This Rough Magic

that spoke of youth.

Emeric of Hungary would have found a nest of angry vipers more attractive. His great-great-aunt habitually chastised him. She also never failed to assist him in his schemes. She had, she had admitted once, a fondness for him because he was the only one of her blood in which magical skill had manifested itself.

He waited. There was no point in rising to her bait.

'You should have come to me for assistance first. I would have advised you to stay away from Corfu.'

'Jagiellon seemed to think it would be an easy conquest, by the money and materiel he arranged. He is not aware that, far from being his cat's-paw, I have had intentions to begin conquests to the south for some time.'

Elizabeth, Countess Bartoldy, laughed musically. 'My dear boy. The fertility rituals on Corfu go back to prehuman times. Something that ancient, which keeps its base of believers, has a power reservoir the size of the ocean to draw on.'

'I haven't seen any signs of great magic yet.'

She dimpled. 'Corfu's is a passive kind of magic, tied to the earth of that place. Very difficult for invaders to deal with. I do have something that will work, however—because it is not in contact with the earth. Wait.'

She returned sometime later carrying a glass jar. A large jar, a cubit in height. She carried it with a negligent ease that betrayed her great strength. Emeric peered into the cloudy fluid within, and then wished he hadn't.

'An experiment of mine,' said the Countess. 'I constrained a fire and an air elemental to mate. It is not a natural occurrence. This is their offspring, somewhat prematurely removed. I have placed certain magical constraints on the creature, as well as enhancing its power.'

Emeric looked warily at it. 'Just what does it do?'

The countess smiled 'It is a bringer of fires. And, of course, winds. Sickness, too, is one of its aspects. But the core of its ability lies in dryness. An island—surrounded by water to contain it—should be the ideal place to release the thing.'

* * *

Benito yawned, crackingly. 'Sorry, Marco. It's not your company, honest. It's just . . . well, I have been working like a dog, and I haven't had much sleep lately.'

Marco patted his shoulder. He noticed it was rocklike, stretching at the shirt. 'You're working too hard. Everyone from the admiral to my father-in-law says so. Benito, one man, doing the work of a common laborer because he doesn't have the skills to build ships or clad them, isn't what Venice needs. She has plenty of good men working hard, but we need your brains.'

Benito yawned again. 'Why? Are we out of cannonballs?' He grinned and raised a hand pacifyingly to his brother. 'Seriously, Marco. I have a problem here. Everyone expects me to lead like a Case Vecchie born. Giving orders, seeing that things are done. And I don't know how. I might be a direct blood relation of men who are great leaders of men, but I grew up among the canal people as a thief. The only way I know to lead is by example. So: I want these ships built. I don't shout at people. I challenge them to keep up with me. And when the carpenters say: 'That's caulker's work,' and sit back and say 'we can do nothing until they've done,' I pick up another balk of timber and ask, 'Do you think this is Casa Vecchie work?' '

Marco grinned at him. 'And the result is that you need new shirts. You've put an inch on your shoulders since you started here.'

Benito pulled a rueful face and felt the tight seams on the shirt. 'Yeah. I'm getting a bit heavy and bulky for the old upper-story work, Marco. Not so good for squirming in tight little holes. So, tell me, what's the news from the outside world? Any news from Mainz?'

Marco shook his head. 'This kind of heart condition is not something that changes from day to day, Benito. Apparently the Emperor's physicians say he seems to be recovering a little. Of course he is struggling to breathe and his chest gives him a great deal of pain. But this may ease, and if there are no further recurrences . . . he may yet leave his bed again one day. But commonly, I'm afraid, when these problems start, they do recur. We can only pray for him.'

Benito knew there were millions of people throughout the Empire doing just that. And there were very few indeed who would be privy to the detail Marco had just given him. Most of the citizens of the Empire would only have heard rumors that the Emperor was not well. But the Holy Roman Empire felt the tremors of an uncertain future run through it—as did all of Europe and much of the world beyond.

Benito scowled. 'And on other fronts? How are your attempts to contact Eneko Lopez coming?'

Marco sighed. 'Not so well. We can't raise him, for reasons that aren't clear at all. Anyway, what I came to talk to you about was what you'd said to me about the undines and the tritons.'

'Get anywhere?'

It was Marco's turn to shrug. 'They're not like humans, Benito. They . . . well, they only live partly in the same world as us and they don't see things the same way. But Juliette wants to meet you. That's a step.'

Benito smiled. 'Sure. I'll sweep her off her tail with my charm. When do we do this thing?'

'Well, full tide is a good time,' said Marco. 'That's in about an hour.'

'Sure. Where? At San Raphaella?'

Marco nodded. 'We can take a walk up together. Or take a gondola.'

Benito shook his head. 'I'm supposed to be confined to this place.'

'Only by your own decision.'

'Yeah. But I'll pretend to abide by it,' said Benito, suddenly looking an impish five years younger. 'The roofs of Venice miss me. And I might as well enjoy them while I still can.'

* * *