Eric Flint's Blog, page 334

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 25

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 25

From every direction, dragons were flying in: dragons in all colors and sizes.  All of them, that he could see, had the face of Chinese dragons, and many had the sinuous body that appeared in Chinese representations, as well, but they came in all sorts of tones, from light pastel to deep jewel red and blue and green: sometimes all in one individual.  They came flying in so fast that Tom thought half of them wouldn’t be able to land.  They came in so massed that sometimes it seemed two and three were flying almost one on top of the other, and it was amazing none of them collided, or entangled wings.

They landed, so close that it was like a crowd of people standing with no room to move their arms.  They stood, wing jostling wing, a moving mass of shining scales, large and small, bright and pale.

Tom understood, suddenly, a fact delivered by those sealed files at the back of his mind, that size was a function of age for dragons, as well as a function of natural heredity.  None of which explained his own size change.  He was almost sure that he hadn’t aged a hundred years in minutes.

And he wished he knew what to say to them.  As he thought this, he knew it — and also that he’d be able to speak clearly because he’d be using dragon language, delivered up by yet another of his files.  And yet he balked at it.  It wasn’t true.

But there was no point arguing with the instinctive knowledge of what to do.  He had a sense of how many times this ritual had been repeated — and only twice in error — throughout the millennia uncountable that dragons had been on Earth.  And that twice had been… best for the ritual to take place anyway.  Without the ritual, dragons wouldn’t have a head.  And it would be a bad, bad thing to have giant lizards, many of them only theoretically controlled, fanning out over the world and doing what they pleased to the non-shifting mass of humanity.

He felt his dragon-mouth adjust into unfamiliar shapes, as sounds came out of it, “I am the Great Sky Dragon,” he said, knowing he lied, but not caring just then.  “He is not dead.  He lives.”

As though in a ceremony in the church Tom had attended as a child, the audience seemed to have an instinctive reaction to this.

One on one, the shining bodies that made the parking lot look as though it were covered in a patchwork of shining, bejeweled cloth, dipped, as each dragon knelt his front legs and lowered his powerful neck and massive head towards the asphalt in a sign of respect.

Almost every dragon.  At the back, two, dark blue and huge, stood defiant, staring Tom in the eye.

* * *

Bea had gone to bed in the little loft bedroom which she, privately, thought of as “eagle’s nest.”  There was no reason to think of it that way and, on the face of it, it was a stupid designation, since she understood eagle nests were made of the usual twigs and stuff, and this space was as neat or neater than the rest of the house.

It was also, she understood, peculiarly Rafiel’s.

Over dinner, he’d told her that — as fond as he was of the house where he and his parents lived, in Goldport — all his favorite memories of childhood were bound up in this cabin, because when they were here, his often-busy father wasn’t distracted with police work or anything else, but was free to spend time with Rafiel.  And his mother who, in town, worked as a librarian and rarely had time for home cooking, much less baking, would bake endless batches of cookies and treats.  And Rafiel would be free to roam around the surrounding forest, after having been instructed on how to avoid dangers.

They’d come here, he told Bea, a lot of weekends, but also two solid weeks every summer, and about the like time at Christmas.  And because they were usually here on weekends when he was growing up — unless his father were working over the weekend — most of Rafiel’s hobbies and leisure stuff from when he was a kid were up here.

It seemed to be true.  She noted a telescope in a corner, which would have been fun — would probably still be fun — if one opened the skylight and pointed the telescope at it.  She noted, too, an assembled Lego robot of some sort in a corner.  And there were walkie talkies tucked in the same corner.

Not that there were many toys.  It was clear what remained must have had special significance to Rafiel and had stayed behind while the rest was discarded or put in storage.  What there was now in the room seemed to make it a comfortable retreat for a busy man.  One of the walls, short, at the end of the sloping ceiling, was bookcases, made of polished pine was double-stacked with colorful mystery paperbacks.

Agatha Christie, Carolynn Hart, and a lot of other names she recognized on scanning.  She would have to look at them more carefully during the day, she decided, but she felt oddly tired — perhaps by the drive, and the night air of the forest.

Or perhaps, she thought ruefully, it was that she had died and come back to life.  Seemed like an activity that would tire anyone out.

She shook her head.  No.  This was no time to think about it.  But it was no time to read either.  She felt lax and relaxed as she hadn’t been in a long time. Perhaps — of course — it was the very excellent bottle of Chianti that Rafiel had unearthed and opened for them after dinner.  That could be that, since she rarely drank and usually not half a bottle.

But now, her job was to get in a nightgown and in bed.  Rafiel had brought her a nightgown, still in plastic packaging, explaining, “No, it’s not my mom’s.  Mom and dad keep nightgowns, pajamas and t-shirts out here in about every size for when they have parties, so that if people drink too much mom can persuade them to stay overnight.”

The nightgown was actually a large-size t-shirt emblazoned with “Goldport Colorado, the Golden city.”

“I think mom bought them bulk when the city was changing designs or something,” he said.  “Anyway, there’s new toothbrushes in the drawer in your bathroom, and there should be toiletries in the cabinet under the sink.”

There was all that, and Bea laid out the night gown, brushed her teeth and took a long and reassuringly warm shower, before crawling into bed beneath a homey quilt.

Drifting to sleep, she hoped that Rafiel’s mom would get through to her parents.  And in the next moment, she was stark awake, with a message — no, a need — running through her head.

There were no words in it, or at least no words she recognized, but it was an imperative order.  She must get out of bed.  She must shift.  She must fly in the direction the need pulled her.

If the feelings in her had words, the words would be: The Great Sky Dragon has died.  The Great Sky dragon lives forever.  Every dragon within wing-reach of him must pay homage.

She had a fleeting thought that she couldn’t shift.  It was less than twenty four hours since she’d been dead.  And yet…  And yet, she must shift, the imperative was that serious.

The pangs of shifting twisted her muscles, as her bones tried to change shape.  If she didn’t obey the need, her body would do it anyway, and she would shift here, and be wedged in this room, possibly breaking half the furniture.

With all her will power, she held off the shift, as her hand found the button that Rafiel had shown her, the one that opened the skylight above.  The colder night air hit her on the face, as she stripped the nightgown.

Even standing on the bed, the skylight was impossibly above Bea’s reach.  She grabbed Rafiel’s desk chair and, with an apology to the sheets, set it on top the bed.  At least she wasn’t setting the chair on top of the quilt and risking tearing it.

Climbing on the chair, unsteady upon the mattress, she managed to grasp the edges of the skylight.  Pushing with her feet to get a better grip made the chair fall from under her, crashing sideways onto the floor.

It left her suspended from her hands from the skylight.  Fortunately, she was not a normal woman.

If there’s one thing growing wings does, Bea thought.  It’s to give you a set of arm muscles that would give Olympic lifters a case of envy.

She lifted her feet in a graceful gesture that would have made gymnasts cry.  And then, planting her bare feet against the side of the skylight, she pulled herself out, until she was stark naked, standing on the roof of the log cabin beside the skylight.

For a moment, she wondered what she would say if Rafiel appeared down in the room, or down in front of the cabin and asked what she was doing.

Fortunately the question didn’t arise.  Almost immediately her body started hurting for real, as breath was knocked out of her body by her muscles and bones twisting and changing, and by wings extending, strong as silk, translucent as a clouds from her shoulders.

She had barely changed when, the drive in her demanding it, she took to the sky, wings outspread.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 01

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 01
1636: The Devil’s Opera

by

Eric Flint and David Carrico

PART I

December 1635

Music directly imitates the passions or states of the soul . . . when one listens to music that imitates a certain passion, he becomes imbued with the same passion . . .

Aristotle

Chapter 1

          Simon came out to the river at least once a week, usually in the pre-dawn light, and walked the bank of the Elbe looking for anything he might scavenge and use or sell. Today the sun was just barely visible over the eastern bank of the river, and the dawn light had not yet dropped down to the shadowed eddy under the willow tree. There was something large floating in the water.

         He stared down at the floating corpse. It wasn’t the first one he’d ever seen in his young life. It wasn’t even the first one he’d seen in the river. But it was the first one he’d seen that he might be able to get something from, if he could only get to it. He edged down to where the water lapped on the bank where he stood, and for a moment crouched as if he was going to reach out and draw the body ashore. That moment passed, though, for as the light brightened he saw that there was no way he could reach the corpse without wading out into the water, which he was loath to do since he couldn’t swim.

