly. "And one of these would go south, and the other north. It would seem that being flanked by the same enemy would be unwise for anyone, let alone a master of tactics like the Mongol."

"You speak soothly," said Ahmbien with equal dryness. "Except . . . Gatu, we believe, has no intention of being flanked . . . by enemies."

It took a moment for this to sink in. "I think I need to go and prepare certain messages, Your Excellency," said Eberhart. He struggled to stand up, his knees complaining about the long time spent sitting on the cushions.

The Bashar Ahmbien waved him down. "Sit, my guest. I have more to tell you, and a proposal to make. I wish to introduce you to the tarkhan Borshar." He clapped his hands. A servant appeared, bowed. "Summon the tarkhan Borshar of Dishmaq," said the old man.

Borshar, when he arrived a few minutes later, was a tall shaven-headed man with the customary Mongol forelock. He showed not a trace of expression on his broad face. He bowed perfunctorily. Eberhart had met many functionaries in his long and varied life as an official of the States General. He was good at reading men. Borshar just came across as inscrutable. Eberhart did not like that.

Ahmbien coughed delicately. "The Ilkhan would take it kindly if you could prevail on your Venetian allies for us. Relations," he smiled wryly, "are better between yourselves and them than between us and them. We need the good tarkhan taken to the lands of Golden Horde. We believe that his presence can influence matters in a mutually beneficial fashion."

Eberhart raised his eyebrows. "One man?"

Ahmbien shrugged. "And his escort, naturally. We have found one man in the right place can make a large difference. Of course it would help if that one man carries the word of the legitimacy of a marriage and the support of the Ilkhan."

"Legitimacy?"

"The marriage of the elder sister of Batu Khan. It happened in times of war, and without the formality it should perhaps have been accorded. The claim of Gatu to the Khanate rests partially on the shoulders of that uncertainty, and partly on the youth of Kildai."

It sounded good. That was enough to make Eberhart suspicious.

"Letters of safe conduct according those who accompany the tarkhan the status of escorts to an envoy, will of course be provided, under the seal of the Ilkhan."

Eberhart did not raise his eyebrows in surprise. But he wanted to. That was a signal privilege. The Mongols were legendary for the degree of safe-conduct accorded to such emissaries and their escorts.

* * *

It was as luxurious a boudoir as Manfred had been able to contrive. She had taught him a great deal, reflected Francesca, and not just about sex or politics. Whether the knowledge of fabrics and cushions was really essential to a man who might one day yet rule the Holy Roman Empire, and definitely would rule the rough Celtic halls of Brittany, could be debated. But Francesca de Chevreuse had no doubts about it being of value. Both politics and sex were enhanced by such things. How many pointless wars were born, accidentally, out of a poor night's sleep or an uncomfortable seat? While dukes, kings and emperors might claim to rule by divine right, that did not appear to protect them from occasional peevishness. She'd gotten to meet several of the great men, first as a courtesan and later as Manfred's leman.

She bit her lip. Being Manfred's leman had been a comfortable life and an interesting one. She had a great deal of power and influence, even with the emperor himself. It would take very little effort and feminine wile to maintain the status quo. But in a way, this life was a gamble. And she was an intelligent gambler. It was time get out of this particular game, while she was still winning. The emperor might have looked indulgently on his nephew's mistress, even used her as his agent, while she was a transient feature of Manfred's life. But she knew, too well, that the throne would not tolerate her installing herself as the power behind the prince.

Manfred was changing. Command on Corfu had altered him. He didn't realize it yet, but he was ready to move on.

She'd seen it before as a courtesan. She recognized the signs now.

Therefore it was time for her to move on too. Quickly and neatly, retaining the contacts and friendships that she'd established. Alexandria called to her. It was supposed to be a warm, cultured and seductive city. Well, that sounded just like her sort of place. She gave a wicked little chuckle. Besides, the city would need something to counter Eneko Lopez and his companions' piety.

Manfred came in quietly. For a big man he could move remarkably silently when he chose to. "I thought you might be asleep," he said.

The solicitousness too was unlike him. Manfred was not inconsiderate, or even particularly self-centered, for a prince of the blood. Erik had seen to that. Manfred could be very considerate—when it occurred to him that his normal way of life might be less than pleasant for someone else. That much she had tried to teach him, along with politics and a less brute force approach to everything.

