This Rough Magic

'Get used to it,' said Manfred with a grin. 'It's usually easier to say they are right even if they're patently wrong.' He ducked hastily.

Francesca just raised an eyebrow.

'That is a real danger signal,' said Manfred. 'It means it's being saved up. I'm just trying to further his education, Francesca.'

'I'll just save that up, too,' she said, with a thin smile. 'Now, let's go down and talk to Umberto and Maria. There will be people selling things here in the Citadel, and Maria will know where.'

Von Gherens looked speculatively at Benito. 'The other thing you'll need to get him is a knife. He can't carry a Ferrara main gauche that would cost a fisherman five years' earnings, and a rapier's right out.'

Benito gritted his teeth. Changing out of Case Vecchie clothes was something he was actually looking forward to, although he knew his feet would find being shoeless a painful experience. Going without his rapier and his beautifully balanced dagger would be a lot harder. He didn't feel dressed without at least the main gauche. But Von Gherens was right; he knew that from his time as a bridge- brat. One look at his main gauche, and even an idiot would know he wasn't what he was supposed to be.

Erik grinned. 'And I suppose you'd like me to leave my new hatchet behind too? It's not a patch on my Vinland one, but the swordsmith at Mainz didn't seem to understand me clearly enough.'

The scar-faced old Prussian Ritter sniffed 'I think he probably thought you wanted it for chopping firewood, not having seen you use that barbaric thing. The Hungarians probably won't recognize it either. Until it's too late.'

Erik nodded. 'I can relieve them of anything else I need. And I think I've got a knife for you, Benito, in with my gear. It's better than any cheap local blade, anyway. I'll dig it out for you. It's a Shetland islander's knife. It's very plain. Could pass for a fisherman's tool, but it's good steel and well balanced.'

* * *

'I'd have to get permission before selling you a boat,' said Umberto, worriedly.

'Do you know of anyone who has one to sell?' asked Erik delicately.

Umberto shook his head. Then put up a finger. 'It's not strictly a boat . . . but one of the Corfiotes who does some work for the Little Arsenal has his coracle stored down at the shipyard. He'd probably sell, right now. I don't see him using it for a while.'

Maria, however, seemed enthusiastic about the project. 'And clothes and dye for Erik's hair . . . Well, there is Fianelli. He sells secondhand goods. I wouldn't look too hard at where they came from, 'Nito, but that won't be any shock to you. He's got some quack medicines and stuff too. I wouldn't be surprised to find some dye there. I'll go along if you like. And green walnuts will do for skin color.'

She looked at Benito. 'You came to wish me farewell and Godspeed. You're doing the kind of mad thing you like doing best. I'll wish you the same. At least you're doing it for a good cause and not your usual damnfool reasons.'

Benito grinned. 'And you and Umberto take care too, especially of my god-niece.'

Maria scowled fiercely at him.

* * *

Fianelli had what Benito was looking for. After he left, Benito muttered to himself: 'Good thing Erik didn't come along with me. That man practically stinks of foulness. If he knew an obvious nonislander was trying to leave the Citadel, he'd try to sell the information. Me, he just thinks I'm seeking a disguise for an assignation.'

* * *

That was, in fact, exactly what Fianelli thought. It never occurred to him to warn his master Emeric that an escape was being planned from the Citadel. Within a day, he'd forgotten all about the sale. Fianelli sold a lot of stuff.

Unfortunately, it didn't occur to Benito to warn anyone about Fianelli, either. Benito had run into a lot of foul men in his short life, after all. And while he'd learned a lot about sieges from Falkenberg, he really hadn't fully absorbed yet one of Francesca's lessons: More fortresses fall by treachery than by strength of arms.

* * *

By midnight it had started to rain. A scruffy, tousle-haired, barefoot young man and a tall, dark-haired, plain-clad, and very dark-faced man were standing in front of Francesca for inspection. 'Your hair's too clean, Benito. Remember you've got Manfred's seal there.'

Manfred grinned. 'He's the scruffiest personal letter I ever sent.'

Benito grinned in reply. 'You had to drop the sealing-wax on my ear, didn't you? Black wax is hotter than red.'

Francesca had a close look at the tangle of black curls around Benito's ear. 'It certainly isn't easy to find. Won't Count Von Stemitz be a trifle surprised? Give him my best regards by the way, when you see him.'

Hiding coin had been a bigger problem. Benito had some ten ducats in smallish change. Too much would attract suspicion. Too little and he wouldn't be able to afford to live, never mind travel. He had a battered pin in his scarf, which might possibly once have been silver, and looked like plated brass from which the plating was rubbing off. No one would look too hard at such a tawdry thing. Except . . . The cheap stones that had been in it had been replaced with two good rubies, mounted in so hard you would have to break the thing to get them out, and had a liberal coating of dirt reapplied. It looked like rubbish. Benito wouldn't have bothered to steal it himself when he'd been a bridge-brat. The stones, cleaned up, would fetch a good thirty ducats each, even from a fence.

Benito was barefoot. In a ragged waist-sash, he carried a plain knife with a small brass guard and a cord- bound handle.

In all, Benito looked the part. Erik didn't. His face shape was just wrong. Too angular; his hair was too