This Rough Magic

you.'

'I had to nod. I couldn't speak. I'm afraid the disgusting stuff may have ruined my vocal cords forever. Besides, if I had opened my mouth I might have been sick.' She sniffed cautiously at the reticule. 'Bleh. Even if it doesn't ruin the leather I refuse to live with the smell.'

'And there I thought you'd finally learned to drink.' Manfred shook his head sadly. 'I'll admit the stuff was strong enough to make me pause. He might run a lousy garrison but he certainly has a drink that would put hair on your chest.'

'I certainly hope not!' said Francesca. 'But it was all part of the show, Manfred.'

Manfred stood up and reached for her laces. 'I better check about the hair,' he teased. 'What do you mean? 'Part of the show'? I hope you don't mean the hair . . .'

She lifted his hands aside, kissed them and said: 'Later, when you don't smell of oil and old iron and fish and seaweed. What I mean by 'part of the show' was that it was our little captain-general's attempt to show how tough he was. Think of it. This is a backwater of Venetian defense. It's a major point in their resupply and trade routes, but for a commanding officer—well, it's not a place Venice expected to be attacked.'

'A junior posting.'

'More like a backwater posting. He's not so young.'

She patted Manfred's broad shoulder. 'Now, think. You are a given such a posting—a good trade spot but militarily a sign of being relegated to someplace where you can't do any damage. And suddenly—a siege! He hasn't done too badly, really. From what we've been told, had he been a totally arrogant ass like that fool who told us Greeks were no good, the fortress would have fallen to Emeric's sneak attack. Instead . . . someone did some preparation, saved the citadel, and saved a good many lives outside. It doesn't look as if he's doing too badly, so far, all things considered. Venice will be proud of him, that's what he's thinking. And then . . . in come a couple of hundred of the Empire's greatest knights, in the most dramatic style, poking a stick in the eye of the enemy. Led by a prince of the blood who offers to assist him in conducting the defenses.'

Manfred swallowed. 'It was well meant, Francesca.'

'I know,' she said, gently. 'But then I'm not a thin-skinned minor noble with a dying military career. And I nearly ruined my toes kicking you. I wish I could have kicked Von Gherens too.'

Manfred grinned. 'He'd have asked why you were kicking him.'

 

Chapter 38

Benito was assigned a room in the Castel a mar. After washing, he found himself in no state to sleep. So he set out to do what he had been told to on arriving in Corfu: reporting to the Dorma Factor.

Asking directions, Benito set out, got himself thoroughly lost and eventually found his way to the man's residence. He was not at home. So Benito left a message and walked across to the hospital to see how Falkenberg was doing.

'You can't see him,' said the monk. 'He's finally asleep. He's in pain, young man. Sleep, even assisted by laudanum, is the best thing for him.'

'Tell him . . . I'll come back later. Is he going to be all right?'

The monk shrugged. 'If he doesn't get secondary infections. We've prayed over him. We've used such skills as we have. We have used a fragment of the blessed Saint Landry's hand.'

Benito wished, desperately, that his brother were here. But all he could do was thank the monk and leave.

He stood outside on the street, looked about, and bit his lip. Finally, with a feeling in his stomach as if he'd been kicked there by Von Gherens, asked a passerby: 'Where can I find the home of Umberto Verrier?'

The man shrugged. 'Never heard of him.'

'He's a master caulker. Just come out from Venice.'

'Try the store-yards down at the outer northeastern gate.'

So Benito passed out through the inner curtain wall, and on down to the store-yard. Given the way his day had been going so far, he was not surprised to find that Umberto had taken a belated breakfast and was now back at home, which was inside the curtain wall.

'Look for the last house before the road to St. Agatha's. Between the hills. He's got a goat in his yard. You can usually hear it. It leans over the wall and bleats at passers by. They feed it. Only man I know with a watch- goat,' said the Corfiote laborer, grinning. 'It's got a weakness for Kourabiedies.'

Benito knew exactly which house the man was talking about then. He'd passed it on his way to look for the Dorma factor, and again while walking to the hospital. He sighed. It had been that sort of day.

'What's wrong?' enquired the burly laborer.

'Nothing much. I've just walked down from virtually next door. Anyway, thanks.'

The man grinned, showing missing teeth. 'You're welcome. I saw you coming in from the ship this morning. And working with old Umberto. He's not a bad soul, for a Venetian.'

So Benito walked back up. He found the house. The goat leaned over the wall and bleated at him. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the door and knocked.

Maria opened the door, baby on arm. 'Benito! What are you doing here?'

'You know this young fellow?' asked Umberto, smiling and getting up from the table. 'He gave me a lot of help this morning. Come in, young man. We never got formally introduced. I know your face from Venice. This is my wife, Maria . . . but you already seem to know that?'