Chapter 21

Milan

 Fillipo Maria was delighted with the new conduit of news coming out of Venice. Details of the 48 pounders ordered, and how they were being fitted — along with the Arsenal guild masters varied reactions to it. The coming spring campaign was enough to make him chortle to himself. Firstly because by spring he planned to be ready for a fairly bloody summer — with a lot of Venice’s soldiery away. And secondly because his engineers had laughed at the bombards. The duke of Milan had nothing but disdain for the emperor of Byzantium and his rapidly shrinking and collapsing empire. But he must send Alexis word somehow. The news that Venice and Genoa would be engaged in far away wars was a good thing. They had territory that would be lost by the time they got back. And it fitted so well with his plans for Sforza.

*   *   *

Carlo Sforza read the report carefully. It was not why he had put the man in place, but it was still extra information, and valuable. Not for the first time did he ponder his future. A great condottiere had to keep winning. Not only did his mercenary soldiers need the loot and the morale boost, but his employers tended to have strong ideas about what they were paying for. Many of his peers were good at playing the part. Sforza had been good at doing the deeds. Now…Now he knew his employer wanted him to challenge Venice again.

And he did not wish to.

Vilna

Jagiellon sat on the throne, motionless. Someone more ignorant than the tongue-less slave that brought the message might have thought the Grand Duke deep in thought. But by now the slave knew better. Someone was going to die. His master used blood-rites in that chamber down in the dungeons. Blood rites and dark magics feared even here in pagan Lithuania.

The slave was correct. “Fetch me Count Tcherkas.” So he did. The count, like many of the nobility here, dabbled in magic. He was not in the league of Count Mindaug — but then Count Mindaug had gone to great lengths merely to seem an ineffectual academic. But the rituals the Grand Duke and the demon Chernobog used needed participation. And needed terror — both from the victim and from the perpetrator. Jagiellon was too far gone to feel human emotions. Tcherkas felt fear, revulsion and…eagerness, in the blood sacrifice and skin eating. It helped to penetrate the veil — not to Venice, but to Milan, deep within the western lands.

From there the news he could glean from Venice — where Chernobog dared not venture, not even in spirit — and other points of the Mediterranean was that the West was readying itself for a spring attack on Constantinople.

“Spring. By then it should hold, until the fleet from Odessa reaches there, even if the Venetians have somehow managed to work out a way to fire massive forty-eight pound bombards from the decks of their vessels without sinking them.”

Jagiellon turned to the count. “Send word. Alexis must be warned of this. The Byzantine emperor should concentrate his guns on the seaward walls, on the walls facing the Sea of Marmara as the great chain will keep the vessels out of the Golden Horn. That will keep them out of effective range.”

The count, still gagging from his meal, nodded.

Jagiellon went on as if he had not engaged in torturous blood rituals a scant hour before. “If Alexis can be kept from alternating between his depravities and total panic, he will hold the city. He is a weak reed, but at least that means that he is corruptible and malleable. I also want some men and weapons sent with the raider fleet to the coast of the sultanate of Pontus. The Baitini are squalling from Ilkhan lands.”

The demon was somewhat more concerned about this leg of his plans. It appeared that the laissez faire methods of Mongol rule were changing in response to the Baitinis’ attempts to instill panic and terror. Not — as they dreamed — cracking and disintegrating. He might have to spare some troops there to take Mongol pressure off the borders with Alexis’s Themes in Asia Minor. They would read great things into a small landing somewhere, and redouble their efforts. The demon did not care if they won or lost. He wanted westward geographic expansion for reasons that were not earthly.

Constantinople

Antimo quietly locked the door. The first two sets of his maps and coded notes had already been dispatched. A good spy also had to be a good scribe, and a patient copyist. He could lose six month’s work by not making multiple copies. He could lose his life by traveling with them. None-the-less he had copies of his notes. Not hidden in the obvious places like the soles of his shoes or lining of his bag. The church might not be forgiving if they read the Latin text of some of the bible he carried. With luck, which had favored him in the past, they would never see it and neither would anyone else.

Leaving at night was a risk — it meant getting over walls and bribing guards, and there was no need for that yet. It was, outside of the foreign quarters, still business as usual in Constantinople. Yes, trouble was coming as sure as sunrise, but not until springtime. A lifetime away. In the morning he’d be leaving quietly with a group of minor merchants going to a cattle sale some miles away. He wouldn’t be coming back with them. There were just a last few things to be arranged tonight.

He was unsurprised to see Red-ears and his sister there, tails wagging. He’d met Ripper and Ravener so often on his nightly walk-abouts that he’d taken to carrying a tit-bit or two with him. Dogs — they were always hungry. He’d been like that as boy himself. Maybe that was why boys and dogs had such an affinity. He hadn’t met their mistress again. Somehow he felt that was just as well.

But she was there, standing in the shadow.

*   *   *

He was plainly leaving the city. Hekate had watched him obsessively, she had to admit, for the last while. He intrigued her, he brought her out of herself. For so many centuries, she’d been wrapped in her grief, mostly oblivious to the marchings of the mortal world. That grief had not left her, and it never would. But now that she had begun to shake free of the total absorption of it, she was aware of so much that had changed. She had been peripherally aware of it, of course. But she just hadn’t cared enough to pay any amount of attention to it all.

The world had become a very strange place to her; she was forgotten as a goddess, and mentioned only obliquely. She had been so forgotten, in fact, that only the drink- and drug-addled and the mad could see her. And…those who still had magic, which were few, very few here. The only point of connection with this new world she’d found was the silent magic-user and his strange business.

What was he doing? It puzzled her. There must be some form of magic involved, she had at first concluded, what with the pacing, the writing, the complex diagrams. She could not imagine what else it could be.

But magic was something over which she had had some power, and which was a part of her, and she saw no trace of it in these workings of his.

Had that too gone from her?

No. Impossible. She still walked in the shadowed paths, she still, when she chose, could easily, trivially, work bits of sorcery that were beyond all but the most powerful of mortal magicians.

Was he in the service of some other god or goddess unknown? Was that why he did what he did? Were these some strange rites she did not recognize?

And now — now he was leaving.

She was Hekate. What did she care if one mortal moved away?

Yet she did. And the dogs would miss him. She parted the shadow so that when she spoke, he would see her.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He turned very cautiously. “I didn’t see you there, Lady. Just out.”

She shook her head, denying his words. “You are leaving the crossroads. This place.”

“I was trying to make that less than obvious. Yes. I have to go. You’ll take care of my friends here, will you?” He petted them, scratching behind their ears. Then, looking at the dogs. “I think you should leave here, if possible, as soon as is practical. There’s siege and war coming, probably sooner than they anticipate. That’s not kind to dogs or women.”

She knew that. Oh, how well she knew that. “Will you be coming back?” she asked, remembering. Remembering far too much. This man was…kind. Unexpectedly kind. He was warning her.

“It’s possible,” he said, cautiously. She sensed why. He did not want to lie, nor to promise what he could not do. “I go where I am sent. I may come back here to finalize things.”

“I know,” she said, very quietly, interrupting him.  “I know.  It’s not so much that you are afraid of going out.  You aren’t.  I’m not.  It’s that you’re concerned for how worried they are for you, and you want to make sure that nothing, nothing, ever happens to you that can hurt them.  You… you’re very protective of them, not the other way around.”

He looked at her, speechless, for a moment, then a small smile formed on his lips.  “Yeah.  You get it.  If they’d treated me badly when they found out–  If they’d been like Tom’s father when he kicked him out, if — then I would have been free to grow up, go away and … be on my own.  But they are the kindest people in the world, and they do everything they do to protect me, and they feel so guilty that they somehow passed this genetic doom to me, that the only thing I can do, the only thing I can think is how not to hurt them.  They were very worried when I was at college in Denver, you know.  They used to come up for dinner twice a week, and I ended up driving home most weekends, and everyone said I was mama’s boy, but that wasn’t it, you know?  That wasn’t it at all.  I didn’t want them to worry.”

“I understand.  I do the same thing with my parents,” Bea said.  “Which is why I was so worried that they might … you know… Worry themselves sick, or think the evil dragons had got me, or something.”

“Yeah,” he said.  His hand was on the kitchen isle.  “yeah.”

She touched his hand briefly, with her fingertips, then she said, lightly, casually, trying to make little of that touch, “We should eat.  Is the chicken ready?”

* * *

Tom looked at Conan, and it seemed to him he was looking at his friend as though from a long, long distance away.  Which was weird.  Objectively, he knew that Conan was just there, just out of reach of Tom’s outstretched  arm, if that far away.  He was just standing there, looking up at Tom, his eyes as wide as he could make them.  He’d removed his hat, revealing a wealth of very black, glossy hair.  In what remained of his performance outfit, clutching the guitar neck, he looked like a Chinese elementary school kid masquerading as a cowboy.  The impression was increased by his look of bewilderment.  “Tom, I must talk to you.”

In Tom’s ears, the words reverberated like something said a long way off, and through a membrane, echoing as weirdly as Tom’s own voice had sounded inside his skull for the longest time.  And Conan looked tiny, as did Rya and even Kyrie.  He could turn around and look at them, in turn, but while he knew they were all crowded right there around the counter, the feeling was that he was very alone in the middle of a vast circle of emptiness with all his friends looking on from a great distance.

