His bull-like bellows were accompanied by sharp swats with the flat of his broadsword, first on heads and then on behinds. So he was obeyed. Obeyed with alacrity--the fact that Manfred was able to wield that huge and deadly weapon in such a light and casual manner, causing no more damage that a schoolmistress with a switch, was even more frightening than the great blade itself.
'And fetch us a priest!' he bellowed after the retreating students. 'We may need one.'
Erik had stayed with the lean, wrinkle-faced man who was gently examining Lord Calenti. 'Will he live?' he asked quietly, surveying the burned, whimpering man.
The weather-beaten man shrugged. 'Might do. Might not. He'll need skilled nursing, and lots of fluids. He's going to be terribly disfigured even if he does live. Hell on a man who thought of himself as the ladies' delight. But I think you saved his soul. He should be grateful for that at least, even if he dies. It was devouring him. Here. Help me with these.'
From a battered pouch at his waist he produced two poultices of neatly folded leaves, thick with some unguent. 'I was taking these to someone else. Treatment for healing skin, not fresh burns, so they're not ideal, but they'll do. They'll sooth and keep the infection out of his face.'
They were in the final stages of applying them to Lord Calenti's ruined face when a man in an elegantly tailored cardinal's red, with beautifully coiffured hair burst into the room. Despite the horror of the scene, the bishop's eyes were first drawn to the healer. His eyes grew as wide as saucers.
'Marina!' he choked. 'What--what are you doing here? You've been gone for--I thought they said there was a doctor with him!'
The lean, weather-beaten man stood up, dislike written loud on his features. 'And I thought they'd gone to fetch a priest, Bishop Capuletti, not a scavenger. I learned a thing or two about healing on my pilgrimage, and I was on hand. But I've done what I can. Get one of the Accademia's cadaver-masters if you prefer. I'm out of here. I don't like the smell--and I don't mean that of burnt flesh and parchment.'
The bishop merely snorted dismissively as the weather-beaten man left. When he'd gone, he turned to the knights. 'Pilgrimage, my foot! More likely, that Luciano Marina went to learn the dark arts from the devil himself. Now. One of you had better go and fetch a doctor, and the other find someone to send for the other Signori di Notte. And get me someone to tidy this room.' He looked at the confetti confusion of parchment. 'Might as well throw this lot away.'
Erik shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Monsignor. I think we should stay with him. Whatever attacked him may come back.'
The bishop patted his crucifix-hung chain. 'I will deal with it. I am, in case you cannot see, your superior in the Church.'
Erik shook his head again. 'Dealing with this magic requires steel, Monsignor. Not just holiness.'
'So--as he is going to live and we don't need your priestly services, why don't you trot off to do the errands,' said Manfred, with all the arrogance of an nineteen-year-old prince crammed into his voice. Because of Manfred's size and the fact that he'd seen a lot, Erik tended to forget his age. Sometimes however, like now, it showed.
The bishop goggled, his ever-so-white face suffusing with choler.
Erik thought he'd better intervene. 'That's enough, Manfred! Go and bellow for someone at the door. I'll collect these papers. Lord Calenti seemed to ascribe some importance to them. Perhaps they'll mean something to one of the other Signori di Notte.'
Bishop Capuletti sniffed. 'They're just bills of lading and accounts from the bankers at the Rialto bridge,' he said, in voice like iced vinegar. He deliberately ground one underfoot.
Erik calmly picked it up and smoothed it. It was indeed nothing more than a partly burned bill of lading. A spice-cargo from Acre. It seemed to be innocuous enough. Loading. Unloading. Damages. Signed by the captain and bearing official looking seals. The bishop snatched at it. Erik held it away.
* * *
Manfred watched as Erik lifted the piece of paper out of the portly bishop's reach. He'd known Erik for the better part of eight months now, and he knew the danger signals. He'd better be ready to intervene. Erik was easygoing and rational a lot of time. Hard to anger. But the Icelander had a rigid code of right and wrong--and the bishop had overstepped it. Erik would not let little things like the future stand in his way.
'A man has nearly died for what is contained in these pieces of paper.' Erik's voice was absolutely level, utterly expressionless. 'You will treat them with respect.' Erik's gray-blue eyes bored into the red-clad prelate with an implacable stare. That look would have sent a ravening lion creeping off quietly to its lair.
The bishop, about to make some stinging comment, looked into those eyes. He shut his mouth. Raised his hands pacifically without even thinking about it.
Seeing Bishop Capuletti wilt, Manfred relaxed. Manfred knew himself to be much quicker to anger. But Erik, when he finally got angry, didn't cool easily. The famous Norse fury of ancient times didn't lurk all that far beneath
