Eric Flint's Blog, page 336

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 21

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 21

 

PART II October, 1540 A.D.

 

Chapter 16

 

Constantinople

 

The dogs of Hekate lived, as she did, in a place between, where time has little meaning. She walked the world at the crossroads, her dogs at her side. There were many crossroads and she could choose to walk any of the roads away from them. She only ever took one way — to the place between, which is not below but is down. The place between there is neither life nor death. The place where everything and nothing is possible, the place of shadows. The place where there is nothing to long for. No want.

Or hunger.

But…although they were not moral dogs, hers partook somewhat of the nature of all dogs, and dogs are by nature hungry. A cat will turn up its nose at food unless it is what it wants, but a dog is always willing to eat. But in that half-world of shadow and nothing that she had kept to, they had, perhaps forgotten that part of themselves, as she had forgotten so much but grief. It had been many years since her faithful hounds had eaten, until the mortal at the gate had fed Ravener. It had been many years too since Hekate herself had noticed food; perhaps that was why. Her power was, in a way, a reflection of her dogs’ devotion; their care was all for her, single-minded, and when she forgot things…so did they.

Yes, there were cults that worshipped her name, in darkness and secret. But that was not the lady of the gateways and crossroads, of the three faces. Such cults worshipped her because she was believed to be powerful in magic. This was true, but they misunderstood her power. And their homage added nothing to her. But the love of her dogs did, and she gave back to them, in full measure. Her needs were theirs; theirs were hers. And now…

They were hungry. She was too. And she was stirred to give back to them what they wanted, even though they did not, precisely, need it.

So she went back to the cross-roads. To the gate that failed. To the great city that even though it was a long way from its former glory, never quite slept. It never occurred to her that she might not get from the mortals here what she wanted. True, she might be forgotten, but when they saw her, they would know her, and remember her. They would know what was owed to her. They would give her food — for her and the dogs. They had always given her sacrifices. It was her due.

So she came to the gate, and passed through it into the world of mortals. And found that having exerted her power at walking unseen and untouched for many generations meant that it was very, very hard now to be seen or touched. A drunk lying in an alley saw her. But he cried in fear, and fervently hoped that she was an illusion. The face he saw was not a kindly one. No one else noticed her. She paused. This could present a problem. She could not take food; it had to be given, sacrificed by a willing mortal. Those were the rules, the ancient rules by which her kind lived. Mortal things for mortal creatures, unless they gave these things willingly.

So Hekate went in search of the man who had fed Ravener, or at least she set her dogs to the task. There was nothing under heaven, or under the earth, that they could not nose out for her if she wanted them to. They sniffed the air and found the scent…their ears perked, and they quivered with eagerness to speed away. Ah, how they loved the chase. She’d forgotten that. Forgotten so much in her anger and bitterness. She had been queen of the hunt long before Diana, once. Now, as then, she loosed them, and followed, fleet of foot and unhindered by her robes.

They ran him to earth, of course. They had the essence of the man, from the well-wishing he’d put on them, and that was far more pervasive than mere scent to Hekate’s dogs. She called them off, as soon as she saw him. They liked him, yes. But they were hunters, and they had been hunting, with him as the quarry. They needed to cool a moment so they might remember again he was a man that they liked, and not the prey to be pulled down.

He was with two men in a rather noisome alleyway. They did not see the dogs, but he did. She stepped back around the corner — there was always a corner where she wanted one — and she called the dogs back to her. That was politeness. He had not insulted her, he had given her dogs respect and well-wishes. She could be polite. Besides, she was curious, and that was something she had not felt in a very long time.

She was almost sure he hadn’t seen her. He’d been busy handing a small pouch to one of the two men. A small, heavy pouch, by the looks of it; that meant money in her experience of mortals and money in dark corners generally meant trouble. They looked like warriors. They carried swords of iron. She willed herself to hear what was being said. It would do little good to her dogs if the only man who seemed to see them was killed; they were hungry now.

“That of course would be the initial payment. A token of our trust. You can check that the rest is held by Isak BenTelmar, at the Rialto bridge. He will give it to you when you present him with the whole amulet. And don’t even think it, Captain. I don’t have the other section of it. You’ll be given that when your side of the bargain is kept.”

It didn’t sound like murder to Hekate. Murder was no stranger to her. Crossroads were a good place for murder, and one of her three faces looked often on death. But the man sounded cool, unperturbed. And she did have some idea of the power he wielded. The other two warriors probably did not. She thought, all in all, there was no cause to worry.

A little later she wondered if she had been wrong about that. He bade the warriors farewell, and walked down the alley to where she stood, her cloak of darkness gathered around her. His hand was on his knife hilt, as if he expected trouble. Trouble — from the place where she stood. It was a steel knife, and her power was stronger over bone and stone. Her people had not had much bronze, and no iron when the Earth-Shaker had broken the gate and flooded her lands.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 17

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 17

* * *

“You know,” Tom said.  “If you’d told me I would send a young and innocent girl off with Rafiel like that, just a day ago, I’d have told you that you were insane.”

“We have no proof that she’s innocent,” Kyrie said.

Tom smiled at her.  “Probably too innocent for love them and leave them Rafiel.”

“Who by his own admission is more leave them and less love them.  I’m more worried about Rafiel than her,” Kyrie said.  They were driving back from Riverside, starting to hit the heavy traffic on Fairfax.  “Notice she already made sure she got to drive, not him.”

“Um,” Tom said, as he avoided a large heating and plumbing service track hell bent on changing lanes on top of him.  “Considering for now at least Rafiel has only one working eye, I’m glad she did.  Sensible of her.”

A sly, sideways look from Kyrie, and Kyrie said, “You like her.”

“Oh yes.  Unless she’s a very carefully contrived plant, that girl has … what did they use to call it?  Moxie.  Almost as much as you.”  He reached across and squeezed her hand.  “And you must admit this whole thing has to be fairly bewildering for someone like her, born and raised American — you know…”

“Yeah, unlike Conan Lung whose parents more or less told him he now belonged to the Great Sky Dragon the very first time he shifted and whose parents at least have the full expectation of belonging to someone in a feudal sense, Bea grew up thinking of herself as free,” Kyrie said.  “So knowing a many times ancestor has decided her marriage had to come as a shock.  And speaking of Conan –”

“For all you shift into a panther, you’re rather like a bulldog, aren’t you?  Once you get hold of something, you just won’t let go.”

“Well… Tom, what if it damages the reputation of the diner?  What if people stop coming?”

“No one will be there to hear it.  Note we didn’t even put a poster up.  No one knows.  And I set it for eight p.m., so the dinner rush will be done.  It will just be a dozen regulars, and they won’t hold it against us if Conan sounds like the unfortunate encounter between a tin cutter and a cat in heat.  And if it’s that terrible, I won’t let him do it again.”

“Okay,” Kyrie said, seemingly appeased.  “As long as there aren’t too many people in attendance.”

* * *

There were way too many people there, Kyrie thought.  The parking lot was so full they had to drive up the cross-street that ran along the side of the George.  And even Pride Street was parked almost bumper to bumper, so it was some blocks before they found place to park.

They hurried back in silence, except for Tom’s saying, in a plaintive tone, “but there weren’t even any posters.”

Only there was now a banner stretched across the front of the diner, announcing, Tonight, the debut of Conan Lung. Six-String Dragon!  You ain’t heard nothing yet.

“Tom!” Kyrie said, in a strangled voice.  How had this happened?  How had one of Tom’s projects got so out of hand?

“Well… it’s… er… I mean, at least he said heard, right, so people can’t think he’s a stripper or a cook or something.”

“Tom!”

“Right.  What do you expect me to do.  I mean, all these people are here for it, clearly.  Look, we’ll sell some souvlaki or… or whatever… and if it’s terrible, we’ll promise not to let him sing again, and then it will be all right.”

Kyrie just shook her head, but her mouth was twitching upwards.  Tom was… irrepressible, she decided.  It had been a long, long time since she had been able to get mad at him.  This was stupid, but it was such a Tom stupidity that she couldn’t help smiling.  “Idiot,” she said. 

“Come on,” he said.  “How bad can he be?”

“Six string dragon!”  she said, and broke into giggles.