The boy glanced around. There were no stout sticks nearby, so he had nothing at hand that he could maybe use to draw the body closer. He frowned. There might not be much in the man’s pockets, but anything would be more than he had.

His head jerked up at the sound of other voices coming nearer. No help for it now. He’d have to hope the men coming this way would give him something.

“Hai! This way. There’s a deader in the water by the tree.”

A moment later two of the local fisherman came bustling up. “Och, so there is,” the older of the two said. “Third one this year. Well, in you go, Fritz.”

“Me?” the younger man replied. “Make him do it.” He pointed at Simon, then ducked as the older man made to cuff his ear.

“And a right fool I’d be to send a lad with only one working arm out into even still water.”

The young man whined, “Why is it always me that has to go in the water after the deaders?”

“For I am your father, and I say so,” the older man replied. “Now get in there afore I knock you in.”

The younger man muttered, but he kicked off his shoes and stepped into the water, hissing as the chill moved up his legs. The boy shivered in sympathy as he watched, glad it wasn’t him getting wet in the winter breeze. Three strides had the corpse within reach, and Fritz drew it to the bank by one arm.

“Fresh one, this,” the older man grunted as he rifled the dead man’s pockets with practiced hands. “Ah, here’s something.” He lifted up something and showed his son. “One of them new clasp knives like Old Barnabas bought.” The boy watched with envy as the blade was folded out and then back again. It disappeared into the older man’s coat. “Help me turn him over, Fritz.”

They flipped the corpse onto its back. The dawn light fell on the face of the corpse, and men and boy stepped back at the sight of the bruises and cuts. “Scheisse,” the old fisherman said. “This one’s no drowning.” He shook himself and returning to rifling the clothing, feeling for pockets. “No money, not even a Halle pfennig. His coat’s worn worse than yours. His shoes . . . aye, they might do. Off with them now, and run them to your ma and tell her to set them near the fire to dry.”

Simon almost laughed to see the younger man struggling with the corpse to get the shoes off. “Ach, you worthless toad,” the older man shoved the young one out of the way and had the shoes off in a moment. “Now get with you, and I’d best not beat you back to the boat.”

He turned back to the boy. “Now, you, lad.” He looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Simon, isn’t it? Seen you about before, I have. Go find a watchman, one of these newfangled Polizei, and tell him that Johann the fisher has found a deader in the river. Say nothing to him about the knife and shoes, and tonight there will be a bowl of fish soup for you, and maybe a bit of bread to go with it. Fair enough?”

Simon didn’t think it was fair, but he gave a nod anyway, knowing that it was the best he would get. The older man returned the nod, and Simon turned to scramble back up the bank to find a city watchman.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 32

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 32

 

She was moved to a generosity of her own. She moved her power and set it lightly on his shoulders. “Hekate’s blessing goes with you. You will walk safe and silent in the darkness. It will cloak and hide you. And at the crossroads, the moon will light the right pathway for you, if you call on me.”

He seemed taken aback, perhaps at the generosity. “I can help you to get out.”

Now, she was touched. He did not need to do this thing, to offer safety to her, as he understood it. And he was not offering, thinking he would gain carnal favors of her. He did so because he — he liked her dogs. And thus, her. And he would do both of them a kindness.

But of course, he still did not know to what he spoke. “I am Hekate,” she told him, gravely. “I choose my path.”

*   *   *

Antimo Bartelozzi did not know what insanity had overtaken him. He’d seen enough sad sights and victims, and indeed, beautiful women, for the lifetimes of ten men. He’d never let that impair his judgment or distract him from his task. Why was he telling her all this? And offering to get her out of here? Had he been poisoned and was he in some kind of hallucination? That might be why her image was so strange. She seemed for an instant, to be the night itself. He shook his head, desperate to clear it. He wanted a goblet of wine. Badly and right now. But she wasn’t going away. She wasn’t, somehow, the kind of woman you could brush past, or merely excuse yourself, saying you had to get on with things. “Um. Can I offer you a glass of wine?” he said, awkwardly.

She nodded regally. “That would be acceptable.”

*   *   *

Libations and sacrifice at the crossroads were her due. It had been many years since anyone had done so much for her.

“We could go to the taverna on the corner I suppose. Just…ignore anything they say to you. It’s not really a place for…ladies.”

*   *   *

It was at a cross-roads. It also reminded her why she had always had the sky as her temple. Darkness was not something that She of the Night disliked. The stale smoky dimness of this place was less appealing. No one saw her, or her dogs. There were other women in the place. One of them even attempted to come and sit in the alcove near the back of the smoky room that this Antimo had led her to. Ripper growled, and she backed off, looking a little confused. “Two goblets. Of the good mavrodaphne,” said the celebrant to the servitor who came to ask what he’d have. He must be a celebrant, who had come to enact the ancient sacrifice and act of making a libation. That strengthened her, slightly. It had been many years since she last had had any true worship from humans.

“Two? You want some company, mister?” asked the servitor.

“No,” he said, his voice seeming harsh, almost angry for a second. The servitor looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. It was possible, considering the magic Antimo wove about himself, that this was true. He did not see Hekate at all, but that was how she desired it.

He brought the two goblets, and set them in front of Antimo. Wooden goblets, as appropriate. Antimo pushed one across the table to her.

Was that it, nowadays? No prayers? No songs? No respects?

“It’s surprisingly good wine,” said Antimo, reassuringly. “Taste it. I know it seems hard to believe coming from a place like this.”

She did. It was indeed good wine. Rich and full of fruit, full of the summer. It was the first thing that she had tasted for many generations and it brought back a flood of memory. She had always been associated with the fruits of fertility. With harvest and the birthing. There had been feasts under the harvest moon, and the best wine offered…

*   *   *

It wasn’t really a whine. Just a sort of well, what about us? comment from Ripper, accompanied by a nose against his elbow.

“Gently hound. I could have spilled that,” said Antimo. “I wouldn’t eat here myself, but dogs have a tougher digestion than most people. I suppose it is unfair at least from your point of view, eh?” He called the servitor over again. “I’ll have two bowls of stew.”

“Two. To keep the other goblet of wine company, mister,” said the fellow. “Well, you’re paying.” He brought two shallow bowls of meat and vegetables from the black pot hanging on a chain at the fireside. Antimo set them down. Hekate’s dogs didn’t even wait for them to get to the floor. Hekate did not say she wouldn’t have said no to the food herself. She did not, strictly speaking, need it. But this was the closest she had come to being part of the mortal world for a long time. Antimo seemed content to sip his wine, however. So she did likewise, working her magic on it.

“You will take some of this wine with you on your travels. Pour some out at the crossroads and call on me.” And then feeling a little odd — perhaps it was the wine after so many years, she stood up. “You must come back. My dogs and I will wait for you.”

This time, he made the pledge. “I will.”

She swept the night around her like a cloak and called Ripper and Ravener to her, and went out, to the third way. To her place.

*   *   *

Antimo sat looking into the gloom at the empty seat. What was all of this about? Why was he doing this? Was it all some kind of hallucination? But the bowls, when he picked them up, were empty and so — when he reached across and took it — was the crude wooden goblet. Only…it was no longer just a crude wooden goblet. Someone had carved into it, with artistry that was plain even in this poor light, a frieze around the body of it. A complicated scene of the chase, by the looks of it. Antimo quietly slipped it into his cotte, put a copper down to pay for it — or for the servitor’s pleasure, and left. Someone was complaining about how dim the taverna was.

He was a little afraid. He’d often been scared and in real danger, and he was used to controlling that fear. But this, this was something different and alien. He remembered the silky softness of the dogs ears and was somehow comforted.

He left town the next day as planned. But he had a wineskin filled with the wine from the taverna.

*   *   *

Two days later, at dusk, he left the group of cattle-buyers and struck out on the back roads. He was seeking a port to find a ship to take him back to Ferrara or, as his master had instructed, at least as far as Corfu, that he came to the crossroads.

The other three travelers had all stopped a little further back and were eating a simple supper. Antimo was a little wary about them. They were chance-met companions of the road…apparently. But two of them were even more vague about where they came from and where they were going. The other man was a farmer heading for the coast to buy a horse. He’d had a good harvest, and never owned a horse before. There were bargains to be had down at Echinos. He spoke of it as if it was the big city and not just a coastal village.

