Jon Grimwood - The fallen blade

Indicating Giulietta discreetly, and then the nearest palace door, Roderigo said, "I have official matters waiting."

"You're not dining with us?"

"As I said, duty calls."

Sir Richard scowled. "I don't suppose…"

"Me," said Roderigo, "the duke can manage without. You, he is expecting for supper. Well," he added, more honestly, "I'm sure the Regent and Duchess Alexa expect you. His highness…"

There was no need to say more.

"This business had to do with the customs office?"

Roderigo jerked his head at a dozen ships moored on a stretch of lagoon reserved for those in quarantine. Since God's wrath killed half of Venice sixty years before ships now waited offshore to make certain they carried no disease.

"We think one of those might already have taken the glass-blower aboard. We'll be boarding the ship tonight."

"Which one?"

"See the last?"

Sir Richard peered into the sleet. After a second, Roderigo realised that Giulietta and her lady-in-waiting had joined them.

"Moorish," Eleanor said.

Giulietta shook her head. "Mamluk," she corrected. Seeing Sir Richard's surprise, she added tartly, "When there's nothing to do but watch ships you learn their flags quickly enough. Any fool can work it out."

Sir Richard's face went blank.

He had to confirm a treaty, collect his king's new wife and escort her to Famagusta, where she could watch ships headed north for the Venetian ports strung like pearls between Rhodes and the city itself. After this, Giulietta's temper was the king's business. Sir Richard didn't look upset at the thought.

"What did the ship do wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing," Roderigo told Lady Eleanor. "It arrived, waited as told, and followed our pilot without arguing the price…"

"That's it?" Giulietta's lady-in-waiting sounded surprised.

"Paid harbour dues, bought fresh water. They didn't even try to bribe their way out of quarantine…"

Lady Giulietta snorted. That was suspicious indeed.

Inside the customs house, Venice's famous Dogana fortress, men had been gathering since sunset. Roderigo was the last to arrive.

"Hey, chief…"

The man who spoke was shorter than his commander and half as broad again. He had the wide face, Mongol eyes and tallow skin of his father. After fifty years on God's earth, he still spoke like his mother, a Rialto fishwife.

"What?"

"Guess that answers that."

"Answers what?"

"I was going to ask if you were all right."

Roderigo had found Temujin drunk in the street begging for alms. In two years he'd gone from mopping floors to sergeant. He fought dirty, drank hard and paid his debts; and the troop respected him for it, or had the sense to keep any doubts to themselves.

"Everyone here?"

"One's ill. I've borrowed him instead."

Temujin pointed to a rat-faced man in a Castellani smock, overlaid with a leather jerkin so filthy he could pass unseen on a moonless night. The composite bow over his shoulder fired arrows of a kind the captain hadn't seen in years. Taking another look, he noted the shape of the man's eyes.

"I can find someone else."

"No need." The Mongols kept a fontego in the city. A trading post where Mongol law applied. Like every other race, they left their bastards.

Taking another salted fish, Roderigo chewed it until it was just about soft enough to swallow. He wanted wine to remove the aftertaste, but once ordered the temptation to drink would be impossible to bear.

Atilo il Mauros had to be sixty-five at the least. His name wasn't in the Golden Book, the list of noble families with a right to sit in Council. Worse, he wasn't even from Serenissima. He spoke Italian with an Andalusian accent.

"Find me wine," Roderigo demanded.

Temujin looked at him, but sent a trooper for a fresh jug and a squat tumbler on which fading saints stared ghost-like. Having filled his glass, Roderigo returned the jug. "Tip the rest away."

"Chief…"

"All right. All right. Share it around. But if one man gets drunk I'll have him whipped. If someone dies through his folly I'll have him hanged. Make sure they know that."

The men filled their mugs anyway.

"The boats are ready?"

Of course the boats were ready. The boats were always ready. But Temujin made do with a brief nod before asking if there was anything else his captain wanted.

Other than the head of Atilo on a spit?

The upstairs office to which the Captain of the Dogana took himself had a fire laid, and a stout woman knelt before it. Who, Roderigo suspected, could be laid with little enough trouble herself. Maria was Temujin's woman and the customs house's unofficial maid.

She had an almost full set of teeth, wide hips and low breasts that shifted as she moved to light his fire. Still crouching, she turned and he saw darkness between her thighs. "Is there anything, my lord…?"

"No," Roderigo said.

He wanted Desdaio. Who didn't?

In the corner stood a pair of grinding wheels.

One was coarse, the other so fine he'd never seen another like it. Their combined weight was hard to start rolling but they kept revolving longer than a single stone. Sharpening his sword with casual competence, Roderigo honed edge and point until both could slice leather, this being what most sailors wore as armour.

Temujin knocked as midnight struck.

"Ready when you are, chief."

The sergeant had checked his men's weapons but Captain Roderigo rechecked them anyway. Temujin would be disappointed otherwise. After the fug inside the fortress, the night felt colder than it was. Drizzle coming in sheets on the wind. With luck, it would turn to sleet and fling itself in Mamluk faces, providing cover and allowing Roderigo's men to approach less carefully. Staring into that wind, Roderigo felt tears fill his angry eyes and cursed himself for stupidity, glad of the darkness. He'd watched Desdaio grow from pampered child to a young woman desperate for the freedom her young cousins still had.

Of course, her fortune would have helped his. His own house was a ruin, his salary from the Dogana less than he spent. All the same, Roderigo hadn't lied when he told Desdaio he loved her. For her to sneak into another man's house…

Into another man's bed.

"Chief…"

"What?"

His two boats had drawn together in the swell, and Sergeant Temujin was gripping the sides of both to keep them steady. At his anger everyone froze. Now was the time Roderigo was meant to say some words. Choose who boarded first. Tell them what he expected to find.

"Any special orders, chief?"

He and Temujin had searched a hundred ships before. Everything from visiting Moorish galleys and trade ships from Byzantium to Rus boats and even a felucca that sailed all the way from the mouth of the Nile. Why should this one be any different? Roderigo felt he owed his sergeant some explanation.

"A girl I know is getting married."

"That's it?" Temujin looked disgusted.

"There's red gold," Roderigo replied. As if his last words were unspoken. "Also Mamluk silver. They're on the manifest. Three leopard skins, sky stone for hardening steel and a box of rubies. All declared. It's what they're hiding that worries me. I mean, for a Mamluk not to try to barter…"

"Chief, can I say something?"

"I don't have to like it."

"You won't. Whoever she is. Forget it. She's just a slit, pretty or not. You can't go into a possible battle moping. It's the quickest way to die."

He hated it when Temujin was right.

As the boats separated and one headed into the wind bound for the far side of the Quaja, which was the Mamluk vessel's name, Sergeant Temujin kept up a count as steady as the Watch's steps on Piazza San Marco at midnight.

"Fifty," he said.

Pulling a wide sash from his pocket, Roderigo draped it over his shoulder and adjusted the weight that kept it at his hip. A Venetian officer boarding a foreign vessel had to wear a city sash. It made an insult to the officer an insult to the city. An insult to the city was an insult to the duke.