Chapter Two:
A Flock of Black Eagles
click here to review the last paragraphs of Chapter One
"And who are you?" returned Antonio, roughening his voice to hide the tremor. He neither lowered his hand nor extinguished the balefire upon it.
The apparition said nothing. Only the darkness swathed around it moved, creeping along the ground toward the two Tremere, throwing out tiny strands like cats' paws.
"In any case, we're not violating anything. We stand upon the Prince's road and are under his express protection. Be sure to let your master know that!"
The rider's mount snorted impatiently at these words. Etienne let his little will-o'-the-wisp sail down toward the curling shadows; it and they recoiled from each other and then settled into a kind of detente, though it seemed doubtful that even magical light could withstand that black flood for long.
"He knows," was the rider's reply. "But know you this, as well: he will not suffer a second pair of spies so generously as the first."
"Generously!" Antonio exclaimed. "You call that generously!"
"Half a moment. What spies?" Etienne broke in. "Are you saying that others of us have actually trespassed your border? Speak on —"
"You dare to pretend innocence!" The uncanny voice rose. A wave of menace pulsed out with it, a gelatinous cold that touched flesh and spirit both. Etienne had to comfort his horse again, running his hand over its nose so it could smell the power of his blood just within — the implied reward for bravery. His own reward was far more dubious. He could only tell himself that the ghostly figure would have attacked by now were that truly the intent.
The destrier reared up now, and the horseman's sword swung high overhead. "If you prize your moth-eaten hides, you will leave now and keep to the Prince's road. I will be watching you for every step you take along the Lord's border, and the moment you so much as whisper toward it..."
The blade turned gracefully in his hand, the pommel now facing his thumb, and with one near-instantaneous thrust it impaled the chest of the lowest-hanging corpse, sending it spinning in a wide, erratic circle. The horseman watched for a moment to be sure his meaning had struck home (indeed, Etienne could not help noticing that the blow had landed exactly where the dead man's rotting heart would lay); then a little tendril emerged from the mass of clouding gloom and deftly plucked the sword back, carrying it through midair back to the horseman's waiting hand.
He gathered his reins and barked an inarticulate command to his warhorse, springing back into the woods that had borne him. A few seconds later he could no more be heard than seen.
Hans and Vittorio at once set to whispering, peering vainly into the trees. Antonio dismissed his spell with a shake of fingers. Etienne called his globe of light back to float alongside his horse's left shoulder.
"Well, there's one good thing," the Frenchman said at last.
"There is?" Antonio gave him a sour glance.
"Yes. Two good things, actually. First, we may as well carry a light now. Second, we may as well go back and stay at a real inn."
La Villa Domenici, VII Id. Apr.
(April 7)
"She was not lying." The girl tried to keep her voice low, but her anger came out in the consonants, staccato hammer-strokes punctuating the overall murmur. "You, you are the one who lies when it suits you."
"But I never talk to Agnella," the fair-haired boy protested. "I never even see her, we don't even work in the same part of the house anymore."
"Nanna saw you with her, you little barbarian!"
"Careful!" He raised a hand as though to cover her mouth, then dropped it in exasperation. "Nanna is an old fat fool who never has anything nice to say to you. You know she only likes to make you cry."
"She said she saw you together after supper yesterday, in the herb garden. Are they both lying now, is it some kind of kitchen conspiracy against you?"
"Can't anyone ever mind their own business?"
"Then it is true!" she cried in bitter triumph.
"No, it's not true! — Not in that way. She asked me to carry some sacks of meal for her, so I carried them. Nanna asked too. We didn't talk and I never touched her."
"Touch her? You said you couldn't bear to be around her, ever again!"
"I can't!"
He was managing himself well for a complete novice, Etienne thought. Just the right mix of outrage and bewilderment. Next he should complain about his old lover's many faults and how hateful even this brief contact had been, and then it would be time to turn amorous. The two were a good way away from Etienne's vantage point, across the courtyard and hidden in shadow, but his vampire senses caught all the nuances. Her breast jumped with quick, shallow breaths, and her cheeks were flushed. The lad seemed agitated too; his sweat and arousal could just be discerned among the numerous scents wafting up. He liked her to be jealous, poor girl.
"So help me God, I just wanted to slap her for her wicked gall," the boy went on. "I would have, if we'd been alone. But what could I do? It was no great favor to ask, and Nanna would have thrown a fit otherwise. — I should have known they'd try to hurt you with it later…"
"The bitches!" she muttered. Then a new thought came to her, and relief dawned on her childish face. "But of course, this is exactly what she would want, for us to quarrel. She thinks she can steal you back if we quarrel!"
"If you want me to, cara, next time I'll spit in her face. I don't care. Let the Signor dismiss me."
"Hush now, don't talk nonsense..."
Admirable. What a gift, to be so young and adored by women, and clever to boot. Etienne's own best years had been wasted among the friars, in a world where nubile girls were, ironically, in shorter supply than catamites. Upon joining the secular priesthood, he had caught up as best he could, but his chance at this exact sort of hair-pulling and tear-spouting had already long since run out.
