understand God to place upon satanic action. Cardinal Mazzare also argues-convincingly-that the arch-fiend stands to lose more from such a florid display of his power than he stands to gain. This does not constitute proof positive, but it does answer all reasonable doubts. Consequently, I hereby inform our Holy Father, Pope Urban VIII, that I can find no valid grounds for declaring Grantville a satanic construct.”
Urban nodded once. “I humbly thank both advocates for their spirited and learned address of the issue.” He raised his chin. “Father-General Vitelleschi, we shall proceed with the further inquiries as soon as it is convenient for you and our esteemed advocates. And I hope that our lay auditors”-he shot an impish glance in the direction of Ruy and Sharon-“shall be able to attend all our sessions, since it seems that, as ever, God sends his most important reminders through the most unexpected messengers.”
Ruy bowed deep thanks and sat.
When Urban looked away, Sharon grabbed his arm and kissed the side of Ruy’s still-serious face.
“To what do I owe the ambrosial drop of Heaven upon my cheek?” he asked.
“Well, why do you think, you wonderful fool?” Sharon hugged his arm. “Because you done good, honey; you done good.”
Giulio burst into the room loudly, as was his wont. “Rombaldo!”
“Yes, Giulio?”
“Valentino’s group-they have found our agents. Or rather, their bodies.”
Unfortunate that they were dead, but the two had been missing for too long for any other outcome to be probable. “Where did Valentino find them?”
Giulio rushed over to the map on the table; the pins denoting search teams were scattered across Venice and Lombardy. He stared intently for a moment and then jabbed a finger: “Here, in this town just south of Vicenza.”
“How were they killed?”
“By sword or knife.”
“How long ago?”
“At least a week, maybe more. The town fathers were keeping the whole affair quiet until they could figure out how to proceed.”
Meaning that the town fathers had prudently held off reporting a killing that did not seem random, and yet had unclear motivations. In their experience, that would signify a covert conflict between greater powers, a conflict in which they did not want to become involved.
“Very well. Have the other nearby teams converge upon this spot. Send word by our fastest riders: they have ten days to rendezvous with Valentino at this site.”
“And after that?”
“After that, Giulio, we let slip the leash and let our hounds run a pope to ground.”
“ Under ground, that is,” quipped Giulio broadly, “six feet under ground, to be exact.”
Rombaldo forced himself to smile. “Yes. Now, send the word; every minute we lose increases the chance that he will escape.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Estuban Miro turned and saw that the xebec had closed to within three hundred fifty yards. “Soon now,” he said loudly, over the chop of the oars and the rush of the scialuppa ’s bow-wake.
In the stern, Harry Lefferts nodded. “It’s going to be close,” he shouted back, squinting into the sun.
Miro followed his gaze. They were drawing close to the island of Monte Cristo, which, according to Harry, was completely different from the one made famous by the book of some up-time French author. The real Monte Cristo rose out of the Tyrrhenian Sea like a rough pyramid of scrub-covered granite. He saw no dramatic castles in sight; the only structures on the island were the ruins of the monastery of San Mamilliano, in which they had established their base-camp two days ago.
Some of the Piombinesi, who were now adjusting the scialuppa ’s battered lateen sail, had been somewhat familiar with the island. It was technically part of the extended principality of Piombino, although it remained abandoned and almost entirely unvisited, except by ships in such desperate need of fresh water that their captains were willing to brave chance encounters with pirates who frequented it for the same reason. Two of the Piombinesi had been fairly well-acquainted with its small inlets, particularly the one toward which they were heading now: Cala Maestra.
“The fun is going to start soon,” drawled Harry who had turned to inspect the xebec.
Miro nodded. Masses of pirates swarmed on her deck; threats and curses in half a dozen languages reached hoarsely over the waves. They shook cutlasses, scimitars, and a remarkably diverse assortment of firearms in the direction of the small fishing boat, and several of their number were busily setting swivel guns into pintel mounts on the port-side rail. “How many do you estimate, Harry?”
Lefferts, blessed with 20/15 vision, squinted again. “They’re milling around so much it’s hard to be tell, but I think our first estimate through the binoculars was pretty accurate. There are about twenty manning the sails and lines, about three times that number ready and eager to dig out our hearts with the points of their swords.”
One of the Piombinese rowers obviously understood enough English to get the gist of Harry’s remark; he retched, and then leaned more urgently to his oar. The man beside him on the bench-one of the four crewmen they’d taken on from the barca-longa — poked him with an elbow and motioned for him to maintain a steady stroke.
Harry came forward, leaned closer to Miro so he did not have to raise his voice above the wind and water. “Good thing you brought some of the other crew with us.”
Miro shrugged. “It is common practice in convoys, particularly when some ships have crew that have never faced pirates before. You mix some men with experience in with those; the example of the veterans steadies the beginners. Or so one hopes.” He smiled at Harry.
Harry was staring at his oilcloth-wrapped SKS, stowed out of sight beneath the stern-most thwart. “Well, so far, your voice of Mediterranean experience has been pretty much on target, Estuban.” He jutted a chin at the xebec. “You called their course to within a few degrees, once we picked up their trail at Elba.”
Miro shrugged again. “No profound foresight was required. The wild tales we heard in the wharf-side taverna at Marciano Marina had one element in common: when the two Spanish galliots met the Algerine off Elba, the pirate did not run, but gave them a brief fight. There are only two reasons pirates fight: because their prey is very weak, or because they want-or need-something very badly. Between them, the galliots were probably carrying at least one hundred twenty Spanish soldiers, yet not an ounce of treasure. And Elba has been so frequently raided by Algerines these past five years, that it doesn’t have anything left that’s worth taking.”
Harry nodded. “Except fresh water. And when the Spanish drove them farther west into the Tuscan archipelago, they had to head to the last watering hole at Isola Pianosa. Where they got chased away again, just like our Piombinesi guessed.”
Miro shrugged. “Chased away-or interrupted. There’s enough of a garrison on Pianosa that a quick run to shore to fill a few dozen skins was probably all the pirates could risk. Which meant that they needed to head somewhere else to really fill their water barrels.”
“And there we are off Pianosa, waiting for them to do just that.” Harry nodded appreciatively. “Estuban, I think your plan will work out fine if we manage to do just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
Lefferts grinned. “Survive.” He returned to the stern, running his hand along a tarp-shrouded bulk covering the aft port quarter of the small fishing boat.
Miro nodded to himself. So far, so good. The pirates, unable to fully replenish their water casks at Pianosa, had done what they often did: they set out to follow the prevailing wind twenty miles southeast to Monte Cristo. But even as they rounded Pianosa’s westernmost headland, Punta Libeccio, to begin their journey, they discovered that Dame Fortune was finally smiling upon them; just five miles out, and lying directly along their intended course to the springs on Monte Cristo, was a fishing boat.
Miro had thought he might have to brisk the scialuppa ’s sails about on the horizon, just to be sure of getting
