Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

Often as not, when they were in camp, or almost anywhere else, she plaited practical things-bowstrings, the kind of twine that Thalia would knot into bird-nets, even rope. Here, she always plaited flowers.

At the moment she was making a chaplet of daisies. Not the mere simple twist that had satisfied lovers for time immemorial, but a complex thing. When she saw him she dropped it and ran to him. His arms were full of the softness and roundness of her. He led her back to where she'd been sitting, and picked up the daisy confection. "Come, darling Svan. Finish it for me."

"I'd rather hold your hand."

He smiled. For some reason, whenever he was here, all the urgency to get things done ran out of him. Well, for an hour or two-why not? "That's a persuasive argument. But I don't want to see something less than perfect on your golden hair."

She dimpled at him, finished it off with a few deft twists and presented it to him. "There."

He set it gently on her head and leaned in close to kiss her cheek. She pulled him closer, and changed what had been planned as a chaste kiss into something far more volcanic.

"I… ah, think we'd better stop. One of the recruits might come up this way."

She giggled. "I'm sure they're all too tired to move. Isn't that what you intended?"

Erik blushed. "Tactics," he mumbled.

From the shadows of a Judas tree, a satyr watched approvingly. This was what this place was intended for, after all.

July, 1539 a.d.

Benito entered the city gates of Ferrara unobtrusively. Fourteen days of riding had improved his skill at staying in the saddle, if not his liking for horses.

The mare he'd bought in Livorno had been guaranteed as "quiet." The horse-seller had omitted words like "old" and "destined for glue-making, very soon." Benito, being fairly ignorant of horses, realized he'd probably been gulled. The horse-seller said the mare was very even-paced. That sounded good to Benito. He'd discovered it meant "moves at one speed-a slow walk." Still, it did carry him without his ending in a ditch. But he was very glad to abandon the beast at a hostelry near the gate and proceed on foot.

He made his way toward the castle, thinking how best to get access to his grandfather. He could simply go and ask, announcing his name. That should be enough to get him an audience at least. But for some reason he was reluctant to spread his identity around.

He was deep in thought when someone took him gently by the arm and began leading him into a shop. Benito was, by nature and background, wary. He hadn't even seen this fellow approach. The man was the definition of nondescript. Middle-aged, mousy and plainly dressed. "Good day, Milord Benito Valdosta. Step this way, will you. Come and admire the knives on display here."

Benito tensed. This man knew him. An enemy? The Milanese and Montagnard cause had been severely dented when the assault on Venice last year failed, but they were still a power. They could be resurging. And heaven knew, they wanted Benito Valdosta's head. "Who are you?" Benito asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

"One of your grandfather's emissaries. He's away right now, by the way. In Verona. A matter of a treaty."

"With the Scaligers? But they're our enemies."

The man shrugged. Benito recognized the gesture. He had indeed seen this man before, but until he'd seen that shrug, he'd been less than certain about it. "In the politics of princes, expediency is the key. At the moment, Verona leans away from Milan-and in uncertain times like these we need allies, even unsavory ones like the Scaligers."

Benito made a show of examining a blade. "What's uncertain? I thought things had stabilized nicely after the Holy Roman Emperor let it be known that Venice was his friend in the region, if not formally an ally. Or isn't this true any more, Signor Bartelozzi?" He said it in a tone that would suggest the merits of a so-so blade being discussed.

Antimo Bartelozzi allowed him a flicker of a smile. "Not since the Holy Roman Emperor fell suddenly and very seriously ill. A problem with his heart, they say. Now, I think we will part ways and you will go to a nearby inn, just up the road a ways. The Mandoril, it's called. The food's good, and your follower can be dealt with. I'll be there to talk to you later."

Walking to the inn near the gate, Benito looked for followers. Now that he was aware of it, he spotted the fellow fairly easily. He was good to a Caesare-fit sort of level. It took him some time to spot the second one, Bartelozzi's man, who was even better at it.

Knowing Bartelozzi's reputation, Benito made no attempt to shake them off. That problem would soon be solved. He went to the Mandoril, asked for a room and some dinner. After washing up, he went down to the tavern's main room and enjoyed a solitary supper of risotto con finocchi and a bottle of Venegazzu from Treviso. He reveled in the pleasure of familiar, simple, northern food again.

When he returned to his room, Antimo Bartelozzi was sitting there, waiting.

"The fellow marking you is following someone out on the road to Venice. He won't be returning," said the spymaster with grim certitude. "Now. What brings you to Ferrara, Milord Benito Valdosta? Your grandfather believes you to be in Corfu."

Antimo Bartelozzi was, Benito knew, the operative his grandfather used for family business. The best and most trusted; an exemplary assassin, too.

"I'm here because of Corfu. The island has been invaded. I've just come from there-via Sicily and the west coast of Italy-because the Byzantines and Dalmatian pirates are blockading the Adriatic."

Although Bartelozzi was not likely to let fall any expressions that might betray his feelings or his thoughts, his eyes did narrow, just a trifle. "Byzantium has attacked Venetian possessions? Alexius must be further gone into debauchery than we had thought. But he has been having dealing with emissaries out of Odessa."

"He's allied himself with Emeric of Hungary."

Bartelozzi showed no surprise. "We have had reports of emissaries going to and fro. But we assumed that it was for mutual cooperation against Iskander Beg. The mountain chief controls quite some part of Epirus that Alexius lays nominal claim to." Bartelozzi's voice grew very dry. "The duke said that if Alexius was fool enough to prefer Emeric for a neighbor to Iskander Beg he deserved what he would undoubtedly get. Giving Emeric a foothold on Corfu is sheer insanity. But we have suspected for some time that Alexius is unwell in the head."

"Well, Emeric is there all right. You can see his pavilion from the Citadel. All gold and crimson. His Magyar are pretty recognizable too." Benito sucked his teeth. "I've been instructed to relay this to the Imperial embassy in Venice. But if there is someone I could speak to here, it might save days."

"Unfortunately Ritter Von Augsberg has gone with the duke to Verona. All of Italy north of Naples has been in something of a turmoil since word came that the Emperor has fallen gravely ill. For all that many people disliked him-his policies, if not the man himself-the truth is that Charles Fredrik has been a pillar of stability in Europe for decades. If he dies…"

Bartelozzi shook his head. "I will of course prepare a full report for your grandfather, but I think the best would be for you to proceed with all speed to Venice. In the last two weeks, Doge Dorma and the Imperial embassy appear to have had a cooling of their former warm relations. The news of Charles Fredrik's failing health has allowed all sorts of rumors to spread. We are in for some turbulent times, and the Montagnards of Milan are sensing the change. That was one of their men who followed you. I think you should travel onward to Venice somewhat more circumspectly."