He swallowed, hard.  Maybe this isn’t just the obtaining of some files.  Maybe there is more to this than just my receiving knowledge from the Great Sky Dragon.  A bad thought of how the Great Sky Dragon had spoken through his lips was dismissed, and instead he swallowed hard again, and heard his own voice vibrating oddly, trembling.  “Kyrie,” he said, probably louder than he intended, and full of the urgency of someone who feels his control falling away.  “Kyrie, please take over.  I… I need to talk to Conan for a moment.  It’s…”  Swallow to try to keep his voice clear.  “Important.”

Kyrie, looking up at his face, seemed like she’d argue, then decided not to.  She nodded.

Tom ducked under the pass-through, rushed down the hallway, not quite sure where he was going, but aware that Conan was following him, wherever that was.

They stepped outside the back door, and there was an alligator by the trash dumpster.  This was neither strange nor unexpected.  Old Joe, an old alligator shifter often hung out near the dumpster.  It had been rescuing a kitten from Old Joe’s happy-snapping jaws that had saddled Tom and Kyrie with a pet cat.

But old Joe didn’t even slow down Conan, which was odd, because Conan never trusted the alligator.

And as the warm air hit Tom, he felt something odd.  He felt like he was going to shift.  But it was like no shift he’d done before.

“Be careful,” Conan was saying.  “You can’t have them here.  Not unless you want to give the whole thing away.”

“What?” Tom asked, still feeling as though he were dizzy and nothing made much sense at all.

Now Conan was grasping his arm, squeezing, “Listen, Tom, before you shift.  You must pay attention.  The dragons are coming.  All the dragons.  All who can get here in time. You are now the Great Sky Dragon, aren’t you?”

Tom tried to make some protest, but he couldn’t quite speak, and then Conan said, “You are.  I knew it when I looked at you in the diner.  It was all I could do not to — I knew you’d be some day of course, but not… this soon.  Tom.  You must not shift here, or if you do you must fly away soon.  Where are you going?  Where are you going that the dragons can come?

“They’re coming, Tom.  You can’t stop it.  They’re coming to pay you homage, to see with their own eyes that we still have a leader.  And you must be where they can all land, and not be seen by everyone.”

* * *

The parking lot of the Three Luck Dragon, Tom thought.  And the idea was obvious, as was, in retrospect, the advantage of that place.  It explained why dragon gatherings took place there so often.  Set against the cup of a hillside, its near neighbors — a jewelry store with a prominent sign that it bought used gold, and a little hole-in-the-wall Laundromat — were closed at night.  Which left the parking lot — far more vast than should be needed by three such establishments — free for gatherings of large-bodied, flying, secretive creatures.

“The parking lot,” Tom said.  “Restaurant.”  And saw Conan nod, which was good, because Tom was already shifting.  And that was bad in itself, because they were in the parking lot, where customers of The George might see it.

Half lopping, feeling as though he were already losing control of his body, Tom rushed into the alley and behind dumpster.  Barely in time.  He’d just managed to duck behind the dumpster when the pain of shifting hit him, and he managed — just — to discard his clothes before they tore.  He was aware that Conan was doing the same, but it didn’t matter.  Shifting was a private hell, a nerve-ending searing experience that preempted all rational thought and made it impossible to see clearly.

When it was done, Tom realized Conan was indeed nearby, a red dragon, Chinese style, with the funny cat-like face of Chinese dragons and unusually long red whiskers.  Conan’s look at Tom was the first time Tom realized something was wrong.

Oh, not wrong, exactly.  But something was strange.  He’d been shifting into a dragon for over seven years.  By now he should know what his dragon felt like.  Only this felt different — bigger.

It was, he thought, like when he had a growth spurt as a young boy, and would for a few days feel as though his outlines, his sense of where his body was, had gotten horribly distorted.

Now, when he spread his wings their span was huge, and as he flapped them to get to the sky, he flew much faster.  He could sense Conan flying behind him, too, and he had a sudden, odd, impression of himself as having grown… what?  Two times as large as he’d been.  Note to self, shifting in a small powder room could kill you.

His size changed everything, including his perception of where he was going — or how long it would take to fly there.  But he managed, feeling as awkward and strange as a male adolescent in a suddenly large body.  Which, he thought, in the human mind at the back of the dragon’s thoughts, might very well be what he was.

The parking lot of the Three Luck Dragon seemed to rush up at him far too quickly, and he landed awkwardly near the closed doors, aware that even as he landed they opened, and two men already in the process of changing, rushed out to stand behind him.

He had no time to wonder who they were or where they’d come from.  It was as though his landing had been a signal, but more than likely his landing had been just in time.  Because this would have happened wherever he was:  as soon as he landed, he was aware of the sound of wings all around, a flapping noise, like sheets in the wind, like exceptionally large flags being whipped around.

He turned around, barely able to take in the sight.

“To destroy it for ever so that I can have a better world for my daughter,” said Benito, lightly. “That’s what I want, but it is not what I’ll get.”

Androcles was amused now. “And what do you hope to get?

“I need to take a fleet all the way to Constantinople. In the teeth of winter. That is neither wise nor easy. But I believe it must be done. So we will do it. But I could use some help with the weather.”

Juliette snorted delicately. “Try gods.”

Benito ignored the comment. “You are more weather wise than we humans are. And I have heard tell you can communicate over long distances.”

Androcles wagged his head a bit. “It would be hard to be less weather wise than humans. And sound travels well underwater. We can hear sounds ten or twelve leagues away.”

“There are ports along the way, or at least sheltered anchorages we can use — if we are not caught too far from them. What I want is some kind of advance warning.”

“It’s not wise to cheat the sea of its prey,” said Androcles, with the air of someone testing waters.

Benito shrugged. “Please. This is me you are talking to. I’m not wise.”

“He even cheated the Lord of the Dead of his bride,” Juliette reminded all of them. With cautious admiration.

Benito squeezed Maria’s shoulder. “As much as I was able.”

“More than most humans,” said Androcles, but he nodded. “Very well. Something can be arranged. But there is a price.”

“If we can afford it, it is yours,” said Benito, sounding as if he was one of the best bargainers on the canals. He probably was, thought Maria, with an inward smile to herself. He’d started hard and young, no matter where he’d risen to.

“Ah. Nothing you cannot afford. A drop of your blood on the water when you wish to call us, and a little something that Venice can afford. Besides the fact that we owe the healer, it seems wise to be on the right side of you,” said Androcles disarmingly.

“And he is my god-daughter’s father,” said Juliette, coming forward to touch Alessia.

“What is it that you want?” asked Benito.

“A piece of water to call our own. A place where no-one fouls and no one fishes. A couple of acres here, within the Lion’s shelter, that we can call our own. If ill times are coming, we’ll need it.” By the sudden sober look on the triton’s face, this had been something the mer-folk had long desired. Maria understood. Sanctuary, under the shadow of the Lion…valuable. Worth, to them, more than pearls. If they could not be safe with the Lion to guard, they could not be safe anywhere.

Benito nodded. Maria knew it would not be easy to police, although Doge Petro could make it legally so at the stroke of a pen. She was a canaler. You could hardly be that without knowing that the writ of the law as to fishing rights was often trespassed on, and the offenders were seldom caught. And she had a strong feeling these were not folk you could casually give your word to. So she said so.

“We’ll tell you who breaks the bargain. There are always some who will go too far for fish.” Juliette looked pointedly at the triton

He grinned, showing sharp teeth. “It will be up to you landfolk to punish them. We will know if you do not.”

Benito nodded. “I will talk to Petro about it, but I think I can safely promise it. He knows the value of sanctuary — and allies.”

Maria planned to take it a step further. She’d talk to the canalers about it. There’d be enough of them heading out with her Benito. It was not a deal to be turned down. The canal people were superstitious enough to keep each other out of the protected water, just in case.

Marco, who still practiced most of his medicine among the Venice’s poor and probably knew them as well as Maria did, obviously thought likewise. “I will talk to the canalers. Keeping their loved ones safe from the ravages of the sea while on this voyage is a bargain they’ll find hard to refuse, I think. And if they agree…well, their word is good. With all respect to Petro, it would be of more value than any piece of pap…”

They all felt it then. A cold that had nothing to do with temperature, the shiver down the spine, the touch at the back of the neck. And the power, oh yes, the power. The two merpeople vanished. Slipped away under the water like ghosts. Someone else had entered the water-chapel, although the door was still closed. They could all feel his cold presence behind them. Maria was chilled to the bone, and she held tightly onto Benito and her daughter.

They turned, slowly, to face Aidoneus, lord of the cold halls of the dead. Once again, Maria was struck by his beauty. How could a thing that ruled the dead be so handsome?

He inclined his head, unsmiling. “My bride,” he said.

She had known this was coming. She just had hoped for more time. But he would come when he would come, by his own calendar — and by his calendar, winter was about to begin.

Maria felt Benito tense. “For four months,” she said calmly, squeezing Benito’s shoulder. “That was our bargain. I honor my bargains. Benito will honor his.”

Aidoneus nodded. “I will keep her safe. And keep my bargain.”

