'You'd better pay up generously and say you are very sorry,' said Spiro. 'I'll handle it for you. For a fee, of course.'
One of the huge Vinlanders—they all looked alike to Benito—looked nearly apoplectic. 'Apologize? But they nearly killed us. They nearly killed my sister!'
'And you did kill their goats, no 'nearly' about it,' Benito retorted. Then, couldn't resist adding: 'And according to Spiro, goats are a lot more appreciated around here than sisters. Come on, let's go and see if they'll let us back into Paleokastritsa. I left my breakfast and a glass of wine behind to come and rescue you from the goat- avengers. Erik is not so bad-tempered, because he was only currying horses and he was looking for you anyway.'
'He was?' Svanhild gazed upon Erik with blue eyes so bright they seemed to have stars in them.
Benito smiled slyly at Erik. 'Oh, yes! When he heard from Maria Verrier that you were out here, he did not even let an entire besieging army stand in his way. He left the citadel by night, over the walls with a leaking boat, braving enemy patrols and the wild sea in the torrential rain, staying neither to sleep nor rest, riding vent a terre until he reached the villa Dentico. All that was in his mind was the safety of his golden-haired Svanhild.'
'Shut up, Benito,' growled Erik, glowing dully. Under the dye, that pale skin produced a truly vibrant red color. Benito decided that the next time they were cold, he'd embarrass the Icelander; you could warm a family of five by the heat he gave off.
'But it is true!' insisted Thalia. 'He saved me from the raping Croats, kyria. He killed two of them, just like that. And the sentry on the hill. He is a great fighter. He pulled at the burning wood with his bare hands and he beat back the men of Paleokastritsa and—'
'And let's get out of here! Please,' begged Erik. 'Either the Hungarians will arrive, or the locals are bound to come back.'
'Or both,' agreed one of the Vinlanders. 'Don't want to be in the middle of that.'
Soon the entire party was riding to Paleokastritsa.
* * *
The yellow dog almost howled in triumph. At last the shaman had a trace of magic that rose above the general reeking miasma of this place. He ran through the olive groves, pine forests and the macchia. He ran on past sentries and past hiding peasants. He had many miles to go.
But it had been a piece of intense and powerful sorcery, not finely crafted and precise as the names of power he used, not demon-bludgeon strong as Jagiellon used. Precisely, he thought, what Jagiellon was looking for. This magic was raw and primal, elemental—big, in the way an earthquake or a thunderstorm was big.
Dangerous, too, but that was not his problem. His problem was to find it, Jagiellon's to tame it.
He sent his hawks winging north, a part of him seeing through their eyes, eyes that could see a field mouse twitch the grass at five hundred feet. It took him quite some time to realize that the hawks were being subtly pushed away. The thermals slid them off to the west, the winds seeming to buffet against them whenever they tried to fly to one corner of the island. The hawks were becoming exhausted. Worse, they were becoming recalcitrant. Ever since he had tried to use them above Venice, the shaman had noticed that his control over the two hawks was not as it should be.
He was both angry and astonished. It was not possible! He had their true names, which made them his. His absolutely. Yet . . . he could not ignore the fact that they were rebelling. Not in great things but in small ways, in a slow and steady erosion of his control. It must be this vile place's magic.
Well, where they could not go was as good an indication of where he had to go as them actually seeing something. The yellow dog ran on, allowing the hawks to go to roost.
It was midafternoon before he reached the place. He looked at the few burned branches and the evidence of the recently flooded stream and smelled raw magic.
He tried to take a step forward, and stumbled. Grass had grown around his feet, the thin strands intertwining and binding. He kicked his way loose, then moved forward, sniffing. A dog's nose is a wondrous instrument. He could smell the horses as individuals; he could smell the people, the peasants and the others, and know who had wandered where. He could smell the women among them, two of them. He could smell . . .
Achoo! He erupted in a volley of sneezes.
All the flowers suddenly seemed intent on smothering him in their scents. He flicked his ears. A horsefly buzzed about them; then another. One bit him just below the tail on the exposed flesh. The shaman turned and snapped angrily at it, cracking it in his yellow teeth. Another bit his ear as he did so. Several more came buzzing up. One affixed itself to his nose. The shaman pawed furiously at it.
The shaman was one of the greatest and most powerful of magicians. He was proofed against many great magics.
Horseflies made him flee.
Horseflies in those numbers could make anything flee. They seemed immune to his protective spells.
Still, he knew the area in which the magics were being worked now. The master could send Aldanto. It would do the blond puppet good to be bitten by few horseflies.
* * *
'Go away or we'll shoot you,' said one of the pair of guards on the wall. He brandished his arquebus in a manner that was more awkward than fierce. 'You're not wanted here!'
One of the Vinlanders, the one who seemed to do all of the talking, contrived to look sheepish and apologetic. 'It was a misunderstanding, truly. We were running from the invaders, and we were starving. We have money! We want to pay for the animals.'