“Okay… bad.  But let’s give him a chance, shall we?”

* * *

The diner was packed as they came in.  Kyrie noted with approval that beyond the normal tables, which had been packed into as small a space as possible, there had been rows of foldable chairs set up.

“We got them from my church,” Anthony said. “I called and sent Jason over.”

“But how did all these people know?” Tom asked, from behind Kyrie. “Well, seems like Conan put up a video of himself singing on face book, and it went viral.”

Kyrie swallowed hard, feeling as though her heart had dropped somewhere around her knees.  “Oh, no.  They’re here to mock him, right?  It’s like that guy on that show whose audition tape was so bad.”

“I don’t know,” Anthony said.  “He might think that though.  He’s gone and locked himself in the storage room in the back.”

“Uh….” Kyrie said.  Great.  The only thing worse than having Conan sing and be absolutely terrible at it, was, of course, not to have Conan sing at all.  That would get them eaten alive — metaphorically — by the patrons of the George.  With all her heart she hoped it was metaphorically.  Scanning the crowd she could see enough faces that turned into something fanged or carnivorous not to be absolutely sure.  “Has Rya –”

Rya, a fox-shifter attending CUG was Conan’s… well, maybe not precisely girlfriend.  Kyrie didn’t think Conan had enough confidence to ask anyone out, but they were known to hang out together and, occasionally, go out for coffee or to shows.

“She was here, yeah.  She’s still here somewhere, I think.  She pounded on the door to the storage room and asked to be let in, but he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, Lord,” Tom said.  “I’ll handle it.”  He already had his apron and bandana on, and he looked hesitatingly at Kyrie.  “Can you take care of it here, while I go and get Conan out of the storage room.”

“His master’s voice?” Kyrie asked, and regretted it immediately as Tom gave her an injured look back.

* * *

Tom didn’t like the implication that he had some sort of power over Conan.  Oh, he knew it was true, to an extent.  When you’ve been browbeaten into becoming a slave, it’s easier to become the slave of yet someone else than to spring free and be your own person.  He’d freed Conan, but he was aware that was one sided.  Conan still looked to him for guidance… to put it at his lowest value.

He walked down the hallway and knocked at the door to the back storage room, because he couldn’t imagine even Conan in a snit locking himself in the freezer room.  Also, from inside this storage room came forlorn plucking at the guitar strings.

Tom knocked again.  For a moment, only more forlorn plucking answered him, then Conan’s voice, wavering and thin, “Yeah?”

“It’s Tom.  Open up.”

“I can’t.  I have laryngitis.  I can’t sing.”

“Oh, for the love– Conan.  Open this damn door or I kick it in, and then I make you pay for the new one.”

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 20

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 20

 

The admiral took a deep breath. He was an old man, and there was much in the way of punishment that the Venetian senate could mete out to him. On the other hand less than they could do to a young and ambitious captain. And Lemnossa could see the scars of combat on the Genoese vessels. They’d lost comrades, been lucky, and come crawling to an old enemy. “You can sail under our flag,” he said gruffly, wondering why he did this.

By the look on the face of the Genoese captain he did too. But the admiral had a fleet full of refugees, and still had a Baitini prisoner below decks. “We may need extra strength. There has been some hint of trouble. We’ll reprovision, water the vessels and sail. The merchants and the whores are going to be very unhappy with us, Captain. A good part of the fleet will stay at outside the port. Unsettled times. We can part company once we’re in Byzantine waters.”

“Thank you, m’lord. We’ve…we’ve got a fair number of wounded aboard. And some damage.” The captain swallowed. “We could pass some of your ships through Byzantium under our flag. It’d would save you a great deal in tariffs.”

“That way our respective masters who are far away and safe might just be more understanding,” said the admiral. “Is there any other help we can render? — seeing as we’re both probably going to have to explain our actions. Me to the Senate, and you to your duke.”

“And his council,” said the captain, sourly. “Well. They’ll be angry enough about the loss the ships and cargoes. My thanks, M’lord, we’ve got a chirurgeon, and work on the ships may have to wait until we have a safe port. We’ve done what we can, and just hope we have no more storms or encounters with these…pirates.”

The admiral noted the pause. “Ah, so you think not, then?”

“There were too many of them, and their vessels were too alike. In Crimea the Mongols pay tribute to the north. We’ve been trying to make a treaty with the voivode of Odessa to allow us to trade up the Dnieper…” He realized that he’d said too much and shut up.

“But no deal, eh?”

“No. Not even vessels into Odessa,” said Captain Di Tharra.

The admiral knew the Council of Ten in Venice were very pleased that they had a spy in the city of Odessa. It hadn’t seemed that valuable to Lemnossa before. Well, he’d been wrong. And he wondered if Venice heard from their man, and how?

*   *   *

The two fleets proceeded together. Two days later they sighted CapeSinope — a triumph of good luck over navigation, the admiral knew, but he was willing to take the credit for it. It helped to have the sailors believe in his ability. The Genoese vessels had struck their colors and now flew the Winged Lion of Venice. The admiral didn’t ask how come they had such a flag. He had a Genoese red cross in his flag locker too.

Lemnossa had the remaining Baitini prisoner brought up to him. The man had apparently been very sea-sick. He still looked ghostly-pale. “Do you want to go ashore?” the admiral asked, as if the prisoner was one of his captains, and this was just a casual question.

The prisoner tried to gather spittle.

“Now, now. I made you a perfectly reasonable offer. We let your companion go when he accepted it. And, as we have not been attacked, he kept his side of the bargain. We did explain you would be…dealt with if he failed us. He must be fond of you.”

“You lie, unbeliever.”

The admiral shrugged. “We will let you go when we leave port. All you have to do is as your friend did: tell them we make sail for Theodosia, and then the shipyards in the Dnieper.” It was unlikely that this minor foot soldier would even know where those places were.

“Why are you telling me this?” demanded the Baitini, suspicious, his voice harsh.

The admiral raised his eyebrows. You really didn’t have to be very clever to take orders to murder. In fact, being clever was probably a disadvantage. “It should be very obvious even to you. We’re not. If you tell your people that, we let you go. And we will free the crew of the boat that carried you, if you keep your word.” The admiral knew just what value the Baitini would place on those fishermen’s lives. He gambled however that the Baitini would not know that he knew. “They helped you. It would be fair and honorable.”

The assassin took a second or two to grasp all this. “Very well. You will let them go?”

“What use are they to me? They will complain to the sultan if they get home, but I will be far away. I’m not coming back. This is my last convoy.”

“I will do this,” said the assassin with his best attempt at looking sincere.

The admiral wondered if he’d taken to religious murder because he was a failure at selling unsound horses. But he said nothing, and had him taken below.

“What was that about?” asked his captain, when the man was back in the tiny cabin they’d kept him in. It would take a while to clean it, after the Baitini had gone, they both knew.

“Well, he’ll run to his masters here in Sinope, and tell them what he knows — which is nothing more than they know — we’re here, we did not take a heading out across the Black Sea. At the very least, he’ll end up having his companion killed as a traitor. At best they won’t be expecting us to a dog-leg to sea — towards the north. When and if they work that out — they obviously have some way of communication with the pirates, they may conclude we really are heading for their lairs and boatyards. It’s an outside chance, and they may wish to send vessels back to defend them. Whatever. We lose nothing, and we sow a great deal of distrust about the value of their information. Eventually that’ll help us.”

“You should be directing the Council of Ten, M’lord.”

The admiral smiled. “If they don’t take my head, if we get back in one piece, I hope I’ll be allowed to join them one day. It might be less tricky than this. Anyway, how goes the re-watering?”

“Fast, M’lord. We’ll be ready to sail by tomorrow. The bey doesn’t like the way we’re doing things, though.”

“Then I shouldn’t be surprised if I am summonsed to an audience. Probably tomorrow. It would be today but I must be ignored for a suitable amount of time. And I expect some of the Baitini will try to kill me. So I would like you to know what I have planned.”

“We should be ready to sail tonight,” said the captain firmly.

The admiral smiled. “While I don’t believe you, let us do so. We can cope with less water for a day or two. I’m a little behind on confessions and penances, and I’d like the opportunity to sin a few more times before my final reckoning is made.”

