Rafael shrugged. 'The magical murders are easy enough to blame on the Strega. Except several of the victims have been among us.'
Luciano pulled out a cloth bundle from underneath his cloak. 'Anyway, here are some of the herbs that you wanted from Sophia. She misses you. Sends her love.'
He stood up. 'I've got things to do. Don't get caught up with the Church while carrying these herbs. It'll challenge even Petro Dorma to explain some of them.'
A moment later he was gone. Marco and Rafael finished their wine in silence before following after.
As they headed across the torch-lit campo, Rafael coughed apologetically. 'If you think it better to find other digs . . . well, I'll understand. It's not that safe these days to associate with the old faith.'
'Safer than running into Filippo Recchia,' Marco replied bitterly. 'By comparison the Church inquisition is dull and gentle, and they aren't after me all the time.'
Rafael frowned sympathetically. 'Si--you managing to avoid the bully? Is there anything I can do?'
Marco shook his head when Rafael looked like he was going to say more. 'Don't worry about it; there's nothing either of us can do about him. I've dealt with worse.'
'The problem with Filippo Recchia . . .' Rafael shrugged. 'The Recchia are a rising house. Before you arrived on the scene, Marco, Recchia had been the pack leader. But this new kid on the block . . . it's the old story. The Valdosta family is where the Recchia wish they were--and Filippo's young enough and stupid enough to let the resentment show.'
'My disadvantage is Filippo's obvious physical prowess--which he shows off every chance he gets. Every other Case Vecchie boy learned to fence. I know how to fight--I'd kill Filippo in a real street brawl--but not how to fence. And Filippo's pushing it for all it's worth. Still, I'm not worried about it. As I said, I've dealt with worse before, and--'
The relative quiet of the night was torn by the explosive boom of an arquebus. The sharper crack of wheel- lock pistols followed. A yell of 'A rescue! Students! A rescue!'
'That was Luciano's voice!' exclaimed Rafael.
They ran toward the noise, which was now an out-and-out riot, involving an influx of students pouring out of the taverns and lodging houses. Half of the Accademia were going to be there before them.
* * *
Half of the people in this 'Accademia' must be involved by now, thought Erik. What a God-forsaken mess.
They were supposed to have moved in quietly and seized the entire group. Alive, for questioning. To that end, Abbot Sachs had insisted on cudgels instead of swords. Well . . . as they burst the door open, he'd had half a second's worth of seeing the group busy with some sort of ritual, when the candles had blown out and all hell had broken loose.
Von Linksdorf had obviously triggered some kind of trap. Not only had the candles gone out abruptly, but a rigged arquebus had proved that steel armor might be effective against pagan magic, but it was damned useless against black powder. Von Linksdorf had been hammered flat by the heavy bullet.
In the charge and chaos that followed, the Knights had learned two more things. First, there was another exit--which they hadn't known about. Second, the pagans were not intent on being arrested without a struggle. And they were not only armed, but at least two of them were apparently wealthy enough to possess pistols.
The melee had burst onto the narrow, mostly dark street, and some clever pagan had called for a rescue . . . in a place where attacks and brawls were not uncommon, and students were the frequent victims of attacks. Knights on horseback, in open fields, dealing with lesser armed and less-armored foes were a deadly force. Here, in the narrow confines, armor was perhaps good for stopping knife thrusts and cudgel blows. Otherwise, it simply slowed them down and hampered movement.
'God and Saint Paul!' shouted Sachs. 'Slaughter the pagans! Slaughter them all! God will know his own!'
A branch of candles appeared on a balcony. 'HOLD!'
The voice was elderly but full of power. 'Stand! Put up your weapons!'
Erik looked up and recognized Michael, the Metropolitan of Venice. Bishop Capuletti was standing beside him, staring down on them.
In the distance he could hear the rattles of the Schiopettieri.
