This Rough Magic

footmen. 'Hippocras, for my Lord of Brunswick, and for us.'

A few minutes later the three of them were seated in a small, warm side-parlor. An apple-wood fire burned merrily in the grate. That, and a goblet of rich, spiced hippocras had helped fight off Eberhard's chill and had lightened the Emperor's expression, even given some color to his cheeks. Charles Fredrik still looked twenty years older and much closer to the grave than he should. Eberhard knew that the wounds he had received in a youthful campaign still troubled one of the Emperor's lungs. Winters were always hard for him.

'Still no news from my nephew Manfred,' said Charles Fredrik heavily.

'The roads and passes are snowed closed,' said Baron Trolliger. 'There is no reason to get too worried, Your Majesty. The Norse are honorable about their oaths.'

Charles Fredrik shook his head. 'I trust those petty pagan kinglets not at all, the so-called Christian ones not much more. I've sent a messenger through to Francesca in Copenhagen.'

Baron Trolliger touched his head. 'That woman . . .'

'Has secured us more cooperation with the Danes in two months than you did in five years, Hans Trolliger,' said Charles Fredrik, almost snapping the words. 'If I had twenty more like her, I could afford to die without worrying about the succession. As it is—well, at least Hakkonsen is with Manfred. Between Erik and Mam'zelle de Chevreuse, they keep one of my heirs on a reasonably even keel.'

Baron Trolliger nearly choked. 'That affair in Venice nearly had him killed! I still say we should have hanged every last one of those damned Servants of the Trinity.'

Charles Fredrik smiled grimly. 'If we'd hanged as much as one, the entire Pauline church would have been in an uproar. Instead they've excommunicated a few obvious bad eggs and we must put up with and isolate the rest. As for Francesca and Erik, I still say they kept Manfred on a reasonably even keel in very dangerous waters. Without either of them, he would have definitely been killed. Erik has made a warrior out of him, and Francesca has done even more. She's made him think. She might have led him by his testicles to that point, but she actually made him think. To my certain knowledge, that's something no one else ever succeeded at doing. The Venetian affair has done a great deal for one of my heirs. Besides, I enjoyed my visit to Venice and to Rome, even if you didn't, Hans.'

Baron Trolliger looked as if he might choke. 'The visit was bad enough. The months you made me stay there afterward . . .'

Eberhard of Brunswick chuckled. 'Well, Your Majesty, at least Prince Conrad hasn't caused you as much trouble, even if he hasn't provided you with as much entertainment. What is Manfred doing in Norway, anyway? Winter in Scandinavia is not something I'd ever want go through again. I did it with your father in Smaland back in '22, when we went in to bail the Danes out. Far as I was concerned, the pagans deserved the place.'

To an extent, Charles Fredrik agreed with his advisor, though it was hardly politic to say so.

'In winter, it can be bleak. Nice enough in summer,' said the Emperor, mildly. Eberhard of Brunswick had been one of his father's closest friends and the old Ritter was now one of Charles Fredrik's most trusted emissaries. He'd spent the better part of the last year in Ireland, with the Celtic Ard Ri, representing the States General and the Holy Roman Emperor to the League of Armagh.

Now he was home. Charles Fredrik knew the old man had delighted in the thought of seeing his grandchildren again. The Ritter had dropped some hints in his correspondence that he'd like to retire to his estates.

The Emperor bit his lip. The old man deserved retirement, had more than earned it, but men of his caliber were rare. Very rare. In point of fact, there was no one skilled and canny enough to replace him.

He'd have to send the silver-haired warrior out again. But not somewhere cold and wet this time; that was the least he could do.

'It's still part and parcel of the same business, Eberhard. Well, the aftermath of it. The Danes are content to hold the coastal lands, but the chapters of Knights of the Holy Trinity that my father established there after the '22 campaign are still pushing deeper into pagan lands. They stir things up, and the pagan tribes tend to take it out on the Danish settlers. The Knights are building little empires out there. At this point, they're a law unto themselves.'

Eberhard snorted. 'Rein them in, Emperor. Rein them in hard. We need the coast to keep the pagan bastards from raiding our shipping on the Baltic, but the hinterland . . . not worth the price in blood the Empire will pay for some bar-sinister Ritter to get himself an estate.'

The Emperor nodded. 'That's what Manfred had gone to do. Last I heard it was in hand, but then this business in Norway cropped up, and he went off to sort that out. We haven't heard from him in over a month.'

'It is near midwinter, Your Majesty,' pointed out Baron Trolliger.

'I know. That treaty is supposed to be ratified on midwinter's eve. He'd have sent me word . . .'

The Emperor rubbed his eyes, tiredly. 'I know, Hans, the passes in Norway are closed. But I've had the Servants of the Trinity try to contact him by magical means, also. Nothing.'

To Eberhard, he said in explanation: 'He's gone to Telemark. One of those little kingdoms on the Norwegian side of the Skagerrak. Dirt poor, rotten with raiders and pirates because the land can't feed all of them. We concluded a treaty with King Olaf two years ago. He's dead, and his son Vortenbras has taken the throne, and so the treaty needs to be ratified again. Since Vortenbras is pagan, the oath must be sworn in the temple on Odin's ring at the midwinter festival. Only the ring's been stolen. Manfred and Erik and two of our best diviners have gone to see if they can find it. No word from them. All I can find out is that it's snowing heavily in the north.'

The old Ritter looked as if even the thought of a trip into snowy Scandinavia was enough to make him break out in chilblains. Nevertheless, he said calmly, 'Do you want me to go, Your Majesty?'

The Emperor leaned over and patted the age-spotted, sinewy hand. 'No. I've sent a message to a woman who will see to it. The same Francesca de Chevreuse of whom'—here he gave Trolliger a sly glance—'Hans disapproves. But no matter what Hans thinks of her capability, I have confidence in her over any other possible agent in this case.'

Trolliger shuddered. 'She's capable enough. Her methods . . .'

'Work,' said the Emperor. 'Even you find her attractive, Hans. Men will tell an attractive, intelligent woman