Stephanos's Hungarian, unlike his Illyrian, was limited, and certainly wouldn't fool a Magyar trooper for an instant. But it worked fine on the Slovene.
Benito got to drive the wagon, with Nico. Nobody seeing Benito ride would have believed him to be a Magyar cavalryman. Just after dark they set out for the northern causeway. It meant crossing the entire front—but the Croats were on that side. They had two fluent Croat-speakers from Istria, whom Benito had recruited from Captain Di Negri's Venetian volunteers.
One of the wounded from inside the covered wagon groaned. "Shut him up!" whispered Benito hoarsely.
They were approaching the two earthwork and masonry fortresses that had been constructed to deal with any sally. By the looks of it, a lot of work had gone into these since Benito had left.
They stopped the wagon just short of one of the forts. The two Croat speakers dismounted. Benito held the wheel-lock pistol between his legs. If things didn't work now . . . It would mean they'd failed to fool the guards. Then it would be whether they retreated, and tried to leave the Hungarian base in the morning—because there'd be no leaving now—or decided to rush the causeway forts. Having looked at the causeway and the improved forts, Benito knew that one in ten of them might make it.
Halfway. Before the Venetians started shooting.
The two returned and said something in Stephanos's drilled-in Hungarian. The twenty fake Magyar dismounted, grumbling suitably, looking hangdog. A number of grinning Croats had turned out to take the horses and watch the Magyar's discomfort. The Magyar and the Croats had a healthy respect for each other. That didn't mean they didn't enjoy seeing the other lot suffer.
Really suffer. Proud Magyar having to do manual labor—off their precious horses—which had to be left with the Croats' flea-bitten nags, was a sight to be enjoyed.
Mocking cheers and jeers followed them struggling to haul the heavy wagon by hand along the causeway. Dragorvich's engineers had built a snaking set of ramparts along it, and the farm wagon had to be backed and hauled around these. Several of the engineers and a group of sappers actually gave them a hand.
Tch. What a degradation for the crème de la crème. It served them right for being stupid enough to be caught drunk on duty. They were lucky the punishment was so slight. If it had been the king who'd caught them, they wouldn't just have to take a load of gunpowder casks to the front for Count Dragorvich. The sappers might have wondered why they hadn't been told about this latest plan. But, in an army—especially Emeric's—nobody ever told common soldiers anything.
Since Manfred's sally, a forward post had been added to the defenses. By the looks of it, the Venetians had been pounding them. The wagon would certainly go no further.
The officer from the forward post emerged and snapped something caustic. Probably: "What the hell are you doing here, you idiots? Get that damn wagon out of here!"
The poor fellow wasn't expecting a blow to the head with a knife pommel. The Corfiotes and Venetians moved fast, into the forward post. Now there was no time for subterfuge. Just violence.
Benito and the eight cutters didn't wait to see how it went in there. He flung off the Magyar helmet and tore the sash off and joined in cutting the cords that held the cover, flipping it over so the carefully chalked inner lining of the canvas sprang onto its banner-support poles.
Benito just had to hope shots being fired in that forward post would be taken as normal around here. In the meantime he had a stretcher to carry. Erik and the other three couldn't run themselves.
They started running forward. Benito just hoped the shooting would only start in earnest after the wagon got to burning. The wagon was neatly jammed across the causeway, supporting a banner of the winged lion of Saint Mark.
Shots rang out from the walls. They'd been seen. "
SAN MARCO!"
yelled Benito, with what breath he could spare. The other runners were shouting too. He looked left, back at the causeway. The wagon was burning merrily. The chalked outline of the Lion of Saint Mark reflected back golden.
They were almost at the corner tower. And then round it. Now the Hungarian forces were firing too. "Press against the wall.
San Marco! San Marco! A rescue!"
"Who in the hell is down there?" bellowed someone from the wall.
"Valdosta! Wounded men! Help!"
"Valdosta?"
"San Marco! Help us! We've got wounded men."
The north postern spilled light. Benito saw pikemen come hurrying—but wary, and with their pikes ready. "Valdosta?" yelled someone from their ranks.
"Here!" Benito waved a hand. "Help us."
