Manfred patted Benito's shoulder, proprietarily. "There you have it, Capitano Selvi. Besides, we'll have our trumpeters on the foredeck, sounding the battle hymn of the Knights of the Holy Trinity. There are few soldiers anywhere who would not recognize that. Finally, this is not a matter for discussion."
He hardened his tone, straightened his back, and tried to sound as much like his uncle as possible. "This is what I have decided. This is what will be done. All of the vessels will take the parts I assign to them. All I have called you together for is to finalize details. To decide which vessel will have the honor of joining in our attempt to assist the Citadel."
"I am captain of my ship," said Selvi stiffly, "and responsible to the Republic of Venice for her safety."
Von Gherens stood up and put his hand on his sword. "Captain, I am a soldier of Christ. I am sworn by a holy oath to serve the Church.
Señor
Lopez is a direct emissary of the Grand Metropolitan. I've been in combat with him. I have never met a man who serves Christ as well and with as much integrity as Eneko Lopez. He has said that the Church needs our aid. If I have to chop your head off and sail your boat myself to get there, I'll do it."
Benito looked at Von Gherens, and Manfred watched sudden realization dawning in his eyes. Well, not surprising; he hadn't lived with Von Gherens the way Manfred had. Benito had never really understood the bluff, hearty knight. There was a core of deep piety under that hard-drinking exterior. If Von Gherens truly believed in the rightness of his deeds, it would take a cannonball to stop him. That could be a problem, when his ideas were wrong—but when they were right, there was nothing short of an armored elephant that it would be better to have on your side.
The captain also plainly realized he'd misjudged. "It's a ship, not a b-boat," he stuttered. "I—of course, I'll do my best to assist. But—"
"I'll volunteer to take my ship to Corfu," said the plump Da Castres. He smiled, revealing skewed teeth, yellowed like a mule's. "I'm more afraid of that knight than I am of either the Senate or the enemy. Besides, my wife says I'm too fat. A siege will be just the thing. And if it lasts long enough, maybe absence will make her heart grow fonder."
"I'll explain that to her when I get back to Venice," said the lean, dapper Bortaliscono. "Are there any other little services you'd like me to render? While I'm there, you know."
Da Castres shook a fist at him, grinning.
Bortaliscono bowed mockingly to his fellow captain, and turned to Manfred. "I'll need those letters before this evening, Prince Manfred. As soon as it is dark we'll sheer off westward. The farther south we go, the more I'll have to beat back. I'll want to head for the Italian coastline, and creep up it."
Manfred nodded. "We'll need to bring the ships together, and transfer the knights, horses and food. I think we should be prepared to split up this evening. Selvi, it looks like you're going on to Rome."
"It's the course I should have chosen anyway, Prince Manfred," said the captain sourly . . . but not too loudly.
Manfred ignored him. "It will still be dangerous. But it could also be the crucial route. A message from there to Flanders could beat the Atlantic convoy. They'll have to return posthaste. I suspect the Outremer convoy will be out of contention, stuck in the Black Sea."
"And the enemy will know that," Da Castres pointed out. "They can count. If there are only two of our ships in the harbor—and you can be sure they have spies everywhere—then they'll know that the other two are running back for help."
He smiled nastily as Selvi looked a little green.
Manfred went below to write the letters.
Benito was left scowling, trying to think if there was any obvious hole in the plan that had now been laid squarely at his door. He was scowling, too, at Manfred's reference to his parentage.
"I think that went off rather well," said Francesca to him, smiling. "So why do you look so unhappy, Benito?"
As if he was going to tell her. "Oh. Nothing."
She looked quizzically at him. "It was that reference to your blood, wasn't it?"
"It's not exactly my favorite point of public knowledge," he said grumpily.
She patted him on the arm. "Benito, it
is
public knowledge. And Manfred needed to mention the fact that you are descended from not one, but
two
of the greatest strategists of the age to prevent any doubt."
