Francesca looked sharply at him. 'Those who don't know you, Erik, are fooled by that tone of yours. Yes, there is a time for war. There are enemies who will use a desire for peace to weaken and devour you. And if I have to put my finger on what is happening here, these are the moves being enacted now. Have you noticed any shipping coming in?'
Manfred shrugged. 'I don't really pay any attention.'
Erik was far more geared to noticing vessels. 'Lateen-rigged coasters. I haven't seen any bigger round ships for a week or so.'
Francesca dimpled at him. 'Trade has been down for the last while. You can bet the Spleto pirates are at work. By now I think there is a blockade. And how convenient all of this is, just after the spring convoys leave. The better part of eight thousand men at arms are out of the city. The cream of Venice's fighting boatmen. The Arsenalotti are still here of course, but my next prediction of trouble would be in the next biggest concentration of young disaffected men in the city. The Accademia and the various Scuolo. They'll build up pressure, trying to get Venice to start fighting from within.'
She looked thoughtfully at the two. 'Someone--or possibly several someones--is trying to orchestrate all this. The magical murders are part of the plot, I'm sure of it. You can tell your uncle Charles Fredrik that he's too early. The whole thing won't come to the boil until late summer.'
Her reference to the Emperor as Manfred's uncle brought an instant silence to the room. Erik and Manfred were as rigid as boards.
'How the hell did you know?' demanded Manfred. 'I didn't tell her, Erik--I swear!'
Francesca shrugged. 'You're a Breton nobleman. Important enough to keep your identity and the fact you have a bodyguard secret. You have contacts with the Imperial Court--high enough to know fine details of the Emperor's movements. You have kept your own first name. I know a great deal about the royal houses of Europe. A Breton--with the same name as the Duke of Brittany's son, familiar with the court at Mainz. There are other possibilities . . . But none that have Erik ready to kill me.'
Startled, Manfred looked over and saw that Erik had his heavy-bladed Shetland dagger in hand. He moved to block the way between the Icelander and the courtesan.
'You can't, Erik. You can't.'
'I may have to,' said Erik quietly.
'Not without killing me first.'
Francesca stepped past Manfred. 'I'm not a fool, Erik. I needed to do this to establish trust. If I intended to betray Manfred and sell this information . . . I would have kept quiet.'
Erik digested this for a few seconds. Then he put the knife into the sheath in his boot. 'I'll have to pass on who you are, and what you look like, to Charles Fredrik. And to my kin. You realize that . . . if harm comes to Manfred through this, nowhere on earth will be safe for you. Not even the court of the Grand Duke of Lithuania. You might still get away from the Emperor's assassins. But the Hohenstaffen Godar are ours. Linn gu linn. We avenge them. We always do.'
Francesca patted him on the arm. 'Nowhere is safe anyway. Be practical, Erik. If I sold Manfred's secret, I'd be well paid. But I'd also probably be killed before nightfall. Those who would use it, don't want to advertise who they are, and the answer could be obtained from me by torture. Now, instead of giving me half the information and forcing me to guess the rest . . . why don't you tell me as much as you can?'
She smiled sweetly at Manfred. 'It'll cost you another emerald, my dear, but I'm sure I can put together a few more pieces. Once we know just who is moving with what intent you can tell your uncle how to counter it.'
They sat and replayed incidents and pieces of the Venetian puzzle. When they came to the coiner incident, Francesca--who had simply listened up to this point--stopped them.
'A mold for forging coins? Coins are stamped, not molded. The blanks are molded, presumably without holes. They are then stamped with iron dies. Those dies are heavily guarded. Counted daily. Your lord Calenti spotted that, not the molds.'
'Well, I presume the coiner was one of the conspirators--with access to the Venetian mint. So we can assume whatever is murdering these men magically is opposed to this conspiracy.'
Francesca shrugged. 'Conspirators fall out. Particularly about money. And different conspiracies fight one another too.'
Erik groaned. 'I wish I was back in Iceland! The clan feuds were murderous, true, but at least they weren't subtle. 'Your great-grandfather raped my great-grandmother.' Chop. 'Your third cousin twice removed stole a pig from my aunt's husband's father's second wife's--' '
Francesca patted him sympathetically. 'I conclude several things. And the first is that Iceland is more