Maria took a deep breath. “And him. Now…I need to bid them goodbye.” Her voice cracked slightly. She had meant to keep her self-control. But…four months. Four months of no Benito. No little ‘Lessi…Four months among the dead, four months being the sole living creature in those cold, silent halls…already she ached fiercely for them, and she had not said goodbye.

“If you don’t want…” Benito began.

Maria shook her head, fiercely. “A bargain is a bargain. I keep mine. And I’ll be back in the spring. I promise.”

Benito took a deep breath. “Or I’ll be there to fetch you. And this time…” He left the threat unspoken.

“I will keep my bargain too,” said Aidoneus to Benito, gravely, and with no sign of insult. “Not because that is my nature, but I would be foolish not to. She is not someone to anger, lightly. And I need her. She brings life to my lands. That is no small thing.”

Benito grimaced, and being Benito, could not forbear but try for a joke of some kind. She understood why. The cold…it froze a man’s soul. No wonder Aidoneus wanted Maria’s fire. “And she throws plates. And anything else she can get her hands on. And she has a temper and a voice that will probably blow those mists of yours away. Very well. I accept it. But I don’t have to like it.”

Benito turned to his wife and folded her in his arms, a stocky, short man, with muscles like rope, binding her. She could feel his anger and his sadness. And she could feel that he loved her, that if he could he would take her place, he would go again to the land of the dead to bring her out.

“I’ve done it once,” he said quietly to her, confirming what she felt. “If need be I’ll do it twice.”

She hugged him, unable to speak. She kissed and cried a little over her baby. And then she put her child in her father’s arms, and turned away and walked beside Aidoneus into the misty archway that had opened ahead of them. It was quite the hardest thing she’d ever done. If she’d turned back to see him and their daughter standing there beside the greenish water of the water-chapel…she knew she’d fail.

But she had a bargain to keep.

Chapter 14

When they returned to the diner’s dining room, Conan was standing up, in the little circle they had cleared for his performance.  Somehow it had got much smaller, with various people crowding around, all trying to talk to him.

He had his guitar in one hand, and was bowing, seemingly in response to everything addressed to him.  Tom patted Kyrie on the shoulder.  “I go rescue the poor man, you make sure people have food and stuff, if they linger, and that no one leaves without paying.”

It was easier said than done, but on the other hand, the diner seemed to have a acquired several volunteer servers.  “They said they’re regulars,” Jason said.  He was red-faced and looked beat, but was grinning.  “And Anthony confirmed it.  Some guy called James Stephens who said he’s half a horse, and a big man who goes by Professor Squeak.”

“Oh, Professor Roberts.”

“Is he really?” Jason asked, as he and Kyrie crossed back and forth giving warm-ups and bussing tables.

“A professor?  Yeah. Pharmacology.  CUG school of medicine.”

“Oh, wow.  I thought he was just nuts.  He started telling me how he had all these names, including Speaker To Lab Animals and Professor Squeak.”

Kyrie hesitated, but in the press of people it wasn’t a good time to mention shape shifting, so she just said, “He’s eccentric, but a very nice man.”

“Yeah, well, he was taking orders and stuff, and didn’t know what to do with tips.”

“Well, no,” Kyrie said, when their paths crossed again.

Their desultory conversation wound down as the diner returned to normal activity for that time of night — almost empty with only three tables still occupied by large groups.  Three or four people remained near Conan too, one of them the fiercely protective Rya who was standing between him and a large, well dressed man, who was trying to talk to Conan about something.

Kyrie looked over at Tom, who leaned over one of the tables, talking to regulars, a smile on his face as he traded jokes with the man they’d long known as The Poet, who turned out to be Rya Simmons’ father, Mike.

He looked… natural, Kyrie thought.  Or at least, if she hadn’t known that something was very wrong, she would have thought that he looked perfectly natural.  He seemed tired, of course, and moving in a slightly forced way, like someone valiantly dragging himself past his last ounce of strength and will power.  But there was nothing unusual, no odd movements, as he picked up the tray with the used plates, and laid down the accounting for the table of seven people.

“So, do you think he’ll make enough to marry my daughter?” Rya’s father asked Tom with a wink, as Kyrie approached them.

“He has asked?” Tom said.  “Braver than I thought.”

“She’s probably asked him,” Mike conceded with a smile.  A retired TV weatherman, he was writing a novel in his sleepless nights, to stay conscious and not turn into a were fox.  He’d left his daughter at five, trying to avoid tainting his family with his weirdness.  But when his daughter had started shifting herself, she had found him.  “But I’ve heard a lot of talk about it.”

“Well!  I’d be happy about it,” Tom said, and for just a moment his voice reverberated oddly, seeming to echo off the walls of the diner, and seemed to be imbued with authority and knowledge that had never been Tom’s. He must have noticed it too, and the people at the table all stared up at him, but then Tom cleared his throat, “Anyway, at least he didn’t completely tank and chase our customers away.  I’m not sure how much we made, but it was a lot.”

“Well, then, maybe you should give my future son in law a cut?” Mike said only half joking.

Tom assured him he intended to do just that, then went back to the counter, with Kyrie trailing him anxiously.

Behind the counter, Anthony was removing his apron, with an air of grim determination, “I have to go Tom, now, really.  My wife is threatening to change the locks.”

Tom nodded to him, as he set down the tray loaded with dirty dishes, and put them in an holding area, waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle.  “We’ll see how much we made, and make sure you get a cut, too,” Tom said.

“Well, that might help.  We need to move to a bigger apartment.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, you know.  There will be a kid, sometime in fall.”

Was Tom’s smile a little forced as he said “Congratulations”?  And even Kyrie couldn’t avoid a pang as Anthony beamed at them, “About time you two had some, but you got to get married first!  And think about it.  Our kids could play together.”

“Our kid would totally beat up your kid,” Tom said, but it was automatic.

From the other side of the counter, leaning on it, Rya said, “Mr. Ormson!”  She’d been introduced to Tom as Tom, and to Kyrie as Kyrie, but she insisted on calling them Mr. Ormson and Ms. Smith.  Which was funny, since she was probably only two years or so younger than Kyrie.  “Mr. Ormson.  You’ll let Conan sing on Wednesdays, right?  Here?”  Conan, standing behind her, looked hopeful.  Behind him were two men, also looking hopeful.

Tom turned around.  There were dark circles around his eyes, but his gaze had a strange brilliance.  “I’d rather he sings Saturdays, though we might need to come up with some new table arrangement to get more people in, why?”

“They,” Rya gestured to the two men nearby.  “Want to hire Conan to sing at their bars, and I was saying he shouldn’t do that, when he has worked for you all this time, and you’re friends and –”

The two men started up with a babble of explanations from which the word “non exclusive” emerged.  Tom nodded.  “I don’t see why he can’t sing for them other nights.  I’ll take the night he can give us.  It’s a small venue here, anyway, but, Conan, don’t sign anything without getting it looked at by a lawyer.”  And on those words, the reverberation was back, the sound of authority.  Conan raised his eyes at it, staring at Tom with wide open eyes, as Tom went on, “My dad will help you out, when he comes to visit.  Just don’t sign anything till he tells you it’s okay.”

Conan didn’t answer.  He was still staring at Tom.  He pushed Rya gently aside.  He tried to get under the pass through, but the hat caught.  He looked as if he would speak, but then realized there were non-shifters nearby.  He swallowed hard.

“Tom,” he said.  “I must talk to you.”

* * *

“No, Mother,” Rafiel said.  “No, I’m not lying to you.  Yes, I’m quite sure I’m all right.  Well, I wasn’t there for a while.  No.  It was a fight that… well, it doesn’t matter.  Yes, a fight with a creature.  You could say that.  Yes, very much like the saber tooth last winter, but this one is female.  No, not that type of female.”

There was a pause.  Bea watched his face, attentive, patient and more than a little bit embarrassed.  “Well,” he said.  “No.  I hope not.  She almost killed me.  No.  I’m fine now.  You know how quickly I heal.”

“Beg your pardon?  No, I’m fairly sure I didn’t break Stephanie’s heart!  I never even met her.  Mother!  When I was five doesn’t count.  And I’m sure she’s forgiven me for breaking her doll by now.  No, I don’t think I need to marry her to repair that particular sin.”

There was a long interval in which he answered her questions, and slowly, Bea started to realize what they had in common and why he had felt so familiar to her.

He finished, hesitantly with, “Mom, could you call this number?” he took the number Bea had earlier scrawled on a paper napkin.  “Tell them their daughter is all right, that you don’t have any details, but she’s safe and will come home as soon as possible.  I… Don’t mention any names, certainly not my name.”

There was a silence, and red climbed up his cheeks.  “No.  I… no.  It’s related to that attack.  Besides, the Dragon Triad is after her.  Uh?  No.  Not involved.”  And suddenly he was looking up at Bea, and she realized for the first time that while the eye that had been injured looked somewhat blood-shot it wasn’t missing anymore — no longer a mass of dried, black blood.  Instead, it was a normal eye which, like the other eye, was the color of dark, aged brandy.  And both of them twinkled with amusement.  “She’s very nice.  No.  Well, we’ll see.  Maybe you’ll get to meet her.”

Rafiel hung up, and Bea had time to control the heat on her cheeks.  She said, slowly, “Your parents… are very protective.”

