Carl Sargent - Black Madonna

“Then they weren’t after you, was they? They was trying to whack Kristen,” Streak said cheerfully.

“Why?” Serrin was appalled.

“Don’t ask me, I’m just the guy who stopped her getting filled with lead,” Streak said. “Oh, and what was that thing that just rolled into the square and where the frag is it now?”

“It must have been an illusion,” Serrin said. “I didn’t have time to observe it closely. Not with being shot at, hitting the dirt, that sort of thing, you know?”

“Next time,” Geraint said as he returned to join the conversation, “shoot at that little blond bastard. Know what he said to me?” Without waiting for the obvious reply, he told them.

“The game?”

“I knew it was something like this,” Michael mused. “We have to learn to play his game somehow.”

“That thing,” Serrin said slowly, as if searching through his memory as he spoke, that tank thing, it reminds me of something. I didn’t get long to look at it, but I think it was like one of Leonardo’s designs. I think I saw something like that in the book I’ve got.”

“Part of this game?” Geraint wondered.

“So what’s next?”

“What’s next, guys and gals, is that we ought to get indoors in case there are any more prats in cloaks wanting to take a pop at us. We’ve got to consider our options, and make some plans instead of falling around out here,” Streak said. “Unless you’d like to be shot at again, that is.”

“Let’s get inside,” Serrin said at once. “And let’s consider how the frag we play this game. Some game, if my wife’s getting shot at.”

“I think,” Streak said, “that those guys were playing one of a very different kind. The kind where there’s guaranteed to be tears before bedtime.”

They decided not to move elsewhere in the city. Though their whereabouts were obviously known, it would be easy enough to trace them if they moved. Michael also pointed out that Claudio was someone they could trust, and he could alert them if strangers came snooping or asking about them. Serrin decided to conduct some rituals to protect them against magical assault. They didn’t know who’d attacked them that morning, but the Jesuit fundamentalists were the most obvious possibility and their mages would hardly be weaklings.

“Now we’ve got to make an active move. Do something to show our man we’re playing his game,” Michael said.

“Like what?” Streak asked. “This is your kind of thing, Michael matey. I just shoot people.”

“Speaking of shooting people” Geraint said with a wince, “when do Juan and Xavier get here?”

“Any time now,” Streak said. “I was right, eh? We’re going to need ‘em.”

“Looks like it.”

Before Michael could return to his deliberations, there was a knock on the door. Streak had his Predator in his hand at once, but Michael waved him away.

“For God’s sake, no assassin is going to knock, Streak.”

“Don’t you sodding believe it,” the elf said, but sat down and reluctantly picked up a magazine and kept the gun leveled behind it as he pretended to be reading. To his disgust, the magazine seemed to be full of lavish illustrations of Italian gardens. Streak had many interests, but gardening was definitely not one of them. If the magazine didn’t have guns, military hardware, or members of the opposite gender in states of undress, he was definitely not interested.

Lucrezia popped her head around the door, her mane of flaming curls as prodigious as ever.

“I come to see about your costumes, Mister Michael,” she said. “And there is a card for you.”

“Thank you very much,” Michael said. He took the card, read it, and his eyes widened. He passed it to Geraint without comment.

“I take the lady separately from you gentlemen?” the woman asked, clearly a little puzzled to find them all crammed together in the same room.

“Perhaps you can measure me and my wife,” Serrin suggested, seeing that Michael obviously wanted to discuss whatever was on the card. The two of them left with Lucrezia for their own bedroom.

“Please be in the square at midnight, when a most interesting event will take place,” Michael read aloud for Streak’s benefit.

“Signed by one ‘Salai’,” Geraint said, looking over his friend’s shoulder.

“Very neat. He was the closest to what might be called an apprentice of Leonardo’s. Traveled with him for many years. As I recall, he was something of an asshole. According to the history books, that is.”

“That seems about right,” Geraint said with feeling. “So this is when he makes another move. The question is what we do until then,” Michael said.

“Whatever it is. it’s got to communicate with our target,” Geraint said.

“That means something public.”

“Post a message on the BBS?”

“That would be logical. I suppose. What do we say?”

“ ‘Mona Lisa wishes to meet Leonardo’?” Streak suggested. “Thats the kind of thing I usually browse.”

“I’m sure it is,” Michael said disapprovingly, “but I hardly think-”

“Maybe it’s not so totally off the wall,” Geraint said. “I mean, it probably should be something like that. It’s got to be jokey, I think. That damnable farce out in the square was supposed to be some kind of entertainment.”

They started to throw ideas around without really getting anywhere, and it was almost a relief when Lucrezia arrived with her catalogue and measuring tape. She dealt with the elf last.

“Watch that inside leg, Signora,” Streak said slyly. “I’m a red-blooded elf in my prime.”

Grinning, not taking offense, she slapped him playfully in the ear. The elf reeled back, a shrill singing tone ringing inside his head.

“Frag me, missus, I wouldn’t want to argue with you for real!” he complained and became as meek as a lamb, politely accepting the costume she suggested for him.

When Lucrezia left, Geraint and Michael burst into the laughter they’d been choking back after the elf’s chastisement.

“Serves you right. I warned you,” Michael sniggered.

“Rakk it, what a right hook,” Streak said as Serrin and Kristen rejoined them.

“Everything gets delivered after lunch,” Serrin said. “What happened to you?” He peered at the elf’s deep red ear.

“Nothing,” Streak mumbled.

“Our Lucrezia disciplined him for being a cheeky bugger,” Michael told Serrin with a smirk. “He’s going to be awfully well behaved for a while.”

“Right.” Serrin grinned. “Now what about business?” They told him what they’d been discussing, then picked up the thread where they’d left off.

“It needs to be something more pointed,” Serrin said. “Oh, by the way, here’s that thing we saw in the square.” He opened the book at the appropriate page and showed them the design for the military machine, which did indeed look extraordinarily like a primitive First World War tank.

“I wonder if we might not try something like asking Salai to attend a supper,” Serrin said. “And maybe call it ‘Mary’s supper’ ”

“You’re thinking of the painting in the square,” Michael said.

“Yes. I’m convinced that the Magdalene is actually the subject of that picture. It’s so obvious when you really look at it.”

“It’s certainly not what it appears to be,” Michael agreed.

“And if we included a line from that apocalyptic essay by Leonardo, the one about the floods, for good measure, we’d show that we understood more now than maybe our man thinks we do.”

“It’s worth a try” Geraint offered.

“We need to post it on as many BBSes as we can and leave a drop,” Michael said. “We can’t know if he’ll be monitoring, but-”