This Rough Magic

'When you travel with a small army you have to behave as if you are traveling with a small army,' muttered Manfred irritably. 'We should break this lot up into ten parcels of twenty knights, and fit into inns rather than overflowing villages.'

The grizzled and facially scarred Von Gherens smiled. 'A good idea, eh, Falkenberg? We ride with the first twenty and Prince Manfred rides with the last twenty. Then he can apologize for all the damage and pay the peasants, and put up with short rations because we've eaten all the food, and drunk all the beer.'

Falkenberg, who was riding on the other side of Manfred, was also a veteran, though younger than Von Gherens. And like Von Gherens, Manfred had discovered, able to drink his weight in ale without showing any sign of it. The Knights of the Holy Trinity—the 'Knots' in popular slang—were supposed to be a religious order, sworn to abstinence from the worldly trappings of wealth. In practice, Manfred discovered, that meant they ate and drank well . . .

When someone else was paying.

Manfred was finding that being in an out-of-combat command—especially when you have a reputation as a tearaway yourself—was a lot more difficult than he'd thought. In a way a misery-guts like Sachs was almost called for. The presence of someone who'd put some fear and sobriety into this lot would keep the reckoning down. The Emperor had given Manfred what he had considered to be an ample supply of gold for the trip. At this rate they might—possibly—get to Ascalon. He'd have to sell them off as mercenaries to get back.

Falkenberg looked at Manfred with amusement. 'Sounds very good. It would make a change from the way it is now.'

The problem was that both of them had been in Venice with Manfred and Erik, when they had striven against Chernobog. The two of them, Von Gherens particularly, had been the catalysts who'd broken up the fight in San Zan Degola when Erik had refused to hand over the young woman who had claimed sanctuary there to Abbot Sachs. Von Gherens had been at the final destruction of Chernobog's Vessel and had been terribly burned there.

They both liked Manfred; he knew that. They were from northeastern frontier families, from the borderlands of the Empire where the battle between good and evil was stark and frequent. There was no doubting the toughness or the piety of either man. There was also no doubting their ability to soak up food and drink when it was available. They treated their young commander with a sort of jocular respect . . . and then did precisely what they intended to do. No doubt about it, in a fight they'd be what they were—superb soldiers, disciplined and ordered. So how come they traveled at exactly the pace they intended to travel, despite Manfred's desire to pick the pace?

Manfred was left feeling he was being tested. He wished he could do with the troop what Erik did, in the daily drill session the Icelander put them through. They jumped when Erik Hakkonsen said 'frog.' There was always that sort of distance between Erik and the rest of the human race, and the barrier seemed to work in Erik's favor. No one, not even old Notke—who was fifty-five if he was a day—treated Erik as an equal.

That evening in the smoky room in one of the three crowded inns at Brixen, Manfred turned to Erik and Eberhard and sighed. 'What the hell do I have to do to get the Knights moving? I wanted to be through to Bozen by now. At this rate, we're going to take twice as long as I'd intend to get through to Venice.'

Eberhard looked at him with a frosty eye. 'I was Knight of the Trinity with your grandfather. I had a commander like you once. Good fighter. Lousy commander when we weren't fighting.'

Manfred had never really thought of the old man as a having once been a mere rank-and-file knight, but always as a prosy and disapproving important old man. 'So, Milord of Brunswick,' he said, in as serious a manner as he had ever donned. 'What should I do? Lecture them on diplomacy?'

'Break a few heads,' said Erik, looking up from his platter. 'You are too young and too popular.'

Eberhard shook his head. 'That might work for you, Erik. You will lead troops. You already do that well. But Manfred is such a babe-in-arms, he still needs them to teach him. He will lead armies, not troops. And what he needs to learn is that you cannot lead armies on your own. You need to delegate.'

Manfred stared at him in astonishment. That was a solution that didn't sound like a good idea. On the other hand, Eberhard . . . had experience. 'Delegate to whom? I mean, wouldn't they just think I was trying to avoid responsibility?'

Eberhard gave his wintry smile. 'This is statecraft, which your uncle wished me to instruct you in. I thought it was a waste of time but if you can see that there is a problem, well—perhaps you might learn something after all.' He cleared his throat. 'It is often a good idea to pick on the worst sources of your troubles—and make them responsible. If they fail, then you must display very clearly that you have not abrogated your responsibilities, by taking action against them, personally. But I don't suppose you'll have either the intelligence or maturity to take my advice.'

Despite himself, Manfred knew that his face showed what he'd have been likely to do if the old man were not nearly seventy. Instead he clenched his fists and walked off.

* * *

'Francesca, he's going to drive me mad,' said Manfred later in their chamber. 'He treats me as if I were stupid and ten years old.'

Francesca traced his deltoid with a delicate finger. 'He's a very bad old man, to tease you so. But I think he wants to make sure he's got your attention.'

'You think he's doing it on purpose?' demanded Manfred incredulously.

Francesca smiled catlike. 'He is one of the leading diplomats and statesmen of the age, Manfred, dear. He's playing you like a lute.'

Manfred did not like the idea of being manipulated by anyone, much less Eberhard. 'The old bastard!'

Francesca shook her head in admonition. 'I'm sure he's only doing it to oblige Charles Fredrik.'

Manfred snorted. 'Two can play his game. I won't rise to his bait. Tomorrow morning I'm going to call Falkenberg and Von Gherens. Make those two carry the can. Falkenberg can do the damned accounting. That'll stop him eating and drinking for a few minutes, which should save us a few pennies anyway.'

'Good. Then maybe we can get moving a little faster. I had letters while I was in Mainz from Katerina. I said I would do my best to be there for her wedding, even if I cannot accede to her request to be a maid of honor.' Francesca smiled wryly. 'But I wouldn't mind being a trifle early to help with the organization.'