This Rough Magic

* * *

The small house was redolent with the scent of zuppa con popli, and Umberto was still sitting with a glass of white wine, the frown-lines easing around his eyes and forehead, when someone knocked at the door.

Maria went to it, angry. 'Can't you even leave the master to eat his meal in peace!' she yelled. The Little Arsenal would work day and night now until the fleet left, and she expected it to be yet another problem for Umberto's attention.

But, when she flung the door open, she saw it wasn't someone from the shipyard. Instead it was a very woebegone looking Svanhild and her brothers and their men. The narrow roadway seemed very full of large Vinlanders.

Maria was taken entirely aback. 'Oh! I . . . I thought it was someone for my husband from the shipyard. I'm so sorry.'

'Erik is not on the ships!' By the reddened eyes Svanhild had already been crying. The poor woman-child seemed to spend her life crying.

'Oh.' That seemed a very inadequate thing to say. Maria knew the Vinlanders had almost certainly extended their stay in Europe for a whole season on the basis of what she'd told them about Erik's plans. The only reason they were here at all was because of what she'd said about the convoys stopping at Corfu.

'I know Prince Manfred is definitely going to the Holy Land,' she protested. 'Katerina told me herself! And she got that from . . . uh, from Mademoiselle de Chevreuse. She's, ah, a close friend of the prince.'

'None of them are on the convoy,' Svanhild repeated, half-wailing. 'I've lost him!'

'I believe I can help you, my lady,' said Umberto diffidently, from the table where he had hastily risen to his feet. 'Prince Manfred and his Knights of the Holy Trinity are coming with four special great galleys that have been built for service off Cyprus. I heard from the admiral of the Outremer fleet that they were doing final outfitting in the Arsenal the day his fleet left. He says they should not be more than a week behind the Outremer convoy.' Gloomily, he added: 'The Little Arsenal will be sore pressed to fix those vessels as well, if we haven't got the Outremer fleet out by then.'

It was like the sun coming out on Svanhild's face again, and it looked as if she would gladly have flung herself at Umberto and kissed him, if it hadn't been so improper to do so. So Maria did just that for her. He was a good man.

* * *

Far enough away from the house not to be spotted in the darkness, two women studied the figure standing in the doorway talking to the enormous and crude Vinlanders. Sophia Tomaselli's expression was tight and pinched with anger; that of her friend Bianca Casarini, simply cool and calculating.

Maria Verrier's face was illuminated fairly well by the lamps inside her house. After a moment, Bianca turned away and began walking slowly toward the Castel a terra.

'I'll recognize her, Sophia, whenever I see her again. Let me give the matter some thought.'

'You should have seen her earlier!' hissed Tomaselli. 'The slut! She must have spread her legs for half the Case Vecchie to afford a dress like that—her, a scuolo's wife!'

'Umberto Verrier is not exactly a scuolo,' murmured Bianca. 'Yes, he started as a simple guildsman, but he occupies a considerably more prestigious position these days.'

She glanced at Sophia's face, which was momentarily well-lit by a lamp in a taverna they were walking past. 'Be careful, Sophia,' she said softly. 'Whatever her past, Maria Verrier is well-connected now. Better than you are, to be honest, and—'

Her eyes slid down to Sophia's midriff. 'Please take no offense, but she's also got a child.'

As Bianca expected—the Tomaselli woman was so predictable—that drew an angry glare. But even Sophia had enough sense to understand the point. A married woman with a child, in provincial Corfu even more than in Venice, had a certain aura of respectability that a childless wife like Sophia didn't. Especially when the wife in question had now been married for several years, to a man as generally disliked as Captain-General Nico Tomaselli—and was herself detested by almost everyone except her cronies. Over time, quietly, snickering remarks had spread, speculating either on Sophia's frigidity or her husband Nico's impotence— neither of which enhanced her status at all.

They walked on in silence for a bit. Diffidently, Bianca cleared her throat. 'Querini has been no help, I take it?'

Sophia's scowl was heavy enough to spot even in the sliver of moonlight. 'That pig! Bad enough he ruts like one, but he doesn't even manage the job.'

'Ah. His lovemaking does leave a lot to be desired, in the way of finesse. I admit I rather enjoy his energy myself. But then—' She issued a soft laugh. 'I've been taking precautions to make sure I don't get pregnant. Unlike you, I have no convenient husband to assume he's the father.'

Again, they walked on in silence for a time; and, again, Bianca cleared her throat. 'I have another lover who might do the trick—two, actually—but . . .'

Hearing the pause, Sophia seemed to shrivel a bit. 'You think it's me, Bianca? Tell me the truth.'

Casarini kept the surge of triumph from showing. Hard, that. She truly enjoyed snaring her prey.

'I hate to say it, but . . . it could be, yes. Crude he may be, but Querini's certainly not impotent—and I know of at least two bastards he's sired.'

Sophia Tomaselli seemed to shrivel still further. Bianca watched, sidelong, gauging the moment.

'I might be able to help, there,' she added. 'I know someone who's . . . well. A Strega mage, I think. Or . . . something else, but similar.'

Sophia made a face. Bianca laughed softly again. 'No, no, Sophia, not what you think. Ha! Aldo Morando's no