She sighed. "Well, I hope this situation holds for a further few weeks. But it smells of trouble, Manfred. With the situation in Fruili . . ."
Manfred kissed an elbow. It was all he could reach. "Ah. That's my next bit of news. Emeric is poised on the border, ready to join the free-for-all orgy of destruction the Scaliger's mercenaries have loosed on the countryside. The Scaligers want to flood Venice with refugees. About the only good thing that has happened for Venice is that cunning old Duke Dell'este served the Bolognese attacking Modena such a trick they're out of it."
"He isn't called 'the Old Fox' for nothing," she chuckled. "And how did he do this trick?"
Manfred grinned. "My uncle says Dell'este is one of the most dangerous strategists in Christendom and Uncle has a mind to send me to study there next. He hasn't met you yet, my love. But whatever you do, don't get him into this position. He's an old man and I think Aunt Clothilde only knew one good German position. Flat on her back and thinking of the imperial heir. Let me out of this, do. The footstool and these cushions are killing my back. Not to mention the voluptuous weight of you."
She tickled him. "If you had not said the last, I would have let you up. But now you must first tell me what the Duke Dell'este did to confound the Bolognese."
"Leave off with the tickling, then! It's, uh, distracting." He continued: "While the condottiere from Ferrara was engaging the troops from Milan and Bologna--outside Modena--Dell'este himself led a band of partisans disguised as wagoneers with loot from villas in Ferrarese territory to within two leagues of Bologna. There is a big stand of pine trees there--or, I should say, there used to be a big stand of pines there. Those wagons had barrels of naphtha and oil in them. They set the pines into the biggest smokiest blaze imaginable.
"Then one of Dell'este's lieutenants, riding an exhausted horse and with Bolognese colors, rode up screaming 'Treachery!' into the Bolognese rear. The cities are only eight leagues apart, you know, so they could see the smoke clearly. He said the Milanese had sneaked an attack on Bologna, while the Bolognese were distracted into attacking Modena. There's no love lost anyway between the Bolognese condottieri and the ones from Milan. Next thing there was an all-out fight between the mercenaries, with all the Bolognese levies riding home hell-for-leather."
"It's a good story. I'll let you up," conceded Francesca. "I'm amazed Sforza fell for it."
"He didn't. It was Ambroso. And I don't think I need to get up any more. Part of me is up already."
But her next statement brought him down and struggling to his feet. "Then you can bet Sforza is on his way here already. They simply want to distract the Ferrarese. Venice is the real prize. The attacks on the Ferrarese positions were designed to get Dell'este out into the countryside. They must be coming down the Po."
"What about those Venetian forts? The Polestine forts. They'll knock the hell out of a fleet of river-craft with their cannons."
Francesca bit her lip. "I would expect treachery."
Manfred reached for his clothes. "I reckon it's time I had a talk with someone in authority here in Venice. If I suggest Brunelli, Erik will have a fit--although he seems the right man, now that their Doge is hovering between lucidity and death. Who else is in their inner councils, Francesca?"
"Petro Dorma. But he has no love for the Holy Roman Empire."
Manfred shrugged his surcoat on. "I know him. He's a good enough seeming fellow. Doesn't let his feelings show, even if he does dislike us."
"He doesn't reveal too much at all. I'm certain that he's one of the Council of Ten. He is also a Signor di Notte. Since Lord Calenti died, he has been acting as the one in charge of them. He also heads the new militia. He has them under the command of your old friend, Caesare Aldanto."
"Oh. Well. These are for you, by the way." He handed her a bundle of parchment heavy with seals.
"What are they?"
Manfred smiled grimly. "Erik's idea. Signed and sealed warrants for the execution of Bishop Sachs and the Knight-proctors. Erik calls it insurance. And this one is from me. It's a safe conduct to an audience with Charles Fredrik."
Francesca was silent. Then she said in a rather small voice. "I have recently become fully aware of just what deep water I have waded into. You know, I did consider betraying you for a while. Not very seriously, I admit. But . . ."
"And my prowess as a lover convinced you otherwise?" said Manfred, hopefully.
She kissed him. "No. Well, not much. Two other reasons. The first, of course, being Erik. I am quite unwilling to bring the wrath of that clan down on my head. I'm sure he has cousins and brothers as ferocious as himself."
Manfred nodded. "My cousin had his older brother for a mentor. He says Olaf is half troll. And I think he was only half joking." He cocked his head. "And the other reason?"
Whatever qualms Francesca might have been feeling seemed to disappear instantly. The grin she gave Manfred was not coquettish in the least--just, very cheerful. "I find that I rather enjoy deep waters."
Chapter 84 ==========
It was his last night in town . . .
Benito headed towards the old apartment in Cannaregio. Maybe--if she hadn't gone to Kat--if he played his cards right--Maria might take the fact that he was going off to war as a reason to repeat their night together. He found himself desperately hoping she would, and--almost as desperately--telling himself he was solely motivated by a manly search for pleasure.
He was unusually deep in thought, walking down the narrow calle. His previous life had been a humble place, but a happy one. The world had been pretty straightforward then. Now . . . for all that it was much more wealthy and luxurious, life was much more complicated. Take this business with Caesare . . . he was starting to put things into place that he really didn't like, and didn't want to believe about his hero.
He was at the foot of the narrow stairway when he looked up and saw that the door to the apartment was open. Moonlight made it look like a black pit. Benito raced up the stairs, his mind full of fear. And, as he stepped into the darkness, someone grabbed him. Someone with big meaty hands. "Knew you'd come back, bitch! You killed my cousins!"
Benito stamped down hard--as Caesare had taught him to--and struck back with an elbow with all the strength of his roof-climbing honed muscles. Straight into the pit of the stomach, by the gasp and release.
Benito had realized a while back that he was never going to be as tall as his brother. But lately he'd been getting broader. And the one thing about roof-climbing was that his grip was as strong as one of those Barbary apes.
Which was a good thing, he thought, as he caught his attacker's descending arm. Whoever this was, he was as strong as one of those apes' bigger cousins. Benito snatched at his main gauche, cross-drawing it with his free hand. He drew it in a short vicious arc. The heavy pommel hit something, hard. The arm he was trying to hold went limp. He hit the sagging head twice more, with all the force at his disposal. As the body slumped against him, he caught his attacker by the hair, and pounded the base of his skull as hard as he could with the pommel. Then he stepped back and drew his rapier, slipping the main gauche into its sheath, and felt for the oil lamp.