This Rough Magic hoa-2, page 12
part #2 of Heirs of Alexandria Series
The Grand Metropolitan scowled slightly. "More so than I have been. Your problem, Father Eneko, is that you have been a valuable tool for the church in your present role. I need an agent of your caliber. I am less sure that the church needs yet another religious order to create more schisms and infighting. But the Emperor is indeed well-disposed toward your scheme; he goes as far as to suggest a name. He seems to think a Petrine-based order devoted to holy magic in the active and combative sense would act as a counterweight to the Servants of the Holy Trinity. He also thinks that Father Eneko Lopez of the Basque country would be a good man to head such an order. I must read you his words."
The old man cleared his throat, unfurled the parchment and held the scroll at full arm's stretch. Then, began reading from it in a slight sing-song:
" 'I find myself in agreement with your proposal that the Hypatian order should open some chapter houses in Swabia, Brunswick and Prussia. Details may be thrashed out between our intermediaries, but I would be happy to see as many as twenty of these established in the Empire's central provinces. However, one does not use a shovel to do a sword's work and vice versa. I am of the opinion that the order of Saint Hypatia in particular and the Church in general have lost some of the militant purpose Chrysostom imbued it with. It has become very gentle, and as a result, we are seeing enemies springing up who do not scruple to use the darkest of magics against us. The Empire and the Holy Church need a force not lacking in some of the gentleness of the Hypatian Order, but with the steel to meet the spiritual and supernatural evils of the northern darkness which threaten the mother Church.' "
The Grand Metropolitan paused and peered at Eneko over the top of the parchment. "He then proposes you heading such an order. But I read further: 'However, I feel Father Lopez would still benefit from some broadening of his viewpoints before he takes up this challenge. Therefore my request that he undertakes this pilgrimage to Jerusalem can serve a double purpose. As one of the most pious men I have met, he can pray for my soul, which I fear stands in sore need of such intervention. Visiting the birthplace of our faith and then proceeding to the cradle of our learning, Alexandria, will also broaden his outlook. Besides, such an order as he envisages will need to consult the Great Library at Alexandria extensively, as it remains the greatest source and storehouse of arcane knowledge, both Christian and non-Christian, in Christendom. And if Alexandria cannot broaden his outlook, then nothing can. Even the brothels there are an education.' "
Eneko felt himself redden. The Grand Metropolitan was plainly amused by his embarrassment. "I think the Emperor's assessment is very acute," he said with a wry smile. "Both of your piety and your need for a broader perspective."
Eneko took a deep breath. "I have always wanted to undertake the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Your Holiness," he said, seriously. "And the second pilgrimage to the heart and birthplace of the Order of Saint Hypatia. But the responsibility of another man's soul—any man's soul, never mind the Holy Roman Emperor's—is too much for me."
The Grand Metropolitan nodded. "Only Christ could carry such a weight," he said gently. "But all that is asked of us is to do as much we can and He has ever promised us that He will help us to bear the rest. You may choose some companions—say, three—to help you. I feel Emperor Charles Fredrik would agree that such broadening of the structure that you envisage will be better if it has a wider foundation, as it were. Now, my son. I have other interviews. Come, take my blessing and get along with you. You and your companions will travel as humble pilgrims to Jerusalem, and thence Alexandria. I have prayed on this and I feel you guided to this path." It was said with a quiet certainty and deep humility.
It was also a firm, unarguable dismissal.
* * *
"When you travel with a small army you have to behave as if you are traveling with a small army," muttered Manfred irritably. "We should break this lot up into ten parcels of twenty knights, and fit into inns rather than overflowing villages."
The grizzled and facially scarred Von Gherens smiled. "A good idea, eh, Falkenberg? We ride with the first twenty and Prince Manfred rides with the last twenty. Then he can apologize for all the damage and pay the peasants, and put up with short rations because we've eaten all the food, and drunk all the beer."
Falkenberg, who was riding on the other side of Manfred, was also a veteran, though younger than Von Gherens. And like Von Gherens, Manfred had discovered, able to drink his weight in ale without showing any sign of it. The Knights of the Holy Trinity—the "Knots" in popular slang—were supposed to be a religious order, sworn to abstinence from the worldly trappings of wealth. In practice, Manfred discovered, that meant they ate and drank well . . .
When someone else was paying.
Manfred was finding that being in an out-of-combat command—especially when you have a reputation as a tearaway yourself—was a lot more difficult than he'd thought. In a way a misery-guts like Sachs was almost called for. The presence of someone who'd put some fear and sobriety into this lot would keep the reckoning down. The Emperor had given Manfred what he had considered to be an ample supply of gold for the trip. At this rate they might—possibly—get to Ascalon. He'd have to sell them off as mercenaries to get back.
Falkenberg looked at Manfred with amusement. "Sounds very good. It would make a change from the way it is now."
The problem was that both of them had been in Venice with Manfred and Erik, when they had striven against Chernobog. The two of them, Von Gherens particularly, had been the catalysts who'd broken up the fight in San Zan Degola when Erik had refused to hand over the young woman who had claimed sanctuary there to Abbot Sachs. Von Gherens had been at the final destruction of Chernobog's Vessel and had been terribly burned there.
