Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

The plump captain of the Dolphin snorted. "I've had Corfiotes in my crew. They're good oarsmen. Better than Dalmatians, better than Venetians even. Seems to me you've got a local problem with them." He turned to Benito. "And how is Ritter Falkenberg, by the way, Milord Valdosta?"

"The chirurgeon says he will probably live. But he's lost an eye."

"I was across there, too," said Von Gherens, shaking his head. "His face is a mess, and he looks like he's been cupped fifteen times. But he's alive and has his wits. He said he got hit on the only soft spot in a head that's as solid as a rock. He also said the last thing he remembers is you lugging him in, boy."

"The landing wasn't the success I had hoped it would be," admitted Benito glumly.

"Hell's teeth, boy, it's a damn sight better than we'd have done any other way!" snapped Von Gherens. "We lost three men and we have three more with serious injuries. If we'd tried to charge our way in… we'd have considered ten times that light. War means casualties."

"Yes-but-"

Von Gherens slapped his breastplate with a mailed hand. "But me no buts! Our comrades get hurt. Our friends die. Falkenberg is a knight who swore an oath to serve the Church and to defend the weak. He'd be the first man to tell you to stop puling and start planning. Because what we are doing-at risk to ourselves-is what we have sworn to do. The West relies on us. It is a risk we take with pride. It is an oath we honor. Even when some soft southern burgher mutters about us, we know the reason he sleeps soft and comfortable, why his wife is able to complain about the price of cabbages as her most serious problem and why his children dare to throw dung and yell 'Knot' when we pass. It's because we are what we are. For all our faults we stand for law and light."

He smiled, and his tone softened. "A good plan is one that keeps our casualties light and costs our enemy dear. Keep making them, Benito Valdosta."

Manfred cleared his throat. "And that brings us to discussing the defenses of this place. With all respect, Captain-General, we have veterans of a dozen sieges here. We offer you our expertise as well as our arms."

"Your arms are appreciated," the captain-general said stiffly. "But this is a Venetian fortification, under Venetian command."

Manfred opened his mouth to speak and Francesca kicked him.

Von Gherens unfortunately wasn't in kicking range. He snorted. "You're undermanned, underprovisioned, and badly organized. You-"

"That will do, Von Gherens!" barked Eberhard, in a tone so stern it made even Manfred blink. "I apologize, Captain-General. The Ritter spoke out of turn."

"And we appreciate your hospitality and especially this drink," added Francesca throatily, holding out an empty glass. "But is it already being rationed?

The captain-general lost his train of angry thought and gawped, as she poured charm on him. "My apologies, signora! Of course not. Allow me." He poured out another.

After a moment's hesitation, Von Gherens put out his glass. "I spoke hastily there, Captain-General. Apologies."

"Accepted," said the captain-general stiffly. He limped forward and filled the knight's glass. "Anyone else?"

Benito watched Francesca calmly empty the glass into the purse hanging from her chatelaine, while the Venetian officer's attention was on Von Gherens.

"Perhaps later," she said, putting down the glass. "Right now I am dying to put off these salty clothes and have a wash." She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Erik nodded. "Yes. The armor, especially the joints, must be cleaned and oiled. The salt water does it no good."

Von Gherens groaned. "That was the worst aspect of your plan, Benito."

The captain-general rang a bell. "I'll have one of my men show you to your chambers."

Francesca smiled at him. "Thank you, Captain-General Tomaselli. You are too kind."

"You may call me Nico, signora," he said bowing over her hand and kissing it.

Benito felt rather than heard the low rumble from Manfred. He also caught Francesca's wink to the prince, while the Venetian officer's head was down.

"Well, it's a nice bed," said Manfred, testing it. Naturally enough the bed complained. "But I don't know if it was worth you nearly seducing that Venetian ass for."

"A good bed is past price, darling," said Francesca, carefully emptying her purse. She looked at it sadly. "You will have to get me a new one, Manfred. I think the leather will be quite ruined by that vile drink."

"I thought you liked it?" said Manfred, with an evil grin. "You nodded when fancy-pants asked you. I saw you."

"I had to nod. I couldn't speak. I'm afraid the disgusting stuff may have ruined my vocal cords forever. Besides, if I had opened my mouth I might have been sick." She sniffed cautiously at the reticule. "Bleh. Even if it doesn't ruin the leather I refuse to live with the smell."

"And there I thought you'd finally learned to drink." Manfred shook his head sadly. "I'll admit the stuff was strong enough to make me pause. He might run a lousy garrison but he certainly has a drink that would put hair on your chest."

"I certainly hope not!" said Francesca. "But it was all part of the show, Manfred."

Manfred stood up and reached for her laces. "I better check about the hair," he teased. "What do you mean? 'Part of the show'? I hope you don't mean the hair…"

She lifted his hands aside, kissed them and said: "Later, when you don't smell of oil and old iron and fish and seaweed. What I mean by 'part of the show' was that it was our little captain-general's attempt to show how tough he was. Think of it. This is a backwater of Venetian defense. It's a major point in their resupply and trade routes, but for a commanding officer-well, it's not a place Venice expected to be attacked."

"A junior posting."

"More like a backwater posting. He's not so young."

She patted Manfred's broad shoulder. "Now, think. You are a given such a posting-a good trade spot but militarily a sign of being relegated to someplace where you can't do any damage. And suddenly-a siege! He hasn't done too badly, really. From what we've been told, had he been a totally arrogant ass like that fool who told us Greeks were no good, the fortress would have fallen to Emeric's sneak attack. Instead… someone did some preparation, saved the citadel, and saved a good many lives outside. It doesn't look as if he's doing too badly, so far, all things considered. Venice will be proud of him, that's what he's thinking. And then… in come a couple of hundred of the Empire's greatest knights, in the most dramatic style, poking a stick in the eye of the enemy. Led by a prince of the blood who offers to assist him in conducting the defenses."

Manfred swallowed. "It was well meant, Francesca."

"I know," she said, gently. "But then I'm not a thin-skinned minor noble with a dying military career. And I nearly ruined my toes kicking you. I wish I could have kicked Von Gherens too."

Manfred grinned. "He'd have asked why you were kicking him."

Benito was assigned a room in the Castel a mar. After washing, he found himself in no state to sleep. So he set out to do what he had been told to on arriving in Corfu: reporting to the Dorma Factor.

Asking directions, Benito set out, got himself thoroughly lost and eventually found his way to the man's residence. He was not at home. So Benito left a message and walked across to the hospital to see how Falkenberg was doing.

"You can't see him," said the monk. "He's finally asleep. He's in pain, young man. Sleep, even assisted by laudanum, is the best thing for him."

"Tell him… I'll come back later. Is he going to be all right?"

The monk shrugged. "If he doesn't get secondary infections. We've prayed over him. We've used such skills as we have. We have used a fragment of the blessed Saint Landry's hand."