“What?” William thundered. He hurled the goblet against the wall and watched it shatter into a thousand purple-drenched shards. “He dares? By Saint Rooster’s balls, he dares?”
“He is an ambitious man, Sire. Twenty ships to his credit will take him far with the court at Hansa.”
“To his credit? My ships must appear to be from Saltmark? You mean he expects my ships, my crews, to sail under his flag?”
“That is his demand, Your Majesty,” Robert said. His voice took on an angry edge. “Else, as he put it, he will rut with our sister to his heart’s desire, then give her to his men with orders to ride her until her back is broken.”
“Saint Michael,” William swore, taking his seat. “What has the world come to? Is there no honor in it?”
“Honor?” Robert bittered a humorless laugh. “Listen, William—”
“You know I cannot do it.”
“You—” Robert actually lost his tongue, for a moment. “You pompous ass!” he finally got out. “This is Lesbeth!”
“And I am emperor. I cannot sell the honor of my throne for one sister, no matter how well I love her.”
“No,” Robert said, voice very low, finger pointing like a dagger. “No. William, I will sink those ships myself, do you hear me? With my bare hands, if need be. You should have sent Lesbeth off with the rest, but you heeded her whim and let her stay here to meet her Safnian prince. The same Safnian prince, I might add, who sold her to Austrobaurg.”
“What?” William stared at his brother, wondering if he had somehow misunderstood the words.
“I said Austrobaurg would not tell me how he kidnapped her. But I did discover it through my spies, one murder and torture I’m sure you don’t want to hear about. Austrobaurg has enemies, some very near him, though not near enough to open his throat, more’s the pity. Not yet. But I discovered what I wanted to know. Lesbeth’s Safnian prince has called in Hansa many times. He is well known there, and he is in their pay. He sent a letter, telling Lesbeth to meet him on the Cape of Rovy, that his ship was damaged and he’d made camp there. She went to him, only to find a Hanzish corvette.”
“Prince Cheiso did this? You have proof ?”
“I have the proof of my ears. I trust my sources. Oh, and there is this.”
He pulled something from the pouch at his belt and tossed it to William, who caught it. It was a slim metal box, with a catch fastening it.
“What is this?”
Robert made a peculiar sound, and William was stricken to see tears start in his brother’s eyes.
“It’s her finger, damn you.” He spread his right hand and wiggled the index finger. “This one, with the twin of this ring. We put them on when we were eight, and have not, either of us, been able to remove them since we were fifteen.”
William opened the catch. Inside, indeed, was a slim finger, nearly black. On it was a gold band with a scroll of oak leaves about it.
“Ah, saints of mercy!” He snapped the box shut with shaking hands. Who could do this to Lesbeth? Lesbeth the ever smiling, the best, the most compassionate of them all?
“Robert, I did not know. I—” He fought back tears.
“Do not console me, Wilm. Get her back. Or I will.”
William found another goblet. He needed more wine for this, to pacify the blood thundering in his ears, the blind rage he felt building again.
“How, Robert?” he snapped. “If we do this thing, it could cost us every alliance. Even Liery might break with us. It’s impossible.”
“No,” Robert said, his voice still quavering. “It isn’t. We have already sent ships in secret to the Saurga Sea, haven’t we?”
“It’s not much of a secret.”
“But the ships have not been counted or accounted for. Only the two of us know how many have been sent. Crews can be found; I know where to find them. Crews that will ask no questions and tell no stories, if they are paid well enough.”
William stared at Robert for a long moment. “Is this true?”
“It is. Austrobaurg will get all the credit, as he desires— and he will get all of the blame. The sea lords of Liery will be none the wiser of our part and will remain our friends. I will oversee this personally, William. You know my love for Les-beth; I would risk nothing, here, that might mean her life. But I would never risk our kingdom, either.”
William drank more wine. Soon it would be too much; already the world was flat, like the paintings on the wall. This was a poor time for judgment. Or perhaps, in such matters, the best.
“Do it,” he whispered. “Only do not give me details.”
“It is done,” Robert replied.
“And Prince Cheiso. Have him arrested and put in Spinster Tower. Him I’ll deal with in the morning.”
2
The Prince of Shade
The air above the ochre brick of the Piato da Fiussa shimmered like the top of a stove. It was so hot that even the pigeons and grackles—which normally covered the square, scavenging for bits of bread or cheese—would not light upon it for fear of roasting themselves.
Cazio, similarly concerned, exerted himself just enough to scoot an armspan, following the shadow of the marble fountain his back rested against as he gazed laconically around the square. There he found few people with any more ambition of mobility. Earlier, the little market town of Avella had been a bustling place. Now, with the sun at noon, people had more sense.
Buildings of the same yellow brick up to three stories high walled the piato, but only on the south side did they cast a meager shadow. In that welcome umbra, the shopowners, bricklayers, vendors, street officers, and children of Avella, sat, lay, or otherwise lolled, sipping the brash young wines of the Tero Mefio, nibbling cellar-cooled figs, or dabbing their brows with wet rags.
Smaller gatherings under awnings, next to stairways— wherever the sun was thwarted—made plain why the hours between noon and three bells were named z’onfros caros— the treasured shadows. And, in a city where noon shadows had value—indeed, were sometimes bought and sold—the shade of Fiussa’s fountain was one of the dearest.
That was where Cazio rested, with the nude, flower-adorned goddess watching over him. The three nymphs at her feet disgorged tall plumes of water, so that a gentle damp mist settled on his darkly handsome face and broad shoulders. The marble basin was cool, and no matter which hour of the sessa it might be, there was ample shade—for perhaps four people.
Cazio lazily examined the upper-floor windows across the piato. This time of day the rust or sienna framed windows were all thrown open, and sometimes pretty girls could be seen, leaning on the casements to catch a breeze.
His laconic search was rewarded.
“Look there,” he said to his friend Alo, who reclined nearby. “It’s Braza daca Feiossa.” He nodded his head toward a dark-haired beauty looking out over the square. She wore only a cotton undershift, which left much of her neck and shoulders bare.
“I see her,” Alo said.
“She’s trying to catch my attention,” Cazio said.
“Of course she is. The sun came up just for you today, too, I’m sure.”
“I wish he hadn’t bothered,” Cazio murmured, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead and pushing back his thick mop of black hair. “What was I thinking, getting up so early?”
Alo started at that. “Early? You’ve just now risen!” A sallow-faced boy with caramel-colored hair, at sixteen Alo was a year younger than Cazio.
“Yes, and see, it’s too hot to work. Everyone agrees.”
“Work? What would you know of work?” Alo grunted. “They’ve been working all morning. I’ve been up since dawn, unloading bushels of grain.”
Cazio regarded Alo and shook his head sadly. “Unloading grain—that isn’t work. It’s labor.”
“There’s a difference?”