Eventually, Chernobog ceased his ruminations. The monster could sense the dark form shifting somewhere in the surrounding grayness. As if some huge beast, roused from torpor, were stirring again.
It will have to be the burning again. At least for a time. I cannot risk another premature encounter. Especially not now, with the Shadow stirring in slumber.
The monster had to struggle not to cry out a protest. It was, in the end, a creature of the forest and the lakes and the mountains, who much preferred the corporeal rending of flesh in its beast-form to less fleshly methods. But the struggle was brief, very brief. There was a certain pleasure in burning also. More ethereal perhaps, but not without its own rewards.
Yes. The burning again. And soon. The monster sensed Chernobog's form seething with anger, but knew the anger was directed elsewhere.
Lest my enemies think a mere priest, with a common holy symbol, can bring them surcease. Their growing terror must be fanned, like flames in a forest, until all of the city burns.
Yes. The burning, again.
The monster's wounds were almost completely healed by now. Enough, certainly, to enable it to utter words of obeisance and submission. And if the tone of those words contained a trace of regret, there was not enough to reawaken the master's displeasure.
Again, the monster sensed the great form swirling, a darkness in the mist, as if an enormous arm was moving in a gesture of command. In an instant, its body began to shrivel and shrink. Soon enough, the beast-body with its talons and teeth and clawing suckers had vanished, replaced by something which bore a vague resemblance to a salamander.
As always, the monster's regrets vanished with the change of form. There was no room in that salamanderlike body for anything but salamander thoughts.
Burning soon. Hungry!
PART III December, 1537 A.D. ======================================
Chapter 30 ==========
The Old Fox smiled. 'Angelina Dorma. Well, well, well! How serious do you think it is, Antimo?'
The Duke of Ferrara's agent considered this silently. Finally he said, 'Angelina Dorma is a young woman of some beauty and absolutely no common sense. Your grandson Marco is besotted with her--to the point of foolishness. Angelina has bragged about her 'secret admirer' to several confidantes both inside and outside the Casa. It was easy enough for my spies in the household to get wind of it, to see young Marco and to track him. This was done as part of our ongoing research into Casa Dorma, milord, not with our agent being aware of whom he was tracking.'
The Old Fox raised an eyebrow. 'We were all young and foolish about women once, weren't we?'
Antimo Bartelozzi didn't respond with a smile. 'Foolishness gets people killed, milord. And Dorma is very protective about his family.'
The duke pulled a wry face. 'His weakness is his family, Antimo. His mother and sister can be used against him. It's been a factor which has held me back in my approaches to him, despite his many impressive qualities. And as for the foolishness, those it doesn't kill--learn. So, I want Dorma watched closely. I see possible alliances here as well as possible dangers. And it is conceivable my foolish grandson may have found a way to remove one loose cannon from the Casa Dorma, and tie it down.'
Antimo nodded.
The duke put a hand to his chin and looked speculative. 'Given the current positions of the major factions in Venice--how do you assess Petro Dorma's strength?' He waited patiently for the reply he knew Antimo would eventually formulate. Privately he regarded Antimo Bartelozzi as his personal version of the mills of God. The agent ground slowly--but he ground very, very fine.
'Well--superficially his faction is the smallest, the weakest, and the most diverse and divided. Petro is very able, but he is not charismatic. He lacks the flamboyance and panache of Ricardo Brunelli, for instance.'
The Old Fox looked at him through half-lidded eyes. The languor might have fooled a lesser man. 'Ah. But you think there are other factors to be considered?'
'Yes.' The agent smiled wryly. 'Should circumstances prompt either the Metropolitan or Montagnard factions to lose support in Venice . . . that support may easily go to Dorma. He has long been seen as the firmest advocate of a centrist, neutral stance. His party's weakness is its diversity. But, as a broad church, it offers space to former adherents of both the other parties--the softer ones, if not the fanatics. And Venice's people--though they might lean Montagnard or Metropolitan with the blowing of the factional winds--have a strong tradition of independence. Like a heavy keel to a ship. That is Dorma's central creed. If either Rome or the Empire truly threaten Venice, I