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 19

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 19

 

“Shh. We’ve come to rescue you,” whispered one of the men who came in, in the bastard Greek of the southern Black Sea coast.

“Cut me free,” he said, distrustful.

“We’ll cut your feet free. If we’re caught we need to claim we’re just taking you to the heads. Now, remember this. It’s Phillipo Pelluci and Julius Malacco, see. We let you go. You tell your people we let you go. If you’ll do that, we’ll get you onto a boat, and let you go free. Will you?”

His first inclination was to get these fools to cut him free and then to kill as many as he could. But his task had been to report back. “Where is my companion?”

“Fish food. He died when they put him to question. They’ll do you in the morning.”

“The admiral thinks he can fool your lot by going to Theodosia and then Constantinople, and not along the coast. He’s mad. The Genoese won’t help us,” whispered the second man. “Now we must go, quickly. Before the watchman comes back.”

“Only if he agrees,” said the other Greek-speaker.

It was written that the defenders of the faith could lie to unbelievers. So Malik nodded. “Yes. You will be spared. And given much gold.” They were driven by greed, these sons of Iblis.

They cut his feet free. One of them sneaked ahead and the other escorted him to the fishing boat, tied alongside.

It occurred to him then that his sailing skills were non-existent. “You must come with me,” he said.

“No. If the ships get through, we get home. If not, your people spare our lives. That’s the bargain,” hissed his escort. “Or we take you back. And kill you right here if you try and scream. If they catch you out here they’ll kill you anyway.”

“I cannot sail.”

“The wind will take you to shore, even drifting. Go.” He was pushed to the rail, and the other sailor came and helped to lower him, hands still tied, down onto the bow.

One of them tossed a knife down to peg in the planking beyond. The other cut the boat loose. Malik wondered if he should shout now…it would serve them right. But he was free, and retribution would wait. Their plot would have worked. The fleet was not going to be watching Crimea across the ocean. He barely knew where Theodosia was, or the likewise accursed Genoese. Godless foreigners, just like the Venetians. But it was not where the fleet would be expected to go. They would have been waiting for them off Samsun. The Venetians setting their fleet departure forward had merely changed the timing not the plan. He made his way to the knife, and began work on cutting himself loose as the fleet, dark and silent on the water, grew more distant.

If he had been a sailor he’d have wondered why no-one on watch noticed him and gave the alarm. Or why the little fishing vessel had been moored so that he could be dumped aboard. But he was not. He was barely able to hoist a sail and head toward the distant shore. He was not there, three hours later, to see the admiral ordering all sail made. They weren’t heading out across the Black Sea for Crimea. They were, hopefully, going on a leg that would see them in sight of land somewhere near Sinope. From there their course would be a lot more predictable, but also hopefully the news would also be too late.

The admiral would prefer to avoid battle if he could. This was a commercial fleet, but, when need be, Venetian sailors could be relied on to fight. Most of them had shares in what cargo there was on board the vessels. He just hoped that the Baitini and their backers had no real grasp of the rivalry between Genoa and Venice. They’d be as likely to shut Theodosia up and range their cannon on Venetian vessels as to offer them shelter. At sea they’d avoid each other. Or accuse each other of outright piracy, of course.

*   *   *

Two days later, the early morning was broken with a yell from a topmast lookout. “Sail! Sail ho! Northeast.”

The captain himself went up the ratlines to the basket. He came down, looking thoughtful. Admiral Lemnossa was waiting. “It’s Genoese vessels, Admiral. Seven of them. Round ships. They seem to be bearing down on us.”

“Can we outrun them?”

“Probably. It’d bring us back toward the coast. But seven vessels…they’re no threat to us, M’Lord.”

“Except to carry word of us, no.” He sighed. “Let’s hold our course.”

“We can always sink the bastards.”

“Tempting though it might be, it’d cost us too. And they might not be that easy. Those ships of theirs are big,” the admiral admitted grudgingly. The Genoese had pursued size over numbers in the last few years. The bigger vessels were harder to maneuver, but they carried more men. That counted for a great deal, in boarding actions.

So they held their course…but on the convoy, men began readying their gear for conflict. There were two men up in the mainmast basket on the flagship, watching. One came hurrying down the ratlines. “They’ve got the Venetian Lion flying along with their red cross. And a white flag.”

“Parley.” The admiral pulled a face. He knew Genoese pride ran as deep as Venetian, and they were good seamen too, although you’d be hard-pressed to find a Venetian who would admit it. If they were heading for a parley with Venetian vessels, then they were heading away from worse.

*   *   *

And that turned out to be the case, when the senior Genoese commander, Captain Di Tharra, came aboard. The vessels were showing signs of conflict too, so Admiral Lemnossa was not surprised to hear that they’d been attacked.

“Mostly galleys, M’Lord. From the north somewhere, by the look and garb of the crews. Maybe forty of them. We were lucky we hit bad weather. They’re not sailors. But there are plenty of them. Like lice.”

He took a deep breath. “We lost five ships, M’Lord Lemnossa. We came to ask…to beg to sail in the convoy with your vessels. We were attacked sailing west…we fled southeast under cover of darkness. We were making for Trebizond to petition the Venetian Podesta…but you’re already at sea. Safety in numbers. M’lord. We beg you out of Christian charity to permit us to sail with your company.” He looked as if he were swallowing something unpleasant. “We could pay.”

“No, we will not ask a fee. Not this time.” Lemnossa knew if word of that got back to Venice, they’d be wanting to know why he hadn’t skinned the bastardos, but it fitted. It fitted too well with what the Baitini had said. And the Genoans too were at sea early. Theodosia was the leading slave-port of Europe. The seasons for human traffic were different…but they also carried cargos that came from further afield, across the scattered khanates and fiefdoms of central Asia, silks and treasures from as far as fabled China. Instinct said that next time it might be his fleet, and that it might be that all the ships they had were not sufficient.

“We plan to make port at Sinope,” Lemnossa said.

The Genoan scowled. That city had been a Genoan trading post until recently. Unfortunately, the Genoese had fallen out with the bey of Sinope and his master the sultan of Rum. The parting had involved some burning of fortifications and a partial destruction of the quays and the town. The Genoese flag would be greeted with cannon-fire these days.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 16

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 16

Chapter 11

Her first thought was that the man was dead.  He lay on the ground, naked, covered in blood.  There was blood on the ground around him too — Bea could sort of see it, but more importantly, she could smell it.  Something that she was more sensitive to than normal humans, no matter what her form, was the smell of blood.  It made the dragon stir within her and get hungry.

Then she realized the pale, blood smeared chest was rising and falling, and that Kyrie had brought something else out of the van.  She squatted by the man, and told him, “Come on, Rafiel, drink.”  From the unholy blue fluorescence of it, the drink she was tilting towards the man’s lips was one of those sports drinks they sold for exercise fanatics, the ones that were supposed to replace electrolytes or whatever.

From the man’s slight movement, the sounds of his drinking, he had to be alive and at least trying to be.  As Kyrie withdrew the drink, he said, in a raspy voice, “It was mama.  I mean, the creature… I think it’s a juvenile.  It has a mother.  It –”

“Don’t talk about it now.”  This was Tom who had come back and stood on the man’s other side.  “Can you sit up?  I have no intention of hand-feeding you.”

Something like a chuckle from the man, and then he dragged himself to sitting.  A trick of moonlight gave Bea a full view of his face.  It ought to have horrified her.  To an extent it did horrify her.

His left eye was a congealed mass of blood, and there were deep cut claw marks from his nose to his temple, or perhaps all the way to his scalp, because the blond hair on that side was matted with dried blood.

He turned his right eye to her, though, and it was a dark brown and filled with unholy amusement.  “Hello,” he said.  “Tom?  Kyrie?”

“Oh, this is Bea.  We’ll explain later.  Don’t worry.  She’s a dragon.  One of us,” Tom said.

The man’s mouth twitched and it should have looked horrible, but it felt friendly and relaxed.  “Oh, sure.  You always introduce the pretty girls to me when I’m just back from the dead.”  He accepted the box of take out meat and a plastic fork from Tom and started eating with manners that, she suspected, were due to her presence.  Tom wasn’t making that much of an effort.  He was shoveling food into his face from the other takeout box.  Kyrie got up and went back to the van.