Antimo told them he was going to relieve himself. When he got to the crossroads, on the spur of the moment he pulled out the wineskin and spilled some out onto the ground “Hekate.”

The moon peered over the lip of cloud and seemed to brighten the left hand path.

“What did you say?” It was the young farmer.

He’d plainly overheard exactly. “Hekate. It’s…its an appeal for good luck and wise choices on a journey. An old superstition from my village.”

“Oh. I thought she was the witch-goddess of the underworld.”

The last thing he needed was a witch-hunt. “No. Just an old superstition about crossroads. I’m going to walk on a bit.”

“Oh. Yes. I don’t like those fellows. I’ll be getting along too. We can’t be that far from Echinos.”

Antimo noticed that he lingered a moment behind and spilled a little out of his wineskin onto the ground too. And that the other two had also got to their feet and were hastening to gather up their things and go after them through a dusk that was thickening, and shadows that seemed darker than usual. He and his companion quickened their pace; the road ahead seemed brighter, lit by moonlight that made the shadows behind all the darker.

He expected at any moment to hear the footsteps of the other two catching up with them. And, truth be told, felt for his knife, expecting he might have to use it. The farmer had been a little too open about the money he carried with him, and Antimo had a pack that might contain, well, anything. He didn’t want a fight; the farmer would certainly be useless, and two against one were never odds he liked.

But somehow, they must have taken the other track.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 31

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 31

 Chapter 21

Milan

 Fillipo Maria was delighted with the new conduit of news coming out of Venice. Details of the 48 pounders ordered, and how they were being fitted — along with the Arsenal guild masters varied reactions to it. The coming spring campaign was enough to make him chortle to himself. Firstly because by spring he planned to be ready for a fairly bloody summer — with a lot of Venice’s soldiery away. And secondly because his engineers had laughed at the bombards. The duke of Milan had nothing but disdain for the emperor of Byzantium and his rapidly shrinking and collapsing empire. But he must send Alexis word somehow. The news that Venice and Genoa would be engaged in far away wars was a good thing. They had territory that would be lost by the time they got back. And it fitted so well with his plans for Sforza.

*   *   *

Carlo Sforza read the report carefully. It was not why he had put the man in place, but it was still extra information, and valuable. Not for the first time did he ponder his future. A great condottiere had to keep winning. Not only did his mercenary soldiers need the loot and the morale boost, but his employers tended to have strong ideas about what they were paying for. Many of his peers were good at playing the part. Sforza had been good at doing the deeds. Now…Now he knew his employer wanted him to challenge Venice again.

And he did not wish to.

 

Vilna

 

Jagiellon sat on the throne, motionless. Someone more ignorant than the tongue-less slave that brought the message might have thought the Grand Duke deep in thought. But by now the slave knew better. Someone was going to die. His master used blood-rites in that chamber down in the dungeons. Blood rites and dark magics feared even here in pagan Lithuania.

The slave was correct. “Fetch me Count Tcherkas.” So he did. The count, like many of the nobility here, dabbled in magic. He was not in the league of Count Mindaug — but then Count Mindaug had gone to great lengths merely to seem an ineffectual academic. But the rituals the Grand Duke and the demon Chernobog used needed participation. And needed terror — both from the victim and from the perpetrator. Jagiellon was too far gone to feel human emotions. Tcherkas felt fear, revulsion and…eagerness, in the blood sacrifice and skin eating. It helped to penetrate the veil — not to Venice, but to Milan, deep within the western lands.

From there the news he could glean from Venice — where Chernobog dared not venture, not even in spirit — and other points of the Mediterranean was that the West was readying itself for a spring attack on Constantinople.

“Spring. By then it should hold, until the fleet from Odessa reaches there, even if the Venetians have somehow managed to work out a way to fire massive forty-eight pound bombards from the decks of their vessels without sinking them.”

Jagiellon turned to the count. “Send word. Alexis must be warned of this. The Byzantine emperor should concentrate his guns on the seaward walls, on the walls facing the Sea of Marmara as the great chain will keep the vessels out of the Golden Horn. That will keep them out of effective range.”

The count, still gagging from his meal, nodded.

Jagiellon went on as if he had not engaged in torturous blood rituals a scant hour before. “If Alexis can be kept from alternating between his depravities and total panic, he will hold the city. He is a weak reed, but at least that means that he is corruptible and malleable. I also want some men and weapons sent with the raider fleet to the coast of the sultanate of Pontus. The Baitini are squalling from Ilkhan lands.”

The demon was somewhat more concerned about this leg of his plans. It appeared that the laissez faire methods of Mongol rule were changing in response to the Baitinis’ attempts to instill panic and terror. Not — as they dreamed — cracking and disintegrating. He might have to spare some troops there to take Mongol pressure off the borders with Alexis’s Themes in Asia Minor. They would read great things into a small landing somewhere, and redouble their efforts. The demon did not care if they won or lost. He wanted westward geographic expansion for reasons that were not earthly.

 

Constantinople

 

Antimo quietly locked the door. The first two sets of his maps and coded notes had already been dispatched. A good spy also had to be a good scribe, and a patient copyist. He could lose six month’s work by not making multiple copies. He could lose his life by traveling with them. None-the-less he had copies of his notes. Not hidden in the obvious places like the soles of his shoes or lining of his bag. The church might not be forgiving if they read the Latin text of some of the bible he carried. With luck, which had favored him in the past, they would never see it and neither would anyone else.

Leaving at night was a risk — it meant getting over walls and bribing guards, and there was no need for that yet. It was, outside of the foreign quarters, still business as usual in Constantinople. Yes, trouble was coming as sure as sunrise, but not until springtime. A lifetime away. In the morning he’d be leaving quietly with a group of minor merchants going to a cattle sale some miles away. He wouldn’t be coming back with them. There were just a last few things to be arranged tonight.

He was unsurprised to see Red-ears and his sister there, tails wagging. He’d met Ripper and Ravener so often on his nightly walk-abouts that he’d taken to carrying a tit-bit or two with him. Dogs — they were always hungry. He’d been like that as boy himself. Maybe that was why boys and dogs had such an affinity. He hadn’t met their mistress again. Somehow he felt that was just as well.

But she was there, standing in the shadow.

*   *   *

He was plainly leaving the city. Hekate had watched him obsessively, she had to admit, for the last while. He intrigued her, he brought her out of herself. For so many centuries, she’d been wrapped in her grief, mostly oblivious to the marchings of the mortal world. That grief had not left her, and it never would. But now that she had begun to shake free of the total absorption of it, she was aware of so much that had changed. She had been peripherally aware of it, of course. But she just hadn’t cared enough to pay any amount of attention to it all.

The world had become a very strange place to her; she was forgotten as a goddess, and mentioned only obliquely. She had been so forgotten, in fact, that only the drink- and drug-addled and the mad could see her. And…those who still had magic, which were few, very few here. The only point of connection with this new world she’d found was the silent magic-user and his strange business.

What was he doing? It puzzled her. There must be some form of magic involved, she had at first concluded, what with the pacing, the writing, the complex diagrams. She could not imagine what else it could be.

But magic was something over which she had had some power, and which was a part of her, and she saw no trace of it in these workings of his.

Had that too gone from her?

No. Impossible. She still walked in the shadowed paths, she still, when she chose, could easily, trivially, work bits of sorcery that were beyond all but the most powerful of mortal magicians.

Was he in the service of some other god or goddess unknown? Was that why he did what he did? Were these some strange rites she did not recognize?

And now — now he was leaving.

She was Hekate. What did she care if one mortal moved away?

Yet she did. And the dogs would miss him. She parted the shadow so that when she spoke, he would see her.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He turned very cautiously. “I didn’t see you there, Lady. Just out.”

She shook her head, denying his words. “You are leaving the crossroads. This place.”

“I was trying to make that less than obvious. Yes. I have to go. You’ll take care of my friends here, will you?” He petted them, scratching behind their ears. Then, looking at the dogs. “I think you should leave here, if possible, as soon as is practical. There’s siege and war coming, probably sooner than they anticipate. That’s not kind to dogs or women.”

She knew that. Oh, how well she knew that. “Will you be coming back?” she asked, remembering. Remembering far too much. This man was…kind. Unexpectedly kind. He was warning her.

“It’s possible,” he said, cautiously. She sensed why. He did not want to lie, nor to promise what he could not do. “I go where I am sent. I may come back here to finalize things.”