And now he turned around, and now his cheeks were red, and he was trying to explain, stammering, “No, this is the thing, see, they found out I could shift at 13, and Kyrie and Tom think I’m some sort of wimp because I still live at home, but the thing is, it’s not that I’m afraid of going out, it’s –”

He paused and took a long drink from the goblet of wine that was given to him. “We had no trouble from there to until we entered the Bosphorus, although vessels were sighted. We were a goodly company. And we were glad of it, Monsignors. It’s time the pirates and Byzantines were taught to respect the ships of Venice.”

“And, by the sounds of it, of Genoa.”

The fleet admiral laughed. “You should have heard the Genoese senior captain’s reaction when the emperor demanded half of the Genoese vessels’ cargo too. They’re used to Byzantines trying to play them off against us, not being treated like us. Alexis would have it that if they’d sail with our fleet, they could be taxed with us. I hear he was uninterested in their suggestion that he deploy his navy — not that it’s up to much — against the pirates in the Black sea. They’re too organized, Monsignor, just to be a rabble fleet. We need to take steps to see to our trade.”

“We plan to, Admiral. We plan to return to Constantinople long before spring with a sharp rebuke for a little emperor for breaching the terms of our treaty. It’s a pity that the rebellion in Opiskon appears to have fizzled out.”

Peering around the screen again Benito saw the Eastern Fleet admiral nod approvingly. “Not a moment too soon, Monsignors. You’ll find our crews keen enough to join the expedition. Emperor Alexis hurt our pride, and worse, our profits. Many’s the colleganza that’ll be cursing him tonight. Give the men a week ashore…”

That was what Benito needed to hear: The admiral’s assessment of the response of the men. Benito realized he should have guessed how far astray Emperor Alexius would let his greed lead him. It was not just the wealthy of Venice who traded Outremer. Even the lowliest seaman had a small share in a colleganza — a trading collective. A canny man could make himself a good profit — five times his investment — if he chose his goods and traders well. Those ordinary seamen would have lost money. Their retirement money for the older men, their weddings for the younger. The populi minuta would be angry and ready to put to sea again, despite the fact that it would be cold and wet at this season. He made a mental note to see what he could do to improve conditions on board. Half-frozen rowers on the galleys would not help their need for speed at all. Petro would complain about the money for oilskins and woolen hats, but not too much. Swords, powder and ball, arrows…no one quibbled about the need for those. But Benito had already heard Admiral Douro in the Arsenal, who skimped nothing for his own comfort, attempting to cut corners on the well-being of his crews. That would not stand, not on Benito’s watch.

The interview with the admiral of the Eastern Fleet continued for some time, refining details and clearing up points. Benito listened. And began to calculate on how many ships Venice could put at sea. He was pretty sure the lists in the Piazza San Marco would filling up within the next few days. Men would be signing up to join Venice on a punitive expedition to Constantinople. Benito had his name at the head of those lists. That would be popular. He also — and this would be a lot less popular — did not want to cripple and loot Constantinople. By the sounds of it they might need a bulwark against the east if these Baitini succeeded in their plans to subvert the Ilkhan’s empire from within. That sort of thinking was not likely to appeal to men who had just lost the little they had.

Later he set off in search of Marco. One look at his brother’s face told him that the admiral of the Eastern Fleet’s news was being carried along by hundreds of lesser channels. He also had that impatient, almost fevered Marcus-the-healer look. So the ships had brought more than just bad news.

“What is it, Benito? I need to get down to Fondamenta Zattere Ponto Lungo. There are some sick children. They have been very crowded on the Eastern Fleet vessels, with everyone trying to get out of Constantinople and Trebizond. They left some at Negroponte and at Corfu, but they were still crowded.”

Benito came straight to the point. “I need you and Brother Mascoli to take me down to the water chapel. Where you took me to meet the water-people.”

Marco nodded, quite as if he had expected this. Perhaps he had; who knew what the Lion whispered in his thoughts? “This evening? I really must go right now. I’d rather treat sick children immediately than let them scatter into the city and spread diseases around far and wide. Bring your daughter with you. Her godmother should see her.”

That, Benito had not expected. “I want to ask them for aid — again — in getting a fleet to Constantinople. Do you really think I should bring Alessia?”

Marco nodded. “It will do no harm to remind them of the bond between you.”

Benito pulled a face. “I don’t think they take very well to blackmail.”

But none-the-less he had her and Maria with him that evening when they made their way down to the consecrated water-chapel below the chapel of St. Raphaella. The undine Juliette and the triton Androcles came, as they waited. Benito saw the raised eyebrows of Juliette the undine, as she saw him holding Alessia “I see she has found her father. We’d heard about that.” Then she saw Maria, who had stayed back a little. She bowed with profound respect, disturbing the hair that cloaked her ample bare breasts. “I could wish we met again in better times, Lady of the Dead.”

*   *   *

Maria had wanted to properly thank the mer-woman who had stood in for Umberto’s sister at the christening of her daughter. She still had some of the canal-woman’s fear of the below-water dwellers, but her time as an acolyte of the Mother Goddess had broadened her perspectives a little.

But she still had not expected this non-human, so far away from little Corfu to know that much, or to call her by a title she did not really relish. “What? How –”

“He follows you,” said Juliette. “We can see. He longs for you, and for your strength. He comes. Soon.”

Maria felt the tears prick her eyelids, and fear gnaw at her belly. Fear of leaving her daughter. Fear of leaving the man she loved. Not fear for herself…but also fear because the last time she’d felt this sick she’d been pregnant. And she was just a little late. She hadn’t told Benito this small fact yet. He had enough to contend with.

She looked at Benito. He was studying the merpeople in a way that she’d learned meant he was looking for an angle to use with them. And plainly not finding it as easy as he usually did. “I need help,” he finally said.

A direct admission from Benito? He must be more worried than he’d let on.

The mer-folks’ eyes narrowed, but not with dislike, more in the manner of a shrewd merchant about to bargain. The triton spoke, “Not something we give easily or for no reason. Or for free, fire-spirit.”

Benito nodded. “I thought that would be the case. You remember the magical creature that tried to kill Marco. That attacked the ships.”

“Lamprey. Magical. Something we’d rather stay away from,” said Androcles, sinking back down into the water.

Benito spoke quickly, before he could move too far away. “I think more are coming. Or at least the monster’s master comes. He likes using the water for his servants.” That arrested the two merpeople, who had plainly been about to depart.

Now their eyes narrowed again, but with slow anger. Not for Benito but…yes. He had them. “What do you want?” Juliette asked.

 PART III

November, 1540 A.D.

 Chapter 20

Venice

 Benito had long since decided that he could deal with almost anything better than goodbyes. This one was far worse than any other. Yet there was no way he could leave without saying goodbye to Maria and Alessia. Life was too short and fragile and precious for that. He knew that the task ahead was fraught and that Maria would be going to Aidoneus’ shadowy kingdom soon. It was almost enough to make him put his daughter on the ship with him. But at least there was Marco here in Venice, and Katerina as well. Marco and the spirit of the lion of St. Mark. And although there were differences between the brothers, there was no-one Benito knew he could trust more, and a child would not be safe on the ship. Not where he was going. And she would be even less safe alone in Corfu. The time was coming.

The fleet was almost ready. The fast galleys that had sailed out of the gates of Hercules had returned and were in the final stages of refitting. Word was in from Genoa that their vessels were ready to sail within three weeks for the meeting at Corfu, along with the Aragonese. Little did they know that they would not be overwintering there. A winter expedition was madness…but such was the reputation that sailed with the fleets, that there was no shortage of madmen willing to gamble on the weather. The first relief had come to Corfu in winter despite the weather.

Benito had no intention of gambling. He had instead the intent of gathering some aid. Reluctant aid, maybe. But aid anyway. He went in search of Marco. He expected to find him in the Church of St. Raphaella, which was fine as it was where they needed to go. Instead he ran into him, smiling, on the stairs leading up to the Doge’s palace. “The fleet’s been sighted. The fleet from the Black Sea. Maybe there will be no need of all this.”

Marco always hoped to avoid war. Well, the part of Marco that was Marco-the-healer did. The part that was Marco-the-lion did not. Benito had decided, when he was still a boy, that if a fight was inevitable anyway, you might as well get over and done with, on your own terms. He doubted if the fleet’s return meant anything good. But there was no sense in dampening Marco’s hopes. He’d bet the news from the fleet would do that anyway.

And Benito was not disappointed; a wise man had once told him, “a pessimist is never unpleasantly surprised,” and when it came to war, he supposed he must be a pessimist. He was allowed — a rare and doubtful privilege — to sit quietly behind a screen in a discrete private salon in the Doge’s palace while the admiral of the Eastern Fleet reported to the Council of Ten.

“Monsignors, Doge Petro,” said the admiral. “We have two thirds-empty holds, and we have several vessels barely fit to sail. We abandoned two at the little Arsenal in Corfu — although we have brought home a few prizes from the attack we suffered. They’re not worth much, though. There’s trouble brewing, big trouble, with the eastern trade. Emperor Alexis demanded a high toll for our passage. Half our cargo, and the vessels were less than full anyway.”

“That’s a direct contravention of the treaty of Tarsus,” said one of the Council members. They were masked, as usual. But Benito had a good idea who it was by the voice and intonation.