Their bodies, each a minor miracle of vigor to undead eyes, merged now with a swift ease that belied the wrath of a moment before. Engulfing arms clung to both backs. Even their souls' fragile colors blended at the edges, like patches of stained-glass light on a cathedral floor. It seemed that ill-chosen love was as beautiful as any other kind in its moment of ripeness. Better to look rather than listen, of course, since their only utterances were stupid futile things like "I don't ever want us to fight again" and "I'd rather die than hurt you" — all the same, their voices, hoarse with passion and secrecy, carried some nameless vow that had the power to move their silent observer without convincing him.
Etienne promised himself he would have her blood before the night was out.
"Etienne? What are you looking at? I thought I told you to come along up." Antonio's voice, too, at least seemed innocent. Etienne turned around hastily, blocking his brother's view.
"Just getting an idea of the rest of the villa. Vi chiedo perdono."
"Signor Domenici has offered a full tour, if we like. Signore, my brother Etienne." Antonio gestured to the gentleman beside him, a pot-bellied fellow in a turcha robe and cap who was plainly unaccustomed to being up so late, unless the puffiness of his eyes betrayed some other vice. The Signore bowed arthritically.
"My lord. An honor, my lord. A signal honor."
Etienne bowed in return. "Signore. Our most earnest thanks for your gracious hospitality."
"Not at all, my lord. Such poor offerings as I can make…"
"Are greatly appreciated, of course," Antonio finished, not unkindly; no doubt he had already been treated to the unabridged version of the proprieties.
"We should start with the room Alexander stayed in, shouldn't we?" prompted Etienne.
"That's my room." Antonio nodded. "There doesn't seem to have been anything left behind in it, though, or at least the Signore knows nothing of such."
"My people are good people," Domenici put in, either too polite or too tired to take offense. "If they'd found something, they would have told me."
"Naturally. All the same, we should speak to them, gather whatever small details they might remember of his visit," said Etienne. Then he glanced at his brother, the unspoken addendum passing between them: As well as any they don't remember.
"Of course." Domenici beckoned them back toward the stairs. "Come. You shall have all you require."
"What did happen with our brother?" Etienne asked as he followed along. Servants were still carrying things into Antonio's bedroom. Both he and Etienne only had two small chests of clothes each, as well as a couple of larger ones stuffed with books and implements; but there had to be fresh linens for the bed, a flagon of brandy (or what looked like brandy through the colored glass, at any rate), and — Etienne noted with dismay — a vase of flowers fresh-cut from the garden. He gave the latter a wide berth and glanced again at Antonio, who motioned for the vase to be set upon an inlaid cassone, a good distance from writing-desk and bed. Hopefully they would do likewise in Etienne's own room.
"Well," said Domenici, "as I was just relating, my lord Alexander arrived on the night after St. Gregory's feast, a few hours before dawn, and put to me several questions about my lord Master Taliesin — much the same kind that you're asking now; and then he sought his rest. The next evening, he called for his horse to be saddled by the time he was dressed. A letter came for him, you see, and he plainly thought there was some urgent matter, but he would not say what."
"Nearly the ides of March," Etienne remarked dryly. "Perhaps he wasn't so wise to call further imperial honors upon himself by taking the sobriquet Marcus Aurelius."
"Don't be comical. Why don't you expend your wit on listening to the account of the letter?" Antonio snapped.
"I await it with all eagerness, brother."
Domenici peered at them both, as though not quite satisfied that the argument was over. "Yes. Hrm, the letter. My lord Alexander took it with him, of course, but I've sent for Michele, who got it from the courier. He can't read much more than his own name, stout fellow. However, he's described the thing to me. It was one page, sealed with black wax which bore the device of an eagle."
"An eagle..." said Antonio thoughtfully.
"House dell' Aquila," Etienne agreed. "In black wax, that would suit a people of shadow, would it not?" He turned to Domenici. "Did the courier wear livery, or...?"
"I'm told not, my lord. He was probably just a man for hire. He only said that the message was very important and must be given to Messer Alexander as soon as possible."
"Messer Alexander." Etienne noted the etiquette. For Domenici, long bound in blood to Tremere service, even an apprentice like Alexander was due a lord's reverence — but that was unlikely to be the universal opinion. Messere, then: the letter had come from someone who credited Alexander with learning, or possibly a certain social station, but no real nobility.
"Yes, Messere was what was granted him, my lord."
"And the letter, did it come during the day or in the evening?"
Domenici did not answer at first. He had become absorbed in watching Antonio, who now wandered from here to there, briefly touching various objects and closing his eyes as he did so: the bedpost, the old bed linens, the open and empty cassone at the bed's foot, the two gilt-spangled devotional paintings and the far larger and mustier tapestry hanging.
"Scusi, Signore," said Etienne in a slightly more pointed tone.
"Eh? Ah, forgive me, my lord. Er...during the day. I was from home at the time."
"I see. And was the letter labeled, and in what sort of hand?"
"I regret I have not asked, my lord." Domenici frowned anxiously. "I simply presumed it bore my lord Alexander's name...I am sure Michele will tell you what he can, poor simple man."
"Then I shall be happy to take up the further details with him," Etienne reassured him.
"And I'm sure he'll be happy to tell you precisely whether the hand was a bastarda or a rotunda, and whether it was likely from a secretary or not, and whether the writer studied in Bologna or Paris," Antonio commented, thereby proving that he was still at least that much in contact with the world around him — although he looked as unearthly as a Byzantine icon, draped in his plain scholar's robes of mulberry velvet, his pale delicate hands extended as he drifted quietly through the room.