“Did you… did you die?” Bea asked, afraid that she would sound like an idiot.

“I don’t think so,” the man said.  “I might have though.  It felt like she snapped my spine, but that must have been wrong, or I wouldn’t be able to sit up.  My eye hasn’t healed yet, so I assume –”

“It will heal?”

“Probably,” Rafiel said.  “We seem to have a regenerative capacity that evades other humans.”  The single brown eye was still laughing at her.  And the meat, as he ate, seemed to visibly make him feel better.  “Coming back from the dead usually takes days, anyway.  Not that I’ve ever done it, but Tom has, and from what we understand from… ah, our older shifter friends, that’s a shifter thing, not a dragon thing.  If, we can trust our sources, at least.”

“Which, considering our sources, most of the time, are elderly, addled, often homeless, and occasionally alligatorist is a stretch,” Tom said.  “But at least it makes sense.”

“So, I don’t think I was dead, no, ma’am… Bea.  But yes, I think my eye will come back and… the wounds will heal, probably by tomorrow.”

Kyrie came back, and handed the man who had finished his take-out container, a folded bundle.

In the end, Tom had to help Rafiel dress — in jogging pants and a shirt, and more carried him to the van than helped him walk, though Bea noticed Tom was careful to preserve the appearance that he was only helping. 

They strapped Rafiel in the back, in the seat next to hers, though there was a space in between.  He looked groggy, half awake, except when that bright right eye turned in her direction.  It should have discomfited her, giving what a wreck he looked, but it didn’t.  There was humor in his glance, and he smiled a little.

“So, why is Bea along?”

Tom explained.

“Ah, I sensed we had a lot in common.  You died.  I almost died.”

“More importantly,” Kyrie said, gravely.  “It brings us to ask — where are you two going to go?  You might not be safe in town, either of you.”

“Go?” Bea asked

“Well,” Kyrie said. “Someone might try to kill you again, Bea — particularly if the Great Sky Dragon gets the idea you have no intention of obeying, and as for Rafiel… he can’t heal like this in public.  You have to see that.  Too many explanations.  We heal really fast.  People will wonder.  He can’t hide his face.”

Rafiel seemed immersed in thought for a long time.  “My parents’ cabin.” He said at last.  “I left my car out in Riverside.  If you take me there, I will drive us out.”  He took a deep breath.  “My parents have a cabin in the mountains, south of here.  Middle of nowhere.  I have the keys in my car.  I can go there, while I recover and while we find out how to keep Miss Ryu safe.”

She should have been offended at his presumption or perhaps suspicious of this plan to throw her into a cabin with a guy she barely knew, all alone.  Instead, she felt perfectly safe and oddly relaxed about it.

True, she hardly knew Rafiel, and yet she felt that she’d known him for a long, long time.  It wasn’t so much that she liked him, but she felt she belonged around him — like they’d known each other such a long time she needn’t worry about what impression she was making or how he felt.  He just was and she just was.  If it weren’t such a comfortable feeling, it would be downright scary.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 18

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 18

 

Chapter 15

 

The Black Sea

 

The Eastern Fleet sailed out of Trebizond, into the Black Sea. Admiral Lemnossa set an atypical course, bearing away from the coast they normally hugged, taking advantage of a stiff south-easterly breeze to bell their sails and carry them away from the sight of land. Land had watchers and in the open ocean they only had to scan the horizon to know if they were being pursued. On the southern coast of the Black Sea that meant a long way offshore as the steep coastline gave more than the normal eight miles of vision to the horizon.

They had not been at sea for four hours when it became obvious that at least one vessel was trying to stay in visual range. A lateen-masted fishing boat heading down the same course seemed unlikely in the extreme. Lemnossa ordered two of the light galliots to drop back. Running as the fishing boat was before the wind, it had limited options in using the wind to outrun the galliots under oars.

“So what do we do if we catch him, Admiral? Sink the testa di cazzo?” asked the young captain. This was his first command, and he was ready to dash in where even angels — or great galleys arrayed for war — would go in cautiously.

“It’s tempting. We’ll shift course a few more points to windward when you engage. If he tries to fight — that’s their look-out. If they try to run, catch them, and bring them along. If they come to meet you, it might be that they have that young woman with a baby on board that you thought you’d left behind.”

The light galliot’s captain grinned. “Then I’ll just have to sink them. My other girlfriend is waiting in Negroponte.”

“Probably with the same little present for you. Go and deal with them.”

They did. And the fishing boat had tried to run.

A little later the galliot, running with the wind so that the tired rowers could rest, and now accompanied a lateen rigged fishing boat, rejoined the fleet.

“They tried to pretend they were just fishermen. But those two never caught a fish in their lives,” said the young captain, pointing to two angry-looking prisoners trussed up in enough rope to anchor a round-ship in a gale. “I spotted their nice soft hands — and the real fishermen were terrified of them, you could see. So I gave the nod to some of my boys, and as we questioned them, Julio and Rupe hit them over the back of the head with marlin-spikes. They had all sorts of nasty toys hidden on them. Knives and potions. When we’d dealt with them the fishermen tried to tell us they’d been forced into this. But they had a fair amount of silver on them for that story. So, do we feed them all to the fishes?”

“I reckon keelhaul them,” said his mate. “Baitini bastards. They’re good at sneaking around and killing people. Let’s see how good they are at bleeding and breathing water.”

“I have always wondered,” said one of the lieutenants, as the admiral looked on thoughtfully, “how an assassin without hands manages?”

“Wouldn’t do much good,” said the captain. “This lot kills their own. Got no loyalty.” He spat overboard. “Worth as much as that spittle to each other.”

The admiral looked at the two trussed prisoners. Looked at their eyes. “Take that one away.” When they’d hauled the smaller of two away, he cut the gag off the remaining man. Who swore at him out of gratitude.

Admiral Lemnossa raised an eyebrow. “I’m a sailor. I’ve been at sea for more than forty years. Is that the best you can do? Try a little harder, man,” he said testily.

The assassin had expected torture or death. He was braced for that. Not for disdain.

“You will all die for this,” he said, sullenly.

The admiral yawned. “By whose hand? You are at sea, and if we tossed you all overboard no-one would ever know how your fish-eaten corpse met its end.”

“The masters know…”

“They know you set off to sea. No more. The sea kills more men than your kind ever have, or ever will. So what do I do with you?”

“Kill us. Torture us. It’s what you plan to do. We will have our reward in paradise!”

“Then it would be in our best interests to keep you alive and unable to receive it. Or if you die to make sure that you die defiled,” said the admiral, who had manipulated angry and drunken sailors to his will before. “Or I could let you go…if you convinced me that your retribution was sure.”

“The fleet that comes is greater than yours. Forty great galleys!”

“Impossible. And how could one such as you know?”

Bit by bit, with a combination of apparent boredom and the mention of unclean animals, Lemnossa found out just what the rank and file of the Baitini knew…or thought they knew.

He then repeated the process with the other fellow, who was less pliable, but Lemnossa had the bait of what he had extracted from his fellow Baitini. He had, of course, no intention of killing either of them. They were too valuable for that. He knew, now, that the fleet from the Dnieper was at least in part, at sea. He doubted it was the size these men believed, or that it was coming to liberate — from their point of view — the caliphate from the Ilkhan’s persecution.

To the Baitini, Mongol oppression seemed to constitute not letting them kill anyone who offended them. Even worse, the fact that the Mongols were in a position to do this to the sect which had controlled much of the land that the Ilkhan conquered. The admiral found himself in sympathy with the Mongols, and wondering just why they’d left the Baitini in existence for so long. Lemnossa was sure of one thing — that fleet was going, not the lands of Ilkhan, but to Constantinople and points west. And it was set on stopping his fleet re-enforcing the ships and crews of the VenetianRepublic

That was something Venice needed to know. But of course he had to get there first. The assassins could be fed some misleading information too, and let loose. They were spear-carriers, not big fish. Nasty spear-carriers that he’d prefer to hang out of hand, but still. He had near on seventy leagues of possible trouble before they reached the Bosphorus; he could not keep these two aboard, and they would serve a better purpose being turned loose than serving as fish-food. While fast ships raced from Crete to Venice with the new wine in a mere twenty-two days averaging six leagues in a day, his laden round ships and their escorts would be hard pressed do much more half that.