“The Venetian ambassador, Signor Porchelli, made representation to the emperor. He was lucky to get away with his life, Monsignors. The emperor has gone completely mad, we think. He said he did not care. We could pay and go or stay and be sunk. He said that he has no need to fear Venice any more. Constantinople is restive and afraid. They prepare for war. The Venetian quarter is sealed off. Our people there fear a massacre.”

“They surely would not dare.”

The Eastern Fleet admiral shook his head. “I think the Byzantine generals are reluctant, Monsignors, but Alexis’s mercenaries…they see the prospect of rich loot. We paid and brought many of the women and children with us. Also some of the reserves of goods and gold our traders there held for their houses.”

Benito knew what that meant: very, very scared merchants. Without much gold, or stock, their ability to trade would be severely curtailed, and for a Venetian merchant house, death was almost preferable.

“The fleet is early, and you left Trebizond early. Without full holds, to judge by your statements.” That was Petro. Benito knew the voice too well to be mistaken.

“Yes Monsignors. We had little choice. The Venetian podesta there made the decision, and it was a wise one, as events proved.”

Peering from behind the screen in the dimly-lit room — the Council preferred it so to preserve their anonymity, which kept them from undue influence and of course, assassination — Benito could see the admiral of the Eastern Fleet tugging his beard nervously. The council did not like rash admirals. They liked over-cautious ones even less. Lemnossa was a wily old bird by all reports, but the Council could be judgmental and vindictive. And the Venetian Republic had lost money.

“We have had trouble in Trebizond, Monsignors. The Baitini have moved against the local satrap. So far the Ilkhan has done nothing.”

“Baitini?”

“A sect of the worshippers of Mahomet, considered by many of their co-religionists to be heretical. A dangerous sect the Ilkhan all but crushed nearly a century ago. They were the last major force to stand against the Mongol in Damascus and their other secretive great fortress, Alamut. They ruled by fear and assassination, rather than by overt power. They were the power behind the throne. They believe they have a special relationship with God.”

“Don’t all sects?” said someone.

“These are very fanatical, Monsignors. They were suppressed, but lately the Venetian merchants in Trebizond say that they have become more open in their extortion and murder. The city is in ferment. The Venetian quarter is an armed camp. Trade is severely curtailed, with caravans from Hind reported as going to other ports. A small fleet left early, as some do every year. They never returned.”

“What?”

“It appears they were attacked by another fleet, Monsignors. A fleet of galleys coming from Odessa, judging by sail-setting and their garb. Two sailors survived, clinging to some flotsam, and made their way overland, back to Trebizond. One of them was murdered, in the streets of Trebizond. The Baitini are working in concert with these raiders. They tried to kill both of the sailors, and it is only by the grace of God that one escaped the murderers to tell us his story. But even given that the man who survived was traumatized and just a common sailor, we knew that the size of the rover-fleet was substantial.”

“It appears that the duke of Genoa will have his pirate problem.”

“Yes, Monsignors. I had not got there yet, but seven vessels of the State of Genoa — well, we met them several day’s sail from the port of Sinope. They signaled us, and as we outnumbered them and outgunned them, we allowed a small boat to come across to us. They sought to join our fleet, seeking protection as fellow Christians from the pirate fleet that had barred their way. They had been driven out of Theodosia, and lost five vessels, and suffered considerable loss of life. We — out of Christian charity and to swell our numbers — allowed them to join our fleet. We encountered their attackers in some force a day out of Herculea. We were prepared and ready for the conflict, and they were…shall we say, unskilled, Monsignors. Bloodthirsty but unskilled. There were only some thirty galleys, and so with our allies we outnumbered them, and they were tricked into allowing us to fire broadsides at them. Their ships are merely equipped with bow and stern chasers, and they’re poor gunners. The long and the short it is we beat them off with some loss of life and damage on our part, but not a vessel lost. We sank seven of them, and captured four, although we scuttled one as she was in no state to be sailed at any speed.”

Kyrie let go of his shoulder now, and went to the shelves that were stacked with mustard pots.  She started turning them so they all faced the same way, and spoke as though to the mustard pots.  “I don’t think I like this,” she said.  “I don’t like the idea that there’s… other… that there are other people in there.”

“They’re not people.  More like… the information in people,” he said slowly, more sure as he went along and touched each file, without opening it, and yet getting from it a listing of contents.  “Like, what they learned.”

“Don’t care.  Where did this came from?  Who downloaded it?”

“I think,” Tom said slowly.  “I feel it was the Great Sky Dragon, only that’s not quite right.”

“Damn him.  First Bea, now this.”

“Well –”

“We’ll go and talk to him.  Are you going to be all right?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, making tentative movements, and taking a step towards Kyrie.  It all worked fine.  “I just… I think I was momentarily overloaded.  It was very hard not to shift.  I was afraid I’d eat Conan.  How is he doing, by the way?”

“What?”

“How is his show going?  I remember hearing clapping.”

“Oh, yes.  He can sing, Tom.  He really can.  They’re … people love it, and he’s lapping it up, even if he has the world’s worst taste in clothes.”

“We should go out there, Kyrie,” Tom said, feeling he had to do something normal, to act normal in some way or he was going to implode.  Inside him, the locked information was like a sore tooth that one tries to avoid touching with one’s tongue, but which one is aware of at all times.  “We should be selling stuff, and making sure the serving stuff isn’t overloaded.  I suppose Laura has left now, and she was never supposed to serve, anyway, which leaves Jason serving and Anthony manning the fryer.  He might forget to keep a close eye.  What if the fryer explodes?”

“You have a weird relationship with that fryer,” Kyrie said.

Tom grinned at her, and this time didn’t feel like he had to force it.  “I don’t like things that can destroy the diner if they blow up.”

“Like half the customers?”

“Well, that too, but then so can I.  I meant …”

“I know what you meant.”  Kyrie touched his arm tentatively.  “On the good side, you’re no longer burning.”

“No, I think that too was a function of the… download,” he said.  He opened the door to her and waited for her to step through.

She started to, but then turned around. Through the open door came the strains of “you are not alone,” in a powerful voice no one could believe could come from Conan’s unimpressive frame.  “Tom?  What was that you said?  When I touched you first?  Was it… what language was it.”

Tom had no idea what she was talking about, at first, but then remembered pronouncing words, words that made his throat hurt in pronouncing them.  He remembered their coming out of his mouth, though he didn’t remember forming them in his brain, and as he thought of them, his mind automatically zoomed in on one of the more deeply-buried files, the ones that his brain told him were oldest.

A touch brought up memories of a language that sounded like that, though he needed to make an effort to open the subfile for all the words he’d heard.  Words in a language whose sounds made his throat hurt with remembered injury poured out, their meaning felt rather than known as such.

He squinted against the stronger light coming from the hallway, against the sound of clapping out there.  He tried to concentrate on English, as the other language blurred and blended with it, the edges indistinct.

“It was…” He said.  “I am not… gon… no.  I am not dead.  I’m… covered? Hidden?  No.  Buried.  I am buried … beneath… the dragon.”

* * *

He cleaned up nice, Bea thought.  And on the heels of that was shocked at herself for letting her guard down.

There was something faintly scandalous about the whole situation, anyway.  She was in this cabin in the woods, isolated, with a man she had never met until a few hours ago, and he’d just come out of the shower, smelling of soap and shampoo.

He was wearing what looked like running shorts, very short and loose, and a tan t-shirt that had a picture of a big lion with “The Lion Sleeps IN Tonight.”  Her eyes widened a little at the words, remembering he shifted into a lion, and he followed her eyes, and had the grace to blush.  “My mom gave it to me,” he said.  “When I was twenty or so, because, you know, it’s what I wear on weekends, when I do sleep in.”

She nodded, but still felt uncomfortable.  Not because she felt they were too intimate, but because she didn’t feel shocked at their being so intimate.  There should be… more embarrassment, she thought, rather than just embarrassment at not being embarrassed.

With a shrug at her own foolishness, she said, “I found some steaks and stuff, but they’re all frozen.”

“We can defrost them,” he said.  “We have the technology!”  He opened a sliding door to display a wall-mounted microwave discretely hidden behind it.  “Mom just doesn’t like to give the impression that this is in the twenty first century, you know — but it doesn’t mean she wants to cook over an open fire.  Though we do that too, at times.  There’s a grill out back.”

“Yeah,” Bea said, blushing a little, and not sure why.  “Only, you know, I think steak is better if it is allowed to defrost properly right?”

“Right, and marinade,” Rafiel said.  “What else do we have?”

“Well, you have a bunch of frozen veggies.”

“Yeah, mom buys them in the summer, then deep freezes them for when we come up in winter, but the last winter was so bad we didn’t come up much.”  He opened the freezer drawer at the bottom of the freezer, and looked up at her.  “Do you eat chicken?”

“Sure.  I mean… doesn’t everyone?”

He shrugged.  “I’ll cook up a couple of chicken breasts, make a sherry sauce to disguise the defrosted-in-haste taste, and I think we have rice somewhere up there — would you look?”  He pointed at a cabinet and she looked, bringing out a package of brown rice.  He nodded.  “I’ll make us some stir-fried veggies to go with it.  Tomorrow we’ll go to the local market and grab fresh veggies.  It’s kind of a small market, for the communities up here, but it does have veggies, or it should by now, even if the selection will be more limited than in the city.”

