Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

Erik held his breath. Next to him, he could feel Manfred tensing.

Eneko?

Never flinched. The little Basque priest returned the Duke of Ferrara's glare with one of his own. Which, in its own way, seemed just as hot.

Indeed, he rubbed salt into the wounds.

"The father condemns the lover?" he demanded. "For the same deed which he committed himself?"

Lopez pointed a stiff finger at the unseen figure of Carlo Sforza. "What that man did was give you a grandson. A grandson who is?today; now; this minute?fighting for his life in the streets of Venice."

The Basque dropped his arm contemptuously. "Like father, like grandfather. No doubt you will abandon the grandson as you did the mother. Nothing may be allowed to interfere with a petty lord's overweening pride. A sin which he will try to mask by giving it the name of 'honor.' "

Erik's eyes were on the duke's hand, clutching the sword hilt. The knuckles were ivory white, and the sword was now drawn an inch out of the scabbard. So he couldn't see the expression on Dell'este's face or that of Lopez. But he couldn't mistake the sneer in the Basque's voice.

" 'Old Fox.' Was ever a man more badly misnamed? To give up his chance for vengeance on Visconti?who did murder his daughter?in order to salvage his pitiful dignity on the body of a lover?"

Erik glanced up quickly, seeing the twitch in the hand holding the sword. The fury in Dell'este's eyes seemed… adulterated, now. Filling with cunning?surmise, at least?instead of sheer rage.

The duke's teeth were clenched. His next words were more hissed than spoken.

"Explain."

Lopez, once again, demonstrated what Erik was beginning to believe was an almost infinite capacity for surprise. The priest's face suddenly burst into an exuberant grin.

"Finally! The Italian asks the Basque's advice on a matter of vendetta! About time."

He rubbed his hands, almost gleefully. Then, crossed himself. "I cannot speak to the point concretely, you understand. I'm sworn to the work of Christ. But, at a glance, it seems to me that the son is better suited to settle accounts with the father than you are. At the appropriate time. And?given some sage advice and counsel from his grandfather, in the months and years to come?is certainly the best choice to settle accounts with the mother's murderer."

Again, he crossed himself. "God willing, of course. But, on this matter, I suspect the Lord will smile kindly." Again, he crossed himself. "Provided, of course, that the son is alive tomorrow. And provided"?again, he crossed himself?"that he manages to avoid falling into the pit of sinfulness the day after."

More sedately: "Um. To be precise, manages to clamber out of the pit. Being, as I suspect he is, already halfway into it."

The sound of the sword hilt slapping back into the scabbard jolted Erik a bit. The duke's harsh chuckle even more so.

"I'd ask you to become his counselor," said Dell'este, "but I suspect that would fall into the category of putting the fox in charge of the henhouse."

Lopez managed to look aggrieved. Not much.

"How soon do you need me in Venice?" asked the duke.

The priest shrugged. "The sooner the better. But?" He glanced out at the Ferrarese forces constructing their own fieldworks. The quick assessment was that of a man who had once been a veteran soldier himself. "Under the best of circumstances, you cannot manage the task sooner than the day after tomorrow. That should be good enough. Even if the enemy wins the battle in Venice today, they will not be able to fortify their position in less than a week. Not in Venice, not without Sforza."

The duke nodded. "Very well. I'll start today. But I intend to bleed Sforza?and Visconti?of everything I can before leaving."

"Goes without saying," agreed Lopez, nodding sagely. "Drain every lira from his pay chest. Leave his mercenaries moaning their lost money but savoring their salvaged lives. They won't be able to do anything about it anyway, since you will naturally demand their guns and their pikes." He pursed his lips, considering the problem. "Probably best to leave the officers their swords. Except Sforza's, of course. You'll want to break that over your knee in front of him."

The Duke of Ferrara was smiling thinly, now. "Fierce, you are! Father Lopez, the days when I could break a sword over my knee?a good Ferrara blade, anyway, and be sure that's what Sforza possesses?are long gone."

"Allow me the privilege, then," said Manfred forcefully. He extended his huge hands. "I won't even need a knee."

"Oh!" exclaimed Lopez. "How rude of me. I forgot to make the introductions. Enrico Dell'este, Duke of Ferrara, meet Manfred of Brittany. He's the Emperor's nephew, by the way, and has some incredible list of titles. I can't remember them all. Earl of something, Marquis of whatever. Baron of this and that."

Dell'este's eyes may have widened a bit, but not much. Mostly, he seemed interested in Manfred's hands. "You'll need a pair of iron gauntlets," he mused.

"Damn things have to be good for something," growled Erik.

Manfred snapped Sforza's sword like a twig. The commander of the Milanese forces, Italy's most famous condottiere, did not so much as flinch at the sound. Whatever else he was, Carlo Sforza was no coward.

"You look just like your son," commented Manfred mildly, as he handed Sforza the point end of the broken blade. "Except Benito's not reached his full growth yet, and he isn't as mean-looking."

Sforza's round, hard, muscular face registered surprise. As much at the return of the blade, perhaps, as the mention of his son.

"You've met him?"

"Yup." Manfred held his right hand above the ground, about an inch lower than the top of Sforza's curly hair. "So tall; don't think he'll get any taller." He gave Sforza's stocky form a quick once-over. "But I think he's going to wind up even thicker than you. The kid's already got the forearms of a small bear."

For a moment, a shadow seemed to cross the condottiere's face. That was the first expression other than stoic resignation Erik had seen Sforza exhibit since the surrender ceremony began in mid-afternoon. And it was now well into sunset.

"I haven't seen him in years." The great captain's words were almost whispered.

"You will," predicted Manfred. He held up the hilt end of the broken sword in his left hand. There was more than a foot of the blade left. "I'll be giving this to him, when I see him next." He nodded toward the Duke of Ferrara, standing stiffly some distance away. "As his grandfather commanded. Some day?don't ever doubt it, Sforza?he'll be coming to get the rest of it."

"And when that day comes," said Erik between tight jaws, "I strongly urge you to have found another employer. Or your guts will be the carpet he uses to get to Visconti's throat."

Sforza's dark eyes swiveled toward him. Erik's grin was quite savage. "Believe me, Carlo Sforza. I'm an Icelander, and I know a feud when I see one. I've met Benito also."

"I'll consider your words." The dark eyes got even harder. "I told Filippo Visconti this was a fool's errand. Damn all dukes and their complicated schemes. But… he pays well. Very well."

Manfred snorted. "Idiot. Benito'll spill your purse before he spills the rest of you."

"That's my boy," murmured the Wolf of the North. "Others doubted. But I never did."

The grayness swirled thick, carrying the sounds of combat and dying. Despite everything they'd done, some of Aleri's agents had survived. Fire bloodied the fog to the south, and the smell of it was thick in the air.

Marco turned to Kat, a heaviness in his chest, and the edge of despair in his voice. "We're losing. In spite of everything, we're losing. Count Badoero must have brought at least a thousand men. Caesare has made sure the damned militia are ineffectual. The Arsenalotti and the boat-people fight well. But this fog?it confuses everything. There's something wrong with this fog. It's like it's fighting for them."