This Rough Magic

bow bellowed something in rapid Greek.

Benito had the unpleasant realization that his life was in the hands of a bunch of poor people he didn't know very well, who would be well rewarded for selling him out and who would be killed if they were caught harboring him. Worst of all, he didn't understand what they were saying. He resolved to learn Greek, if he got out of here alive.

* * *

With his heart pounding, his mouth dry, Spiro heard the Greek officer yell: 'What are you doing out here?'

'We're fishermen,' said Taki. 'What do you think? We're on our way back home to Levkas. We got caught up in the blow last night and came too far north.'

'Stand by to be boarded.'

A dozen or so marines boarded the boat. The Case Vecchie did his best 'I-am-a- poor-scared-fisherman' look. It wasn't hard to do the scared bit, Spiro realized. But he rapidly realized what a genius Taki had been to insist on catching fish last night. The fish, under damped sacks, were still cool and fresh— the most convincing evidence possible that this was, indeed, nothing more than a fishing boat.

The officer with the marines looked about—obviously searching for refugees, or maybe arms, supplies, valuables. There were few places anyone could hide, so it was a very cursory look. The nets, the boxes of fish, the small crew all said fishing boat.

'Why did you come so far north?' he demanded. 'Orders went to all the villages that no one was to fish within sight of Antipaxos.'

Taki cringed. 'My lord. In the dark we drifted too far. We didn't mean to . . .'

The Byzantine officer hit him, sending him sprawling across the fish. 'Fool. By the smell of you, I think you drank too much to celebrate the catch. It wasn't the wind that got you here, it was the wine. If we find you this far north again, we'll sink you. Do you understand?'

Taki, on his knees now, nodded furiously. 'Yes, milord! It won't happen again.' His voice quavered.

'It had better not.' The officer pointed to two of the marines. 'Here, you two. Take one of these boxes. We could use some fresh fish.'

'Milord, my fish,' protested Taki.

'Consider it a fine for breaking the law,' said the officer. 'And think how lucky you are not to have your filthy little vessel sunk.'

Taki did the grovel magnificently. 'Thank you, milord. But . . . can I at least have my box back? I'm a poor fisherman, milord . . .'

The officer laughed. 'No.'

* * *

The galley receded. The apparently hard-working crew of the fishing boat started to laugh. And laugh.

'Prissy-assed malakas.' Taki blew a raspberry at the departing ship and then grinned at Benito. 'You're my witness, Case Vecchie. They boarded my ship in the Venetian Republic's waters, stole my fish and—worst of all!—stole Venetian property.'

Benito looked suitably mystified. 'Venetian property?'

'The fish box. It belongs to the fish market in Kerkira. It is the property of the Republic of Venice—which is what that prim little official at the fish market tells me every time I come in. Property of Venice! And he took it!'

The crew started to laugh again.

'Piracy! That's what it was,' said Spiro, trying to keep a straight face, passing over a jug of wine.

Benito took a swig and nodded sagely. 'We'll swear out a charge against them in front of the podesta, and let him have the ambassador summoned, for a severe reprimand and a demand for reparations.'

'Especially for the valuable catch,' said Kosti. 'The idiots chose a box of trash fish.'

'So when do we turn and run across the straits to Bari or Brindisi?' asked Benito.

Taki raised an eyebrow. 'We're not going to run across the strait. There they have twenty-five lousy little leagues to patrol. But they can't patrol the whole Ionian Sea. You're in for a haul, boy. I hope you don't get seasick easily.'

* * *

Emeric looked with satisfaction at the bluish haze of gunpowder smoke blowing gently across the channel. The forty-eight-pound bombards took a huge amount of powder and a long time to load, but they were his second choice for reducing and penetrating the walls of a besieged fortress. Evening was drawing in, but the bombardment would not stop for that.

His first choice was treachery. Months before the assault on Corfu, he had begun to prepare the ground for it. Far better than the captain-general, he already knew the number of Corfiote refugees within the walls of the Citadel. He knew how much food there was in their garrison's storehouse, and he was already getting daily reports from Fianelli. He knew a great deal about the likes and weaknesses of the various officers, too.

One of the things that had made Emeric so sure Corfu would be an easy conquest was the past history of the captain-general. True enough, the man was not corrupt, but he was a vain and incompetent fool. His handling of the insurrection in the Venetian enclave in Trebizond had been so bad that it had gotten him sent to a station where there would never again be a need for military action. He was a bungler, but a bungler with political connections. In the Venetian Republic, a bungler whose godfather is the Doge could go far. Unfortunately for Captain-General Tomaselli, there was a new Doge.

The garrison commander, on the other hand, was a disaster from Emeric's point of view. Commander