"A glass of wine?" he asked pleasantly, running a big hand down her spine.

Francesca swallowed. She'd dismissed many lovers before. Some of them had been powerful, big, violent men. She'd taken appropriate steps to deal with that sort of problem, and moved on. Anyway, she had no such fears from Manfred. Why then, was she afraid? It suddenly came to her. Yes, he was powerful and influential. But she was afraid of hurting him. That was not something that had ever bothered her before. She'd spent a long time with Manfred, though, longer than with any other lover. Long enough to know that he too had his soft spots, and where they were.

"I thought you were still in church," she said.

"The bishop got tired of me. He threw me out." Manfred smiled. "The church loves me . . . and loves me to leave when I sing."

He walked across the room and poured out two goblets of wine. "The truth is that I had a feeling I should come up and bid you farewell."

She gaped at him.

"I didn't want you to go without at least saying goodbye."

Her eyes narrowed. "Eneko?"

He handed her the goblet. "He's as mum as an oyster, my dear. You know that."

"Then how . . .?" She was never at a loss of words. Suddenly, she found them scarce.

"You said so, a while back. And I've been seeing the signs. I was taught by a selection of women, Francesca. As well as you."

"You've learned a bit too well," she said wryly. "What do you intend to do about it?"

"Help with the organization. I've learned over the years that you usually do exactly what you plan to do. And I value you too much, both as a friend and a lover, to stand in your way."

"It is not fair to play emotional games, Manfred." Her voice was slightly gruff in spite of the superb self-control she prided herself on.

"Nothing is fair, Francesca. But I'm not good at games. I'd rather hope that I could see you in Alexandria one day, than be stupid enough to try and keep you."

"You've grown a lot, Prince."

"I hope not. Getting armor altered is more complicated than you may realize. Now, do I lock the door to keep Erik out for a last few minutes or not?"

"Oh, I think I can spare you more than a few minutes, and make it last a little longer than that too," said Francesca, lowering her lashes.

* * *

Erik Hakkonsen, bodyguard and mentor to Prince Manfred of Brittany, forced the attacker's blade point into the wood of the door behind him. In the process he might just have broken the man's fingers. Erik hit him with pommel of his knife to silence him. The last thing that he wanted was to attract extra attention. Narrow alleys were not his choice of fighting ground. Kari was still fighting with the other two. Erik grabbed both of Kari's opponents by their loose garments and slammed their heads together. Hard.

Kari looked reproachfully at Erik as he dropped the two limp bandits. "What did you do that for? It was shaping into a nice little fight."

Erik shook his head at the young Vinlander. Kari's family were sept and kin, at least by Erik's understanding of the duty he owed to Svanhild. Erik therefore owed a duty of care to the boy. He'd not expected that to mean taking care of a tearaway, who, while less inclined to go drinking or whoring than Manfred had been, liked fighting. Kari fitted Jerusalem like a bull-seal fitted a lady's glove.

"If you want to fight there are plenty of knights. And there is me," said Erik.

Kari grinned disarmingly, showing a missing tooth. "The knights fight like knights. And as for you . . . I like to win sometimes. I thought you were busy watching over the Godar's nephew?"

"He's in church. On his knees. Where you will be shortly. Those men did not want to fight. They wanted to kill and rob you."

Kari shrugged. "Who else could I find? I don't like picking on drunks. You said that that was unsporting."

"One of these days you will also remember that I said picking fights with back-alley murderers would get you killed, you young fool." Erik took him by the ear and led him toward more salubrious parts of the city. With Manfred, Erik had thought that he was hard done by having had to locate all the taverns and brothels in any town. Kari took things to whole new level. He could be looking for a fight anywhere.

From the topmost ducat-gold curl to the tip of her toes, Countess Elizabeth Bartholdy was the most beautiful and youth-filled damsel any man could ever dream of. She simply had to smile and lower her long sooty eyelashes to have most men agree to do anything she asked of them.

The guard on Prince Vlad of Basarab's elegant prison was made of sterner stuff than most. That was not surprising, of course. You would want such guards for the grandson of the Dragon. But he was still a man. And too slow to react, when she put her hand where no lady would have done.

That instant of hesitation killed him, as the razor-sharp talon-like steel tips to her claws slipped through the cloth far more easily than the proverbial hot knife through butter. There were a few inhuman things that could survive the venom that tipped those nails. No human could.