Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

Benito swallowed a sense of urgency. "I don't care how I travel, so long as it is not by horse. I was thinking of a passage on one of the Po barges. Would that be circumspect enough?"

"Passengers will be watched. But as one of the crew of a cargo vessel, excellent. You may leave it to me, milor'."

Antimo took a long bundle out from under the bed. "The duke wanted to give this to you himself. But, I think he will forgive me for doing so. He has always said that expediency is more important than sentiment, in politics." He handed Benito the bundle. "It is your father's sword. Your grandfather had Marco De Viacastan repair it. Of course, being De Viacastan, he did a bit more than that."

Of all the swordsmiths in Ferrara, the Spaniard was rated the best, by far. His blades were for generals, princes and kings-and wealthy ones, at that. "I'm honored."

Antimo smiled in his wintry fashion. "It was one of his weapons in the first place. I know your grandfather wanted to reforge it himself, but he did not let sentiment stand in the way of practicality. He gave it to the man who could do the best job of it. But he took a hand in the work, so that any virtue in the Dell'este tradition might pass to this blade. You may need it. The Wolf of the North has been south lately, to the Kingdom of Naples."

Benito savored a moment of knowing more than a man who was plainly a master of his trade. "Actually, he's been further. He went to Jerusalem. I crossed his path, in a manner of speaking." And he related the story of the pilgrim medal.

An unholy glint lit up in the spymaster's eyes. "Not for a moment will he believe you were not stalking his footsteps. Interesting. This may prove useful to us."

Benito unwrapped the hilt first. It had been refurbished with tassels of Ferrara crimson.

Antimo saw Benito fondle them. "At your grandfather's express order. When you carry this blade openly… he wants everyone to know you are under his hand."

The tassels were worth a great deal more than mere silk to Benito. "The Fox's colors… on the Wolf's sword…" he mused. "I've had my birth thrown at me here, Antimo."

The spymaster's smile grew more wintry still. "This sword will throw it at your enemies instead. Reputation is a weapon, and wars are won and lost on reputations. Let them see that. Let them know fear."

Benito nodded, and continued to peel away the swaddling to reveal the sheathed blade. He drew it out. The steel trapped and shivered the candlelight into the myriad oyster-shell folds in the steel. "Saints! It's beautiful."

Bartelozzi nodded, his eyes glinting with appreciation. "And deadly. There is more than just fine craftsmanship in that blade, however. It has been a-journeying on its own, you see. Your grandfather took it to Rome. He said it was time the sword of the Wolf was rededicated to more wholesome purposes. I know only that it was thrice blessed."

Benito looked at the sword, so graceful, so deadly, almost hypnotized by it. It was no dress-sword with gilt and filigree. From the sharkskin hilt to the tip, it was a weapon. Benito picked it up. The balance was perfect. It felt like an extension of his arm.

"A killer's weapon."

Antimo shrugged. "A tool. A spade can be a killer's weapon too. A sword used for ill is an evil thing, a thing of oppression. But always remember there are also evil things that need killing."

Benito grinned. "You know, Eneko Lopez said something of the sort. Why is it that people are always preaching to me? Is it something about my face?"

Antimo Bartelozzi looked long and hard at him, as unblinkingly as a cat. Eventually he nodded. "Yes."

By morning, Benito was a deck-hand on a downstream-heading barge, piled full of hides. The smell was quite enough to discourage anyone examining its crew too closely. It could have been worse, though. They passed downwind of one laden with onions.

Benito Valdosta returned to Venice without pomp or ceremony, but with a great deal of bouquet. Some of the hides were definitely not well cured. Normally one got used to a smell, and stopped noticing it, but it had been hot and the bright Italian sun had ripened this one past ignoring. Even the familiar canal reek seemed positively perfumelike after that. And the sight of Venice stirred him. How grand! How…

Small.

That came as a shock. He stared, calculated, examined, trying to work out what had happened. The buildings were no smaller. Nor the canals. Benito realized abruptly that what had changed was himself. He felt a pang for the old Venice. The Venice that had been his whole world.

Hopping off the barge at the Fondamenta Zattere Ponto Lungo, Benito looked about for a familiar face, especially among the gondoliers. He didn't want to waste time.

He spotted someone. Carlo Zenetti was not a man Benito knew that well, but at least he knew him. He climbed down into the gondola.

Zenetti nearly dropped his oar. "Valdosta! Benito Valdosta! Saints! What are you doing here? We all thought you'd been sent to Corfu." It was plain that however well his disguise might have worked elsewhere, here among the popula minuti of Venice they knew the face of their prodigal.

Benito put down the small hide roll he'd used to camouflage the sword. Doing so gave him a moment to think. The last thing he wanted to do was start a panic on the canals of Venice. And he knew the speed at which gossip ran on those canals. It wouldn't do to have the news of Corfu's invasion arrive with a clamor of people in the Piazza San Marco before he'd even gotten to see Petro.

"I'm traveling on the quiet, Carlo. Let's get out of here before someone else recognizes me. Please."

"Sure." The gondolier cast loose. "But I reckon you're chasing a lost cause," he said with a grin. "I'm sure before Vespers tonight, good men will already be locking their daughters up. Where can I take you to?"

"The Doge's palace, I suppose."

Afterwards, Benito came to regret that decision. But at the time it seemed like a sensible one. After all, he had urgent matters to attend to there. Best discharge his duty as soon as possible, before he went looking for Marco.

"So how are things in Venice?" he asked idly. Might as well pick up on the news before he was having his news demanded of him. Perhaps his war tidings had already gotten here.

It appeared not, by the gondolier's reply. "Trade's a bit slow. Plenty still coming in from the north. But nothing much recently from the Adriatic side."

Well, that was hardly surprising. He fished further. "No wars to speak of? Is the Philippo Maria of Milan finally getting to accept that the Venetian Republic is here to stay?"

"I reckon the Milanese might start one soon," said Carlo, grimly. "They're used to being dominant."

"They'll try again," said Benito with a grin. "And get the same again."

Benito climbed ashore at the Piazza San Marco. The great winged lion of Venice gazed sternly down from its pedestal. Benito gave the statue a fond wave, and turned to the palace with its Swiss mercenary guards.

Benito's chest swelled a bit. It had been a tough task, but he'd done it, and here he was, alive and undetected. Emeric would pay for his sneak attack on Venice. He walked up the shallow steps to the guard commander. "I need to see Doge Dorma on a matter of extreme urgency."

The guard commander was not one of the populi minuta of Venice. He was from a small village in the Alps. He plainly did not know this scruffy barefoot youth with a dirty face and an impudent grin. "And then you want to see the Grand Metropolitan, I suppose. Go on. Get off the stairs before I have my men throw you off. The Doge doesn't see common sailors. Not even on matters of extreme urgency."

Benito sighed. "I'm in disguise, you ass. I'm Benito Valdosta. The Doge's ward."