This Rough Magic

she'd obtained the letter. But, not for the first time, she was glad he was a fundamentally stupid man. She was in desperate straits herself, now—with outright treason as her only option.

* * *

'Damn, drat, and blast the man for an interfering busybody!' said Francesca furiously. 'I've had a watch on Fianelli for weeks—and now, thanks to Lopez's meddling, I've lost him. He was gone before the soldiers got to his shop. Who cares about Morando? He was just a minor player, working for Fianelli.'

Manfred patted her soothingly. 'There, dear. Look at it this way—you'll have a splendid time finding him again.'

If looks could kill, Manfred would have been ripe for burial. 'It's not a game, Manfred!' she said, in such a tone that even he sat up straight. 'Morando by himself was nothing. Fianelli was dangerous. He still may be. Somehow he was getting information out—Fianelli, not Morando—in a way that none of your clever men suspected, and that nothing you did uncovered. If he was getting information out, what did he get in? What could he get in?'

Von Gherens looked puzzled. 'If you knew who he was weeks ago, why didn't you let us deal with him then?'

Francesca eyed him darkly. 'Von Gherens, you are to intrigue what deportment lessons are to a brothel.'

The Ritter thought about this one for a while. 'Useful, you mean? So why didn't we deal with this spy weeks ago, Francesca? I don't get it, like the deportment lessons.'

'I'd guess she was planning to start feeding him wrong information,' said Manfred, yawning. 'She'd have had Morando arrested quietly, and blackmailed him into turning on his former allies.'

Francesca smiled on him. 'You're proof it is possible for someone to learn even if carrying all that armor starves the brain of blood. That's one reason. The other was I wanted the final link. I wanted to know how he was getting the information out to Emeric.'

Von Gherens rubbed his broken nose. 'You should have talked to Eneko Lopez earlier, then. You could have helped each other. Each of you had what the other needed.'

'What do you mean?'

Von Gherens crossed himself. 'I mean Fianelli was the Satanist Eneko was actually looking for. He was using demonic magic to send the information. Eneko and his friends had detected him sending it, but couldn't find him. You found him, but couldn't work out how he sent it. You two should talk.'

Francesca gritted her teeth. 'I should have. And I will.'

* * *

Captain-General Tomaselli was not the most effective soldier or administrator. Privately, he knew that. But he'd tried. He had been loyal to Venice. That they should promote that—that—upstart Leopoldo into his place was unbearable. It was unfair! And thinking of that unfairness, Tomaselli dwelled more and more on the unthinkable.

He could ask for a great deal, if he switched his allegiance to the Hungarians. He wouldn't have to soldier or administrate any more, things which he was not really good at. And Sophia would be out of jail. He'd been horrified when apologetic soldiers had come to fetch her again. Those damned disrespectful scuolo sluts! How dare that woman swear out a charge against Sophia? He'd taken small, but satisfying steps to have some of her family's ration reduced. After all, her husband wasn't working.

Now all he needed was a way to contact Emeric to make a deal.

He would talk to Sophia. She might have some idea how he could do it. She was the only one he could trust. It was clear to him now that the charges against her were all false; she'd been betrayed as surely as he had. And he could take her some decent food and wine again. He went as often as three times a day, anyway. Her trial . . . He'd have to reach a deal before then. They'd conspired against her thus far. The trial would be a mockery, of course, magnifying her small digressions into vast things as a way of getting at him. That was what was behind the whole thing, he now understood.

Well, he'd show them.

* * *

'What are you doing here?' hissed the man who opened the door for Fianelli. The secretary for the podesta glanced over his shoulder nervously, looking to see if there was anyone in the corridor behind him.

Fianelli shouldered his way past him. 'Close the door, you idiot, instead of gawping at me.'

Hastily, Meletios Loukaris closed the back door, which served as the delivery entrance for Governor De Belmondo's palace. That done, the podesta's secretary started hissing another protest. But Fianelli silenced him by the simple expedient of clamping a hand over his mouth.

Fianelli was not a big man, and fat besides, but the secretary was smaller still—and slightly-built. He had no chance of resisting Fianelli with sheer muscle. So be it. In a former life, in Constantinople, Loukaris had carried out several assassinations. Despite his initial nervous reaction at seeing Fianelli, the secretary knew that he was alone in the rear portions of the palace. He could kill Fianelli, then dispose of the body by—

But, as his hand slid into his cloak and closed over the hilt of the special blade he kept hidden there, he felt Fianelli's other hand clamping onto his wrist. The criminal boss was stronger than he looked.

'Don't even think of trying to use that needle on me, Loukaris. Forget those silly Byzantine political games. I'm a lot tougher than you'll ever be.'

To emphasize the point, Fianelli hauled the secretary's hand out of the cloak and slammed his knuckles against the wall. The little needle-shaped stiletto clattered onto the tiles. Then, for good measure, Fianelli pounded Loukaris's head against the wall also. Twice, and hard enough to daze him.

When his senses cleared—and to his surprise—Loukaris saw that Fianelli was extending the stiletto to him.