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 24

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 24

“I know,” she said, very quietly, interrupting him.  “I know.  It’s not so much that you are afraid of going out.  You aren’t.  I’m not.  It’s that you’re concerned for how worried they are for you, and you want to make sure that nothing, nothing, ever happens to you that can hurt them.  You… you’re very protective of them, not the other way around.”

He looked at her, speechless, for a moment, then a small smile formed on his lips.  “Yeah.  You get it.  If they’d treated me badly when they found out–  If they’d been like Tom’s father when he kicked him out, if — then I would have been free to grow up, go away and … be on my own.  But they are the kindest people in the world, and they do everything they do to protect me, and they feel so guilty that they somehow passed this genetic doom to me, that the only thing I can do, the only thing I can think is how not to hurt them.  They were very worried when I was at college in Denver, you know.  They used to come up for dinner twice a week, and I ended up driving home most weekends, and everyone said I was mama’s boy, but that wasn’t it, you know?  That wasn’t it at all.  I didn’t want them to worry.”

“I understand.  I do the same thing with my parents,” Bea said.  “Which is why I was so worried that they might … you know… Worry themselves sick, or think the evil dragons had got me, or something.”

“Yeah,” he said.  His hand was on the kitchen isle.  “yeah.”

She touched his hand briefly, with her fingertips, then she said, lightly, casually, trying to make little of that touch, “We should eat.  Is the chicken ready?”

* * *

Tom looked at Conan, and it seemed to him he was looking at his friend as though from a long, long distance away.  Which was weird.  Objectively, he knew that Conan was just there, just out of reach of Tom’s outstretched  arm, if that far away.  He was just standing there, looking up at Tom, his eyes as wide as he could make them.  He’d removed his hat, revealing a wealth of very black, glossy hair.  In what remained of his performance outfit, clutching the guitar neck, he looked like a Chinese elementary school kid masquerading as a cowboy.  The impression was increased by his look of bewilderment.  “Tom, I must talk to you.”

In Tom’s ears, the words reverberated like something said a long way off, and through a membrane, echoing as weirdly as Tom’s own voice had sounded inside his skull for the longest time.  And Conan looked tiny, as did Rya and even Kyrie.  He could turn around and look at them, in turn, but while he knew they were all crowded right there around the counter, the feeling was that he was very alone in the middle of a vast circle of emptiness with all his friends looking on from a great distance.

He swallowed, hard.  Maybe this isn’t just the obtaining of some files.  Maybe there is more to this than just my receiving knowledge from the Great Sky Dragon.  A bad thought of how the Great Sky Dragon had spoken through his lips was dismissed, and instead he swallowed hard again, and heard his own voice vibrating oddly, trembling.  “Kyrie,” he said, probably louder than he intended, and full of the urgency of someone who feels his control falling away.  “Kyrie, please take over.  I… I need to talk to Conan for a moment.  It’s…”  Swallow to try to keep his voice clear.  “Important.”

Kyrie, looking up at his face, seemed like she’d argue, then decided not to.  She nodded.

Tom ducked under the pass-through, rushed down the hallway, not quite sure where he was going, but aware that Conan was following him, wherever that was.

They stepped outside the back door, and there was an alligator by the trash dumpster.  This was neither strange nor unexpected.  Old Joe, an old alligator shifter often hung out near the dumpster.  It had been rescuing a kitten from Old Joe’s happy-snapping jaws that had saddled Tom and Kyrie with a pet cat.

But old Joe didn’t even slow down Conan, which was odd, because Conan never trusted the alligator.

And as the warm air hit Tom, he felt something odd.  He felt like he was going to shift.  But it was like no shift he’d done before.

“Be careful,” Conan was saying.  “You can’t have them here.  Not unless you want to give the whole thing away.”

“What?” Tom asked, still feeling as though he were dizzy and nothing made much sense at all.

Now Conan was grasping his arm, squeezing, “Listen, Tom, before you shift.  You must pay attention.  The dragons are coming.  All the dragons.  All who can get here in time. You are now the Great Sky Dragon, aren’t you?”

Tom tried to make some protest, but he couldn’t quite speak, and then Conan said, “You are.  I knew it when I looked at you in the diner.  It was all I could do not to — I knew you’d be some day of course, but not… this soon.  Tom.  You must not shift here, or if you do you must fly away soon.  Where are you going?  Where are you going that the dragons can come?

“They’re coming, Tom.  You can’t stop it.  They’re coming to pay you homage, to see with their own eyes that we still have a leader.  And you must be where they can all land, and not be seen by everyone.”

* * *

The parking lot of the Three Luck Dragon, Tom thought.  And the idea was obvious, as was, in retrospect, the advantage of that place.  It explained why dragon gatherings took place there so often.  Set against the cup of a hillside, its near neighbors — a jewelry store with a prominent sign that it bought used gold, and a little hole-in-the-wall Laundromat — were closed at night.  Which left the parking lot — far more vast than should be needed by three such establishments — free for gatherings of large-bodied, flying, secretive creatures.

“The parking lot,” Tom said.  “Restaurant.”  And saw Conan nod, which was good, because Tom was already shifting.  And that was bad in itself, because they were in the parking lot, where customers of The George might see it.

Half lopping, feeling as though he were already losing control of his body, Tom rushed into the alley and behind dumpster.  Barely in time.  He’d just managed to duck behind the dumpster when the pain of shifting hit him, and he managed — just — to discard his clothes before they tore.  He was aware that Conan was doing the same, but it didn’t matter.  Shifting was a private hell, a nerve-ending searing experience that preempted all rational thought and made it impossible to see clearly.

When it was done, Tom realized Conan was indeed nearby, a red dragon, Chinese style, with the funny cat-like face of Chinese dragons and unusually long red whiskers.  Conan’s look at Tom was the first time Tom realized something was wrong.

Oh, not wrong, exactly.  But something was strange.  He’d been shifting into a dragon for over seven years.  By now he should know what his dragon felt like.  Only this felt different — bigger.

It was, he thought, like when he had a growth spurt as a young boy, and would for a few days feel as though his outlines, his sense of where his body was, had gotten horribly distorted.

Now, when he spread his wings their span was huge, and as he flapped them to get to the sky, he flew much faster.  He could sense Conan flying behind him, too, and he had a sudden, odd, impression of himself as having grown… what?  Two times as large as he’d been.  Note to self, shifting in a small powder room could kill you.

His size changed everything, including his perception of where he was going — or how long it would take to fly there.  But he managed, feeling as awkward and strange as a male adolescent in a suddenly large body.  Which, he thought, in the human mind at the back of the dragon’s thoughts, might very well be what he was.

The parking lot of the Three Luck Dragon seemed to rush up at him far too quickly, and he landed awkwardly near the closed doors, aware that even as he landed they opened, and two men already in the process of changing, rushed out to stand behind him.

He had no time to wonder who they were or where they’d come from.  It was as though his landing had been a signal, but more than likely his landing had been just in time.  Because this would have happened wherever he was:  as soon as he landed, he was aware of the sound of wings all around, a flapping noise, like sheets in the wind, like exceptionally large flags being whipped around.

He turned around, barely able to take in the sight.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 30

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 30

 

“To destroy it for ever so that I can have a better world for my daughter,” said Benito, lightly. “That’s what I want, but it is not what I’ll get.”

Androcles was amused now. “And what do you hope to get?

“I need to take a fleet all the way to Constantinople. In the teeth of winter. That is neither wise nor easy. But I believe it must be done. So we will do it. But I could use some help with the weather.”

Juliette snorted delicately. “Try gods.”

Benito ignored the comment. “You are more weather wise than we humans are. And I have heard tell you can communicate over long distances.”

Androcles wagged his head a bit. “It would be hard to be less weather wise than humans. And sound travels well underwater. We can hear sounds ten or twelve leagues away.”

“There are ports along the way, or at least sheltered anchorages we can use — if we are not caught too far from them. What I want is some kind of advance warning.”

“It’s not wise to cheat the sea of its prey,” said Androcles, with the air of someone testing waters.

Benito shrugged. “Please. This is me you are talking to. I’m not wise.”

“He even cheated the Lord of the Dead of his bride,” Juliette reminded all of them. With cautious admiration.

Benito squeezed Maria’s shoulder. “As much as I was able.”

“More than most humans,” said Androcles, but he nodded. “Very well. Something can be arranged. But there is a price.”