Etienne snorted. He was hardly going to apologize for his love of calligraphy here, in a situation where it might have been of real use. Antonio soon finished his arcane examinations, then swept the three of them out of the bedroom with a gesture in order to continue the "tour"; not that the Signore had much chance to brag about his house's appointments, since the two vampires kept questioning him with all the unholy tirelessness of their condition.
"No, my lord. I had no idea until then," Domenici was saying a little while later. "My lord Master Taliesin came and departed in exactly the same fashion as he always has, and spoke very little of his business, which again has always been the rule with his lordship. He was kind enough to, hrm, provide me with a modest dose of the elixir, but other than that he did not call for me. Touching that subject —"
"Yes, yes," Antonio broke in. "You shall be provided for as always. The House and Clan's generosity to its acolytes is as constant as their faithful obedience. You know that."
Etienne hoped his brother had remembered to bring along the obscure herbs that, mixed with wine, both gave the Tremere 'elixir' its distinctive taste and disguised the nature of its primary ingredient. But it would not be like Antonio to forget such a thing. No doubt he had laid in a plentiful supply.
"I have never doubted it, my lord. Never. I look to the House and Clan as a child to its father." Domenici suddenly went down upon one knee with more energy than one would have thought possible, seeking to catch Antonio's hand.
It was one thing to chuckle at a dog begging for a rind of gristle or a clerk groveling for a benefice. It was another matter to watch an aging gentleman in brocade behave so to Antonio. "Have you received any other magi lately?" Etienne asked hastily.
Domenici looked up, blinking. Antonio actually seemed grateful for the rescue. "Yes. Besides Master Taliesin and Alexander, has anyone else of the House and Clan passed through these parts?"
"No, indeed, my lords." After a moment Domenici became aware of his abandoned dignity and got up. "Other magi?"
"Or even the servants of such."
"No, my lord. It is rare indeed for other magi to visit my house...we have not been so honored in over a decade."
That settled that matter, or practically did. Traveling magi rarely missed an opportunity to avail themselves of Clan hospitality; safe havens were far too scarce, especially in Italy. In all likelihood, then, the 'spies' the black horseman had spoken of were indeed Taliesin and Alexander, no one else.
And yet Alexander had had express orders to go no further than Domenici's. This letter that had caused him to disobey so rashly — was it a lure for some trap of Ruthven's? After all, House dell' Aquila had allied with Ruthven long ago: Alianora dell' Aquila, the House's elder, was Ruthven's wife (and, by most accounts, his blood-thrall as well). A ransom demand, then? "My husband and I have your master, come at once and alone to hear our terms?" But why take Taliesin prisoner? Especially, why this year, after so many uneventful trips to Conclave? And if Alexander had indeed decided to brave Ruthven's domain for whatever desperate reason, would he not have left word of it behind, in case he never returned?
"What about stories among the people hereabouts?" Etienne persisted. "Stories of strangers or odd happenings? Anything like that?"
"Nothing other than the usual."
"And what do you mean by the usual?"
"Folletti. Ghosts and goblins in the woods," said Domenici scornfully. "Pagan nonsense. Why, some of these idiot folk even set out offerings in the trees — wine and honey, fruit and cheese, as though there were gods to be propitiated in there."
"Then they think the woods along the riverbank are haunted."
"Who knows what knocks about in their thick skulls and passes for thought?"
"Do you believe there's anything to such tales, Signore?" Antonio wore a long-suffering look now; both the look and the cynical tone were actually directed at Etienne, even though he addressed Domenici.
"I certainly don't know what it would be haunted with," the old Lombard replied. "I know of no curses there, besides the blasphemies of passing drovers."
"And are these stories told all up and down the river?" Etienne took only a cursory glance at the wine cellar as they were shown through it. He highly doubted Alexander had ventured there. It might not be a bad place to take that girl later, however. It seemed clean, and fairly dry.
"Indeed, my lord, but mostly they concern the Malchiarone."
"Malchiarone? Now that's an odd word."
"More nonsense, I assure you. It's what the folk call that old stretch of woods to the south, the one that borders the Marliani land."
"The Marliani land?"
"Yes, there's a Villa Della Torre Marliani down there."
"Ah, yes," said Antonio at once; but Etienne stood confused for a moment, until he remembered that there was a Della Torre among Alianora dell' Aquila's brood. So, Ruthven had appropriated an estate belonging to the mortal relations of his consort's childe; it would certainly make sense. The 'Marliani' did imply a later change in the villa's human ownership — but doubtless that meant no more to the old Tzimisce than the human ownership of the house above the Florentine chantry meant to Lord Gilbert.
"I presume a Signor Marliani is master there now?" Antonio picked up the thread of the interview.
"Yes, my lord."
"And have you had any trouble with him?"
"He's a scoundrel, and a poor neighbor besides," Domenici returned. "Fortunately, he's away a lot. Where, I couldn't guess; most of his relatives won't even receive him anymore. And his sons are much the same ilk. In fact, I've heard they harbor bandits."
"They also hang bandits," Etienne remarked, thinking back to the crossroads. "That gibbet-tree is theirs, is it not?"
