seemed a deep purple.
'Well . . . yes, Your Majesty.' Again, Von Stemitz cleared his throat. 'Actually, in an odd sort of way, I get the feeling Hakkonsen rather approves of the arrangement.'
The Emperor's brows lifted. 'I'll be damned,' he grunted. 'I didn't think the young Icelander was that smart. His father--God rot his soul--would have beaten me black and blue.'
'It was a simpler world in those days, Your Majesty. If you'll permit me the liberty of saying so.'
'Indeed it was,' sighed Charles Fredrik. 'Jagiellon's father was a brute, and the uncle he usurped the throne from was even worse. But they weren't as ambitious.' He fanned his face with the sheaf of papers held in his left hand. 'Not to mention that accursed Emeric of Hungary. Either he or Jagiellon would be bad enough. To have both of them coming to power within a year of each other . . .'
He sighed again and picked up the single sheet of paper which contained Manfred's letter to him. Then, hefted it a bit, as if he were weighing the one letter against the other.
'They say essentially the same thing. But this Francesca's so-called 'addendum' is ten times longer, twenty times more sophisticated, and lays out in fine detail all of the nuances Manfred missed.'
'I thought Manfred's letter was quite thoughtful,' said the count, rallying for the moment to the young prince's behalf.
The Emperor snorted. 'For an eighteen-year-old boy who's never given any evidence in the past of thinking past the next tavern or whorehouse, the letter's a bloody miracle.' He squinted at Francesca's letter. 'Still--there's nothing in Manfred's letter we didn't know a year ago. Whereas this one . . .'
'She claims to be from the Aquitaine. I tend to believe the claim, even though I'm certain the name she uses is fraudulent.'
'Oh, I don't doubt she's from the Aquitaine,' mused the Emperor. 'Nobody else in the world--not even Italians--has that subtle and convoluted way of looking at things.' His eyes left the letter and drifted toward the narrow window. An arrow-slit, that window had been once. Probably half the arrows fired from it, over the centuries, had been aimed at Aquitainian besiegers.
'I'd be a lot happier if I knew exactly who she was.'
The third man in the room coughed discreetly. The Emperor and Von Stemitz moved their eyes to gaze on him.
'Her real name is Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc,' said the priest. 'You can be certain of it. We investigated quite thoroughly.'
The count grimaced. 'A bad business, that was. Even by the standards of the Aquitaine.'
The Emperor's expression was a study in contradiction--as if he were both relieved and disturbed at the same time. 'You are certain, Francis?' he demanded.
'Yes, Your Majesty.' The priest nodded at the letter in the Emperor's hands. 'My brothers in Venice have even more at stake in this matter than you. Their lives, in the end.'
'True enough,' admitted Charles Fredrik. His brows lowered again. 'Which is perhaps the part about this that bothers me the most. You had given me no indication, prior to this moment, that your . . . 'brotherhood' was involved at all with my nephew.'
Father Francis spread his hands. 'And we are not, Your Majesty. Not directly, at least. But, you may recall, I did tell you--several times, in fact--that we had established a line of communication with you which was less circuitous than the letters I receive from Father Lopez through our brothers in the Aquitaine.'
' 'Less circuitous!'' barked the Emperor. He jiggled the letter in his hand. 'That's a delicate way of putting it!'
Father Francis did not seem abashed. 'Well. Yes, it is. We have taken solemn vows, after all.'
After a moment's worth of imperial glowering, Charles Fredrik's heavy chest began to heave with soft laughter. 'I'll give you this much, Francis. You have a better wit than the damned Sots.' The amusement passed. 'Let's hope that extended to your wits also.'
He laid the letter back on the table, planted his thick hands on the armrests of the chair, and levered himself to his feet. Then, almost marching, went to the window and gazed out. There was not much to see, beyond the lights of the sleeping city.
'I agree with this Francesca's assessment of the situation,' the Emperor announced abruptly. 'The troubles in Venice have been carefully orchestrated to leave the city helpless and at odds with itself--while Jagiellon has moved to precipitate a war in northern Italy. A war whose sole purpose is the destruction of Venice itself.'