While he talked, he stood up, and started the chicken defrosting, then got out the still-frozen vegetables: carrots and mushrooms and green beans.  He made a face.  “It won’t be the best thing I’ve ever cooked.”  His hair was damp from the shower and rather than standing up like a mane, curled around his ears and the back of his neck.  For some reason this made him look young.  It was very endearing.  He concentrated wholly on the cooking.

The spacious kitchen had a central isle, with the stove on it, and that was where he moved to work.  She pulled one of the barstools to it, and sat there, watching him work.

He looked up half-smiling at one point, “So, you don’t cook at all.”

She waggled a hand at him.  “Ramen.  I’m in college, remember?”

“Ah, yes.  So… your parents… do they have any idea where you are?”

She hesitated.  “I think they think I’m back in college. I tried to make sure… I didn’t expect to be gone this long.”  She hesitated again.  “But if I call them…”

“The Great Sky Bastard will track you down?  Likely.  He doesn’t seem to ever forget a grudge, does he?”

“No.”  She hesitated.  The whole idea of what had happened to her, the idea that she had in fact been dead for some unspecified period of time was unbearable.  She sighed.  “No.”

Rafiel stopped, as he dumped the vegetables from the cutting board onto the oil.  It was just a moment, after which he grabbed a wooden spatula and started working the spattering-still-frozen veggies around.  “I could call them.  My cell phone, I mean.  Whatever — I mean, I don’t think whatever it was… Whoever it was who attacked me has the type of capabilities that the Great Sky Dragon has.  I could call your parents and tell them you’re fine, and will get back in touch when –”

“No,” the word practically screamed itself.  She sighed.  “I’m sorry, but really, no.  You know, the thing is… I mean…  You’re a man.”

He laughed lightly as he turned the fire down.  “Noted.  And yeah, I can sort of see your point.”  He bit his lip.  “Tell you what… I have to call my mom anyway, or they’ll worry.”  He blushed a little, again looking much younger than his late twenties.  “I know it’s silly when I’m a grown man, but really, they will worry, so I tell you what…  I’ll call them and ask them to call your parents.  Would that work?”

“It might,” she said.  “The Great Sky Dragon might suspect I’m in Goldport, but he knows that anyway.  Yeah.  That might work.”

“All right,” Rafiel said.  “It’s a deal.”  But something in his eyes looked worried.

 Chapter 19

Constantinople

 The narrow waters of the Bosphorus had seemed like a refuge. The admiral of Eastern Fleet had relaxed when they had entered them, with the wooded bluffs seeming like shields.

Now, with the sunset red-hazed by the smoke hanging in the still sky above Constantinople’s walls, Lemnossa realised that it was no sanctuary. The great chain was being raised — you could hear the huge windlasses creak and rattle in the Megalos pyrgos in the Galata citadel even from here, a good mile away. It was, in these almost windstill evening conditions, too late to flee. They were trapped in the Golden Horn anchorage. It did not look good.

Normally the little oared lighters and schifos pulled out from the shore like flies as the fleet sailed in, toward the wharves below the Venetian quarter. Not this time. All that approached was a solitary Byzantine Empire fusta, which rowed to the admiral’s flagship. The officer who climbed up onto the Great Galley plainly had no love for Venice or the Venetians. His bow was a bob, so perfunctory as to border on an insult, and he certainly was not going to salute the admiral. “You are to provide us with your manifests. Charges to the value of half your cargo will be levied before your vessels are allowed to proceed.”

Admiral Lemnossa sighed. “What’s your name, son?”

“It’s of no concern to you. And I am no son of yours, old man. Those are orders from the emperor Alexis himself.”

“They’re also a direct breach of the Treaty of Tarsus that your emperor is signatory to. So, if they’re his orders you’d better bring us proof of it, signed and with the Byzantine Imperial seal, or when the Venetian fleet arrives your emperor is likely to offer fulsome apologies, offers of restitution and your head on a platter. And if you didn’t know that you’d have been happy to give me your name and style,” said the admiral, calmly.

The calmness jarred the young officer briefly, but his bombast and arrogance re-asserted themselves. “The emperor repudiates the terms of Tarsus. You have until sundown tomorrow to comply, or the cannon on the wall will be brought to bear on your vessels.”

*   *   *

Under the circumstances Lemnossa decided that they would be wisest to lie off, rather than come in to the quays. They were still under the guns of the city and of Galatea — just off the Venetian quarter, and the little quays in the bay they would normally have made for. A little later a small boat came over from the Genovese Fleet. Lemnossa took a look at the Genovese Captain Di Tharra, and held up a hand. “Wine first.” The captain’s face was the color of the purple-red of the wine from the vineyards of Masceron.

The captain tossed it off in a masterful fashion, and did look a fraction the better for it. He was plainly near incandescent, still.

“The testa di cazzo wants half our cargo. Half! He said as we sailed in here with Venetians, we could be treated like them.” He looked enquiringly at his host. “I assume…?”

“Yes,” said Lemnossa.

“So what are you going to do?” asked Di Tharra.

Lemnossa ground his teeth. “Pay, I expect. I do not expect my crews or my officers are going to be very happy to do so. But we’re not in the best of positions to refuse. We’ll need guarantees, though.” He jerked a thumb at the walls of Constantinople. “Alexis must need the money desperately or he’d have tried sinking the fleet anyway. We’re trapped and while we could inflict quite some damage it’s obvious we’re not equipped for war but for trade. That won’t be the same next time we come to Constantinople. He must know these vessels will be turned against him, and that this must mean war.”

The captain nodded. “The duke of Genoa is going to be, shall we say, spitting hellfire. We negotiated a trade-treaty with the emperor Alexis only last year!”

“He may have acquired other allies since then,” said Admiral Lemnossa, thinking that the pieces fitted all too obviously and well. He just had to hope the Ilkhan Mongols were not part of the scheme.

The Genoese captain snorted. “Alexis? They must have a rare taste for incompetence and treachery.”

Lemnossa nodded. “They will pay him back in kind, at least with the treachery, of course. But Alexis has never been able to see that far into the future. Today is far enough for him.”

“Which brings us to what we do tomorrow, M’Lord. We cannot stand off against the fortress on our own. And if we do somehow break through the chain, we still have the Hellespont.”

“So we will pay up. Alexis is correct on this one. More and we might have baulked and taken our chances. We can try to negotiate. of course.”

They sat and talked, trying to find an alternative and not succeeding. Night fell and a seaman came to interrupt them. “Admiral, there is a man to see you. He’s just come from the Venetian quarter with a message from the ambassador, he says.”

Admiral Lemnossa looked at his Genoese guest. Shrugged. They were in trouble together. “Bring him up.”

“I could leave, M’lord.”

“I’d probably just have to get someone to row me over to your vessel to tell you about it.”

The man who came up was a fairly hard looking fellow, who walked like a sailor, not like the messenger of an ambassador. He handed over a sealed parchment. “Had to come down the wall on a rope, M’lord. Signor Porchelli is bit old for it.”

“Can we take a few hundred men back that way and go and hang the emperor in his own throne-room?” asked the Genoese captain.

The messenger did not take it as a jest. “No, M’lord. We had to bribe the guards on the wall to let me get up there. There are some schifos tied alongside the quays and I took a small one, muffled the oars, and rowed out here. The Venetian quarter is sealed off. Guards on the outside, barricades in the streets. We’re expecting trouble. It’s been building up for a while. The emperor blamed it on the demoi — the street-gangs. The blues, the reds and greens…but it’s more than that. We were told the guards were for our safety, but they don’t stop them. It’s us they’re guarding, stopping people defending themselves and stopping us escaping, or at least escaping with any of our goods.”

“Do you mind if I read this, Captain?” asked Lemnossa, cracking the seal.

“Of course not, Admiral.”

Lemnossa reflected that a few cannonballs and pirates, and the emperor Alexis had done more for Venetian-Genovese relations than a hundred years of diplomacy had. The letter was brief and to the point: the Venetian merchants in the city had suffered depredations and violence, and if reliable informants were to be believed, crippling taxation was about to be enforced on them. As the Venetian quarter was Venetian territory, that was not something that it had been subject to before: a fact that embittered a series of emperors. The ambassador had approached the emperor on hearing that the fleet was in the Bosphorus, as to opening the wall-gates to allow normal trade. He had been lucky to escape with his life. The fleet must proceed without delay to Venice and lay these matters before the Senate and the Doge. The city lacked as adequate a defense as it might have, as there was a revolt underway in the Opiskon theme, the region that faced onto the Hellespont. Once the ships had passed Constantinople, they were unlikely to be interfered with.

Only they were on the wrong side of the chain. Lemnossa sucked breath through his teeth. There had to be a way of salvaging as much as possible from this wreck. “I think,” he said slowly, “we’ll need some leads-men on the bow. We need to move these vessels deeper into the Golden Horn. Then they can’t bring cannon bear on us from both sides, and, if we fire back, we won’t hit the Venetian quarter.” He looked at his companion. “Or the Genoese. It is closer to the chain, anyway.”