"Ah, yes." Domenici nodded tightly. "There's something to be said for fighting fire with fire, I suppose. Nothing in the world worse than an out-of-work mercenary. I lost livestock to those marauders myself, and fruit from my orchard. Good riddance. Speaking of riddance...Signori, I hope you can excuse me for the briefest of moments. I have not your — vigor, and the needs of this old body..."
"Go," said Antonio. Having himself been liberated from the needs of the body some time hence, he preferred to think of them as little as possible; that was a result of Gilbert's teaching. Etienne nodded a more sincere encouragement to Domenici, who wobbled off at top speed.
"What do you think?" Antonio murmured, in Greek.
"Why does Domenici receive the blood?" returned Etienne, also in Greek.
"I was not asking about Domenici."
"I know, but I am curious about the matter. Is this place so valuable?"
"Very valuable. It is our link to the Ticino's ley-line. "
"The Ticino is a long river," Etienne pointed out.
"So you have said, more than once now. What of it?"
"And maintaining Domenici in the blood would have been a lot of trouble for Taliesin. Consider that he would have had to ride out here once a month. Not the sort of trifle a great magus likes to bother with."
"You presume he rode out." Antonio gave a faint smile. "Great magi have many clever ways of accomplishing anything to do with blood."
"Very well." If Antonio wanted to hint at superior knowledge, so be it, but Etienne would not beg him for the information. "I presume it. Or Domenici could have gone to Milan, but that would leave the villa masterless at night with Ruthven a stone's throw away. Recall that none of the other acolytes we have stayed with on our journey receive the blood — even though some have plainly heard of the elixir."
"The other acolytes are not sitting on an anchor for the High Road. Such an anchor must be well warded, and is best left with a guardian whose loyalty is assured."
"True. — But do you really think Domenici knows the worst about us?"
"The worst?" Antonio echoed.
"He has not offered us vessels yet. On the other hand, I do not recall his offering us other refreshment...a considerable omission from a host, in any case."
"Actually, he did offer me some fresh fruit when I first came upstairs, but I told him we did not wish to delay our business. Of course there were servants within earshot, so perhaps he was merely making a show for their benefit. It hardly matters. We can certainly fend for ourselves if need be."
"Certainly." Etienne subsided, seeing that his brother would become annoyed if he kept up this rather oblique line of inquiry. Still, it seemed strange that the Clan had chosen Domenici's villa for their riverfront base, rather than something further north, within some other, friendlier prince's domain. Of course, if Ercole had offered this land to them, the Clan must accept or risk offending him; Antonio had rightfully pointed that out last night. Still, Tremere were never much for worrying about such matters of politesse, even when it was clearly to their advantage.
And then there was the treaty Ercole had negotiated with the Florentine vampires some four decades ago. Etienne had found it at last, not in the chantry library as promised, but moldering under a pile of old letters in Lord Gilbert's study. (How a man capable of drawing the floor plan of Solomon's Temple, exact to the last cubit, from memory, could mislay a major treaty and then fail to stumble across it for the next twenty years was a matter beyond Etienne's comprehension — but he had been brought up to a monk's, not a wizard's, sense of order.) Gilbert had accepted some dreary strictures indeed to get another chance at establishing a chantry that had already been massacred twice in as many centuries. Plainly, Ercole had been wary. Only two Tremere were permitted within the city at a time; said Tremere were never to keep or receive gargoyle servants — an oddly specific provision, that; both of them must also swear personal fealty to Ercole, even though only the Regent was actually "enfeoffed," so to speak; and finally, should they ever be found in violation of Tradition, Ercole reserved the right not only to punish them without reprise from the House and Clan, but also to void that section of the treaty, thus revoking the Tremere's right of residency forever.
All that, for the privilege of dwelling near a sworn enemy whose pagan powers and murderous bent were the stuff of legend in chantries from here to the Bosphorus. The more Etienne thought about it, the more urgently he wished to know whether it was the Milanese chantry itself that was so very important (it was one of the great cities of Christendom, to be sure), or the ley-line, as Antonio believed — or something else entirely.
"What about you?" He glanced over at Antonio, who had taken up the little vademecum notebook that hung at his belt and now scribbled in it with a lead point. "The things in Alexander's room."
"None of them had much to tell. And since that would have been the logical place to leave an invisible message for us, I now doubt we shall find anything of that nature. Perhaps he never even thought of doing such a thing. He was almost as new to — formal instruction as you are."
"He had not touched any of it?"
The Florentine shrugged. "The linens had a trace of him, but I sensed nothing other than a restful day's sleep. Domenici did say the letter came before Alexander got up."
"He did. And Taliesin?"
"Not a jot of him. But assuming he too slept peacefully, it would only be natural for the more recent presence to obscure the earlier, especially since the linens would have been changed in between."
"Yes, I see." Etienne was beginning to find the Greek tiresome; he read it quickly but rarely conversed in it. In Florence the chantry folk usually spoke Italian or Latin, only switching to Greek, Arabic or Hebrew when outsiders might be listening or the talk turned to certain occult specialties. The Greek did sound more elegant to the ear, though.
"Now you are drawing rather than writing. What is it?"
Antonio glanced up. "I thought I would make some notes on the wards here."
"Why, are they unusual?"
"Slightly. Have you been paying attention at all? You would do well to, unless you feel you have nothing left to learn about geomancy."