They both liked Manfred; he knew that. They were from northeastern frontier families, from the borderlands of the Empire where the battle between good and evil was stark and frequent. There was no doubting the toughness or the piety of either man. There was also no doubting their ability to soak up food and drink when it was available. They treated their young commander with a sort of jocular respect . . . and then did precisely what they intended to do. No doubt about it, in a fight they'd be what they were—superb soldiers, disciplined and ordered. So how come they traveled at exactly the pace they intended to travel, despite Manfred's desire to pick the pace?
Manfred was left feeling he was being tested. He wished he could do with the troop what Erik did, in the daily drill session the Icelander put them through. They jumped when Erik Hakkonsen said "frog." There was always that sort of distance between Erik and the rest of the human race, and the barrier seemed to work in Erik's favor. No one, not even old Notke—who was fifty-five if he was a day—treated Erik as an equal.
That evening in the smoky room in one of the three crowded inns at Brixen, Manfred turned to Erik and Eberhard and sighed. "What the hell do I have to do to get the Knights moving? I wanted to be through to Bozen by now. At this rate, we're going to take twice as long as I'd intend to get through to Venice."
Eberhard looked at him with a frosty eye. "I was Knight of the Trinity with your grandfather. I had a commander like you once. Good fighter. Lousy commander when we weren't fighting."
Manfred had never really thought of the old man as a having once been a mere rank-and-file knight, but always as a prosy and disapproving important old man. "So, Milord of Brunswick," he said, in as serious a manner as he had ever donned. "What should I do? Lecture them on diplomacy?"
"Break a few heads," said Erik, looking up from his platter. "You are too young and too popular."
Eberhard shook his head. "That might work for you, Erik. You will lead troops. You already do that well. But Manfred is such a babe-in-arms, he still needs them to teach him. He will lead armies, not troops. And what he needs to learn is that you cannot lead armies on your own. You need to delegate."
Manfred stared at him in astonishment. That was a solution that didn't sound like a good idea. On the other hand, Eberhard . . . had experience. "Delegate to whom? I mean, wouldn't they just think I was trying to avoid responsibility?"
Eberhard gave his wintry smile. "This is statecraft, which your uncle wished me to instruct you in. I thought it was a waste of time but if you can see that there is a problem, well—perhaps you might learn something after all." He cleared his throat. "It is often a good idea to pick on the worst sources of your troubles—and make them responsible. If they fail, then you must display very clearly that you have not abrogated your responsibilities, by taking action against them, personally. But I don't suppose you'll have either the intelligence or maturity to take my advice."
Despite himself, Manfred knew that his face showed what he'd have been likely to do if the old man were not nearly seventy. Instead he clenched his fists and walked off.
* * *
"Francesca, he's going to drive me mad," said Manfred later in their chamber. "He treats me as if I were stupid and ten years old."
Francesca traced his deltoid with a delicate finger. "He's a very bad old man, to tease you so. But I think he wants to make sure he's got your attention."
"You think he's doing it on purpose?" demanded Manfred incredulously.
Francesca smiled catlike. "He is one of the leading diplomats and statesmen of the age, Manfred, dear. He's playing you like a lute."
Manfred did not like the idea of being manipulated by anyone, much less Eberhard. "The old bastard!"
Francesca shook her head in admonition. "I'm sure he's only doing it to oblige Charles Fredrik."
Manfred snorted. "Two can play his game. I won't rise to his bait. Tomorrow morning I'm going to call Falkenberg and Von Gherens. Make those two carry the can. Falkenberg can do the damned accounting. That'll stop him eating and drinking for a few minutes, which should save us a few pennies anyway."
"Good. Then maybe we can get moving a little faster. I had letters while I was in Mainz from Katerina. I said I would do my best to be there for her wedding, even if I cannot accede to her request to be a maid of honor." Francesca smiled wryly. "But I wouldn't mind being a trifle early to help with the organization."
"Von Gherens will have to make them trot," said Manfred languorously, leaning toward the caressing fingers.
Chapter 14
The woman didn't stop screaming. She'd gone beyond the edge of fear and into raw hysteria.
None of the three people in the room appeared to even notice, any more than slaughterhouse workers might notice a bellowing steer. Jagiellon simply continued to whet the cleaver.
Caesare Aldanto stood like a blond puppet that someone had propped against a wall. The position his arms were in was not quite natural and would have caused any normal man to alter it before more than a moment had passed. Aldanto stood as still as a log. His empty blue eyes stared unblinking at the altar. The shaman simply continued to rub the drum-skin, and walk in a widdershins circle, producing a low murmur of sound that seemed to slice through the screaming.
The cut, when it came, did not stop the screaming. That brutal chop was not intended to. This rite derived much of its power from the suffering of the victim. The quodba drum now was a fluttering, weakening, fast heartbeat, perfectly matching that of the woman. In the old face, the shaman's eyes burned with a fierce intensity. Sweat dripped from his forehead although the room was cold. Jagiellon showed no such signs of strain.