"That doesn't mean I inherited anything from either of them," he pointed out, still irritated. But his irritation was fading fast. It was impossible to stay out-of-temper around Francesca, particularly when she was exerting herself to be charming. Maybe she was a little old for him, but . . . on the other hand, older women were . . . He forced his mind away from that line of thought.
Francesca nodded. "Benito, whether or not you have inherited your strategic sense, nevertheless, you
have
it—and if it's suggested that you inherited it from the Fox and the Wolf both, people will accept it as genius and be willing to act on it instead of thinking you're just an impudent boy."
Benito sighed. Well, that much, he could accept. "But Manfred's a commander—"
"Manfred is neither a seaman nor a Venetian. He isn't even Italian. Had this scheme been put forward as his idea, the seamen might have refused. They trust you and they trust that reputation."
"Von Gherens could have severed a few heads," said Benito, though he didn't really mean it. Well, maybe he did.
She shook her head. "Manfred, and especially Erik, are well aware that it would not have helped. You can threaten a weak-kneed captain that way, but not entire crews. Knights are not seamen. If the seamen thought what was being proposed was suicide—a hundred Von Gherens wouldn't have stopped them. Da Castres, Bortaliscono, and Douro are not cowards, even if Capitano Selvi is."
"I suppose so. But tell him I wish he hadn't done it."
Francesca dimpled. "He knows that. Just because Manfred is big, people think he doesn't notice things. Besides . . ." She pecked Benito on the cheek. "It wasn't his idea. I told him to do it. I apologize. I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't thought it necessary. But I think you let it worry you too much."
"Being illegitimate is not important, is it?" he asked sourly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Was it important when you were staying alive by your wits on the canals of Venice?"
He shrugged. "Not really, I suppose. Half the canal-side brats and bridge boys didn't know who their fathers were."
"So it was one of the
Case Vecchie
who mocked you about it?"
"Caesare did," admitted Benito. "Back after I went to live at
Casa
Dorma."
Francesca gave a little snort of laughter. "And you are letting the opinion of such a one as
Caesare
worry you? A liar, a spy, a breaker of every oath he ever made, who was for sale to anyone who had the money? He was a bigger whore than ever I was—at least I always keep my promises."
Benito acknowledged a hit. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
She smiled. "It's all right, Benito. You may be of the bloodline of the strategists of the age, but I am a woman and therefore infinitely more perceptive. And now I'd better go and correct Manfred's spelling. For someone of royal blood he is near to illiterate. Mind, you should see his uncle Charles Fredrik's handwriting! The Emperor normally has a scribe, but anything he considers confidential or really important he insists on writing himself."
As she left, Eberhard of Brunswick came across from the other side of the table, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I hope this complicated plan of yours works, boy. I don't actually like complicated plans. Too much can go wrong when the actual fighting starts."
Benito nodded. "I don't like plans where things have to be well coordinated or rely on something else happening right or exactly on time either. Um. In my misspent youth, milord, I was involved with a thief who worked like that. It got him killed. Caesare Aldanto also liked multifaceted, multipronged plans." Benito cleared his throat. "I admired him, milord. I did understand that often his plans only worked because
he
was very good at what he was doing, and he changed his plans as he went along. He also didn't mind who else got killed or hurt, as long as he was all right."
The old man smiled wryly. "I've dealt with commanders like that when I was a soldier. I've dealt with kings and chieftains like that, as a statesman. If they must go down they'll pull everyone and everything down with them, but they'll sacrifice anyone and anything to keep from going down themselves."
"Well, yes. Except most complicated plans rely on other people. And if the word gets around they can't rely on you, your reputation is ruined. People need to know they can trust you to be where you said you'd be, and do what you said you'd do, before they'll even consider taking part in complicated plans."
"Which is why you wish to be seen as reliable?"
Benito blinked. "Actually, I hadn't thought of that. What I meant is: These people don't really know me. So this plan doesn't rely on other people. It might be crazy . . . but it is dead simple, really. It doesn't rely on others having done something. It's just a simple sequence of events."
