'And Charles Fredrik, with Lithuania and the borderlands to deal with already, cannot also afford to see a more powerful Kingdom of Hungary--especially not one with a toehold in Italy. Especially not with a man on the throne like Emeric, who doesn't quite have Jagiellon's reputation--outside of Hungary, that is--but comes in a very close second.'
'There'd be war between the Empire and Hungary!'
Francesca nodded. 'For a certainty. With--for a certainty--Milan and Rome sucked into the vortex as well. Genoa also, be sure of it--soon enough, the Greeks as well.' She resumed her slow, silent pacing. 'Ever since he took the throne, one of Charles Fredrik's policies has been to stay out of Italian affairs. He's resisted--harshly, at times--every attempt of the Montagnards to drag him into this morass of endless bickering. 'The Po pisshole,' he's been known to call it.'
Despite her own mild reflex of Italian chauvinism, Kat couldn't help but laugh a little at the crude expression. And admit, privately at least, that there was some justice to the barb. It was a fact that Italians--northern Italians, especially--were prone to endless and ultimately futile feuds and vendettas. Had not her own beloved Grandpapa, an otherwise sane and even kindly man, been obsessed for years with his feud against the Valdostas? A house which no longer even existed, except in vague rumors and her grandfather's heated imagination.
'What can we do, Francesca?'
Francesca shrugged. 'Us? Nothing. You must tend to the affairs of Casa Montescue. I can think of few things which would be better for Venice than to have that house back on its feet again. Me?' She chuckled. 'I'm just a very fancy whore, girl.' She spread her arms wide, in a gesture of helplessness. 'Do I look like the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire?'
Kat sighed. 'No.' Then, giggled a little. 'I've never met him, but . . . I don't think he's got your cleavage.'
* * *
The Emperor's 'cleavage,' at that moment, was quite invisible. Covered as it was not only by the thick velvet of his imperial robes of office but by his own thick hands, clasped and folded across his chest as he listened to his adviser.
Baron Trolliger came to the last item on the agenda. 'Oh, yes,' he sighed, 'that obnoxious Father Francis is still pestering you for another audience. I assume you'll want to me brush him off again. He's seen you once already. That's more than enough for the demands of courtesy. Irritating man! I'll tell him--'
'Send him in,' interrupted the Emperor.
Trolliger stared at him. 'He's just a priest, Your Majesty. Not even, from what I can tell, one in the good graces of Rome. He's certainly not an official emissary from the Grand Metropolitan.'
Charles Fredrik's lips twisted into a wry smile. 'I should think not, given his purpose here. I rather imagine the Grand Metropolitan has been tempted more than once to strangle him--even more so, the Father Lopez from whom Father Francis takes his directions.'
The look of surprise vanished from Trolliger's face, replaced by impassivity. For all that the baron was one of the Emperor's closest advisers and agents, he knew full well that there were matters which Charles Fredrik chose not to discuss with him. This mysterious business of giving an obscure and apparently unimportant priest another private audience was obviously one of them.
'As you command, Majesty.' Trolliger rose from his chair and began making for the door.
The Emperor stopped him. 'I'd just as soon you were here for this audience, Hans. Have a servant bring the man.'
The baron cocked an eye at the Emperor. Then, sighed. 'I suppose this means I'll be traveling soon.'
Charles Fredrik smiled and spread his hands in a gesture which expressed, in part, uncertainty. But which, mostly, expressed irony at the complicated world of political intrigue. 'Most likely.'
Trolliger managed, more or less, not to scowl.
* * *
An hour later, after Father Francis had come and gone, the baron was making no effort at all to keep his scowl hidden. 'It's insane, Your Majesty. What these lunatics propose amounts to creating a Petrine version of the Servants of the Holy Trinity. As if the Servants aren't enough grief already. And then--then!--they want your permission to operate freely in imperial territory. I don't even want to think about the mess that would create.'
Charles Fredrik studied his adviser under lowered brows, his heavy hands clasped over his purple robes of office. 'I've already got a mess on my hands, Hans. Or are you so naive as to think that the mission which the Servants sent to Venice was as innocent an affair as they claimed?'
Trolliger's lips grew pinched. The Emperor chuckled. A suggestion of 'naivete' was perhaps the ultimate insult in the baron's lexicon.