"It's all right boys! It's him. It's the madman!" Benito recognized the voice of large Alberto, Umberto's Arsenalotti friend. The Citadel's pikemen surged forward, grabbing them, grabbing stretchers, shouting "Valdosta." Cheering. Even laughing.
Benito didn't feel like laughing. Only eighteen of his band of heroes were here to enjoy the cheering.
Jagiellon prepared his favorite dish for the shaman. There were properties about it that would help to heal the shape-changer, even if the skin was only that of a palace servant. In the meanwhile, the shaman huddled in a corner in his feather-and-bell-hung spirit cloak. He sat there shivering, making the bells tinkle, and flickering his fingers across the surface of the tattooed
Quodba
-drum.
The noise—which reverberated outside the mere physical plane—was an irritation, but Jagiellon ignored it. He had no choice if he wanted to retain the services of this very powerful shaman. The shaman was enacting a kind of self-healing and pain-stilling. He was, despite his formidable skills, still a primitive man. Or something near that anyway. Right now, Jagiellon could have killed him effortlessly. The shaman was in too much agony to care.
But Jagiellon needed to send him back. Whatever it was about Corfu that hampered his own magics was powerful, intensely so. Jagiellon could not afford to let it fall into Emeric's hands. He knew that Emeric was a cat's-paw for someone whose interest in mere geographical possessions was limited: the sorceress across the Carpathians.
Soon, therefore, the shaman must go back. The power of Corfu would be centered on a specific place. The shaman must be the first into that place. The slave was useless now. His wounding had been physical and dire, and Jagiellon was not sure if he was going to bother to repair him.
"So I was thinking," said Marco, "maybe I could try to contact Benito."
Sister Evangelina shook her head. "Even our most powerful mages cannot contact Eneko Lopez. Corfu seems to have become an island in a magical sense also. Besides, Eneko Lopez advised you not to try scrying out of the confines of the Venetian lagoon, did he not?"
Brother Mascoli smiled gently. "According to my researches, Corfu has always been a magical island."
Marco looked stubborn. "Look. The danger with my scrying was that the focus of my vision was too wide, that evil can enter and attack me. I can defend myself now. I've been practicing, as you know. With Kat, whom I know and love, I can narrow that down. Eneko didn't say 'never,' he said only in a case of dire need. I think there is now need."
Mascoli nodded. "And blood connections are always stronger. There is a magical resonance between them. But still, Marco, even if you could narrow your search and only reach Benito, and protect yourself, Corfu cannot be reached."
"I grant there is need," said Evangelina, "but is it dire?"
"I believe so," said Marco quietly. "I believe Benito needs me."
"Is there anything that can be done for him?"
"God willing, yes." Eneko Lopez scowled. "Although here on Corfu . . . But we will do our best."
Manfred let one of his meaty hands rest on Erik's forehead—a surprisingly gentle gesture for so big and powerful a man. "I owe you a debt I can't ever repay, Benito. May God forgive me for letting him go. Or I should have gone with him."
He shook his head. "What a mess, Benito. I always thought . . . other people died in combat. Since this siege started, I'm beginning to realize that 'other people' can be your closest friends."
"If Eneko succeeds then he's going to need close friends, Manfred. She's dead. Caesare's men, or at least their horses, killed her. I didn't know Erik like you did. But . . . before this happened he was very much in love. He—they—were about as happy as a couple can be. When he got there, she was dying already. He went berserker. He killed half the Hungarians himself. Then Caesare nearly killed him with this magical blow."
"And what happened to Caesare Aldanto? I swear this world isn't big enough for both of us to live in." It was said with a calm assurance that was no less terrifying for its calmness. All the more so, coming from a prince of the Holy Roman Empire.
"I shot him. I think he's dead. Some monstrous eel thing took him down into the water."
"Chernobog's minion!" exclaimed Brother Francis. "The hagfish."
Manfred put a big arm around Benito. "You shot him? Well done! Are you sure you hit him?"
"Certain. I wasn't more than three yards off. I shot him in the gut. Liver and spine would have been hit too."
"How did you get so close? Melee?"
"I did what he taught me. Distracted him. Convinced him I was going to fence with him. And then I shot him when he thought I was dead meat."