"No, brother."
"It so happens that our Steffan Taliesin was a master of the art. In fact, he wrote the textbook I studied out of. Gilbert made me recite it beginning to end for my Fifth Circle exam." Antonio's deft fingers sketched a few more lines; then he showed Etienne the page he was working on. It did indeed look like a geometric exercise: vertices and lines of projection, a host of inscribed polygons, some nearly as big as the outer circle, some sandwiched in the space between outer and inner circles. "Well? Does anything strike you?"
"Yes, the absurd complexity of it. — Actually, it looks like the map of our chantry wards, in basic outline at least. I have no idea what all these other shapes do."
"There are several possibilities," said Antonio. "I must measure the angles more precisely to be sure. These look like gnomonic proportions, but this over here...At any rate, look. It is not quite like a chantry ward, even in outline. Most notably, a chantry ward would have another long section from here to here, completing this triangle like so."
"I have no idea what that does, either."
"I daresay not. Have you even listened to them?"
"Listened to what?"
"To the wards, of course," Antonio returned, annoyed. "Surely you remember. I have shown you that exercise."
"Oh, yes," exclaimed Etienne. "You did...several years ago."
"What does that matter?"
"And we have been talking to Domenici."
"Stop making excuses. Just try it now, tell me what you hear."
Etienne had to stand still for quite a while before the babble of human noise that immediately sprang to his attention would consent to be ignored; but eventually a certain humming, at the very threshold of audibility, began to rise through the spaces among the snores, thumps and footsteps. It took him even longer to be certain about pitches.
"I hear the fundamental — a G, I think — and the third above, B," he said at last.
"Anything else?"
Etienne shook his head. Every time he nearly had the full resonance going in his ear, something disrupted it. "There may be. I cannot hear it."
"And those tones would suggest?"
"Well, the wards at home sound a G fundamental as well..." Etienne mused, calling up what little he could remember of the subject. It had been a brief lecture at best, something touched on in passing while discussing the use of chimes and chants. "But I hear none of the purer intervals, no octave or fifth, only a simple third; no overtones, or very weak ones...it cannot be a very powerful warding, can it?"
"Do you think so? Can you believe a master geomancer would go to all this trouble for a minor warding?" Antonio gestured with the book.
"No, not if he was indeed a master and did indeed make these wards himself..."
"Which he was, and did. I would stake my sigil on it."
"Then I suppose there must be some purpose to it," said Etienne irritably. "Very well, what is the answer then? You memorized his treatise, not I."
"Domenici is returning."
Etienne cast up his hands in exasperation as the old mortal peeped in from the doorway.
"Pray don't let me interrupt my lords' learned discourse," Domenici said hastily.
"No, no." Etienne motioned him in.
La Villa Domenici, VI Id. Apr.
(April 8 — Maundy Thursday)
If Antonio's furtive pre-dawn hours of measuring and calculating had provided any new insight into the villa's wards, he was hiding it well. He said nothing to Etienne, in Greek or any other tongue, as they supervised the repacking of the wagon. Etienne went out of his way to catch his brother's eyes. His unspoken question met no hostility, at least, but an unspoken answer, impossible to guess at. Perhaps Antonio merely wished to wait till they were on the road.
Or, more likely, till he had had a chance to mull things over. Etienne had learned this much about his brother during the past week: Antonio hated to subject his ideas to the buffeting of a debate before they were fully armed and girded. It would make the investigation that much more difficult, but a man's nature was a man's nature.
Domenici's tongue, however, had gotten progressively looser as he realized that he was to be left with nothing more than a dose of the elixir for magical nourishment, that no primordial mysteries of Apollonius or Hermes Trismegistus were forthcoming this visit. Antonio had taken a polite look at the Signore's new alchemist's apparatus earlier, and tried to mollify him with a few half-hearted comments; yet even now, with all the servants exchanging nervous glances over his head, the man kept buzzing round the Tremere like a bumblebee courting an unopened blossom.
"You'll find the ride more pleasant tonight, my lords." At least he had finally shifted to topics related to their departure. "No fog, or there isn't supposed to be."
Etienne nodded and smiled, since Antonio had silently delegated the burden of Domenici to him. Some little way away, Pia — or was it Piera? No, Pia — dropped the basket of bread and cheese she was carrying to the wagon. It fell through her slack fingers and landed with a bump on the packed dirt. Her fair-haired lover, coming up behind her, quickly shifted his own burden to one shoulder and bent down to pick it up for her; but she pulled it out of his hand, stumbling a bit, then walked on with an odd resolute look.
The boy's answering look of baffled hurt was something Etienne had no wish to see. He turned away to attend the horses, who had evidently decided that the villa's stableboys were not of sufficient quality to bridle them.
"Now, now," he chuckled, "that's spirit entirely unbecoming to geldings. Settle down."
The night really was quite fine and clear. Nor did they need to backtrack south and dare the wrath of that dark guardian again; a spoke of the old Roman highway network would take them straight to the gates of the city. Once they were well and truly out along the near-deserted road, Antonio grew more responsive. Yes, he had taken the necessary measurements, but no, he had not decoded the intricacies of Taliesin's geometry. On the other hand, he had found something even more interesting:
"A warded door."
"Really? Where?"
"In the wine cellar, hidden behind a stack of casks."