Normally, they’d wait out any bad weather, and would stay in sight of land. Now…that wasn’t an option.

*   *   *

That night, around midnight, the taller Baitini captive heard his tiny cabin door being quietly opened. There were two men with a shuttered lantern. He was still very thoroughly tied up and his captors had had scant regard for his physical needs — food, drink or relieving himself. He had not been gagged again, but he expected the worst. He was prepared for it now.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 15

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 15

“And what is with Conan’s thing?”

“You’re not going to forget that, are you?” Tom asked, turning out of the parking lot and into the bumper to bumper traffic on Fairfax Avenue, the street that crossed Goldport from one end to the other.  He headed west on it, and traffic cleared after the warehouse district.

“No.  It’s something with the diner.  And you’re not supposed to do anything with the diner without telling me.  Is he having a party or something?”

Tom shook his head.  “No.  You know Wednesday is our slow night, right, so I thought there would be no problem at all with letting him sing.”

“What?  Tom!”

Tom sighed.  He’d known for the last few months that while Conan was a decent waiter and could hold down the fort when they were needed elsewhere, Conan had ambitions beyond food service.  Having grown up in NashvilleTennessee, where his parents owned a Chinese restaurant, he wanted to be a country-western singer.   “He can’t be that bad,” he mumbled.

“How do you know?” Kyrie asked.  “We have never heard him sing.  And he couldn’t have practiced the guitar in the time he’s spent re-growing the arm he had ripped off.  He could be absolutely horrible.”

“Well, Wednesday is our slow night,” Tom said.  “If he’s absolutely horrible, we only let him do one song.  But he wanted to sing in front of an audience, never having done that before, and he asked, and –”

“And you have no ability to say no?”

“I don’t see what it could hurt.  Remember the coffee shop down the street has really bad poetry readings?  They still bring people in.”

“Yes, but… if you have really bad singing, that makes people go out.”

A sound like a snuffle from behind them, made Tom look in the rearview mirror, to see Bea hiding her mouth, her eyes filled with amusement.  “You find us funny?” he said.

“It’s just that… are all shifters like this?” she asked.  “Do you live in communities that behave like families?”

“No,” Kyrie said.  “I suspect most shifters in the world are all alone, and don’t know anyone like them.  We have two things that make us different.  One of them is that at some point someone — we’ll tell you the story another time, if you must hear it — sprayed the entire area around the George with pheromones that attract shifters from hundred of miles round.  The other is that –”

“The Great Sky Dragon has at least temporary headquarters in town,” Tom said.

“No,” Kyrie said.  “I don’t know why he has that, but I know –”

“Because you’re his heir,” Bea said.

“What?” Tom said.  He couldn’t have heard the words right.  She’d said it so naturally, it was as though it were something obvious.

In the rearview mirror, he saw Bea’s eyebrows arch over the bright green eyes.  “You didn’t know that?” she asked.  “That’s why he wanted me to marry you.”  In a hurried voice she told a fantastic story of the successor of the Great Sky Dragon having to be a male, who could shift — apparently it wasn’t a given all of his descendants could — and who was descended on the male line unbroken.  Tom was actually descended from the Great Sky Dragon’s son, Bea said, shrugging, on both sides, the male line broken of course by his mother on one side.

“It sounds … inbred,” Tom said.  “And neither of my parents is even slightly Chinese.  Dad is of Swedish ancestry, and I think most of mom’s ancestors were French, though I’m not sure now why I think that.”  He added, as explanation.  “She left when I was a kid.”

“Oh,” Bea said.  “But this would be thousands and thousands of years ago.  I gather the Great Sky Dragon is near immortal.”

“Which begs the question of why he needs an heir?”

“Because he says something is coming that might kill him.”

“Irrelevant, since I don’t intend to lead a triad, even if they obeyed me, which I doubt.  But… so that’s why he’s taken an interest in me.”  Tom was now driving out of town and into the country expanses of I25, with unlit fields on either side.  “Would you watch out for the turn to Goldminers Road, Kyrie.  Otherwise I might miss it in the dark.”

“Yes.  But what you said about The Great Sky dragon has nothing to do with the community of shifters around the diner.  What makes it… well… a coherent group, instead of just a bunch of unrelated people — what makes us work together and cover for each other, and… care for each other is Tom.”

Kyrie said it so convincingly it was no use Tom laughing.  Instead, he said, “I’m not some kind of saint.”

“No.  You’re just a natural leader — and you care about people.  It’s one of those natural things.  You either have it or you don’t.”

“Maybe that’s why the Great Sky Dragon thinks –” Bea said.  “I mean –”

“Irrelevant.  As I said, I have no intention of leading a triad anymore than you have any intention of marrying me.”

“No.  Of course not.  It’s just… mind what he did to me,” Bea said. 

“Oh.  Yeah.  I expect he’ll be trouble,” Tom said.  “And that’s nothing new.”

“Goldminers on the right, Tom.  Exit.”

* * *

Bea sat quietly.  She was starting to get, if not a clear idea of what was happening, a suspicion that she might get a clear idea sometime.  There was… sort of a shape of events forming in her mind, and she wasn’t sure what they were.  But there was a sense of a pattern.

Tom took the exit off the highway, onto a narrow street, and from that onto a dirt road.  The narrow street was flanked by trees and the dirt road traveled amid an expanse of rocky ground covered in what appeared to be low, thorny bushes.

Tom pulled over to the side and parked the van, then left.  He stepped out of the circle of the headlights, and for a moment Bea wondered why, then realized that it was so he could undress — presumably in respect for her modesty.  Meanwhile Kyrie moved over to the driver’s seat.  A few minutes later, Tom emerged into the headlights.  No.  Tom’s dragon.

His scales glistened blue-green in the light, and it was impossible to believe that this was the same young man who’d been talking to them and driving moments before.  Impossible, that is, until he turned to look at them and she got a good look at the dragon’s blue eyes which were, very reassuringly, Tom Ormson’s.

She wondered how much knowledge of their human self other people retained while in shifted form.  She’d never known anyone else who shifted, never had a chance to ask.  She just knew that her control over who decided where the dragon went had improved over the years.  When she’d first shifted at fourteen, she’d hardly known what she did when she was the dragon.  Later, there had come memories of her actions — as if in a dream — and by the time she was sixteen, she could control the dragon to some extent.  Now she could control what the dragon did, and she could even — most of the time — avoid shifting when she didn’t wish to shift.

But she wondered if everyone else was like that.  Clearly Tom Ormson was.  But was that normal or just part of being a descendent of the Great Sky dragon?

“Okay, here we go,” Kyrie said, as Tom took to the skies, unbelievable in his look of archaic fantasy, flying over a land crisscrossed by highways and lighted by electricity.

Bea shivered a little.  “I’ve always wondered,” she said.  “Why none of us is photographed.  I mean… when I had little control, I was flying over this Atlanta suburb.”

Kyrie shrugged.  “My form?  I change into a panther.  I’ve often wondered if we’re responsible for all the sightings of great black cats.  And if other shifters account for all the out of place animals seen here and there.  But with dragons and other… less normal forms, I suspect the thing is partly that no one believes it.  People don’t fully believe what they’re seeing.  Other people look at pictures and think what a clever photoshop job.  I’ve told Tom we could make a great deal of money on the side by taking pictures of him and Conan flying over the city and making a calendar.  Everyone would think it was made up.”

Bea turned the idea in her mind.  “Except that over time it might give people the idea that … well, that it exists.”

“That’s what Tom says, though you know, dragons shifters are not just a genetic impossibility.  They’re a physical impossibility.  Those wings of yours shouldn’t be able to hold you up.”

The road bumped under them, and Bea held onto the seat with both hands, despite the seat belt across her middle.  Kyrie turned willy-nilly into something that couldn’t possibly be a road, only a bumpy sort of track amid a burned landscape.  Ahead, Tom descended towards a field where Bea’s eyes couldn’t discern much more than thorns and rocks.

“Are you saying we don’t exist?” Bea said.