“If we can afford it, it is yours,” said Benito, sounding as if he was one of the best bargainers on the canals. He probably was, thought Maria, with an inward smile to herself. He’d started hard and young, no matter where he’d risen to.

“Ah. Nothing you cannot afford. A drop of your blood on the water when you wish to call us, and a little something that Venice can afford. Besides the fact that we owe the healer, it seems wise to be on the right side of you,” said Androcles disarmingly.

“And he is my god-daughter’s father,” said Juliette, coming forward to touch Alessia.

“What is it that you want?” asked Benito.

“A piece of water to call our own. A place where no-one fouls and no one fishes. A couple of acres here, within the Lion’s shelter, that we can call our own. If ill times are coming, we’ll need it.” By the sudden sober look on the triton’s face, this had been something the mer-folk had long desired. Maria understood. Sanctuary, under the shadow of the Lion…valuable. Worth, to them, more than pearls. If they could not be safe with the Lion to guard, they could not be safe anywhere.

Benito nodded. Maria knew it would not be easy to police, although Doge Petro could make it legally so at the stroke of a pen. She was a canaler. You could hardly be that without knowing that the writ of the law as to fishing rights was often trespassed on, and the offenders were seldom caught. And she had a strong feeling these were not folk you could casually give your word to. So she said so.

“We’ll tell you who breaks the bargain. There are always some who will go too far for fish.” Juliette looked pointedly at the triton

He grinned, showing sharp teeth. “It will be up to you landfolk to punish them. We will know if you do not.”

Benito nodded. “I will talk to Petro about it, but I think I can safely promise it. He knows the value of sanctuary — and allies.”

Maria planned to take it a step further. She’d talk to the canalers about it. There’d be enough of them heading out with her Benito. It was not a deal to be turned down. The canal people were superstitious enough to keep each other out of the protected water, just in case.

Marco, who still practiced most of his medicine among the Venice’s poor and probably knew them as well as Maria did, obviously thought likewise. “I will talk to the canalers. Keeping their loved ones safe from the ravages of the sea while on this voyage is a bargain they’ll find hard to refuse, I think. And if they agree…well, their word is good. With all respect to Petro, it would be of more value than any piece of pap…”

They all felt it then. A cold that had nothing to do with temperature, the shiver down the spine, the touch at the back of the neck. And the power, oh yes, the power. The two merpeople vanished. Slipped away under the water like ghosts. Someone else had entered the water-chapel, although the door was still closed. They could all feel his cold presence behind them. Maria was chilled to the bone, and she held tightly onto Benito and her daughter.

They turned, slowly, to face Aidoneus, lord of the cold halls of the dead. Once again, Maria was struck by his beauty. How could a thing that ruled the dead be so handsome?

He inclined his head, unsmiling. “My bride,” he said.

She had known this was coming. She just had hoped for more time. But he would come when he would come, by his own calendar — and by his calendar, winter was about to begin.

Maria felt Benito tense. “For four months,” she said calmly, squeezing Benito’s shoulder. “That was our bargain. I honor my bargains. Benito will honor his.”

Aidoneus nodded. “I will keep her safe. And keep my bargain.”

Maria took a deep breath. “And him. Now…I need to bid them goodbye.” Her voice cracked slightly. She had meant to keep her self-control. But…four months. Four months of no Benito. No little ‘Lessi…Four months among the dead, four months being the sole living creature in those cold, silent halls…already she ached fiercely for them, and she had not said goodbye.

“If you don’t want…” Benito began.

Maria shook her head, fiercely. “A bargain is a bargain. I keep mine. And I’ll be back in the spring. I promise.”

Benito took a deep breath. “Or I’ll be there to fetch you. And this time…” He left the threat unspoken.

“I will keep my bargain too,” said Aidoneus to Benito, gravely, and with no sign of insult. “Not because that is my nature, but I would be foolish not to. She is not someone to anger, lightly. And I need her. She brings life to my lands. That is no small thing.”

Benito grimaced, and being Benito, could not forbear but try for a joke of some kind. She understood why. The cold…it froze a man’s soul. No wonder Aidoneus wanted Maria’s fire. “And she throws plates. And anything else she can get her hands on. And she has a temper and a voice that will probably blow those mists of yours away. Very well. I accept it. But I don’t have to like it.”

Benito turned to his wife and folded her in his arms, a stocky, short man, with muscles like rope, binding her. She could feel his anger and his sadness. And she could feel that he loved her, that if he could he would take her place, he would go again to the land of the dead to bring her out.

“I’ve done it once,” he said quietly to her, confirming what she felt. “If need be I’ll do it twice.”

She hugged him, unable to speak. She kissed and cried a little over her baby. And then she put her child in her father’s arms, and turned away and walked beside Aidoneus into the misty archway that had opened ahead of them. It was quite the hardest thing she’d ever done. If she’d turned back to see him and their daughter standing there beside the greenish water of the water-chapel…she knew she’d fail.

But she had a bargain to keep.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 23

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 23

Chapter 14

When they returned to the diner’s dining room, Conan was standing up, in the little circle they had cleared for his performance.  Somehow it had got much smaller, with various people crowding around, all trying to talk to him.

He had his guitar in one hand, and was bowing, seemingly in response to everything addressed to him.  Tom patted Kyrie on the shoulder.  “I go rescue the poor man, you make sure people have food and stuff, if they linger, and that no one leaves without paying.”

It was easier said than done, but on the other hand, the diner seemed to have a acquired several volunteer servers.  “They said they’re regulars,” Jason said.  He was red-faced and looked beat, but was grinning.  “And Anthony confirmed it.  Some guy called James Stephens who said he’s half a horse, and a big man who goes by Professor Squeak.”

“Oh, Professor Roberts.”

“Is he really?” Jason asked, as he and Kyrie crossed back and forth giving warm-ups and bussing tables.

“A professor?  Yeah. Pharmacology.  CUG school of medicine.”

“Oh, wow.  I thought he was just nuts.  He started telling me how he had all these names, including Speaker To Lab Animals and Professor Squeak.”

Kyrie hesitated, but in the press of people it wasn’t a good time to mention shape shifting, so she just said, “He’s eccentric, but a very nice man.”

“Yeah, well, he was taking orders and stuff, and didn’t know what to do with tips.”

“Well, no,” Kyrie said, when their paths crossed again.

Their desultory conversation wound down as the diner returned to normal activity for that time of night — almost empty with only three tables still occupied by large groups.  Three or four people remained near Conan too, one of them the fiercely protective Rya who was standing between him and a large, well dressed man, who was trying to talk to Conan about something.

Kyrie looked over at Tom, who leaned over one of the tables, talking to regulars, a smile on his face as he traded jokes with the man they’d long known as The Poet, who turned out to be Rya Simmons’ father, Mike.

He looked… natural, Kyrie thought.  Or at least, if she hadn’t known that something was very wrong, she would have thought that he looked perfectly natural.  He seemed tired, of course, and moving in a slightly forced way, like someone valiantly dragging himself past his last ounce of strength and will power.  But there was nothing unusual, no odd movements, as he picked up the tray with the used plates, and laid down the accounting for the table of seven people.

“So, do you think he’ll make enough to marry my daughter?” Rya’s father asked Tom with a wink, as Kyrie approached them.

“He has asked?” Tom said.  “Braver than I thought.”

“She’s probably asked him,” Mike conceded with a smile.  A retired TV weatherman, he was writing a novel in his sleepless nights, to stay conscious and not turn into a were fox.  He’d left his daughter at five, trying to avoid tainting his family with his weirdness.  But when his daughter had started shifting herself, she had found him.  “But I’ve heard a lot of talk about it.”

“Well!  I’d be happy about it,” Tom said, and for just a moment his voice reverberated oddly, seeming to echo off the walls of the diner, and seemed to be imbued with authority and knowledge that had never been Tom’s. He must have noticed it too, and the people at the table all stared up at him, but then Tom cleared his throat, “Anyway, at least he didn’t completely tank and chase our customers away.  I’m not sure how much we made, but it was a lot.”

“Well, then, maybe you should give my future son in law a cut?” Mike said only half joking.

Tom assured him he intended to do just that, then went back to the counter, with Kyrie trailing him anxiously.

Behind the counter, Anthony was removing his apron, with an air of grim determination, “I have to go Tom, now, really.  My wife is threatening to change the locks.”