"I don't remember feeling any enchantments in there."
"Perhaps you were too deeply under a different spell," Antonio said acidly. "You took long enough to clear out."
Etienne flinched, grateful for once that his cheek would stay corpse-white no matter what shame he felt. "I meant before."
Well, it was evil whether one enjoyed it or not. Etienne had done what he could for the girl. The stupor of blood-loss was unavoidable; his bite, and the seductions leading up to it, he had blotted from her mind as well as he knew how. And yet there had been that new coolness in her when her beloved approached...
"Before?"
Perhaps it would pass. Or perhaps they had fought again during the day, and their trouble had nothing to do with him. In any case, did it really matter if their frail little hearts broke now, or a month from now? "When we were with Domenici."
"Ah. Well, it took a little more finding than that." Antonio shrugged. "But yes, there's a ward there, with a door leading to who knows where. Neither the Milanese nor the Florentine formula would open it, and I didn't dare force it. I tried to catch Master Gilbert to ask him about it, but I couldn't even find his thoughts, much less enter them. He must have been in ritual."
"What do you suppose is behind the door?" Etienne asked.
"It might be anything, really. I'll try to reach our master again when we get into town. No doubt he'll have a better guess than mine. All I can think of is either a hidden laboratory, or else a bolt-hole of some kind — some place to hunker down in case of sudden trouble."
"Could Taliesin have been doing some kind of special work for the Clan out here?"
"Blast if I know. I wouldn't be surprised. With the power of the ley-line there to tap into, it'd be a good place for it."
"I wonder if Tzimisce draw on ley-lines with their magic, as well."
Etienne had finally hit upon a Tzimisce rumination in which Antonio was eager to join him. "I've never heard anything about it, but that doesn't make it unlikely. Besides, I understand they truck with spirits, familiars, elementals, and whatnot, and that all such creatures are attracted to ley-lines. I can vouch for the elementals, at least."
This led to a lively side discussion of the difference between spirits, familiars, and elementals — a distinction still not entirely clear in Etienne's mind, since his early training had taught him to call any being that was not physically manifest a spirit. Then the talk turned back to Ruthven's horseman, and what classification it might fall under. By the time they settled, uneasily, that it was either a vampire or a demon, one of the two, the walls of Milan had grown to dominate the Lombardy plain. High, stolid walls, entirely worthy of a city ruled by both a Sforza duke and a condotierre vampire-prince; just outside them, a fat ring of new buildings was already encroaching on the outer patchwork of sedate fields and orchards.
Although they had their letter of safe-conduct ready to hand, and Ercole had sent fairly detailed notes on how to get into the city, Etienne felt a twinge of apprehension as they rode south along the wall-circuit and stopped on the bank opposite the Pusterla Santa Eufemia and its little gatehouse. He liked to think it was not fear alone that stirred him. This would be his first real glimpse of other vampires besides the Florentines, after all. During his first visit to Milan, he had seen only Taliesin and Alexander, and scant little of them; on the subsequent journey to Vienna, he had been chaperoned like a bride-to-be by a singularly taciturn acolyte of the Clan; and long before, in Avignon, Timothy had refused even to speak of others, much less bring them by for pleasantries.
In Milan, moreover, were Cainites of lineages he had only heard tales about: Lasombra, Tzimisce, Malkavian, Cappadocian. He hardly hoped to be struck with admiration for these foreign blood-drinkers, but he was curious to see how they managed, what their manner of existence was, how they justified themselves to themselves.
Lastly, he and Antonio were to be presented at court, and court was Etienne's natural milieu, or the one he had cultivated to a second nature. Indeed, toward the end of his mortal life, he had begun to feel more comfortable on display than in private. Serving as Gilbert's court liaison for these past ten years, he had already seen a good deal of Florence's Cainite pageantry. Yet he warned himself not to set too much store by that example. Though Ercole was Ventrue like Lucia, he was rumored to differ greatly in character.
Then there were those who claimed that Alianora dell' Aquila was the real ruler of Milan and had been ever since her sire's death, regardless of who might sit on the throne above her.
Antonio led the way to the bridge over the curving canal. This being only a minor gate, the bridge was fairly narrow and part wooden. Indeed, it was probably meant to burn should the townsfolk need to close up the city completely in a time of siege. The gatehouse itself looked abandoned, almost disconsolate.
Then a mounted figure appeared at the other end of the expanse, a man in well-used armor, sitting up soldier-straight. His face was just visible under the brim of the helmet: a condotierre face, blunted and roughened by years of harsh weather. He rode toward them. As he came out under the moonlight, his pale skin caught and reflected it, betraying his true nature. Any mortal that bloodless would be at death's door.
He stopped just before the Tremere and looked them over, not once but twice apiece, before facing Antonio, who sat rightmost.
"The Tremere envoys, I presume?"
"Yes..." Antonio hazarded a title. This could not possibly be Ercole himself. "Yes, Captain."
The man nodded; evidently the guess was correct. "Your name and your papers?"
"Antonio of Tremere. And here are our credentials, and the safe-conduct."
"Of course. Neither father nor mother in the Clan," the Captain replied, with a tugging of the lips that no doubt could have gone on to become a smile had he wished it. Etienne wondered if he was quoting someone; it sounded as though he were quoting. But the Captain had not addressed him yet, so he remained silent.
