Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

Both men nodded. "Someone is using Satanic magic in this Citadel," muttered Diego. "That was fairly close, although I couldn't sense the direction."

"And that one! A sending ritual requires blood."

"Most Satanic rituals do, Francis." Eneko shook his head. "At least that one doesn't require human blood."

"That's not my point, Eneko. We're under siege. Soon enough, finding a goat or chicken to slaughter isn't going to be so easy."

Lopez thought about it, for a moment. "True. We should speak to Francesca. Unless I miss my guess, she'll be running the counterespionage work here before much longer. The podesta is an old man and the captain-general is… well. Not competent."

"So charitable, Eneko!" chuckled Francis. "I would have used a stronger expression."

Lopez smiled thinly. "Well, charity is a Christian virtue."

Diego didn't seem to share in the humor. "Finding a stray goat or a chicken will be getting hard. But with thousands of people packed into this place, finding a human to slaughter won't."

Eneko and Francis stared at him. Diego shrugged. "I would remind you that charity is not a Satanic virtue."

"We'd best talk to Francesca about that as well," murmured Francis. "Although…"

Gloomily, Lopez finished the thought. "How do you keep track of people to see if any are disappearing-when half the people in this Citadel are here illegally to begin with? Thanks to that jackass Tomaselli!"

"Charity, Eneko, charity," cautioned Francis.

"I am being charitable," grumbled Lopez.

"Not to jackasses."

Through the open door of the taverna in Paleokastritsa, Erik could see that the sky across the straits of Otranto was traced with clouds the color of salmon-flesh. The closer view was even more distracting to him. Neither Svanhild's profile nor the memory of salmon in the ice-fed rivers of home were helping Erik with the matter in hand: planning an irregular campaign against Emeric's forces.

"Essentially, we need two things. We need information, and we need safe bases."

"What's wrong with Paleokastritsa?"

Erik shook his head. "Its defenses are good, but not that good. It'll fall eventually, either to a determined assault or more likely to siege. There is no second way out of the town. And we think like foxes now. Foxes always need a second or third exit to their lairs. We'll rely on friendly towns and peasants for food and information-but never from the same one twice in a row, and we'll never stay in any of the settlements. If we bring the wrath of the Hungarians down on any Corfiote town, not only will we have betrayed them, we will have betrayed ourselves. We'll get no more help from the peasants."

He looked at the faces around the table; no one disagreed. "You all know what the Hungarians are going to do, every time we strike: they'll destroy the nearest village, if it shows any signs of our presence. The peasants are in hiding now, but they'll have to return to their holdings soon. Farms and crops don't wait. We need the countryside sympathetic to us and hostile to the Hungarians."

Ambrosino nodded. "It makes sense. Well, there is a spot I used to use when I was hunting. Not a village for three miles. You've got an excellent view of the surrounding countryside, there is water in the cave, and there are two ravines leading away. There'll be a bit of grazing down in the ravines, too. I thought of building a hunting-box up there, but it was just too expensive to get the materials up. There are wild boar and bears up there. Good hunting. And I've eaten worse than bear."

"We'll check it out tomorrow," said Erik. "We also need to organize proper scouting of Emeric's forces."

"We'll put you in at that fishing village," said Taki, pointing to the Italian shore. "The locals are at sea, by the looks of it, so we won't have to try and explain that we're not stealing their fish."

"As if we would," said Spiro, virtuously.

"Unless we got half the chance," snorted Kosti. "I thought we might visit a decent-size harbor and taste the local girls and meet the local wine."

"You mean meet the girls and taste the wine," corrected Taki.

Kosti shook his head, grinning. "I prefer it my way around."

Benito realized he was going to miss these fishermen. He was going to miss being at sea, where all the responsibility devolved on Taki. Now he'd have to manage for himself, and it was a long way home to Venice. He had written up the prearranged message for Erik. It would pass as a bill of fishmarket landings. The Bonito on the listing would tell Erik to hand over the money.

Benito now felt guilty. He'd done his dangerous bit. But Taki, Spiro and Kosti would have to get back through the cordon before they saw the paltry bit of silver. The only trouble was, short of the jewels-all he had was paltry bits of silver himself.

"Likely if we go to one of the big ports there'll be questions asked. We'd end up having to pay port fees!" Taki sounded as if he'd rather have his teeth drawn.

The idea seemed to horrify the others too. Spiro shook his head. "Besides, Kosti, we need to get home. There is a war over there and we've got people to look out for. Your mother. My sister-and you watch your mouth about my sister."

"Wouldn't say a word. Not while you're listening, anyway."

Spiro took a swing at him on general principles.

So Benito climbed off the boat and onto the Italian shore with no more than his clothes and the three fishermen's good wishes in his ears. After several days at sea, the ground seemed to be moving up and down.

He turned and waved. Taki's ratty old boat was already moving out to sea at a fair clip.

Benito turned his face to the shore and his more immediate problems. He was now faced with the problem of where, exactly, to go. It was midmorning, and he was outside a tiny little whitewashed fishing village near the toe of the boot that is Italy.

Originally someone, maybe Erik, had said he should ride up the coast to Venice. That was before Erik had seen him ride. Also…

Well, it seemed very easy when discussing it with people like Erik, who knew how to do this sort of thing. "Get to Italy and ride to Venice." The first question, in a spot like this, would be: Ride? On what? By the looks of the fishing settlement even a donkey would be wildly optimistic.

Maybe he should follow the course of the cowardly Capitano Selvi, and head for the Tyrrhenian sea; then, travel up the west coat of Italy. The immediate question was: Should he cut across the Calabrian Apennines-or remain along the coastline?

The mountains looked threatening. Unfamiliar. In the distance up there he could see a hilltop village-other than that, the area was forested, with the forest only being interrupted by patches of what could be vines and white rock. A lot of white rock. It all looked very big and daunting.

He saw an urchin from the fishing hamlet-calling five tiny houses a village was gross flattery-approaching cautiously. Ready to run, curiosity overwhelming obvious fear. He looked at Benito as if he expected him to sprout wings and horns or at very least large teeth.

Maybe thirty yards back were three others of still younger age, all peering, big-eyed, nervous but fascinated by this strange apparition. It didn't look like the village saw a lot of strangers. Benito waved at the kid, who was, at the outside, six years old. The older boys would be at sea, he supposed. "Ciao," he said.

The kid backed off two steps; then realized Benito wasn't following and that "Ciao" was not really a threat. He said "Ciao" back, and was rewarded with a smile from Benito. And then the kid let go with such a rapid fire of local patois that Benito managed to understand one word in ten. Some of the words sounded like Greek. Spiro had said there were a fair number of Greek settlers here.