Tom nodded to him, as he set down the tray loaded with dirty dishes, and put them in an holding area, waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle.  “We’ll see how much we made, and make sure you get a cut, too,” Tom said.

“Well, that might help.  We need to move to a bigger apartment.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, you know.  There will be a kid, sometime in fall.”

Was Tom’s smile a little forced as he said “Congratulations”?  And even Kyrie couldn’t avoid a pang as Anthony beamed at them, “About time you two had some, but you got to get married first!  And think about it.  Our kids could play together.”

“Our kid would totally beat up your kid,” Tom said, but it was automatic.

From the other side of the counter, leaning on it, Rya said, “Mr. Ormson!”  She’d been introduced to Tom as Tom, and to Kyrie as Kyrie, but she insisted on calling them Mr. Ormson and Ms. Smith.  Which was funny, since she was probably only two years or so younger than Kyrie.  “Mr. Ormson.  You’ll let Conan sing on Wednesdays, right?  Here?”  Conan, standing behind her, looked hopeful.  Behind him were two men, also looking hopeful.

Tom turned around.  There were dark circles around his eyes, but his gaze had a strange brilliance.  “I’d rather he sings Saturdays, though we might need to come up with some new table arrangement to get more people in, why?”

“They,” Rya gestured to the two men nearby.  “Want to hire Conan to sing at their bars, and I was saying he shouldn’t do that, when he has worked for you all this time, and you’re friends and –”

The two men started up with a babble of explanations from which the word “non exclusive” emerged.  Tom nodded.  “I don’t see why he can’t sing for them other nights.  I’ll take the night he can give us.  It’s a small venue here, anyway, but, Conan, don’t sign anything without getting it looked at by a lawyer.”  And on those words, the reverberation was back, the sound of authority.  Conan raised his eyes at it, staring at Tom with wide open eyes, as Tom went on, “My dad will help you out, when he comes to visit.  Just don’t sign anything till he tells you it’s okay.”

Conan didn’t answer.  He was still staring at Tom.  He pushed Rya gently aside.  He tried to get under the pass through, but the hat caught.  He looked as if he would speak, but then realized there were non-shifters nearby.  He swallowed hard.

“Tom,” he said.  “I must talk to you.”

* * *

“No, Mother,” Rafiel said.  “No, I’m not lying to you.  Yes, I’m quite sure I’m all right.  Well, I wasn’t there for a while.  No.  It was a fight that… well, it doesn’t matter.  Yes, a fight with a creature.  You could say that.  Yes, very much like the saber tooth last winter, but this one is female.  No, not that type of female.”

There was a pause.  Bea watched his face, attentive, patient and more than a little bit embarrassed.  “Well,” he said.  “No.  I hope not.  She almost killed me.  No.  I’m fine now.  You know how quickly I heal.”

“Beg your pardon?  No, I’m fairly sure I didn’t break Stephanie’s heart!  I never even met her.  Mother!  When I was five doesn’t count.  And I’m sure she’s forgiven me for breaking her doll by now.  No, I don’t think I need to marry her to repair that particular sin.”

There was a long interval in which he answered her questions, and slowly, Bea started to realize what they had in common and why he had felt so familiar to her.

He finished, hesitantly with, “Mom, could you call this number?” he took the number Bea had earlier scrawled on a paper napkin.  “Tell them their daughter is all right, that you don’t have any details, but she’s safe and will come home as soon as possible.  I… Don’t mention any names, certainly not my name.”

There was a silence, and red climbed up his cheeks.  “No.  I… no.  It’s related to that attack.  Besides, the Dragon Triad is after her.  Uh?  No.  Not involved.”  And suddenly he was looking up at Bea, and she realized for the first time that while the eye that had been injured looked somewhat blood-shot it wasn’t missing anymore — no longer a mass of dried, black blood.  Instead, it was a normal eye which, like the other eye, was the color of dark, aged brandy.  And both of them twinkled with amusement.  “She’s very nice.  No.  Well, we’ll see.  Maybe you’ll get to meet her.”

Rafiel hung up, and Bea had time to control the heat on her cheeks.  She said, slowly, “Your parents… are very protective.”

And now he turned around, and now his cheeks were red, and he was trying to explain, stammering, “No, this is the thing, see, they found out I could shift at 13, and Kyrie and Tom think I’m some sort of wimp because I still live at home, but the thing is, it’s not that I’m afraid of going out, it’s –”

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 29

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 29

 

He paused and took a long drink from the goblet of wine that was given to him. “We had no trouble from there to until we entered the Bosphorus, although vessels were sighted. We were a goodly company. And we were glad of it, Monsignors. It’s time the pirates and Byzantines were taught to respect the ships of Venice.”

“And, by the sounds of it, of Genoa.”

The fleet admiral laughed. “You should have heard the Genoese senior captain’s reaction when the emperor demanded half of the Genoese vessels’ cargo too. They’re used to Byzantines trying to play them off against us, not being treated like us. Alexis would have it that if they’d sail with our fleet, they could be taxed with us. I hear he was uninterested in their suggestion that he deploy his navy — not that it’s up to much — against the pirates in the Black sea. They’re too organized, Monsignor, just to be a rabble fleet. We need to take steps to see to our trade.”

“We plan to, Admiral. We plan to return to Constantinople long before spring with a sharp rebuke for a little emperor for breaching the terms of our treaty. It’s a pity that the rebellion in Opiskon appears to have fizzled out.”

Peering around the screen again Benito saw the Eastern Fleet admiral nod approvingly. “Not a moment too soon, Monsignors. You’ll find our crews keen enough to join the expedition. Emperor Alexis hurt our pride, and worse, our profits. Many’s the colleganza that’ll be cursing him tonight. Give the men a week ashore…”

That was what Benito needed to hear: The admiral’s assessment of the response of the men. Benito realized he should have guessed how far astray Emperor Alexius would let his greed lead him. It was not just the wealthy of Venice who traded Outremer. Even the lowliest seaman had a small share in a colleganza — a trading collective. A canny man could make himself a good profit — five times his investment — if he chose his goods and traders well. Those ordinary seamen would have lost money. Their retirement money for the older men, their weddings for the younger. The populi minuta would be angry and ready to put to sea again, despite the fact that it would be cold and wet at this season. He made a mental note to see what he could do to improve conditions on board. Half-frozen rowers on the galleys would not help their need for speed at all. Petro would complain about the money for oilskins and woolen hats, but not too much. Swords, powder and ball, arrows…no one quibbled about the need for those. But Benito had already heard Admiral Douro in the Arsenal, who skimped nothing for his own comfort, attempting to cut corners on the well-being of his crews. That would not stand, not on Benito’s watch.

The interview with the admiral of the Eastern Fleet continued for some time, refining details and clearing up points. Benito listened. And began to calculate on how many ships Venice could put at sea. He was pretty sure the lists in the Piazza San Marco would filling up within the next few days. Men would be signing up to join Venice on a punitive expedition to Constantinople. Benito had his name at the head of those lists. That would be popular. He also — and this would be a lot less popular — did not want to cripple and loot Constantinople. By the sounds of it they might need a bulwark against the east if these Baitini succeeded in their plans to subvert the Ilkhan’s empire from within. That sort of thinking was not likely to appeal to men who had just lost the little they had.

Later he set off in search of Marco. One look at his brother’s face told him that the admiral of the Eastern Fleet’s news was being carried along by hundreds of lesser channels. He also had that impatient, almost fevered Marcus-the-healer look. So the ships had brought more than just bad news.

“What is it, Benito? I need to get down to Fondamenta Zattere Ponto Lungo. There are some sick children. They have been very crowded on the Eastern Fleet vessels, with everyone trying to get out of Constantinople and Trebizond. They left some at Negroponte and at Corfu, but they were still crowded.”

Benito came straight to the point. “I need you and Brother Mascoli to take me down to the water chapel. Where you took me to meet the water-people.”

Marco nodded, quite as if he had expected this. Perhaps he had; who knew what the Lion whispered in his thoughts? “This evening? I really must go right now. I’d rather treat sick children immediately than let them scatter into the city and spread diseases around far and wide. Bring your daughter with you. Her godmother should see her.”

That, Benito had not expected. “I want to ask them for aid — again — in getting a fleet to Constantinople. Do you really think I should bring Alessia?”

Marco nodded. “It will do no harm to remind them of the bond between you.”

Benito pulled a face. “I don’t think they take very well to blackmail.”