“How can I?” Kyrie turned off the ignition.  “I’m saying that you are impossible, but, hey.  I live with Tom.  He very much exists.  Come on.”

They got out of the van and closed it.  Bea looked for the huge form of the dragon ahead, but couldn’t see it.  It took her a moment to realize that Tom had shifted and in fact stood nearby, putting his shoes on.  She wondered if he’d carried his clothes.  That was control she’d never quite managed.

Then she realized there was someone at Tom’s feet, and stopped suddenly.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 17

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 17

 Chapter 14

Odessa

 In Odessa a very frightened little man made painstaking notes about the numbers of troops passing beneath his window. He was unsure how or even if he would get the information to his paymaster. But if he had nothing to sell, he would never have enough money to leave.

 

Vilna

 

Jagiellon was wise to the workings of agents and double agents. Spies and betrayal were meat and drink to him. Economics was not. The Black Brain knew a great deal about several planes of existence. If anything, he knew least about this earthly one. Trade was something Chernobog had always understood poorly. Power meant that you took what you needed. The only purpose of trade was to corrupt and to move spies into the territories of those who did not understand absolute power. Right now it was more important to keep them out of his territories than to send them out. He had solved the potential problem of spies by closing the port. Odessa was slowly starving. People even dared to mutter against the voivode. At this stage it was still merely frightened resentful mutterings. It would have to get a great deal worse for the utterly cowed population to even contemplate rebellion.

The voivode of Odessa also poorly understood his overlord. He thought he was merely a cruel and monomaniacal man who could possibly be reasoned with.

He screamed. His arm, raised in supplication a few moments before, was definitely broken, and Jagiellon had merely brushed him aside as a man might a beetle. “Grand Duke,” he gasped. “Agh! I…do but fear that if they get any sign of outside sympathy or support…they may rebel.”

“And where would that come from?” asked Jagiellon, seemingly unaffected by the clenched-teeth whimper of his vassal.

“There…there are some of mixed blood. Mongols. The Vlachs too…agh.”

“The Mongols we have dealt with. The Vlachs are a slave race, by and large. Go. I have other affairs to attend to. Do not waste my time again.” The kneeling voivode struggled to his feet, trying to support his arm, and, not daring to do otherwise, bowed and fled from the throne-room.

*   *   *

The Black Brain had, however, been aroused from the affairs it pursued in nether hells. It turned its attention to the progress of the fleet and the thrust to the south.

Jagiellon had had reports. But he preferred to hear about it from the source. And he had puppet emissaries — those who were literally his eyes and will. He would have had more, perhaps even that foolish voivode, had it not required no small expenditure of power and time. They had also proved an ineffectual way of command. Vassal generals and princes often did better driven by their own greed, fear and will. Of course he always had to have some control over them. It was in his nature.

*   *   *

A little while later a blank eyed man roused himself from where he lay, rather uncomfortably, in a supply tent. He was cold and stiff and walked with a jerky and unsteady gait, as a result. No one spoke to him as Jagiellon looked around the shipyard. Most of the workers there were aware of what was looking at them. Neither Jagiellon nor Chernobog knew very much about shipbuilding. Jagiellon had never chosen to interest himself in such mundane tasks before he encountered Chernobog. Ships such as these that plied mere oceans of water did not occur in Chernobog’s normal realm. However, both of them could recognize the signs of industry. There was plenty of that. Rigging and ratlines were being strung on some of the vessels already. Others were still being clad with their outer planking. That ran to plan too: if they were going to be forced to wait for another season, they may as well build more vessels.

Chernobog left the human-vessel right there. Someone would take it back to the tent. Instead he occupied the body of a cavalry commander and looked out onto the vast parade ground. Levies from across the lands that gave fealty to Prince Jagiellon were engaged in drill. In part Jagiellon had already known this. The Black Brain kept a far closer grasp on military matters. It was a necessity. The levies came from several linguistic groups. Many of them were hereditary enemies. To a greater or lesser extent the Black Brain managed and controlled their officers. It required a vast capacity. But then Chernobog had that, even if it sometimes poorly understood the abilities and limitations of mere human soldiers.

The army being readied for the round ships — some forty thousand men, now — was but a small portion of the force that Jagiellon was mustering. He would have to strike in the north and the center, once he held the gate to the Mediterranean. For the last few years he had kept up a slow war of attrition, without any major attacks, while building more reserves. He’d learned that it would take large numbers to bring down Europe under the leadership of the Hohenstauffens.

This time they would feint north. The war-hardened Holy Roman Empire, led by the Knights of the Holy Trinity, would stop the attack, as they had many others. But the underbelly of Europe was distinctly soft and unprepared. With any luck Emeric of Hungary would attempt to take advantage and attack either Italy or the Holy Roman Empire — not realizing that this would leave him vulnerable on his own eastern borders. Jagiellon would settle for a bridgehead into the heart of Europe through Hungary. The part of Jagiellon that was the black brain, Chernobog, cared little for these geographical conquests, normally, but these were physical prizes which were not without value in the spiritual world. And besides, pouring across the northern Carpathians from the lands of the Kievan Rus would allow Chernobog to seize the physical earthly holdings of an old enemy, Elizabeth Bartholdy. There would be a certain satisfaction in that.

 

Venice

 

Benito Valdosta had no such advantages. All he had was a stack of maps, the foremost tactician of the age to stare at him from under beetling brows if he said anything stupid, and a small dribble of information.

“One positive thing to come out of Odessa being as tight as a duck’s vent is that some of Jagiellon’s channels have dried up too.”

“Don’t gamble on it,” said the Old Fox. “Remember Caesare. He has puppets and means denied to good men.”

“Even denied to us,” said Petro, with a quiet smile. “I believe Patriarch Michael and Eneko Lopez when they say traffic in that sort of thing is a peril to the soul, better done by those properly protected, and best avoided entirely. But it is my task as the Doge of the Republic to keep the body and soul together for as long as possible. A few eyes in the lands of our foes would help a great deal.”

“Part of the problem, besides the vulnerability of any such ventures to the spirit of the traveler,” said Marco Valdosta seriously, “is the sheer vastness of the world. There are lands beyond lands and people beyond people. And the power in the east has made anchoring to any fixed point there difficult and dangerous. It would be easier to find an individual drop of rain that fell into the ocean last week.”

“It’s sometimes easier to do things the hard way, in other words,” said Benito. “I just wish I wasn’t trying to juggle so many uncertainties and possible variables in my head. All I can be sure of is that we’ll be ready to sail in a month with less of a fleet than I would have liked, but better than we expected, once the vessels from the western convoy are included. The lists are up in San Marco, and they’re filling up fast. I would have thought Venice had had enough of war.”

“Ah, boy,” said Lodovico Montescue. “But they haven’t had enough of you.”

“That’ll change,” said Petro Dorma, smiling faintly.

“Just make sure they are all on a ship first,” said the Old Fox slyly, “before they find out quite what you plan for Constantinople.”

“It’s the part where the admirals discover that he has hijacked their fleet that I look forward to. Especially as I will not be there to listen to it,” said Petro Dorma. “Admiral Douro guesses, I think. But the others from Genoa do not know you yet.”

Lodovico cracked his old knuckles. “The joys that await them.”

“And me,” said Benito. “They look at me and say that I am still wet behind the ears. And the worst of it is that I know they are right in some ways.”

“It is a good thing,” said Enrico Dell’este, “That I am coming along to provide a certain gravitas. Not to mention grey hair.”

“You. But…Ferrara?”

He shrugged. “Is as secure as I can make it in terms of Italian principalities. I have two heirs. A great grandchild too. If Venice and the Doge stand, Petro here has given me his word that they will inherit my seat. I am old. Respected. I may not go to war again. I would have a part of this one. If this fails…I think the West may fail too. Even if that is not true, the relative peace we now enjoy will be over.”

“I think you are reluctant to let your grandson go off on his own,” said Lodovico. “Not that I would not like to watch, but he has proved that he is capable of looking after himself, and Venice too. As long as there are no dancers and public bridges.”

“It’s that part that I promised I would prevent,” said the Old Fox, cuffing is grandson’s head gently. “He is his mother’s son, sometimes.”

