Speaking of whom . . .
He should start considering, with Bianca, the best ways to get out of here when the place fell. They couldn't hide in the cellar forever, after all, and there was no point in being rich and dead. He knew she was no more trustful than he was of King Emeric's final intentions toward his spies and agents on Corfu. She'd proven to be an excellent partner, and he thought she might be willing to continue the partnership somewhere else.
The Aquitaine, perhaps. Bianca would like the Aquitaine.
* * *
Sophia watched until Francesca went out into the town behind the second wall. She'd gone beyond being nervous about it. After all, men were just creatures of lust, easy to manipulate. And the thought of copulating with royalty, once Morando got her to think about it seriously, was . . . exciting.
She made her way across from her suitable vantage point where she had been apparently painting a picture of the battle scene, down to the prince's chambers. She was about to knock, when the door opened. Sophia took one horrified look at the profile of the woman turning to speak to the prince and fled.
Maria Verrier was not whom she'd expected to find there, beating her to her quarry.
* * *
'She should be back soon. You must literally have missed her at the gate,' said Manfred. 'Anything important?'
'No. Well. It's just odd. You know, Umberto's been doing night-watches. All of the men from the Little Arsenal have. Well, he told me that they've all been taken off duties on the north wall and at the tower that guards the postern at the Little Arsenal.'
'Hmm. So who's taken over?'
Maria shrugged. 'And how would I know, Prince Manfred?'
She opened the door to leave. As she did so, Manfred said, 'If you hear—from your side—just who is on that shift, let me know as soon as possible.'
She turned back and nodded. 'I will.' Who was that who had turned and ran when she saw her?
* * *
Sophia's face was contorted with fury. 'I want her womb to shrivel and her breasts to turn to wrinkled dried-out dugs. I want her marriage blighted. I want her baby to scream. I want her dead. She's a thorn in my flesh. You promised me the curses. Give them to me.'
Aldo Morando didn't entirely follow the logic of the woman, but then, if she'd been logical she'd have been useless to him. It seemed such a slight thing. But Sophia Tomaselli was unused to even the slightest check on her. He lifted an eyebrow, as he had practiced so long in the mirror. It made him look, he thought, particularly satanic. It had the desired effect on her, anyway.
'Please, master.' She petted and fawned now.
'Remember that power has a price.' He meant it in money.
She didn't. 'Oh, yes. Whatever you like, master.'
Morando considered the problem, for a moment, before deciding to accede to Sophia's wishes. She was an attractive enough woman, after all. And if she was now willing to do anything Morando told her to . . .
That could give better returns—as good, at least—as her spying. Leaving aside her own charms, such as they were, there were plenty of men in the Citadel who would pay handsomely for spreading this one's legs—just to cuckold her husband.
To think she'd originally come to him to help with fertility! She'd lost interest in that now. He'd certainly entrapped her well. This was what real Satanists were supposed to do. Typically, those who were crazy enough to deal with the Devil were not as good at it as he was, who did what he did for a sensible god: money.
He nodded. 'Very well. Come tonight at midnight. Some things like this cannot be achieved under the sun. Bring gloves.'
When she'd left, Morando reflectively scratched his beard. The belief in curses and cantrips was a strain on his imagination. A good curse token had to have one dominant feature: It had to convince the user. So Morando used some of the popularly recognized symbols. Deadly nightshade. Henbane. Pigweed. A rat skull. Some blood. And to ensure it smelled rightly vile—a sprig of parsley dipped in the privy. All tied together with entrails and a strip of parchment with a lot of garbage scrawled on it in red ink. The thing should cause a disease just by being in the house, thought Morando, inspecting the concoction with satisfaction. If the recipient found it—well, belike they would think themselves bewitched. That was usually enough to make a spell seem to work.
At midnight, with the inner room suitably lit with seven green candles, he handed it to her from under his cloak.
'You must hold it with a glove only. And you must burn the glove afterwards, saying the words
She reached a gloved hand eagerly for the bunch. 'What is in it?'
'Some things which you are not ready to learn the powers of. But don't shake it. It has grave-mold from the tomb of an unbaptized infant mixed with the blood from the menses of a virgin sacrifice.' He managed to say the last sentence with a completely solemn expression on his face. A bit difficult, that was.
She took it eagerly, but carefully, holding it as one might fragile porcelain, her face a candlelight-shadowed study in nastiness. Morando knew a brief inward shudder. From what he could work out the victim's main 'crime' was a lack of respect for Sophia. Morando knew that he was dealing with a sick mind here. But business was business, after all.
Besides . . .
Morando had the psychological shrewdness of any successful swindler and procurer. Bianca Casarini was by