The Captain glanced at the safe-conduct, then carefully opened the seal on the other letter and examined it. He retrieved a third piece of parchment from his own purse, comparing between the two.
"Well," he said at last, "it looks like your Gilbert's seal, and her Highness' I know well enough."
Antonio stiffened. The Captain turned to Etienne, who was by now keeping a number of thoughts to himself. "You must be the Frenchman."
"Yes, Captain. Etienne of Tremere."
"I hope you speak our tongue. Few enough are going to oblige you with yours."
"I try my meager best," Etienne answered. It was vital, but difficult, not to take offense. The Captain had something like the air of a wool-merchant inspecting a wagonload of suspect goods.
"You don't sound very French."
"Then perhaps I shall manage."
"You sound Florentine. The business of my lord's court is conducted in Lombardic." The Captain snorted. "Welcome to the great city of Milan, Messeri. Come along, I'll escort you to his Highness."
Il Palazzo de Hauteville, Later That Evening
Antonio, Etienne mused irritably, did not look dressed for a court audience in Lombardy. He was Florentine, and worse, he was Tremere: as such, he had no native love of finery. That he had even bothered to change out of his travel clothes was a gesture of rare sensitivity on his part. Gilbert — hardly a perfumed dandy himself — had had to remind him to get something appropriate to wear.
Well, at least the new outfit was appropriate, marginally; and it was flattering. Modest bands of silver-stitched Theban script trailed along the seams of his robe, picking some minor spell out of the deep ground of the indigo velvet. Even that was probably there more to impress upon sensitive Kindred that he was indeed a magus than for any reason of ornament. His slim, youthful face did well with such austerity. The fabric itself was certainly expensive enough. Still, no doubt the Milanese would take one look and judge him a dour recluse from a businesslike city; and no doubt he would take only pride in that assessment.
Etienne glanced down at his own clothes but refused to let himself fidget with them, now that they were in the antechamber waiting to be announced. At least one of them needed to look approachable, and so he had foregone a dignitary's floor-length robe, despite the fact that he both was and seemed Antonio's elder. Instead he had chosen a happy combination of doublet with azure-and-gold brocade sleeves, azure velvet overtunic with matching cap, and mustard-yellow velvet mantle draped loosely about his shoulders. This was by far his finest ensemble, and he possessed it only because Gilbert had agreed that elegance would be a diplomatic necessity. His second-best outfit in green, which had served him tirelessly for the last several years in Lucia's court, now waited in a trunk in the wagon for less sumptuous occasions. If nothing else, his wardrobe would gain from this affair.
Even Captain Federigo had smoothly handed them off to a page and gone to freshen up. Etienne let his eye wander idly from frescoes to multicolored tiles, gilded friezes to tapestries, and then to the vast Turkish carpet which had been hung from the wall like another tapestry, so its fabulous arabesques would never be trampled. Small wonder if people strove to match the surroundings.
Ercole must have found some mortal nobleman to hide behind. Surely there was no other way for a vampire to enjoy all this luxury without suffering the scrutiny it would attract. No such lord's name had been mentioned yet, however; the coat of arms carved into the palazzo's outer walls at each corner remained a mystery. Whoever he was, his identity was completely unimportant. But he clearly had a fat appointment to something or other from the Duke, or else a boatload of commercial investments. Title alone would not bring such wealth, even in Lombardy.
The doors to the audience chamber opened. The liveried herald motioned them over with professional impatience. They hastily arranged themselves, Antonio rightmost and slightly ahead; then, at Antonio's nod, they were admitted.
"The emissaries of Clan Tremere, come to pay respects to his Most Serene Highness of Milan!" the herald barked.
Most Serene, Etienne noted as he strode past, doffing his cap for the first bow in the doorway. Then he got a better look at the figure seated at the far end of the room, and decided the epithet was well earned. Actually, the man did not seem serene, precisely — that would imply a lack of vigilance, a surfeit of contentment. But transplant him to a hilltop in England and one could well imagine him King Arthur, just before the debacles with wife and Grail: wary as a ruler in his middle years should be, but with an air of perfect observation, utter control. In form he was inescapably leonine, hale and strong, with powerful arms and a mass of shaggy blonde hair, barely tamed into curls. He wore a long robe of damasked crimson and gold, a testament to his majesty as much as his purse — put such a thing on another's back and the robe would have worn the man.
Eyes the color of summer storms studied Etienne and Antonio as they approached, taking keen measure. Partly it was the usual Ventrue trick, Etienne realized. All that clan had a knack for looking at one in such a way that one felt preternaturally humbled. Even knowing that it was a trick never helped. With each step nearer a layer of him peeled away under Ercole's scrutiny.
It's a trick. Let him do what he likes. Etienne's body was so trained to courtly movement that it could go through its paces without him. Antonio was less fortunate. Halfway down the hall, he actually slowed, as though too weighted down to continue. Etienne chose that moment for them to stop completely and make their second bow, hoping it would cover up his brother's indecision. Antonio echoed the gesture with only an instant's delay, then shuddered and pressed ahead. Their final, low bow came directly before the Prince's wooden throne, well within the corona of his power. Maintaining a suitable tone of deference would be no trouble at all.