“I do trust that you are letting it leak out that we will overwinter on Corfu?” asked Benito, feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

“I have very carefully, in the strictest confidence, told a certain lady,” said Lodovico, grinning like someone only a third of his age.

“You need a minder too,” said the old Fox, shaking his head.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 16

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 16

 Chapter 13

Venice

Like dark tendrils the poison that had crept out of the Casa Dandelo, the trade in slaves had corrupted everything that its vileness had touched. Slaves had been ideal for those who desired such flesh. Slaves had no-one — at least no-one who could do anything. And if the price was right, the Casa Dandelo would sell. And with the illegal trade came other things. Black lotos. Murder and kidnapping. And of course extortion and the treason it could buy. The old adherents and customers of the Casa Dandelo still had ties to the Montagnards, and to Fillipo Maria of Milan.

That worked very well for Poulo Bourgo. His new master had nothing magical coming into the bounds of Venice. But other places were a different matter. Ordinary messages could travel down the same channels to Venice as were used by contrabrand and the flesh-trade.

And thus came the news of a little girl arriving in Venice — much younger than most of the victims the network traded in. A victim his master in Vilna wanted the duke of Milan to get.

The duke wanted her as a hostage and not for their usual reasons. But snatching and transporting children was familiar enough to Bourgo’s associates.

This group of people had no more love and respect for Benito Valdosta than most of society had for them. They feared him, though. That was apparent during the meeting the former mercenary found himself at, with various conspirators — all in various attempts at disguise. Of course Poulo recognized some of them. “We need someone on the inside,” said the man from Milan.

Poulo Bourgo had never actually met Carlo Sforza. But the man’s tallness and forceful nature were well known. He had seen him in the distance and now his profile betrayed him. Poulo had had occasion to run into several of the officers of Sforza’s mercenaries. He’d been looking for work at the time, but their commander had not been there, or hiring. Sforza had been able to pick and choose in those days. He’d come down in the world since then. Not far down, but down.

It was surprising that he’d attend the meeting in person, but that was Sforza’s reputation. Direct, forceful, in personal control.

“Let your master know that has been arranged,” said Poulo.

“For maximum effect you need to wait until Benito Valdosta has left Venice,” said the tall man from Milan.

Several of the others nodded fervently. That was not the only reason they would be pleased to wait until Benito was far, far away. They did not want to face what would come when he learned his baby girl was taken.

And when Benito returned, as he would?

They planned to be just as far away as their money could take them.

*   *   *

At that moment, Carlo Sforza was actually on a hill just beyond Nogara, watching as the Scaliger mercenaries prepared for battle. The former allies were not much of a challenge. In fact their condottiere, Marcus Baldo, was about as far back from the lines as it was possible to be without hiding in a privy outside one of the villas they were attempting to use as a defensive position.

The villa had a straw roof, too. Had the fool never heard of fire?

 

Milan

 

Fillipo Maria Visconti, the duke of Milan, was the driving force of the Imperial Montagnard faction in Italian politics. The name was something of a misnomer, and had been for decades. The Holy Roman Empire had long since distanced itself from the Viscontis and their cause, and made clear that it wanted no part in the endless small wars of Italy. The dukes of Milan retained the formal pretense of serving the interests of the great power across the Alps simply because it sometimes enabled them to act more surreptitiously than they could have otherwise.

This was perhaps one of those times. The well-known fact that the Milanese dukes and their relatives conspired constantly in the Montagnard cause might disguise the fact that this particular conspiracy had a very narrow purpose.

The duke beamed on his second cousin, Count di Lamis. Di Lamis was a tall, assertive-seeming man, but not one who had turned that to appearance to martial endeavor. Rumor had it that he was scared of blood. Fillipo Maria had sent him to the meeting which the surviving Visconti loyalists of Venice had requested for two reasons. First, he was expendable if it proved to be a trap. Second — you never knew, and the duke believed firmly in serendipity — he might be mistaken for Carlo Sforza, which could prove handy. The count bore a certain resemblance to the condottiere.

“So just who is this fellow, Augustino?”

The tall count shrugged. “He calls himself Poulo, and he’s elderly looking with white hair. His accents suggest he’s fairly low-born — but he’s effective. It seems he has a finger in a fair number of criminal matters, but he supports us. Or at least he wants to see the back of Petro Dorma.”

Fillipo Maria steepled his fingers. “What does he want from us?”

Augustino di Lamis looked faintly puzzled. “Nothing much, now that I think of it. Not the usual demands for money or weapons. Or even the assurances of titles and lands. All he asked for was a squad of cavalry stationed at or near Villa Parvitto — to carry the child onward as fast as possible, when they have captured her.”

“Villa Parvitto? Where is that?”

“Technically, in Scaliger territory. Now in Veneto, in the border-lands. It appears to belong to one of his confederates.”

Fillipo Maria allowed a faint frown to shadow his face. He was wary of traps. “Why my soldiery?”

Augustino smiled toothily. “He was laboring under the delusion that I was someone else, and seemed to assume I’d send soldiers.” It wasn’t the first time this mistake had happened.

“Ha. Excellent!” Fillipo Maria rubbed his plump hands in glee. “Perfect in fact. Couldn’t be better. At a stroke we implicate Carlo. If things go wrong and this fellow is caught and the Signora di Notte’s torturers squeeze this information out of him, Sforza will get the blame. He’s campaigning in Scaliger territory, doing quite well, so it looks likely to be him. It’ll inflame old wounds between him and that bastard son of his, so when I disown him for this deed, he won’t go to Venice. And wherever he does end up he’ll take the enmity of the Valdostas and probably Dell’este with him.”

“Yes, but what if this Poulo succeeds? He seemed well in control, and very familiar with the whole process of kidnapping children.”

Fillipo Maria shrugged. “Then we have a hostage. It’s not going to make Venice and the Valdosta clan any more nor less my enemies than they are already. And we’ll see that this Poulo fellow is betrayed and rats that it was Sforza who organized it. Carlo is bound to me by need then.”

 

Venice

 

Back from his meeting of conspirators, Poulo Bourgo moved to take complete control over the shadowy network of black lotos and the even more secretive world of those whose tastes ran to very young victims. There were certain brothels that catered to that trade too. On his way to pay a visit to one of them, Poulo was surprised to see one of Carlo Sforza’s closest confidantes, and someone he had once met himself, talking to none other than…Marco Valdosta.

So. Sforza was up to something. Maybe treachery — but that was not really his reputation. Direct force was, and this looked like he was preparing a direct route to deal with one of the main problems Venice posed to the Visconti, and indeed to Chernobog.

Killing Valdosta would certainly be one way of doing so. It was a very risky option, however. Lurking within the innocuous-seeming young Valdosta was a vastly more powerful creature, here in the lagoons.

Perhaps Sforza’s aide planned to take the child?

Poulo waited. It was imprinted onto his very being that he should stay away from Marco Valdosta. When the willowy Marco left, with a cheerful wave, Poulo followed Sforza’s man up to a set of rooms above the sotoportego.

The man was seated, door open, feet up. He had a book opened at a place-marker already, but Poulo was not fooled. He wasn’t reading. Too ready…Poulo knew, these days, he could kill the man, but that was not his purpose.

“And what can I do for you, signor?” asked the fellow, coolly. He plainly did not have the vaguest idea that Poulo had met him before, which was not surprising. “There are pox-doctors and sellers of love-potions and enhancements to your virility elsewhere. I can’t help you with that sort of thing.”

“More like what I can do for you. We’re on a similar task for the same master. If you get her and find things are a bit tight, make for the Villa Parvitto.” That was intended as something of trap — or a signal. After all, Sforza would have provided the waiting escort there. This man would know.

“I think you have the wrong man. What is ‘Villa Parvitto’? Do they have good beer? That’s my next task. The beer here is barely worth drinking. And I don’t work for any master, my friend. I am what they call self-employed. A gentleman of fortune. Now, I have book to read. Go away.”

Well, if he wanted it that way. Still…

“Just into Scaliger country. Remember that if you need an out.”

“Who are you?”

