This Rough Magic

'I reckon the Milanese might start one soon,' said Carlo, grimly. 'They're used to being dominant.'

'They'll try again,' said Benito with a grin. 'And get the same again.'

Benito climbed ashore at the Piazza San Marco. The great winged lion of Venice gazed sternly down from its pedestal. Benito gave the statue a fond wave, and turned to the palace with its Swiss mercenary guards.

Benito's chest swelled a bit. It had been a tough task, but he'd done it, and here he was, alive and undetected. Emeric would pay for his sneak attack on Venice. He walked up the shallow steps to the guard commander. 'I need to see Doge Dorma on a matter of extreme urgency.'

The guard commander was not one of the populi minuta of Venice. He was from a small village in the Alps. He plainly did not know this scruffy barefoot youth with a dirty face and an impudent grin. 'And then you want to see the Grand Metropolitan, I suppose. Go on. Get off the stairs before I have my men throw you off. The Doge doesn't see common sailors. Not even on matters of extreme urgency.'

Benito sighed. 'I'm in disguise, you ass. I'm Benito Valdosta. The Doge's ward.'

Never call an officer an ass in front of his men, even if he is one. The man swung the butt of his pike in an arc designed to bring it into contact with Benito's crotch. Benito jumped back. Unfortunately the hide-roll under his arm slipped in the process. The contents fell to the steps.

'A concealed weapon! Seize him, boys!'

Benito found himself again in a position he was all-too-familiar with: being sat on by a number of large representatives of the forces of law and order. Knowing that resistance—normally the only enjoyable part of the exercise—would only make things worse, Benito did his best not to. Very shortly he was being led down to the cells, his Shetland knife and the reforged sword of the Wolf of the North seized for evidence.

According to the charge list, he'd been clumsily attempting to assassinate the Doge before being arrested by alert guards.

'Look. Can I just get a message either to Marco Valdosta or Petro Dorma?' pleaded Benito. 'This is a misunderstanding. Corfu has been invaded.'

Snorts of laughter came from the guards and jailors. 'It's not a dungeon that this one will end up in. He's for the madhouse.' The jailors were new, both of them. No one recognized him.

Benito realized it was hopeless. Well, he'd be hauled up in front of the Justices shortly. Then they'd laugh on the other side of their faces.

By late that afternoon, he realized that 'shortly' was a word that applied to the cases of the Case Vecchie. For a common—and mad—felon, the period before being charged and sentenced could be a long one.

It was at the changing of the guard at nightfall that Benito thought his luck had finally changed. The new guard coming on duty took one look at him and swore. 'Lord and Saint Mark! What are you doing here, Valdosta?'

Benito recognized the man as one of those who'd overseen his previous stay in the dungeons. 'Thank goodness somebody recognizes me. Please tell them who I am and get me the hell out of here. I've rushed to get news here—only to find myself put in jail by these . . . people.'

The day-warder looked at his relief and at the prisoner. And then back at the relief. 'You know this young man?' he asked his coworker, warily.

The night-warder nodded. 'He's Benito Valdosta. We had him in here just after the big Valdosta-Montescue wedding.'

The day-warder took a deep breath. 'You mean the one who . . . on the Rialto Bridge?'

The night-warder chuckled. 'That's him. What's he up for this time?'

'Attempted assassination of the Doge. Assaulting members of the Swiss Guard.'

'Saints!' The warder shook his head in amazement. 'Couldn't you just have stuck to public indecency, young Valdosta?'

Benito sighed. 'It's a complete misunderstanding. I asked to be taken to see the Doge, as I have important news for him. I've been traveling in disguise from Corfu. The matter is urgent so I came straight here still dressed as a seaman. And then that testa di cazzo of a guard commander decided I was an assassin. As if I'm going to march up to the Swiss Guards on the steps and demand to be taken to the guy I want to kill! The 'concealed weapon' they're going on about is a rapier as you might see on the hip of any Casa Vecchie gentleman walking into the Doge's Palace. It's my father's sword, sent by the Doge to be repaired in Ferrara. I picked it up there.'

'But, signor. You claimed to have come from Corfu.'

'I did. I came around Italy and across the Apennines, because the Adriatic is blockaded. I came through Ferrara as a result, and tried to see my grandfather. I didn't, because he is in Verona, but I got my sword. I couldn't put it on my hip, as I would normally, because a sailor wandering around with a sword would be picked up by the Schiopettieri. So instead I got thrown in jail by some officious idiots who won't even believe who I am. Now can you get me out of here?'

The warders looked at each other. And then at Benito. At last the day-warder said: 'No, Signor. But we can take you to one of the Justices. He can order you freed.'

Benito sighed at the bureaucratic pettiness of it all. 'Well, let's do that.'

'But Milord Valdosta . . . they have all gone home.'

Benito closed his eyes, begging for patience. 'Then get one of them back here. Please. Or at the very least send for my brother Marco. We need to start preparing to break the siege on Corfu, and every day more people will die. The Citadel is secure, but the Hungarians are raping the country.'

The night-warder pulled a face. 'But, signor. Your brother Marco . . . has gone to Verona.'