Neither did Caesare, who had come forward now to kneel, holding the stone-cut bowl into which the woman's femoral artery pumped.
Jagiellon scryed for his foes in a dark magic built on blood, pain, and defilement.
There was a price, a terrible price for this clear vision, and not just from the victim. But the Black Brain did not care. That part of Jagiellon was long dead anyway. And this was no new ritual being enacted for the first time.
In the blood that now pumped feebly into the bowl, Jagiellon saw Eneko Lopez, and a band of companions. Saw the canals of Venice, and a canal boat with what could only be a bridal couple. Abruptly that opaqued. Only a Leonine winged shadow remained.
The blood bowl cleared, showing a new vision. Eneko Lopez again, face uplifted, at peace, standing on the place which is called Golgotha.
There was a high, thin, sound that pierced the brain like a white-hot needle.
The bowl shattered. Blood erupted out of it, as if something had exploded within the depths of the bowl, splattering everything and everyone within the magic circle.
The woman's screams, which had grown weaker and weaker, were stilled. Cut off abruptly.
Silence, heavy and chill, hung over the scene for a moment. No one moved.
And then the shaman coughed, breaking the stasis.
Neither Caesare nor Jagiellon appeared concerned about being showered in fresh blood, but something had plainly affected them. There were sweat beads on both foreheads, mingling with the splattered blood. Caesare's eyes were wild and mad, not dead as they had been moments before.
"Very powerful place. Very powerful man," grunted the shaman, fastidiously cleaning his drum.
"I know where he is going," growled Jagiellon. "The forces of light marshal against us. A pilgrimage. And he intends to go via Venice. Somehow this ties with the wedding of the other one. Marco Valdosta. That joining must be stopped. Or at least I must stop Lopez reaching the marshes where the Lion holds sway."
The shaman nodded and rubbed his shoulder, wincing as he did so, as if the shoulder was deeply bruised. "Lion is very strong. Even if the young one is still unskilled, he is strong."
"I do not like failure. You will keep watch around the Lion's borderland." Jagiellon cleaned the cleaver on the victim's hair. "We will consult with Count Mindaug. He has been studying the magics of the West. He thinks I am unaware of this. Maybe he will know of some trap we can set."
The shaman nodded, and the Count was sent for, as servants cleared the mess away, moving with swift and fearful silence. As well they might: Any one of them might be next, if they drew attention to themselves. Until today, the dead woman had been a chambermaid.
* * *
The Count did indeed have an answer. A stray fact plucked out of a grimoire from the Ravenna region, from the southern margin of the sequence of lagoons and floodlands that had once stretched all the way from there to Grado in the north. Just off the southern margin of the ancient marshlands lay a grove of oak trees. The local people would go nowhere near the place. Local legend said a terrible rite had raised something there, something so evil that everyone for miles around found a reason to avoid the spot. It was a lonely and not very fertile area anyway, full of mosquitoes and malarial fevers. It lay not far from the causeway that led to Ravenna, and then onwards along the coast toward Venice.
"I will open the way," said Jagiellon. "Take a form to travel on land. See what, if anything, lies in this place."
The shaman nodded and stripped off his jacket with a tinkling of brass bells. The old body that lay underneath the leather was also tattooed. And considering the age of that lined face, the shaman's body was in remarkably good shape. Scrawny, yes; but sinewy tough under the tattoos.
The old man blurred into a feral-looking dog with yellow mangy fur, and yellow eyes, and yellower teeth. The dog slipped into the tunnel that Jagiellon had made.
* * *
Some hours later the shaman returned. "Some old beast of kaos make nest there. There are old magics which let it survive. It is very strong but nearly mindless. It exists just to feed, master."
Jagiellon's cold eyes seemed to glow. "Ideal."
"It cannot leave that place, master. It would die."
"No matter," said Jagiellon. "We will lead the priest and his companions to the beast, before they can reach the marshes. If it fails to kill them, it may at least drive them back. I want him away from Venice, and Marco Valdosta. There is something about that meeting that I do not like the feel of. Your birds will continue to watch and follow when Lopez moves."
* * *
First babies, the wise old midwives all said, were hard. Hard on the mother, hard on themselves. Issie evidently agreed with the wise old midwives of canalside, for the closer came the day that Maria was due, the more horrifying became the tales the old woman dragged out of her memory. Tales of birth-struggles that lasted for a week; of every possible complication; of girls that died and babies that died; of both that died together. And she had the unmitigated gall to bring in all the other foresters' wives to regale Maria with still more tales of birth-horrors, until Maria wondered why so many of them had gone through the ordeal not once, but six or eight times.
Maria had cause to thank all the saints together that Umberto was never around to listen to these stories, or if he was around when Issie began one of her tales, he was so used to ignoring her that he really didn't hear what she was saying.
As for Maria—well, Issie had been one of the people who had tried to frighten her with stories of ferocious wild beasts in the forest. The wild beasts had been no more ferocious than the occasional hare or deer, and by this time, Maria was disinclined to believe any of Issie's tales.