“If you don’t know you don’t need to know,” said Poulo, and turned on his heel and left.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 14

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 14

Chapter 10

It was a good question, and Tom wished he had an answer to it.  But he didn’t.  It was after all, impossible to tell Anthony, whose closest held secret was that he danced bolero with a local troupe, that his bosses and their best friend shifted into animal shapes, an affliction that often landed them in trouble and caused them to have to get each other out of said trouble.

Kyrie cleared her throat, though, and Tom knew he had to come up with something as his employee stood there, holding the folded dark red apron with The George emblazoned on the chest, and looking from one to the other of them for some explanation.

“It’s a secret thing,” Tom said.  “You know, he does things… that is, you know, there is trouble with … with drug dealing, and Rafiel is under cover and if he’s picked up by other police officers, his identity will be figured out.”

“This is Goldport,” Anthony said, almost yelling.  “There are only what? Half a dozen senior officers?  I bet half the city knows him.  Certainly the half the city that is likely to have run ins with the police.  They’ll figure out who he is, even if it’s you two picking him up!”

“They haven’t.  He has a really good undercover disguise,” Tom said.

“Really good,” Kyrie said, full of fervor.

It must have been her tone of voice that convinced Anthony.  He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, which had been newly de-greased and painted just two months ago, and seemed to be contemplating the meaning of life, or perhaps the meaning of his bosses’ madness.  “Fine,” he said, at last, as he put his apron back on.  “Fine, fine, fine, fine.  You’re lucky that I’m kind of fond of you, though you’re both complete lunatics.  But I’m warning you right now, if my wife divorces me, I’m going to come gunning for you.”

Never having figured out if Anthony was Greek or Hispanic or some other culture with a very close-knit family, but knowing for a fact that Anthony knew everyone in the neighborhood, and that everyone was likely to know Anthony, and that half the neighborhood were perhaps not as… clean cut as they could be, Tom took the warning seriously.  “She won’t.  We’ll pay you double time.”

Anthony glared at Tom.  “You’re a nut.  Go on, hurry up, but don’t leave me here all alone with Conan’s thing tonight.”

* * *

“Conan’s thing?”  Kyrie asked.  She had turned to get out of the space behind the counter, but now she turned back.  The words had an ominous ring, if she could just remember what they referred to.

The thing was, she suspected there had been a lot of talking, or perhaps pleading from Conan, who often seemed to mistake Tom for an indulgent father.  The relationship was weird, given that Conan had started out by trying to kill Tom at the orders of the Great Sky Dragon, back when Tom had stolen the Pearl of Heaven, and the Great Sky Dragon had been trying to capture him and — from the looks of it — kill him.

But then there had been… something.  Kyrie wasn’t sure what and neither was Tom, who refused to have more than he absolutely needed to do with the boss of the Chinese dragons.  But suddenly, just when an ancient shifter called Dante Dare had come to town bent on punishing Kyrie and Tom, the Great Sky Dragon had sent Conan to guard Tom.  In the ensuing battle and for good enough reason, Tom had claimed Conan’s fealty away from the Great Sky Dragon.

And it seemed that no matter how many times Tom told Conan he was free, the Chinese dragon shifter couldn’t quite believe it, and instead of merely treating Tom as a boss treated him somewhere between a father and his liege lord.  And Kyrie was sure that was what had happened here.  She was as sure as she was of standing here that Conan had decided to ask Tom for something — probably something absolutely stupid, and that Tom had given him out of kindness and a desire not to be pestered.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Tom put his hand on her arm and said, “I’ll explain on the way out.”

I’ll explain on the way out, from Tom usually meant You are less likely to bite my head off if we’re moving.  Which meant whatever he’d agreed to relating to Conan must be a spectacularly bad idea.

But they couldn’t argue in front Anthony, and besides Rafiel was waiting.  The thought of Rafiel made her look back over her shoulder, “Tom, we should take meat.  He hasn’t eaten in –”

“Of course,” Tom said.  “You start up the van.  I’ll be right there.”

Kyrie nodded and got under the pass through, headed to the curving corridor that led to the restrooms and also the back door.

* * *

“You know I really can’t deal with this alone,” Anthony said.  “Laura is doing the prep work and stuff, but I have no one to tend to tables, or for that matter to arrange tables and chairs for Conan’s thing.”

Tom looked up from the meat he was cutting.  “You can’t call one of the part timers?”

“Not many of them around just now, with end of college year and finals and stuff.”

“Um.”  Tom ran an eye over the patrons, looking for friends he could recruit.  After all over the last year, many of the patrons had become friends — particularly those who were shifters and who knew that Kyrie and Tom were also shifters.  But now, though the tables were full — and Laura had to keep interrupting her real work to go attend tables, he was having trouble finding a familiar face.

Until he heard a voice from the counter, “Hey,” the voice said “hey.”

Tom focused near at hand, on the man standing between two of the stools at the counter.  He was stocky, olive skinned, wore a black t-shirt, had short-short hair with the tips frosted white, and looked anxious.  “Hey, did you hear about the police officer?  I mean, how is –”

“Jason, right?” Tom said.  “Jason Bear.”

A smile.  “No, Jason Cordova,” the man said tensely.  “But yeah.  Did you hear from Officer Trall?”

“Yeah.  In fact, we have to go and … help him.  Uh.  Have you ever waited tables?”

“What?”  Nod.  “Yeah.  Couple of times.  Pizza Hut and stuff.”

“Would you do it, at least for tonight?  To help us out?”

“What?  You mean, like a job?”  Was that an anxious light in the man’s eyes.

“Like a job, if you need it.  We’re always short staffed, and now with students leaving will be very short staffed all summer.  Here,” Tom grabbed an apron from under the counter and shoved it at the man.

“Minimum wage?” the man asked lifting an eyebrow.

“We pay ten fifty five an hour, double time for overtime, and you get all the meals you’re here for.”

“Suits me,” Cordova said putting on the apron.

“Good.  Anthony.  Jason here will be doing the tables.  Teach him the ropes as he goes, will you?”

Anthony rolled his eyes.  “What I like about this job,” he said.  “Is the variety.  Every day is a new experience.  And the teaching opportunities.  I really like that.”

“Good,” Tom said.  “Then you have it covered.”  He grabbed the carry out container and ran out the door.

* * *

Kyrie had completely forgotten about Bea, and nearly jumped out of her skin, as Bea surged out of the booth, and grabbed her arm.  “Let me come with you,” she said.  “Let me help.”

Kyrie hesitated.  On the one hand Bea was a shifter, which meant she wasn’t likely to turn in shifter-kind.  On the other hand, though what she’d heard of the girl’s story sounded good, Kyrie was very afraid that they hadn’t questioned her, and it was possible she belonged to one of those shifters’ organizations who thought it was their duty to keep every shifter in line.

Bea looked anxiously at Kyrie’s face, then said, “I know you have no reason to trust me, and I don’t even know what is happening here, but think about it from my perspective.  I was almost roasted alive, and I don’t know why, nor whether the Grea–  Himself is not likely to do the same thing again.”

Her terror was either real, or the girl was the most gifted actress alive.  Kyrie nodded.  “Okay.  Come on.”

* * *

Tom was surprised that Kyrie and Bea were both in the van.  Almost as surprised as he was that they’d left the driver’s seat to him.  He didn’t expect the not-exactly-Chinese girl.  And he never expected Kyrie to let him drive. “I couldn’t leave her alone,” Kyrie told him in an undertone, understandable only to a lip reader.  ”She was attacked and almost killed, after all.”

Tom tried not to smirk but must not have managed it, because Kyrie sighed.  “It is not in the least like your taking in all sorts of strays.”

“No?” Tom said, and left it at that, because Bea was, after all, in the back seat.

“No.  Not in the least.  Now tell me what it is about Conan’s thing.”

“No,” Tom said, starting the van, the large vehicle they normally took to farmers’ markets in summer.  “First you tell me what it is about Rafiel and where we’re going, and why.”

“Oh.  He was attacked by something.  He couldn’t describe it, because… he sounded pretty weak.  But he was attacked by something, and he’s very hurt.  Somewhere out 25, near Goldminers Road.  He said he’s in a field, so when we get near, we’ll need aerial recognizance, which is why we needed you.”

“I see.  So, I’ll drive out to Goldminers, then you can follow me while I fly.  That way I minimize the time I spend in the air, in which someone might get a picture of me.”