"Well done!" repeated Manfred. "He never taught you anything better in his life. Now, you look exhausted." He managed a grin. "These jack-in-the-box visits to the Citadel are all very well, but they're not good for you. Go and rest. I'll sit with Erik."
"I'll just go to see Maria . . . 'bout Caesare."
"You're swaying on your feet. She'll have the news by now or I know nothing about women. And I'll send Von Gherens down to tell her you're fine, but that you're in bed. Your own, alone, asleep."
Benito chuckled. "Not that she cares. But I suppose it will keep."
Benito slept a full twenty hours. He hadn't realized just how exhausted he was. Now up, washed—in salt water, as fresh water in the Citadel was under severe rationing—and dressed, he carefully checked, unloaded and reloaded Maria's wheel-lock pistol. Then he set off to see her.
"It's the bad penny again, Umberto," said Maria.
"And it is good to see him. If we had ten bad pennies like this youngster, Emeric wouldn't have a siege!" Umberto waved to a chair. "Have you come to see my daughter again?" he asked, with an attempt at a stern look. "I tell you I want a respectable
scuolo
husband for her, Benito, not someone everyone calls 'the madman.' "
"Where is she?"
"Mrs. Grisini and her maid have taken her out for a walk. The old lady is a little crazy too. I've sat with her a few times when Anastasia has been sick. She . . . sees things. But she's harmless. And she adores 'Lessi. I don't normally let her alone with her, but Anastasia is very good with both of them."
"And where's the goat?"
There was an awkward pause. "We sold her. We just couldn't find enough food for her any more. I couldn't bear to kill her myself. She was a black-hearted menace, but she was twice the guard that a dog would have been. Have you heard that Sophia Tomaselli escaped? The guards claim it was witchcraft."
Maria sighed. "I suspect it was simply money. They've searched all over. Even searched the captain-general's apartments, at his invitation. Anyway, let's talk about something else. Is it just as dry out there?"
"Just about. You can still find water underground or in the bigger rivers. But even the olives are suffering." Benito took out the wheel-lock pistol. "Here. I'm returning it with thanks. It did exactly what it was supposed to do. I think he's dead, and if that woman is around she might get vindictive. You might need it. Careful. It's loaded and primed."
She took the pistol. "You killed Caesare?"
"Yes. I think so, anyway."
Maria nodded. Seeing her husband's frown, she shook her head. "Good riddance, I say! I'm sorry, Umberto, I'm just being honest. Caesare Aldanto was an evil man. He did terrible harm to me and Benito and Marco, and lots of other good Venetians. Best that he is dead. He'd only go on doing it to other people."
Umberto nodded. "I agree with you on this one, my dear. You told me how he deceived our Garavelli cousins. But he was supposed to be a great swordsman and a fighter. How did you . . . ?" He smiled apologetically at Maria. "It'll be a story to tell the other
scuolo
masters. Young Benito here is one of the favorite sources of stories. I must tell you, Benito, it has done my prestige and popularity no end of good with all the wild journeymen and apprentices, that I am Valdosta's friend."
Maria snorted. "That lot are as bad as he was."
Umberto smiled. "They are the ones who really believe in my fireboats. The masters mostly say the authorities will never use them. That they will say we wasted the materials." He sighed. "They would work. It is my dream to see that they get the chance to work. Well, tell us about this Caesare."
"I had Maria's pistol in my hand inside my shirt. I pretended the hand was injured. I boasted a lot about fencing. About the sword. And then when were close . . . he lunged."
Benito lunged himself, demonstrating.
The glass in the small window shattered. A black crossbow bolt sailed through the space Benito had just vacated and hit Umberto squarely in the chest.
Maria still had the pistol in her hand. She turned and, as you might point a finger, fired.
By the time the guards arrived, Umberto was dead in his wife's arms. His hand was still holding Benito's.
There was a blood trail outside, from next to the low wall where the killer had hidden.
"They found him," said Benito quietly. "He was hiding down in the ruined houses near the Kérkira side of the outer wall. Your shot shattered his right hand and hit him in the gut. He'll die. It's amazing he got that far. They've been questioning him, hard, as they reckon his time is short."