But none-the-less he had her and Maria with him that evening when they made their way down to the consecrated water-chapel below the chapel of St. Raphaella. The undine Juliette and the triton Androcles came, as they waited. Benito saw the raised eyebrows of Juliette the undine, as she saw him holding Alessia “I see she has found her father. We’d heard about that.” Then she saw Maria, who had stayed back a little. She bowed with profound respect, disturbing the hair that cloaked her ample bare breasts. “I could wish we met again in better times, Lady of the Dead.”

*   *   *

Maria had wanted to properly thank the mer-woman who had stood in for Umberto’s sister at the christening of her daughter. She still had some of the canal-woman’s fear of the below-water dwellers, but her time as an acolyte of the Mother Goddess had broadened her perspectives a little.

But she still had not expected this non-human, so far away from little Corfu to know that much, or to call her by a title she did not really relish. “What? How –”

“He follows you,” said Juliette. “We can see. He longs for you, and for your strength. He comes. Soon.”

Maria felt the tears prick her eyelids, and fear gnaw at her belly. Fear of leaving her daughter. Fear of leaving the man she loved. Not fear for herself…but also fear because the last time she’d felt this sick she’d been pregnant. And she was just a little late. She hadn’t told Benito this small fact yet. He had enough to contend with.

She looked at Benito. He was studying the merpeople in a way that she’d learned meant he was looking for an angle to use with them. And plainly not finding it as easy as he usually did. “I need help,” he finally said.

A direct admission from Benito? He must be more worried than he’d let on.

The mer-folks’ eyes narrowed, but not with dislike, more in the manner of a shrewd merchant about to bargain. The triton spoke, “Not something we give easily or for no reason. Or for free, fire-spirit.”

Benito nodded. “I thought that would be the case. You remember the magical creature that tried to kill Marco. That attacked the ships.”

“Lamprey. Magical. Something we’d rather stay away from,” said Androcles, sinking back down into the water.

Benito spoke quickly, before he could move too far away. “I think more are coming. Or at least the monster’s master comes. He likes using the water for his servants.” That arrested the two merpeople, who had plainly been about to depart.

Now their eyes narrowed again, but with slow anger. Not for Benito but…yes. He had them. “What do you want?” Juliette asked.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 28

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 28

 PART III

November, 1540 A.D.

 Chapter 20

Venice

 Benito had long since decided that he could deal with almost anything better than goodbyes. This one was far worse than any other. Yet there was no way he could leave without saying goodbye to Maria and Alessia. Life was too short and fragile and precious for that. He knew that the task ahead was fraught and that Maria would be going to Aidoneus’ shadowy kingdom soon. It was almost enough to make him put his daughter on the ship with him. But at least there was Marco here in Venice, and Katerina as well. Marco and the spirit of the lion of St. Mark. And although there were differences between the brothers, there was no-one Benito knew he could trust more, and a child would not be safe on the ship. Not where he was going. And she would be even less safe alone in Corfu. The time was coming.

The fleet was almost ready. The fast galleys that had sailed out of the gates of Hercules had returned and were in the final stages of refitting. Word was in from Genoa that their vessels were ready to sail within three weeks for the meeting at Corfu, along with the Aragonese. Little did they know that they would not be overwintering there. A winter expedition was madness…but such was the reputation that sailed with the fleets, that there was no shortage of madmen willing to gamble on the weather. The first relief had come to Corfu in winter despite the weather.

Benito had no intention of gambling. He had instead the intent of gathering some aid. Reluctant aid, maybe. But aid anyway. He went in search of Marco. He expected to find him in the Church of St. Raphaella, which was fine as it was where they needed to go. Instead he ran into him, smiling, on the stairs leading up to the Doge’s palace. “The fleet’s been sighted. The fleet from the Black Sea. Maybe there will be no need of all this.”

Marco always hoped to avoid war. Well, the part of Marco that was Marco-the-healer did. The part that was Marco-the-lion did not. Benito had decided, when he was still a boy, that if a fight was inevitable anyway, you might as well get over and done with, on your own terms. He doubted if the fleet’s return meant anything good. But there was no sense in dampening Marco’s hopes. He’d bet the news from the fleet would do that anyway.

And Benito was not disappointed; a wise man had once told him, “a pessimist is never unpleasantly surprised,” and when it came to war, he supposed he must be a pessimist. He was allowed — a rare and doubtful privilege — to sit quietly behind a screen in a discrete private salon in the Doge’s palace while the admiral of the Eastern Fleet reported to the Council of Ten.

“Monsignors, Doge Petro,” said the admiral. “We have two thirds-empty holds, and we have several vessels barely fit to sail. We abandoned two at the little Arsenal in Corfu — although we have brought home a few prizes from the attack we suffered. They’re not worth much, though. There’s trouble brewing, big trouble, with the eastern trade. Emperor Alexis demanded a high toll for our passage. Half our cargo, and the vessels were less than full anyway.”

“That’s a direct contravention of the treaty of Tarsus,” said one of the Council members. They were masked, as usual. But Benito had a good idea who it was by the voice and intonation.

“The Venetian ambassador, Signor Porchelli, made representation to the emperor. He was lucky to get away with his life, Monsignors. The emperor has gone completely mad, we think. He said he did not care. We could pay and go or stay and be sunk. He said that he has no need to fear Venice any more. Constantinople is restive and afraid. They prepare for war. The Venetian quarter is sealed off. Our people there fear a massacre.”

“They surely would not dare.”

The Eastern Fleet admiral shook his head. “I think the Byzantine generals are reluctant, Monsignors, but Alexis’s mercenaries…they see the prospect of rich loot. We paid and brought many of the women and children with us. Also some of the reserves of goods and gold our traders there held for their houses.”

Benito knew what that meant: very, very scared merchants. Without much gold, or stock, their ability to trade would be severely curtailed, and for a Venetian merchant house, death was almost preferable.

“The fleet is early, and you left Trebizond early. Without full holds, to judge by your statements.” That was Petro. Benito knew the voice too well to be mistaken.

“Yes Monsignors. We had little choice. The Venetian podesta there made the decision, and it was a wise one, as events proved.”

Peering from behind the screen in the dimly-lit room — the Council preferred it so to preserve their anonymity, which kept them from undue influence and of course, assassination — Benito could see the admiral of the Eastern Fleet tugging his beard nervously. The council did not like rash admirals. They liked over-cautious ones even less. Lemnossa was a wily old bird by all reports, but the Council could be judgmental and vindictive. And the Venetian Republic had lost money.

“We have had trouble in Trebizond, Monsignors. The Baitini have moved against the local satrap. So far the Ilkhan has done nothing.”

“Baitini?”

“A sect of the worshippers of Mahomet, considered by many of their co-religionists to be heretical. A dangerous sect the Ilkhan all but crushed nearly a century ago. They were the last major force to stand against the Mongol in Damascus and their other secretive great fortress, Alamut. They ruled by fear and assassination, rather than by overt power. They were the power behind the throne. They believe they have a special relationship with God.”

“Don’t all sects?” said someone.

“These are very fanatical, Monsignors. They were suppressed, but lately the Venetian merchants in Trebizond say that they have become more open in their extortion and murder. The city is in ferment. The Venetian quarter is an armed camp. Trade is severely curtailed, with caravans from Hind reported as going to other ports. A small fleet left early, as some do every year. They never returned.”

“What?”

“It appears they were attacked by another fleet, Monsignors. A fleet of galleys coming from Odessa, judging by sail-setting and their garb. Two sailors survived, clinging to some flotsam, and made their way overland, back to Trebizond. One of them was murdered, in the streets of Trebizond. The Baitini are working in concert with these raiders. They tried to kill both of the sailors, and it is only by the grace of God that one escaped the murderers to tell us his story. But even given that the man who survived was traumatized and just a common sailor, we knew that the size of the rover-fleet was substantial.”

“It appears that the duke of Genoa will have his pirate problem.”

