Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

"If there is a sally. But don't stretch it." Erik took a deep breath. "Manfred, I didn't think you understood what it meant to be in love with someone. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

That didn't make Manfred feel much better about Svanhild. But all he said was: "Well, let's go and organize a small boat and see if we can find that Corfiote sailor who doesn't know the draft of a great galley."

Sitting under a tasseled awning in front of his tented pavilion, King Emeric regarded the Citadel in the growing dusk. Oxen had proved more of a problem than he'd anticipated. The islanders seemed to rely heavily on donkeys. Unfortunately, the heavy forty-eight-pound bombards really needed teams of oxen to move them. And the cannon of the Citadel and the island of Vidos commanded the deep-water landings for some distance. The carracks had too deep a draft to bring them in the way that those bedamned galleys had run up the beach. The bigger guns were too heavy and too unwieldy to unload onto lighters and bring in. They needed a dock, a quay next to which the ships could tie up.

Unfortunately, the nearest spot they'd been able to find was the village of Patara, nearly a league away. Emeric had had his cavalry scouring the countryside for oxen, or even mules, to move the guns. And now to make matters worse, it looked like rain. He was scowling ferociously when the senior Byzantine captain of the seven carracks that had just come in from Constantinople arrived. The Greek saluted smartly.

"Well, Captain?"

"Sire, the Venetian Outremer Convoy had arrived in Negroponte before we left. They should be on their way to the Golden Horn by now, except for the vessels heading for the Holy Land."

"While that is good news, I wanted to know if you'd brought the supplies Alexius agreed to provide. And why you are late?"

The captain bowed. "Contrary winds, Sire. And this morning we met, engaged and captured a Venetian great galley. I have her captain and most of her crew prisoner."

The captain cleared his throat. "They were carrying certain dispatches addressed to the Doge, the Grand Metropolitan and the Holy Roman Emperor. The captain, one Bernardo Selvi, pleaded for his life, saying he could give you valuable information. He has agreed to cooperate fully with us. I have promised him his life in return, Sire. He told me he was part of a charter for Prince Manfred of Brittany, and some two hundred Knights of the Holy Trinity, going to Jerusalem. They were on board their four vessels when they were attacked by a combined fleet of Dalmatian pirates and carracks bearing your banner. He said the others plan a night landing, perhaps at the very Citadel itself."

"Your news comes a little too late, Captain," Emeric said grimly. "Nonetheless I will see the prisoner and the letters he was transporting. Have them sent up to me."

The Byzantine saluted crisply again. "At once, Sire. And where and when shall I have my men land the food supplies?"

Emeric smiled his thin-lipped, crooked, and utterly humorless smile. "Vessels are discharging about a league away at a village called Patara. See the goods get handed over to my quartermaster there, see you don't get in the way of my cannon being off-loaded, and see I get the prisoner and his letters very, very fast."

"Sire!" The Byzantine saluted and left at a half-run.

Emeric, for the first time since the galleys had arrived that morning, felt something akin to pleasure. He enjoyed seeing Byzantines run. And the fact that the Holy Roman Empire's best troops were here purely by accident, caught up in this because they were on their way to Jerusalem, was excellent news. He must tell his spymasters to stop searching for the leak in his security.

Four men-at-arms from the Byzantine vessels and a prisoner, shackled neck-and-legs, arrived shortly thereafter. The prisoner was an elderly, slightly stooped man with a wattled chin. He fell on his knees before Emeric. "Spare me, Your Majesty. Spare me, I beg you," he wept.

Emeric stood up, put his hands on either side of the man's head, and forced him to look him in the eyes. He hardly needed to do anything; the Venetian was already crying with fear. Still, there was more to exerting his power than simply the need to cow.

"But of course, my dear chap. Provided you tell me what I need to know."

He blinked, and released a spell. A bolt of searing pain shook the captive. His back arched and he fell over backwards. The Venetian captain lay there on the ground gibbering, whimpering and crying. Emeric ignored him and held out his hand to the escorts. "The letters."

Hastily one of the men fumbled open a leather message pouch and handed the king the three letters. Two were sealed with the Imperial seal of the Holy Roman Empire, and addressed to Emperor Charles Fredrik and Doge Petro Dorma, respectively. The other was addressed to the Grand Metropolitan in Rome. Emeric walked to his desk, a particularly fine ivory-inlaid escritoire, pulled a stiletto out of a drawer and carefully cut the seal away. He walked closer to a multi-wicked lamp and read the letter, his smile growing more feral all the while. A prince of the Empire, no less-now, within Hungary's fist.

The king turned back to the Venetian captain still kneeling on the floor. "You will explain the purpose of this voyage. You will also tell me about this prince, or I will give you more pain. If you do well, I will reward you with my mercy."

When Selvi had done, Emeric called to his guards. "Take him out there and crucify him next to that fool who brought me news of the lost troop."

"You promised me mercy!" screamed the captain.

Emeric shrugged. "I lied."

Sophia Tomaselli looked nervously about. Despite the hooded cloak and the lateness of the hour, she really didn't want to be found here. The address, given to her in the strictest confidence by Bianca Casarini, was not a part of the Citadel she'd ever visited before. The poorer houses down inside the outer curtain wall were not in a place she would have admitted knowing even existed.

But she'd try anything. Now, especially, with her husband Nico's status likely to rise because of the siege.

Anything. She'd already tried at least twenty potions. All that they had done was to make her sick. She'd tried everything from saints' bones to amulets that made her clothing smell faintly of dead rat. She'd even, on Bianca's advice, tried a different man. She snorted at the thought. The young cavalry commander Querini thought he was the world's greatest lover. His breath smelled of onions. Then there'd been the long, nervous wait, to find her courses ran as normally as ever. And now she had to put up with a stream of lewd suggestions from the fool Querini.

She knocked on the dingy door, glancing hastily around to see if there was anyone in sight. The street was deserted, as far as she could see anyway. She knocked again, slightly harder.

The door swung open. At first glance the man standing there was not very impressive. She'd expected robes, not ordinary clothes. He was tall and stooped, and framed against the light his hair was sleeked and perfectly ordered. The most occult thing about him was a rather neat beard. "S… signor Morando?"

He nodded, cocked his head inquiringly, and said in a voice which was just faintly sibilant. "You have the advantage of me. Who are you and why have you come here?"

"S… signorina Casarini said you might be able to help…"

Bianca Casarini's name acted like a magical talisman. The man beamed. "Come in, signora." He ushered her forward respectfully, closed the door behind her. "And how may I help you, signora? Potions to draw a lover? To inflame passions? Perhaps to deal with some unfortunate consequences?" He rubbed his long hands.