This Rough Magic

The period that followed was unpleasant. Even painful, toward the end, as Bianca's murmured incantations began effecting the first transformations of Saluzzo's form. But Bianca had been through worse in the past, and would face still worse in the future. Immortality, as the countess often remarked, had its price. Many prices, in fact.

Fortunately, Saluzzo was raping her on the bed—still better, on a bed in the upper floor of her house, almost twenty feet above the soil of Corfu. Had he been assaulting Bianca on the ground itself, her magics would have drained away. The more so, since the sort of transformation she was carrying out on him was closely connected to earth magic. It was not quite the same as making a golem, but close.

* * *

'What's the matter, Eneko?' asked Francesca, leaning forward in her chair. 'You look suddenly ill.'

'You cannot sense it?' The priest's voice was brittle; his temples held in both hands.

Puzzled, Francesca shook her head. 'Sense what?'

'The magic. That is a hideous spell being used. The one who uses it—it's the female, this time, not Fianelli— is reckless beyond belief. I'd never dare use a spell that powerful here on Corfu, without wards—not that I'd ever use that spell anyway—because . . .'

He croaked. Surprised, Francesca realized it was the sound of strained laughter.

'Of course, I imagine she's not concerned with the danger of attracting demons. Since she's one herself, in all that matters.'

Magic was something Francesca knew very little about. So she focused on what, to her, was the key point. 'You're sure it's a woman? Not Fianelli?'

Eneko raised his head slowly, staring at her through eyes that were nothing much more than slits. 'Oh, yes. There's a succubus—of sorts—loose in this fortress, Francesca. And she's even more dangerous than Fianelli. More powerful, at least, when it comes to magic.'

Francesca leaned back in the chair, her lips pursed. 'A woman. Could it be Sophia Tomaselli?'

Before Lopez could respond, Francesca raised her hand. 'Yes, Eneko, I know the fetish she placed in Maria Verrier's house was a fake. But perhaps that was just a subterfuge—a way to protect her from charges of practicing real witchcraft, in case she ever got caught.' Francesca chuckled, throatily. 'It's the sort of thing I'd have thought up.'

Eneko's smile was thin. 'At a rough estimate, Francesca, you are eighty times more intelligent than Sophia Tomaselli. But it doesn't matter. You forget that Pierre went to see her in her cell, after she was arrested. The Savoyard's the best witch-smeller I've ever met. He says, quite firmly, that while the Tomaselli woman is evil enough, in a multitude of small and petty ways, she's got no more demonic power than a carrot.'

Francesca must have looked a bit dubious. Lopez's smile became still thinner. 'Please, Francesca. I have learned not to second-guess you when it comes to intrigue and espionage. Please don't try to second-guess me when it comes to magic. Whoever the female is, it is not Sophia Tomaselli.'

Francesca spread her fingers in a gesture that, subtly, indicated assent. More precisely, that she was beating a demure but hasty retreat.

'I wouldn't dream of questioning you, Eneko!'

The two of them laughed, abruptly.

'Still,' Francesca continued, 'I think we should start with Sophia Tomaselli. We should question Morando again also, of course, but I doubt he'd say anything. If this mysterious woman—'

'Female, Francesca—not 'woman.' Trust me. The distinction, if you understood it, would be even more important to you than to me.'

' 'Female,' then. If this female is an accomplice of his, at this point he'd never tell us. Even that she exists, much less her identity.'

'Why? He seems eager enough to tell us everything else.'

'Because Morando is expecting he'll be executed, when he's returned to Venice. A traitor's death, too, his legs broken first.' For a moment, she glared. 'Thanks to those idiot men! That includes you, Eneko! A lesson: Never tell a man you're going to execute him, if there's any chance he might still have information you want. You just eliminated any motive for him to keep talking.'

Eneko scowled. 'He was guilty of—'

'Who cares?' Francesca slapped the armrests of her chair with exasperation. 'Why does a whore have to keep reminding priests and devout knights that justice belongs to the Lord? Ours is the province of practicality, damnation!'

Eneko's lips quirked. 'I believe it's 'vengeance' that belongs to the Lord, Francesca, though I understand the point. Nor, by the way, have I ever called you a 'whore.' '

She shrugged. 'It's just a word. Means nothing to me, to be blunt. And to get back to the point, Morando won't tell us anything because perhaps the only hope he has left—however faint it may be—is that his accomplice, if she remains at large, might somehow rescue him from his predicament. Yes, yes, it's a very faint hope—criminal associates are hardly noted for their personal loyalties and devotion. But, who knows? There might be some deep tie between them. And, even if there isn't, a man expecting a noose will hope for anything.'

'Ah. That's why you think Tomaselli would know—'

Francesca shook her head. 'We should question her also, but I doubt we'll get anything useful. The problem in her case being somewhat the opposite. Too much talk instead of too little. That woman is driven by spite more than anything else. At one point in her interrogation, you may recall, she named half the women in the fortress as being witches participating in regular Black Sabbaths. She had Maria Verrier copulating with Satan himself, while the podesta's wife—' She threw up her hands. 'Ah, never mind! But you see my point. How reliable is the information given to us by a woman who'd insist that Renate De Belmondo—at her age!—was . . . well. You remember. You were there.'

Lopez grimaced. He'd been present for most of Tomaselli's interrogation. Sophia, hysterically, had swung