This Rough Magic

 

'I've gotten word from the Grand Metropolitan,' the Emperor began abruptly, the moment Baron Trolliger sat down in Charles Fredrik's small audience chamber. The chamber was even smaller than the one the Holy Roman Emperor preferred in his palace in Mainz. Here in Rome, which he was visiting incognito, the Emperor had rented a minor and secluded mansion for the duration of his stay.

The servant had ushered Trolliger to a comfortable divan positioned at an angle to the Emperor's own chair. A goblet of wine had been poured for the baron, and was resting on a small table next to him. The Emperor had a goblet in hand already, but Trolliger saw that it was as yet untouched.

'Something is stirring in the Greek isles, or the Balkans,' Charles Fredrik continued. 'Something dark and foul. So, at least, he's being told by Eneko Lopez. By itself, the Metropolitan might think that was simply Lopez's well- known zeal at work—but his own scryers seem to agree.'

'Jagiellon?'

The Emperor's heavy shoulders moved in a shrug. 'Impossible to tell. Jagiellon is a likelihood, of course. Any time something dark and foul begins to move, the Grand Duke of Lithuania is probably involved. But he'll be licking his wounds still, I'd think, after the hammering he took in Venice recently—and there's always the King of Hungary to consider.'

Baron Trolliger took a sip of his wine; then, rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. When the hand moved away, a slight sneer remained.

'Young Emeric? He's a puppy. A vile and vicious one, to be sure, but a puppy nonetheless. The kind of arrogant too-smart-for-his-own-good king who'll always make overly complex plans that come apart at the seams. And then his subordinates will be blamed for it, which allows the twit to come up with a new grandiose scheme.'

'Get blamed—and pay the price,' agreed Charles Fredrik. 'Still, I think you're dismissing Emeric too lightly. Don't forget that he's got his aunt lurking in the shadows.'

Trolliger's sneer shifted into a dark scowl. ' 'Aunt'? I think she's his great-great-aunt, actually. If she's that young. There is something purely unnatural about that woman's lifespan—and her youthful beauty, if all reports are to be believed.'

'That's my point. Elizabeth, Countess Bartholdy, traffics with very dark powers. Perhaps even the darkest. Do not underestimate her, Hans.'

Trolliger inclined his head. 'True enough. Still, Your Majesty, I don't see what we can do at the moment. Not with such vague information to go on.'

'Neither do I. I simply wanted to alert you, because . . .'

His voice trailed off, and Trolliger winced.

'Venice again,' he muttered. 'I'd hoped to return with you to Mainz.'

Charles Fredrik smiled sympathetically. 'The Italians aren't that bad, Hans.' A bit hastily—before the baron could respond with the inevitable: yes, they are!—the Emperor added: 'The wine's excellent, and so is the climate, as long as you stay out of the malarial areas. And I think you'd do better to set up in Ferrara, anyway.'

That mollified Trolliger, a bit. 'Ferrara. Ah. Well, yes. Enrico Dell'este is almost as level-headed as a German, so long as he leaves aside any insane Italian vendettas.'

The Emperor shrugged. 'How many vendettas could he still be nursing? Now that he's handed Sforza the worst defeat in his career, and has his two grandsons back?'

'True enough. And I agree that Ferrara would make a better place from which I could observe whatever developments take place. Venice! That city is a conspirator's madhouse. At least the Duke of Ferrara will see to it that my identity remains a secret.'

Trolliger made a last attempt to evade the prospect of miserable months spent in Italy. 'Still, perhaps Manfred—'

But the Emperor was already shaking his head, smiling at the baron's effort. 'Not a chance, Hans. You know I need to send Manfred and Erik off to deal with this Swedish mess. Besides, what I need here in Italy, for the moment, is an observer.'

The baron grimaced. He could hardly argue the point, after all. The notion that rambunctious young Prince Manfred—even restrained by his keeper Erik Hakkonsen—would ever simply act as an 'observer' was . . .

Ludicrous.

'I hate Italy,' he muttered. 'I'd hate it even if it wasn't inhabited by Italians.'

 

 

 

KINGDOM OF HUNGARY, NEAR THE

CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS

 

Elizabeth, Countess Bartholdy, laughed musically. She looked like a woman who would have a musical laugh; in fact, she looked like a woman who never did, or had, anything without grace, charm, and beauty. Yet somehow, underneath all that beauty, there was . . . something else. Something old, something hungry, something that occasionally looked out of her eyes, and when it did, whoever was facing its regard generally was not seen again.

'My dear Crocell! Jagiellon, or to give it its true name, Chernobog, is an expansionist. And, compared to the power into whose territory I will inveigle him, a young upstart.' She smiled, wisely, a little slyly. 'Corfu is one of the