Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

But, mostly, because Dandelo was not a fool. Protest was pointless. The Dandelos had misgauged the political situation, and misgauged it badly. Lord Dorma's place in it, most of all. And they were now going to pay the heavy price which Venice's often ruthless politics exacted from losers. Dorma would leave them just enough slaves?the ones who were incontrovertibly legal?to keep them from outright bankruptcy. But by the end of day, Casa Dandelo would be almost penniless and politically humbled.

It was late afternoon before Benito emerged from Casa Dandelo. He came out at the very end, with Lord Dorma and the knights. The very large one's hand was still on his shoulder, but it had long since stopped squeezing.

By now it seemed that half of Venice must have gathered to watch. Quite a bit more than half, probably, of the canalers and Arsenalotti. The roar of the mob was almost deafening. No one had any doubts any longer?not after seeing the procession of freed slaves who had emerged from Casa Dandelo for the past hour or so, and been escorted by the Schiopettieri into the waiting empty barges.

Dorma led the way onto the last barge. Unsure what to do now, Benito let the large knight propel him into the barge also.

"Better come with us, Knight-Squire Crazykid," he said. "You don't want to be left alone on Casa Dandelo's wharf tonight."

"My name's Benito."

The very large knight grinned. The square blocky teeth were visible even under the helmet. "Benito, then. It was still a crazy thing to do."

"You should talk, Manfred," chuckled the blond knight standing next to them. He removed the helmet and shook his long, very pale blond hair in the breeze. "God, I hate helmets." Then, smiling at Benito: "I'm Erik Hakkonsen, by the way. And you are insane."

But the words were spoken in a very friendly tone, and Benito found himself meeting the smile with a grin.

"I just couldn't help it, that's all. And I wouldn't have missed that for anything."

The very large knight?Manfred, he was apparently named?now removed his helmet also. Benito was almost shocked when he saw how young he was. He's not much older than me. Can't be more than eighteen.

The barge pulled away from the wharf and began heading across the canal. The mob on the other side was packed like sardines, all of them waving and shouting.

"LORD DORMA! LORD DORMA!" And more than a few: "Doge Dorma!"

The knight named Erik stared, apparently taken aback by the crowd's frenzied applause. Oddly, the young knight named Manfred didn't seem surprised at all.

"Just like Francesca predicted," he mused. "I do believe Venetian politics just went through an earthquake."

"I'm letting you off here," Petro Dorma said to Benito, as the barge was almost across the canal.

At that moment, a young woman suddenly pushed her way to the forefront of the mob. Her eyes seemed a little wild. As soon as she caught sight of Benito, her square jaw tightened like a clamp. Then…

"That's an incredible command of profanity, she's got," said Manfred cheerily. "And the way your girlfriend's shaking her fist at you doesn't bode well for your future."

"She's not my girlfriend," growled Benito.

Manfred's already huge grin got bigger. "Could have fooled me!" He eyed the shrieking young woman. "In my experience?okay, it's limited, I admit?but still…" The grin faded a little, and the next words came softly. "Young Benito, I think only a woman in love gets that angry at a man."

"You're crazy!" snapped Benito.

They were almost at the edge of the canal. With as little effort as if he were picking up a toddler, Manfred hoisted Benito by the armpits and began to deposit him off the barge.

"Maybe so," he whispered. "But if she isn't, you're the one who's crazy, not me. Damn, but she's gorgeous."

Benito stared at the furious eyes that Manfred's huge hands were depositing him before, to meet his punishment. The square jaw, the red face, the thick hair swinging wildly?almost as wildly as the fist?the broad shoulders.

Damn. She is gorgeous.

The thought vanished as soon as Maria's hand cracked his face. And it stayed away while she shook him by the shoulders?slapped him again; not as hard, but twice?and finished cursing him. But it returned, in a flood, when she seized him and hugged him close, sobbing softly in his hair and kissing his cheek.

"God damn you, Benito, don't ever scare me like that again."

"I'm sorry, Maria," he mumbled. "But…"

He didn't know how to respond. He was too confused. Damn, but you're gorgeous seemed… crazy. But he couldn't think of anything else to say. Not a damn thing that didn't seem… crazier.

When Antimo brought the news of Dorma's raid on the Dandelos to the Duke of Ferrara, Dell'este rose from his chair and went to the window. There he remained, for some time, staring toward Venice.

"How much money have we received so far from the Emperor, through Baron Trolliger's private agents?"

"We'll have enough to hire the condottieri we need."

"Secretly?"

"Yes, milord. Since you'll be commanding the army yourself, I've not had to negotiate with any well-known great captains. Just a large number of small companies. Neither Visconti nor Sforza will be able to keep track of the numbers involved. Ferrara will field twice the force the Milanese are expecting. I'm quite sure of it."

"Careless on their part," mused Dell'este. "But I'm not surprised. Filippo Visconti has always been too arrogant, and Sforza has grown complacent with success." He was silent for a moment. Then gave the windowsill a little tap. "So. Everything else is in place. We have the army we need, and it seems as if Venice has finally found a leader worthy of the name. There remains, only?Valdosta."

When he turned back, the face of the Old Fox seemed to have no expression at all. But Antimo knew his master far too well to be fooled.

"The sword, then?"

The duke nodded. "Yes. Send it. The time has come. At last."

The Old Fox's right hand curled into a loose fist, as if an expert swordsman held a blade in his hand. Still, there was no expression in his face. But, again, Antimo was not fooled. And so, as he had done so many other times and in so many other ways, he gave help again to his master.

"They murdered your daughter, hounded your grandchildren. Did their best to soil the name of Dell'este. Plotted and schemed to destroy Ferrara and Venice both."

The duke's lips peeled back into a snarl. Had he been there to see the sight, Carlo Sforza?the famous "Wolf of the North"?would have finally recognized what he was about to face.

But Sforza was not there; nor were his master Visconti's spies. And the moment was brief, in any event. Soon enough, the Old Fox was back.

"So they did," he murmured, smiling thinly. "And in so doing, did nothing more?in the end?than sharpen my blades." His eyes moved to the rack of swords. "There are no finer blades in the world, Antimo, than those of Dell'este."

The summons to Dorma had come often that spring. Petro seemed to enjoy talking to him, and they would be sending him to the Accademia in the summer.

This Friday morning it was different.

Petro Dorma was sitting?as usual?in his inner sanctum. The balding man's face, usually serious, was downright solemn. Across his desk lay an open box containing a naked sword on a sheet of scarlet silk it had plainly been wrapped in. It was an old hand-and-a-half-blade, made in a style a century out of date now. The blue-silver folded Damascus steel was as rippling mirror bright as if it had left the maker yesterday. Only the golden hilt showed the signs of years of careful devoted polishing. Wordlessly, Petro Dorma held out the letter.