“Yes, Monsignors. I had not got there yet, but seven vessels of the State of Genoa — well, we met them several day’s sail from the port of Sinope. They signaled us, and as we outnumbered them and outgunned them, we allowed a small boat to come across to us. They sought to join our fleet, seeking protection as fellow Christians from the pirate fleet that had barred their way. They had been driven out of Theodosia, and lost five vessels, and suffered considerable loss of life. We — out of Christian charity and to swell our numbers — allowed them to join our fleet. We encountered their attackers in some force a day out of Herculea. We were prepared and ready for the conflict, and they were…shall we say, unskilled, Monsignors. Bloodthirsty but unskilled. There were only some thirty galleys, and so with our allies we outnumbered them, and they were tricked into allowing us to fire broadsides at them. Their ships are merely equipped with bow and stern chasers, and they’re poor gunners. The long and the short it is we beat them off with some loss of life and damage on our part, but not a vessel lost. We sank seven of them, and captured four, although we scuttled one as she was in no state to be sailed at any speed.”

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 22

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 22

Kyrie let go of his shoulder now, and went to the shelves that were stacked with mustard pots.  She started turning them so they all faced the same way, and spoke as though to the mustard pots.  “I don’t think I like this,” she said.  “I don’t like the idea that there’s… other… that there are other people in there.”

“They’re not people.  More like… the information in people,” he said slowly, more sure as he went along and touched each file, without opening it, and yet getting from it a listing of contents.  “Like, what they learned.”

“Don’t care.  Where did this came from?  Who downloaded it?”

“I think,” Tom said slowly.  “I feel it was the Great Sky Dragon, only that’s not quite right.”

“Damn him.  First Bea, now this.”

“Well –”

“We’ll go and talk to him.  Are you going to be all right?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, making tentative movements, and taking a step towards Kyrie.  It all worked fine.  “I just… I think I was momentarily overloaded.  It was very hard not to shift.  I was afraid I’d eat Conan.  How is he doing, by the way?”

“What?”

“How is his show going?  I remember hearing clapping.”

“Oh, yes.  He can sing, Tom.  He really can.  They’re … people love it, and he’s lapping it up, even if he has the world’s worst taste in clothes.”

“We should go out there, Kyrie,” Tom said, feeling he had to do something normal, to act normal in some way or he was going to implode.  Inside him, the locked information was like a sore tooth that one tries to avoid touching with one’s tongue, but which one is aware of at all times.  “We should be selling stuff, and making sure the serving stuff isn’t overloaded.  I suppose Laura has left now, and she was never supposed to serve, anyway, which leaves Jason serving and Anthony manning the fryer.  He might forget to keep a close eye.  What if the fryer explodes?”

“You have a weird relationship with that fryer,” Kyrie said.

Tom grinned at her, and this time didn’t feel like he had to force it.  “I don’t like things that can destroy the diner if they blow up.”

“Like half the customers?”

“Well, that too, but then so can I.  I meant …”

“I know what you meant.”  Kyrie touched his arm tentatively.  “On the good side, you’re no longer burning.”

“No, I think that too was a function of the… download,” he said.  He opened the door to her and waited for her to step through.

She started to, but then turned around. Through the open door came the strains of “you are not alone,” in a powerful voice no one could believe could come from Conan’s unimpressive frame.  “Tom?  What was that you said?  When I touched you first?  Was it… what language was it.”

Tom had no idea what she was talking about, at first, but then remembered pronouncing words, words that made his throat hurt in pronouncing them.  He remembered their coming out of his mouth, though he didn’t remember forming them in his brain, and as he thought of them, his mind automatically zoomed in on one of the more deeply-buried files, the ones that his brain told him were oldest.

A touch brought up memories of a language that sounded like that, though he needed to make an effort to open the subfile for all the words he’d heard.  Words in a language whose sounds made his throat hurt with remembered injury poured out, their meaning felt rather than known as such.

He squinted against the stronger light coming from the hallway, against the sound of clapping out there.  He tried to concentrate on English, as the other language blurred and blended with it, the edges indistinct.

“It was…” He said.  “I am not… gon… no.  I am not dead.  I’m… covered? Hidden?  No.  Buried.  I am buried … beneath… the dragon.”

* * *

He cleaned up nice, Bea thought.  And on the heels of that was shocked at herself for letting her guard down.

There was something faintly scandalous about the whole situation, anyway.  She was in this cabin in the woods, isolated, with a man she had never met until a few hours ago, and he’d just come out of the shower, smelling of soap and shampoo.

He was wearing what looked like running shorts, very short and loose, and a tan t-shirt that had a picture of a big lion with “The Lion Sleeps IN Tonight.”  Her eyes widened a little at the words, remembering he shifted into a lion, and he followed her eyes, and had the grace to blush.  “My mom gave it to me,” he said.  “When I was twenty or so, because, you know, it’s what I wear on weekends, when I do sleep in.”

She nodded, but still felt uncomfortable.  Not because she felt they were too intimate, but because she didn’t feel shocked at their being so intimate.  There should be… more embarrassment, she thought, rather than just embarrassment at not being embarrassed.

With a shrug at her own foolishness, she said, “I found some steaks and stuff, but they’re all frozen.”

“We can defrost them,” he said.  “We have the technology!”  He opened a sliding door to display a wall-mounted microwave discretely hidden behind it.  “Mom just doesn’t like to give the impression that this is in the twenty first century, you know — but it doesn’t mean she wants to cook over an open fire.  Though we do that too, at times.  There’s a grill out back.”

“Yeah,” Bea said, blushing a little, and not sure why.  “Only, you know, I think steak is better if it is allowed to defrost properly right?”

“Right, and marinade,” Rafiel said.  “What else do we have?”

“Well, you have a bunch of frozen veggies.”

“Yeah, mom buys them in the summer, then deep freezes them for when we come up in winter, but the last winter was so bad we didn’t come up much.”  He opened the freezer drawer at the bottom of the freezer, and looked up at her.  “Do you eat chicken?”

“Sure.  I mean… doesn’t everyone?”

He shrugged.  “I’ll cook up a couple of chicken breasts, make a sherry sauce to disguise the defrosted-in-haste taste, and I think we have rice somewhere up there — would you look?”  He pointed at a cabinet and she looked, bringing out a package of brown rice.  He nodded.  “I’ll make us some stir-fried veggies to go with it.  Tomorrow we’ll go to the local market and grab fresh veggies.  It’s kind of a small market, for the communities up here, but it does have veggies, or it should by now, even if the selection will be more limited than in the city.”

While he talked, he stood up, and started the chicken defrosting, then got out the still-frozen vegetables: carrots and mushrooms and green beans.  He made a face.  “It won’t be the best thing I’ve ever cooked.”  His hair was damp from the shower and rather than standing up like a mane, curled around his ears and the back of his neck.  For some reason this made him look young.  It was very endearing.  He concentrated wholly on the cooking.

The spacious kitchen had a central isle, with the stove on it, and that was where he moved to work.  She pulled one of the barstools to it, and sat there, watching him work.

He looked up half-smiling at one point, “So, you don’t cook at all.”

She waggled a hand at him.  “Ramen.  I’m in college, remember?”

“Ah, yes.  So… your parents… do they have any idea where you are?”

She hesitated.  “I think they think I’m back in college. I tried to make sure… I didn’t expect to be gone this long.”  She hesitated again.  “But if I call them…”

“The Great Sky Bastard will track you down?  Likely.  He doesn’t seem to ever forget a grudge, does he?”

“No.”  She hesitated.  The whole idea of what had happened to her, the idea that she had in fact been dead for some unspecified period of time was unbearable.  She sighed.  “No.”

Rafiel stopped, as he dumped the vegetables from the cutting board onto the oil.  It was just a moment, after which he grabbed a wooden spatula and started working the spattering-still-frozen veggies around.  “I could call them.  My cell phone, I mean.  Whatever — I mean, I don’t think whatever it was… Whoever it was who attacked me has the type of capabilities that the Great Sky Dragon has.  I could call your parents and tell them you’re fine, and will get back in touch when –”

“No,” the word practically screamed itself.  She sighed.  “I’m sorry, but really, no.  You know, the thing is… I mean…  You’re a man.”

He laughed lightly as he turned the fire down.  “Noted.  And yeah, I can sort of see your point.”  He bit his lip.  “Tell you what… I have to call my mom anyway, or they’ll worry.”  He blushed a little, again looking much younger than his late twenties.  “I know it’s silly when I’m a grown man, but really, they will worry, so I tell you what…  I’ll call them and ask them to call your parents.  Would that work?”

“It might,” she said.  “The Great Sky Dragon might suspect I’m in Goldport, but he knows that anyway.  Yeah.  That might work.”

“All right,” Rafiel said.  “It’s a deal.”  But something in his eyes looked worried.