This Rough Magic

'Fine.' Benito yawned. 'Got any food?'

'In the next room. Look, help yourself. I'm going to fetch Manfred. I haven't even done my hair!'

She left at a run. Francesca never ran.

* * *

Benito got wearily to his feet, went into the next room, and found a bottle of wine and a small loaf. He didn't bother to try any further. Just flopped down in a chair in the far corner and drank wine straight from the bottle with a few hunks of bread to keep it company.

* * *

'He just dropped in through the window,' said Francesca, unlocking the door. 'I nearly died of fright.'

Manfred grinned. 'Made your hair stand on end, did he?'

She looked dangerously at him. 'I came straight out to call you without even thinking of brushing it, Manfred.'

'You're beautiful even with all your hair standing on end, Francesca. Now where is the boy?'

'I left him here . . . oh.'

She'd spotted Benito, fast asleep, curled into the seat.

Manfred surveyed the boy. Mud. Bruises, scratches. And a pair of tired breeches. A three-quarters-full wine bottle still clutched and half of a dropped loaf on the floor beside him.

'I suppose he had to choose one of the good bottles,' said Manfred, looking at it wryly. 'The kid must be all in. He normally sleeps like a cat.'

'Should we let him sleep?'

Manfred shook his head. 'I'm afraid not. He can sleep once he's told us what is happening.' He stepped over to the chair and began shaking Benito. The boy's skin was clammy to the touch. He was shivering faintly. 'Here, Francesca. Get him a shirt and one of my cottes.'

Benito woke with a start. An eyes-unfocused start, reaching for a knife. 'It's all right, Benito,' said Falkenberg, beaming at him. 'You're with us.'

Benito shook his head, obviously trying to clear it. 'Sorry. Wine on an empty stomach. And I was a bit tired. Thanks.' The latter was addressed to Francesca, who handed him a shirt and cotte.

He stood up. Manfred noticed he was swaying. 'Come on, Falkenberg, let's get him into those and he can sit down again.'

'I can dress myself.'

'Shut up,' said Manfred, his big fingers struggling with buttons. 'Or rather, tell us news. Francesca said you said Erik was all right?'

Benito nodded. 'Yeah. Fine. He's looking like the cat that ate the cream. He's got his Vinlander, and he's got his insurgents, and he's making the Hungarians bleed.'

'We've seen some of it from the walls, but I'm damned glad to hear it for certain.' Manfred sat Benito down. 'You've grown, boy. But my clothes are still a little big for you.' That was something of an understatement. But at least he should be warmer. For an autumn day, it was warm. Benito wasn't.

'So: What happened to the plans for getting you over to Italy? Is the blockade just too tight? Or are there just no fishing boats?'

'I've been there and back. I came back with a hundred and fifty men to help Erik and news that the Arsenal is building a new fleet. As soon as they have the ships, Dorma will put to sea. There's a new war levy. They're recruiting mercenaries and calling for volunteers. The Old Fox himself has put up a thousand men.'

Manfred blinked. 'There and back . . . and back inside?' He looked at the wine standing on the floor. 'And to think I begrudged you that. You deserve the entire bottle! In fact, make it a hogshead.'

'I'd rather have some brandy. Listen—do you know what happened to Maria? My . . . my friend who told Erik. I went there first. It's all shut up.'

Francesca smiled knowingly. 'She's fine, Benito. She's down at the Little Arsenal. Her husband got himself shot by the Libri d'Oro traitors. But he's recovering slowly. Look . . . is there anything else you really must ask him immediately, Manfred? Is there anything you really have to tell us, Benito?'

Benito shook his head. 'Just was told to bring the news that relief was coming. It might be four, five more months though. And I left a prisoner at the southern postern. Oh. And to ask that you hoist the Knots banner at the inner wall north tower at sundown. Tell Erik he's getting a saltcellar after all.' Benito stood up on this cryptic utterance. 'I'm going to the Little Arsenal.'

'Sit down. You need to rest,' said Francesca firmly. 'I'll go down and tell her.'

Benito shook his head. 'You'd frighten her silly. Besides,' he added, grinning in a pale shadow of his usual impishness, 'I've got to tell her that Kat wants to know why she hasn't written. And I have to check on the baby for her god-mama. Heh. If you'd met the god-mama, you'd know I don't dare delay.'

Francesca shook her head disapprovingly, 'I know men well enough to know I'd be wasting my time arguing. But Manfred, I think he needs an escort.'

Manfred nodded. 'And his own clothes. Everyone would think a fair had come to town, otherwise.'

'I'm going now.' There was a determined tilt to that chin and a feverish glint in Benito's eyes.

'Fine, fine,' said Falkenberg soothingly. 'We'll just get you a horse.'