Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

More scrabbling. A paper held up triumphantly. "Yes! She was known to be a friend and confidant of Sophia Tomaselli!" Scrabble; another paper; scrabble; yet another.

Francesca rose, a paper clutched in each hand. Her eyes were slitted. "And she was noticed, twice, in the company of one of Fianelli's thugs. And in the company of Aldo Morando, on one occasion. All small incidents, buried in the mass. But taken as a whole, it's obvious. I have been so stupid."

Manfred was on his feet, now, reaching for his armor and weapons.

"You won't need those," Francesca muttered. "She's just a woman, Manfred, not a Magyar cavalryman. Besides, the Venetian authorities will do the arrest."

He shrugged, continuing what he was doing. "Eneko says she's a 'female,' not a woman. I've encountered a monster in the Basque priest's company, once-so I think I'll do it my way."

Impatiently-no moving Manfred, in a stubborn mood-Francesca waited till he was done. By the end, she was even in a good mood about it.

"Might be just as well. I need to get confirmation from Morando-and, for that, I'll need you to intimidate the Venetians into allowing me to offer him a commutation of his sentence." She patted Manfred fondly on the cheek-with only two fingers, that being the most she could get past the cheek guards. "You do look so impressive in full armor. You would even if you weren't a prince. Come, dear."

Morando had been half-asleep when his cell was suddenly invaded. He woke up instantly, however-as a prisoner condemned to death is bound to do when he finds his cell occupied by almost every major figure of authority in the area, several priests, three Knights of the Holy Trinity in full armor-and a beautiful woman.

Francesca de Chevreuse, in a dramatic gesture, drew forth several slips of paper from her gown. She handed one each to the podesta, the commander of the garrison, one of the priests, and the hugest of the Knights.

"I've written a name on those slips, Morando. The same name on each one. If you can match that name-it's the identity of your accomplice, the one you've been keeping a secret from us-you'll live. If you can't-or won't-you'll be executed. Here. Today-not later in Venice. So forget about the possibility of being rescued if Emeric takes the Citadel. Not that he wouldn't kill you himself anyway."

She grinned at him mercilessly. "In honor of Venetian authority, we will use the traditional Venetian method of execution. It begins, I believe, by breaking the legs. Then-though I'm not sure about this, it's all too ghastly for a delicate woman to contemplate-they do something with your innards."

Morando swallowed. He did know the procedures used by Venetians when they executed someone who had truly and genuinely infuriated them. Traitors being right at the top of the list.

It was, indeed, too ghastly to contemplate.

"Bianca Casarini," he croaked.

Slips of paper were studied briefly. A moment later, the cell was empty again.

Bianca detected the coming soldiers when they were still some distance away-and had sensed the presence of Eneko Lopez even sooner. She had, many weeks earlier, established a faint degree of mental control over the urchins who were always in the streets, and who served her as unwitting and unconscious human alarm signals.

"That's it, then," she murmured to herself. "It's time to hide."

The thought was neither hurried nor frantic. She'd prepared for this moment, and prepared well. Three weeks ago, working mindlessly under her control, Saluzzo had finished breaking a hole through the rear wall into an adjoining house. The residents of the house, an elderly couple, had never noticed a thing-being, also, under Bianca's compulsions.

She'd slide through the hole, pass through the house, and be out on another street and heading for Morando's hideout before Lopez and the soldiers could finish breaking down the front door.

She rose and took a small bag from the side table in her bedroom. She'd had the bag ready for days, with all of her essential instruments and ingredients in it. Moving quickly down the stairs, she smiled savagely.

Then they'll have Saluzzo to deal with. And the fools came at night, to boot! In the darkness, the mindless thing he becomes will be twice as dangerous.

Saluzzo was slumbering on a divan in the front room, as he usually was, these days. He spent most of his time lately doing nothing but eating and dozing, awash in the reveries Bianca provided him. He'd grown a bit fat and soft as a result, but that didn't concern Bianca. The transformation he was about to undergo would make "fat and soft" completely meaningless.

She strode over, placed her hand on his face, and sent a jolt of sheer agony blazing through his head. Then, stepped back quickly.

Sputtering and yowling, Saluzzo scrambled to his feet and stared at Bianca. He was simply confused, at the moment.

His confusion vanished, as Bianca slapped him across the cheek. Then, spit in his face.

Rage came instantly to a man like Saluzzo. His face contorted with fury, looking even uglier in the light cast by the single lamp in the room. He took a step toward her, his big fist raised.

Perfect. Rage was essential to a full transformation. All that was needed now were the words of power, words that had never been intended to be shaped by human lips, but which Bianca had long practice in uttering.

Again, Saluzzo yowled with pain. A yowl, this time, that went on and on and on-and, as it continued, started changing in timbre and tone, within seconds sounding more like the scream of a beast than a human being.

Bianca sped from the room. She had perhaps a minute to escape, while Saluzzo's body was paralyzed by the changes it was undergoing. By then, the semi-mindless demon-shaped beast he'd have become, tormented by the agony of muscles, nerves, and bone wrenched into new shapes and the unfettered, pain-charged anger she had invoked, would not be able to think at all, much less clearly. By then, also, the soldiers would have started breaking in the door and the Saluzzo-monster's rage would have a different target.

And what a shock they would have, when their steel and iron weapons and armor did not protect them.

Outside, on the street, Eneko Lopez fell to one knee. His hands clasped his head as if he'd been struck by a sudden and ferocious pain-lance straight into his brain.

The Venetian soldiers paused, as did Manfred and Erik. The arresting unit was still some twenty yards from the Casarini house. There was a full moon out, this night, so the house was clearly visible.

"What's wrong, Eneko?"

The priest seemed unable to speak. Manfred could see that his face was tight with pain. It also seemed pale as a sheet, although that could have been the effect of the moonlight.

Erik waved to the sergeant commanding the ten soldiers. "Go on. There's no time to waste."

The sergeant and his men continued forward, two of the soldiers hefting axes while four others held torches aloft. Erik knelt alongside Eneko. Manfred couldn't, because he was wearing full armor. His Icelander bodyguard, as he usually did given the choice, had opted to wear nothing more than half-armor for the occasion. Erik had learned to fight in Iceland and Vinland, and never was really comfortable in the heavy Teutonic armor favored by the Knights.

"Can we do anything, Eneko?" he asked.

The priest shook his head. Then, slowly, withdrew his hands from his temples. When his eyes caught sight of the soldiers-now standing before the door, raising their axes-they widened. And his face, impossibly, seemed to grow paler still.

"Oh, dear God-no. Erik, get them away from that door! They will be no match for-"

It was too late. The door shattered from within, not a second after the first axe landed. Something erupted out of it. Because of the darkness, it was difficult to see it clearly. Manfred could only discern a thing of scales and wings and horns and talons, with a face like a gargoyle's, shrieking fury.