Eberhard laughed. "Events that just wouldn't occur to most commanders."
Benito smirked. "I've found plans work best when the enemy isn't expecting them."
Swimming silent and deep and as far behind the ships as he dared, while still keeping some kind of trace on them, the great hagfish followed. The encounter with the adversary had been terrifying—all the more so because the adversary had been not only supported by his companions but linked to them, in a way that was as alien to the shaman as mother-love. To link together thus was to open your mind and will totally to your companions. The shaman would never do that voluntarily. He could think of no one he would dare trust like that.
He soon realized that the vessels above and ahead of him had diverged. Hagfish can pick up blood and other scents in a part per million. The darkness above was no cloak at all to the chemical-sensitive barbels around his mouth.
For a moment he dithered, before deciding. Make it his master's problem. His master's slave Aldanto had virtual control of all of the Byzantine ships, and by virtue of exploiting ignorance, control over the galliots. The captains of those little vessels were superstitiously terrified of Aldanto. He could direct pursuit of the other ships. The shaman could tell the master where they were heading.
A little later, after this was done, the shaman returned, determined to follow and if possible arrange an attack on the two vessels heading for Corfu. The adversary was in one of them.
Father Francis frowned, bracing himself against the bulkhead while the vessel lurched. "Much of this plan relies on the enemy not being forewarned. But, Eneko, if we are being followed by some magical creature, and it was able to direct those fleets to attack, will it not warn the besiegers?"
Eneko nodded; he was tired, and he had rather not do this now—but there was certainly no time to wait. "So we shall have to try to drive it away."
Diego stretched. "Bah. So we have to deal with that
thing
again! You know, Eneko, I think I can still taste the slime. Well, soonest done, quickest mended. When will we try it?"
"Before the ships turn to make the tack back toward Corfu. It may conclude that we plan to make landfall. That is well and good. If it is in contact with the land-troops, let them patrol there while we attempt to reach the Citadel." He stood. "Brothers, let us cast the circle and call the wards. I believe that we will have much the same aid this time as the last. Perhaps, forewarned, we will make better use of it."
Perhaps, he thought, This time the surprise will be on our side.
Two hours later the shaman had retreated with desperate haste to deep water, and was begging the master to open up a passage. Jagiellon answered, with the same twisting passage through the spirit-world, but it seemed an eternity to the shaman. He fled up it, and was spewed out onto the stone floor in a heap, gracelessly.
The hagfish transformed into its human form, and the shaman started screaming. His wrinkled skin was blistered, with long, raised lash-marks. Even transposition could not heal them.
Jagiellon allowed him to scream for some few moments, before commanding: "Be still."
The shaman had little choice but to obey despite wanting to scream, and scream, and never stop screaming. It had not been a sword nor a lance that met him this time, but a great fiery form that had
dragged
him into some neutral part of the spirit-realm, and lashed him with a many-tailed whip while he frantically tried to crawl away. He had not gotten in a single blow of his own. He'd barely managed to escape.
"Eat skin," commanded Jagiellon. "Come. I go to eat some myself."
The shaman picked up his
quodba
drum with blistered fingers. He could not help noticing that the skin of his one-time foe, now the drumhead, was singing. Vibrating just faintly all by itself.
Benito, a Corfiote seaman, Capitano Douro and Erik stood in the captain's cabin, peering at a chart of the island. "If they have patrols out, it will be here, milord," said the seaman, pointing. "Between Kavos and the mainland. It is only, oh, maybe three leagues across the strait there."
"They'll have lookouts on both sides, I presume?" asked Erik, studying the chart.
The seaman shook his head fiercely. "Not on the mainland! The Lord of the Mountains would never allow that."
"The Lord of the Mountains?"
"Iskander Beg. He is chief of the Illyrians over there. He is a very bad man." The Corfiote shuddered.
"So there will be a watch on the Corfiote shore," mused Erik. "But probably just a ship at anchor well off the other shore."
"Do ships sail this strait at night?" asked Benito.