Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

"Besides his dislike of leaving Mainz."

"Tch. Don't interrupt while I am betraying confidences, Manfred dear." She tapped his lips with one long finger. "His health and the running of an empire do not allow him to take the six months or a year necessary to go to Jerusalem. But as age creeps up on him he would like to prepare his soul for the inevitable. As would any man above a certain age."

Manfred snorted. "The Ilkhan do keep a substantial presence in Jerusalem," he stated, and was rewarded by her sly little grin, which told him he had struck dead in the black.

Well. Politics, then. Not his favorite task, but he wouldn't be the one engaged in it. He wasn't nearly crafty enough to deal with the Mongols. The Swedes and Danes were about at his level; if he hadn't had Francesca, the Italians would have had him raw, on toast. Even with her help, they nearly had, anyway.

"Who is going to accompany me? Trolliger? Or Brunswick?"

Francesca rolled over, exposing a front draped only in the sheerest bits of lace and silk, certainly not designed to conceal. "Eberhard of Brunswick. But I do believe your uncle does want to make his peace with God, and that he is feeling his age. And let's not talk boring business right now… unless you want to, of course?" She cocked her head slightly, lowering her long lashes, and ran an elegant finger down his torso. Reviving still more nerves.

"Argh!" He sighed, as a gloomy thought occurred to him. "I don't want to leave you for a year, Francesca."

Not that there wouldn't be plenty of distractions in the sophisticated and ancient (as well as holy) city of Jerusalem, not to mention the other delightful metropolises along the way. But they wouldn't be Francesca.

She pulled him closer and began to do very distracting things indeed. "Who said anything about leaving me behind?"

"You want to come with me?" He was startled enough to be distracted from her distraction. "But-"

Why had he thought she'd want to be left behind? Why had he thought that his uncle would allow her to remain behind? She was, after all, first and foremost, the Emperor's trusted servant, and he would be wise never to forget that.

Still. She was also Francesca. "That's wonderful!"

"Well, it is warmer there, is it not?"

It was only later, much later, on the verge of sleep, that it occurred to Manfred that Francesca did not betray confidences, and she didn't let things slip out. He'd been very skillfully manipulated. Very skillfully indeed.

Well, it had been more fun than being told. And even if he doubted that Charles Fredrik really needed any praying for another ten years, Jerusalem would still be interesting-and much more pleasant to visit with Francesca for company.

And if she was the Emperor's trusted servant, well, so was he. She was wise enough to remember that, even when he was distracted. Wise enough for both of them.

The thought gave him immense comfort.

"Kat says I should have a talk with you," said Marco, plainly uncomfortable.

Benito put his hands on his hips. He could read the signs. Big brother time, he thought silently.

He wished Marco would pick some other time for it. He wasn't exactly hung-over… just… blurry.

"What is it?" he snarled. Marco frowned, ever so faintly.

All right, so it was a sulky tone. He didn't need lectures from Marco, and even less from Kat. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth these days-but she'd been a night-bird, a smuggler, once, moving very gray cargoes of magical supplies. And, unless Benito misread the signs, by the vacant-space-to-let smile his brother wore these days, she hadn't waited for the marriage banns to share Marco's bed.

Right now, Marco was not going to listen to a litany of Kat's past sins. "Kat's worried about you, Benito. And so am I."

Benito could tell by the set of Marco's shoulders that his older brother wasn't enjoying this. He also knew Marco well enough to know that when Marco had decided that something must be done, it would be done. Still, Benito didn't enjoy this sort of thing either, and he was damned if he'd make it too easy for Marco.

"Well, stop worrying, Marco. I'm grown up enough to look after myself. I'm the one who usually ends up looking after you, remember. Or do I need to remind you of your little escapade with the love letters to Angelina, that got you into such a mess in the Jesolo marshes?"

Marco winced. "That was then. I'm older and wiser now."

Benito cocked an ear. Upstairs somewhere he could hear Angelina's shrill voice, berating a servant for something. Despite the fact that she was supposedly staying in one of the Dorma villas on the mainland, Angelina was forever finding some excuse to come back to Venice, to the Casa Dorma. "And heaven knows you've paid for it, Marco. What news on the annulment?" Perhaps he could head Marco off the lecture on his way of life.

Marco looked gloomy. "She's balking about which convent and which Order again. I really don't think she wants to go to one. I feel sorry for her. She's not really suited to a contemplative life." But Marco was obviously determined not to lose track. "But I want to talk about you, not my troubles. You can't go on like this, Benito."

Privately Benito thought Angelina would be better suited to a brothel than a cloister, but saying that would offend Marco. Marco was a sympathetic soul; Benito didn't like to offend him unnecessarily. He was very fond of his brother.

It would also probably also offend Petro Dorma, who was the Doge and their protector as well as Angelina's brother. Petro was not a sympathetic soul, or wise to offend, although these days Benito was often tempted. Anything to get out of here. "Like what, Brother?"

Marco shrugged helplessly. "The parties. The women. The drunkenness. The fights."

Benito shrugged in return. "The way I live my life is no concern of yours, Marco. Or of Kat's. Leave me alone."

Marco responded by putting an arm over Benito's shoulders. "You've got to get over her, Brother. She had a right to make her own choices. Maria wasn't ever the kind of person you could force to do anything."

Benito shrugged off the arm. "She's just a woman. Like all other women."

Marco stepped back, and this time he had more than a mere suggestion of a frown. "Benito, that's got to be about the dumbest thing you have ever said, and you've said some really…"

"Ahem." The servant at the doorway coughed. "Milor'. Milord Dorma wants to see you in his office. Immediately."

He left the two brothers, still glaring at each other. "Who did he mean?" said Benito finally.

"Probably you," said Marco curtly. "Kat and I are not the only ones to hear about your stupid escapades. Especially last night's stunt. Well, I'd better come along and put in a good word for you."

Benito tried to remember the details of last night. Truth to tell, he couldn't. He wondered what the hell he had done; he certainly wasn't prepared to ask Marco!

"I don't need your help," he said, sullenly, setting off up the passage. When Petro issued this sort of summons, nobody, but nobody, actually dawdled. It was a bit of a mystery to Benito. The head of the Casa Dorma was plumpish, balding and good-natured, so how come everybody jumped when he said "frog"?

"I'm coming anyway," said Marco, his long strides easily catching up with his shorter brother. "We Valdosta stick together. Besides, he may want me, not you."

"Ha." But it was mildly said. The Valdosta brothers did stick together; for many years they'd had no one and nothing else. Marco's loyalty touched him as nothing else, and when they walked into Petro Dorma's office, and Benito saw Angelina already there, looking ready for a five-star tantrum, he realized his brother might actually be the one who needed help, this time. Petro had been calling for Marco after all.