“The Genoese are in big trouble,” volunteered the messenger with some satisfaction. “They tried to protest about the control of their gate. Alexis had five of their leading merchants crucified.”

Captain di Tharra of Genoa stood up. “I thought it might just be pique, that we’d sailed in company and could not be turned against each other. But it goes deeper than that, M’lord. I’ll move our vessels with yours, although we lack the sweeps to move them easily.”

“We’ll see to taking lines across. Your round ships are good for defense, with those castles of theirs. We’ll get ourselves into as good a negotiating position as possible. Make co-operation contingent on access to our people.” He grimaced. “It’s likely that Alexis plans a wholesale looting of both Venetian and Genoese storehouses and assets, given his actions here. If we negotiate wisely we can let him believe we plan to replenish those. He’s mad enough to think he can get away with robbing us there too. If we play it right, we can do the opposite. It’ll not help our crews and our investors, but my Senate and your duke should be grateful. And we’d be no worse off for doing it.”

“You’re a master strategist, Admiral,” said the senior captain respectfully.

“I wish I was. We would not be here if that was the case. Now let us use the night-hours.”

*   *   *

The morning found the fleet lying at anchor nearly a mile further up the great Golden Horn, anchored bow and stern to offer their narrowest, strongest profile to the seawall and effectively out of range of the cannon on Galatea. The Byzantines could hardly have been unaware of it, but had taken no action. The day was well advanced before a Byzantine fusta came out to the fleet.

It was a very different officer aboard her. He saluted respectfully and delivered his message. “My Lord Admiral. My commander, the Megadoux Laskaris wishes to know why you have assumed formations as if for war. You are to proceed to the usual wharves given to the Venetian trade offload, or we will be obliged to take action against you.”

Lemnossa laughed softly. “Oh no, young man. I’m not one to stick his head twice into the same noose. Yes, we’re trapped in your harbor — but that does mean that those masts over there, which are your fleet, are trapped in here with us. And no other vessels to trade or aid are able to come in. The Sea of Marmara coast has currents bad enough to make it a risky landing place, and risk is expense. Now, let us negotiate in good faith. I am reluctant — but willing — to agree to a slightly elevated duty to the value of some small part of our cargo, as the expense of putting down the uprising in Opiskon must be considerable and would endanger us too. There are merchants in Constantinople hungry for our goods. Your Emperor can extract some tariffs from them.”

The officer swallowed. “Ah. Let me carry word of this to my seniors. How did you know about Opiskon?”

The admiral shrugged. It did no harm to sew a bit of disinformation, and perhaps a lieutenant would learn that good manners had value. “Shall we say that I was informed. You think just who I have seen since we entered the Golden Horn.” He waved a hand about. “A naval encounter here in such closed quarters would be messy. Merely a hand-to-hand melee. We’re carrying extra crew as we’ve had pirate trouble. We sank quite a number of their vessels.”

*   *   *

Before the trouble started, Antimo Bartelozzi had moved himself quietly out of the Venetian quarter, into the rundown trading district that had once been granted to the duchy of Amalfi, and was now more or less the whores’ quarter. In a city with such a heavy dependence on mercenaries and the emperor’s two remaining tagmata, it was going to remain the part of town with the freest access. Yes, he might be mistaken for a pimp, but it was better than what he saw coming to the foreign trading quarters. He’d be leaving shortly. He’d hoped to buy a passage on a vessel of the Venetian Eastern Fleet, but if his information was correct, they’d be lucky to sail out of the Golden Horn, let alone be allowed contact with the Venetian quarter.

He knew that the fleet had come in, and at first light had quietly made his way up the third hill to a building with a suitable flat roof. He’d secured the use of it some four months before, and had done considerable mapping from up there. And from here he could see that the Venetians — and by the shape of the vessels — some Genoese ships, had not played the game according to the plans of the Byzantines.

That was good, but he would still make his way overland to a small port further west. Possibly Aenus — a small place far enough away to avoid any shred of suspicion or close examination of the baggage of maps and information he had to transport. He wanted to look at its defenses anyway, although a land-battle across Byzantium was probably a less-than-wise strategy as a way to capture Constantinople.

He went back down the narrow stairs to gather more word from the streets. They got it wrong, as often as not. But put together with the diverse facts at his disposal Antimo could make an educated guess.

He was unaware that he was being watched. That should have been of concern to him. But then Hekate had means denied to Alexius’s spy-catchers. She had understood how he knew she was watching him at their first encounter, and taken steps to counter his powers. She was, after all, a goddess.

*   *   *

It took three days to hammer out a deal, and a great deal of shuttling to-and-fro. But Alexius got less than he’d hoped for, and Admiral Lemnossa got exactly what he hadn’t wanted, but had expected: more refugees. And the relief of putting Constantinople behind him.

It did nothing for the fury of the ship’s crews though. Every man on every vessel had lost money. They’d inevitably clubbed together with their friends and relations to buy a share in one of the colleganzas. Inevitably too, they’d dreamed of the best possible profit — most of which had just disappeared into Alexius’s coffers. And now all they wanted was some of that loss back out of his hide. That played along with the worry and anger of the refugees, who were mostly only going as far as Negroponte, as the next safe Venetian outpost. When the admiral considered how overloaded the ships were with humans and stock from Constantinople, he was glad to be offloading some of this lot there.

The lightening of his vessels could not come soon enough.

Chapter 13

Her first thought was that Tom had had a stroke.  That was the only explanation she could summon for the way he stood there, barely moving, his face looking like he was concentrating for all he was worth.  But concentrating on what?

“Tom?” she said, hesitantly, then again, more strongly, “Tom!”

He didn’t move.  He didn’t look up.   His hand sort of trembled upwards, then trembled downwards again.  It was not a movement she’d ever seen from him, nor one she ever expected to see.  She took a deep breath and tried to think of what to do.

She knew what she would have done if this were anyone else, anyone but one of the people she knew who shifted shapes.  If this had been just some anonymous person off the street, one who didn’t smell like a shifter; if someone in the diner had started behaving like this, shaking a little from position to position, but neither reacting to voice nor looking up, nor… moving normally, she would have called an ambulance immediately.

But for shifters medical services must always be a risk, a careful balance between pain and control.  If you were in pain or scared, you were likely to change shapes and then where would you be?

Tom’s dragon wouldn’t even fit in an ambulance.  And being squeezed inside a small space would only make him crazier and more unable to shift back to human — she knew this from when he’d accidentally shifted in their tiny bathroom.

And then there were all sorts of other things.  They hadn’t fully determined, yet, what certain medications did to them.  They were okay with aspirin, and Tom’s drug use seemed to have left him addicted only in a way that could be kicked rather quickly: after all with their healing capacity, it would.

But who knew what the stronger sedatives might do? It could knock out the upper brain, while leaving the animal-shifter to rampage happily through the hospital wards.

In Kyrie’s mind, headlines proclaiming that a dragon shifter had decimated the patients and medical personnel of Memorial hospital ran in stark black on white.  Only let that happen once, particularly with an animal that no one could imagine had simply wandered in from outside, and next thing you knew the authorities would be hunting shifters.  And, given all the legends of shifters throughout the centuries, the hunt wouldn’t end well.

No.  She had to figure out how to deal with this without the hospital.  Tom had come back from the dead once.  Surely even recovering from a stroke wouldn’t be impossible.  She had to keep him stable and quiet till then, was all.

She walked into the room, closing the door behind her, cutting off the sound of applause as Conan finished his song.  She walked in a measured and slow way because even she truly had no interest in facing an upset dragon.  “Tom,” she said.  She put a hand on his shoulder, shocked to find it burning hot, as though he were running a fever.  “I know that you’re not feeling well, but I don’t know what’s wrong.  I want to help.”

He moved his other hand fast, too fast, if looked to her like the sudden movement of a lizard when aroused.  But all his hand did was clasp over hers, squeezing it a little.   It felt like her hand was caught between two hot plates, but she didn’t protest.

Tom raised his head, slowly and looked at her.

She heard herself make a strangled sound of protest, even as her heart sped up in an explosion of panic.  She would have stepped back if she could, but she couldn’t with her hand caught between his hand and shoulder.

His eyes looked… like Tom’s eyes and perfectly normal.  And also not.  They were the same shape and color they usually were, the enamel-blue that made such a contrast with his dark hair.  But there was something to them that made them different – so different that it was like looking into the eyes of a stranger.

Had Kyrie been asked, she couldn’t have explained what the difference was, except that… the eyes looked old.  It was as though looking into them could lead one to see into the vanishing centuries, into the millennia without end.

They weren’t really Tom’s eyes, unless they were Tom’s eyes in a couple thousand years after he had, several times, outlived the world he was born into and the friends of his youth.

He nodded slightly at her, almost formally, as if to tell her he understood her fear.  He removed his hand from atop hers.  She didn’t move, because she didn’t want to run away from Tom.  And if she took a step back, it would turn into a rout.

His mouth opened.  His tongue licked at his lips as though they were too dry, which they probably were, considering how hot he was.  And then he spoke.

The words that came out … if they were words, if he was not just croaking, sounded alien.  They didn’t have the sound of any western language, or the sound of any Asian language she’d ever heard.

Perhaps the stroke, or whatever it was had affected his speech center, but those sounds felt like words, even if words she couldn’t possibly know.

“Tom, I don’t understand,” Kyrie said.

* * *

It was Kyrie’s touch that woke Tom.  Though perhaps waking was not the right word.  He knew he’d been awake, aware, the whole time.  Perhaps more aware than he’d ever been before.

But at Kyrie’s touch, the infinity of awareness, the broad vistas of being everywhere and everywhen at once changed.  He was Tom Ormson, and he was in the storage room of the George.

It felt as though he’d been spread, amoeba-like over the entire world, a nebulous cloud of Tom permeating everything and not at all very present in the body to which Tom should belong.

At Kyrie’s touch, at her cool hand on his shoulder, the nearness of her, her presence, the cloud of Tom’s consciousness pulled in, concentrated, occupied once more the contours of his familiar body, and he was Tom Ormson, in his own head, staring out of his own eyes.

A nagging feeling informed him that he was also something else.  There was someone else at the back of his head, some sort of entity.  Not the Great Sky Dragon, but … but the essence of everything The Great Sky Dragon was supposed to be.

“I –” He looked at Kyrie and managed a smile, though it took so much effort he wondered how natural it looked.  “I’m all right, Kyrie.”

She raised eyebrows at him.  He could smell her fear, but she remained standing right by him, her hand on his shoulder, and her eyes showed only concern for him.  “Are you sure?”

He patted her hand now, gently.  “I think so.  I…  Something happened to me –”

“A stroke?”

He frowned.  Was that what it was?  He’d heard of people who had strokes that made them think half of their bodies wasn’t even theirs. But he’d never heard of anyone who had a stroke and suddenly thought he had more than one body, or that his being occupied the space of several bodies, all over the world.  “No,” he said, speaking slowly.  “I don’t think that’s what it is.”  He probed tentatively at whatever it was in his mind, that other entity residing… behind his skull, looking out through his eyes.  Was this how schizophrenics felt?  But no.  When he looked at it, tried to make sense of it, it wasn’t like another person or another personality.  It was more like…  He frowned.  How odd.  “It’s like a file catalogue,” he told Kyrie.  “Sorry.  I know that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s like someone downloaded a lot of compressed files onto the back of my mind.”

“Compressed?” she asked.

“Yes.  I can’t… I have to think of each of them in turn to see what is inside, and I suspect it would take an effort of will to open one fully.  One of them seems to have pictures… very old pictures and… information about dragons.  I –”

“A human being is not a computer!” Kyrie protested.  “People can’t get stuff downloaded into them.”

“Yes, but are we people?”

“Of course we’re people.  What else would we be?”

Tom had thought he knew, now he wasn’t so sure.  There was an unsteadiness beneath his certainty about the world.  He felt as though if he moved a foot wrong, he’d find there was nothing beneath it, and —  what he thought of as himself — would fall through the solid contours of what he thought of as the world, and be lost in some sort of formless limbo beneath retrieving.  “Yes.  And if you’re going to say that if you cut us we bleed, I’ll agree we’re human so long as humans are considered to be sentient beings with at least theoretical control of their own actions.  But that’s not what I’m asking Kyrie.  Not philosophy, but physics, biology… what we are, the things we are.  As beings we can turn into other forms, and people — at least normal people — can’t.  So perhaps we can get things downloaded into us too.  How would I know?”

She was searching his face with anxious eyes.  ”What if all the … the files open?  Will you be someone else?”

Tom probed the vast mass of information hiding somewhere in the recesses of his mind.  “Kyrie, I don’t think I have enough space for all of them to open.  I don’t think it would be possible.  It feels like just one file has … as much … as much in it as the rest of me: a lifetime, a full personality.”

They went back to Marco’s attempts at reading, and, when that was done, Marco asked about something else that had been troubling him. He knew, by now, that Francisco had been a slave of the Barbary pirates for a time, and that was where he had acquired his linguistic skills and some of his medical knowledge. It was an area from which black Lotos was still smuggled into the lands to the north. And not two days ago he’d been called to help with a woman deep in the hallucinations the drug could cause.

“Black lotos…did you ever have to treat anyone with addiction to it?”

“No. I have seen a few, over in Icosium,” said Francisco. “Until I started teaching I spent my time with mercenary companies, M’lord. There are drunks, in mercenary companies, but not many with such expensive tastes. That’s for the nobility. And a mercenary company doesn’t keep such men, anyway. Drink is one thing, but black lotos? Makes a man useless for fighting. I know of no drug that would stop men craving drink, and I doubt if there is one that’ll stop them craving lotos. Only desiring to do so more than desiring the drug can do that. And that, m’lord, is a truly powerful desire.” He rubbed his nose. “Mind you, we did have a bombardier once. The drink was the death of him in the end…but the condottiere needed him in the siege. He was a genius with cannon and a fool with burned-wine. We kept him going by giving him just enough. While he was in that state you’d hardly know he was enslaved to the stuff…except he’d do anything to get more.”

Marco sighed. “I was hoping there’d be something in the Arabic medicine books.”

“There is no easy way out of it, M’lord,” said Francisco sympathetically. Clearly he wondered why Marco was asking — and clearly, he was not going to ask.

“I’ve heard the ink cap — you know, the mushroom, can make a man dislike alcohol, or rather alcohol dislike the man.” Marco offered that in hopes that it might trigger a similar memory.

Francisco chuckled a little. “Ah. Tippler’s bane. Makes them feel as if they had the hangover to end all hangovers. But I’ve no knowledge of it working on anything else.” He shook his head. “And it doesn’t stop a man wanting to drink, just stops him from keeping it down. When it comes to a man’s addictions, m’lord, whether it be drink or gold, there is never an easy answer.”

*   *   *

Maria watched how tenderly Kat held Alessia. The tentativeness had gone now, and there was…almost a hunger in the way she looked at the child. She didn’t want to ask — but really, she didn’t need to. She’d seen the same hunger in other would-be mothers coming to worship at the shrine of the mother. The difficult part would be talking about it. Not that Kat wouldn’t want to talk; Maria knew that, she could feel it — perhaps yet another gift of the Mother, that she could tell these things now. Just…the problem was, how to start.

At least she could be sure Katerina would give Alessia real love, not in the Casa Vecchi style of handing the child over to a nurse to care for. So when she went to the Underworld, as she must, her baby would not just be in good hands, but in the best. A little of her ever-present anxiety eased. Kat would be as much a mother to Alessia as if Maria herself was there. Kat would keep her safe.

Besides, no one could ever imagine Marco Valdosta mistreating a child; the very opposite, in fact. To judge by their first few days in Venice, Alessia was going to be a thoroughly spoiled little girl, pampered by everyone from Milord Lodovico to the lowest chambermaid. Marco was already talking about hiring some extra servants. Some people of real quality, he’d said. Well, she’d have to meet them first. If there was time…She knew Aidoneus would find her anywhere. There was no point in running away. Anyway, that was her bargain, and she’d stand by it.

Marco came in, fresh from his language lesson with what Maria guessed to be an ex-soldier, who was apparently teaching him to read Arabic script. The idea of learning to read not only another language, but other letters made Maria’s head hurt. Her grasp of the ordinary alphabet, which started late, had been hard enough, although it had grown easier with practice, to the point where it was no longer an effort to read Kat’s letters, even it was still a labor replying to them. His arrival did put the damper on speaking to Kat about fertility…and the mother-goddess. Men were entirely too sensitive about these things. Or squeamish. Besides, he might take it all too personally. Most men would be inclined to blame their wives; Marco would be inclined to blame himself.

“Francisco has persuaded me I have to do more exercise,” said Marco cheerfully, picking up Alessia. “I am getting fat.”

“You are not!” said Kat, flying to his defense. “You were too thin before.”

Privately, Maria agreed with both of them. Marco had been too thin, back in the old bad days, but now…the good life was perhaps a bit too good. He was getting soft.

Not like Benito. Benito was and would always be a restless soul, who found it difficult to sit still and who enjoyed fencing with his arms-master, or chasing game on foot in the rugged folds around Pantocrator when he could get away from his desk. And he’d throw himself into doing anything physical. Marco wasn’t like that, which probably made him more peaceful to sleep next to, but also was likely to turn him into one of those round little scholars with white hands like a woman.

Marco wagged his head at his wife. “No, I think he is right. And I’ve made up my mind I have to do something. For…reasons. Anyway, my problem is just what to do. Even taking a walk is impossible. People want to talk to me. The agents of the Council of Ten surround me. We both know I am a disaster at poling a boat. Dancing…no. And I really do not enjoy fencing. What do you suggest?”

“We could go over to the old villa on the mainland and you could ride. We could both ride, together.” Kat actually sounded as if, now that idea had been broached, she thought she might enjoy that.

“Isn’t that the horse getting the exercise?” asked Marco with a smile.

“No,” said Benito from the doorway. “Trust me on this one, brother. I would rather spend all day climbing ratlines, than spend an hour in the saddle. Or in my case, on and off the saddle. Perdition! A horse is a thing created by the devil, I swear.”

“Benito! Have you finished with the admiral?” said Maria, running to him.

Benito grinned evilly, hugging her. “I think I have nearly finished him off, yes. So I decided to spend some time with my wife and baby, while I still could. If I can ever get either of them away from my brother and his wife.”