They murmured their salutations, gazing upward as their bodies descended: "Most Serene Highness…most radiant Lady." At that moment, Ercole's presence notwithstanding, Etienne began to notice the specifics of the woman seated beside him. Her face caught the attention right away, and was dangerously easy to settle upon. He glimpsed a full, lustrous oval shape, a delicate nose that descended straight down from the brow, a wreath of dark hair bedecked with pearls — the features of an old Grecian statue, animated — before he could tear his gaze away and return it to the proper place. Had she actually smiled at them? There had been the start of a smile.
"Rise, gentlemen." Ercole motioned to the human herald stationed behind him. The herald brought forth their letter of credence, which Federigo must have passed along before leaving. Ercole took it, glanced at it a moment, and handed it back.
"Messer Antonio, magus of the Florentine Tremere, and Messer Etienne, apprentice of the Florentine Tremere — if we have it right from your letter. " Now the Arthurian comparison dimmed somewhat. The voice was that of a general, not a king, bluff and unmusical.
"Yes, your Highness. My brother and I are humbly grateful to be thus received in your Highness' fair city. We bring with us our lord's and our August Princess' most earnest gratitude and felicitations." Antonio had pointedly refused to ask Etienne's advice on speaking to rulers in court; his instinctive strategy of keeping it brief and to the point, however, at least had a chance with a soldier-prince.
Ercole nodded. "You, your master's felicitations, and the precious friendship of our beloved sister sovereign are all more than welcome in our realm. We already know your business, of course, but some among us tonight do not. Pray explain it for the benefit of our court." He made a gesture with his fingertips, taking in the knot of pale-skinned men and ladies that now drew closer, almost protectively, about their liege.
"Certainly, your Highness." Antonio made a little perplexed noise in his throat. "Our brothers, Master Taliesin, Regent of the chantry house here, and his apprentice Messer Alexander, have gone missing some time after leaving Milan for our city. We are here seeking their whereabouts and fate."
Several murmurs of surprise greeted this announcement.
"Naturally we take this as a matter of the utmost concern to the Clan. We beg your Highness' kind leave to investigate as best we may, and to stay in your Domain whilst we do so."
Etienne allowed himself to observe the folk gathered around the throne, now that Ercole had explicitly included them. Some sort of advisory council formed the inner ring: a plump man in bishop's robes, fingers aglow with gold and cabochons, wearing a particular kind of feral scowl that stamped him an unmistakable casualty of Rome; an olive-skinned, bearded, hawkish fellow dressed in a shallow wide-brimmed hat, a flowing caftan and a mantle studded with signs of the zodiac; and just visible in the shadow of the Princess' chair, Etienne caught the hint of a stunted form, a flattened nose, misarranged teeth bared in what looked for all the world like fear. Of the group, only the astrologer managed to appear bored rather than suspicious, and that was probably an act.
Then there were those who orbited the circle but could not quite join it: a blond courtier and a dark one, both in short doublets of brilliant satin, costumed as though for the sole purpose of rivaling each other in long-limbed magnificence. Perhaps they vied to play Paris to the Princess' Helen of Troy. Their noble young faces would have made fine studies for a painting on the subject. The blond one could have been an Annunciation Angel as well, with his smooth skin and infant-blue eyes; but the dark one's jaw was too spare, had a certain jut of pride to it that could only belong to a seraph of the fallen sort.
Opposite them in orbit stood a woman clad like a vastly premature widow, all in black velvet with a blackwork-embroidered chemise. A thick Spanish braid hung down her back, covered at the top with a pious coif. Now if it was Arthur on the throne and Helen next to him, Etienne thought with a stab of self-chiding amusement, and Paris and the Annunciation Angel to his far right, what storied role should this slender, upright girl with the Saracen eyes take? Something tragic, to be sure; she might not be half as striking in gayer colors. And what of the older gentleman who stood alongside her in paternal dignity, equally somber-hued, his gloved hand never far from the sword at his side?
But Ercole was speaking again now. "Messeri, we too consider this matter to be of great concern. We have, in fact, made an investigation of our own."
"Capitan Federigo!" came a ringing voice behind the two Tremere, followed by the clink of mail as the Captain came forward and humbled himself before the Prince. He had not abandoned his armor, simply thrown a fine tabard and gown over it.
"Your Highness, most gracious Lady, lords, lady, and Messeri."
"Just in time, Captain," Ercole said. "Inform our guests of where things stand with the search for their brethren."
"Gladly, Highness. I have done as your Highness ordered and scoured the highways from here to the borders, and the city as well. As far as I can tell, Messer Taliesin and Messer Alexander have left Milan and not returned. There is no sign of any harm come to them within your Highness' Domain."
"Thank you, Captain." The Prince turned back to Antonio and Etienne. "And yet the fact remains that two of your order have vanished; and that when last seen, they were under the sanctity of our protection. Therefore it seems only right that we accept with thanks your offer to assist in our inquiries, and bid our loyal subjects give you their full cooperation. Benedio..."
The blond courtier brushed past his companion and came to stand before the throne, issuing an unhurried courtesy that would have sent any dancing-master into raptures.
"I am ever at your Highness' command."
Ercole nodded again. "Our clansman Signor Brandini shall be our eyes and ears in this matter. We trust, Benedio, that you will serve our guests as you would serve us, and help their efforts in any way required."
"Of course, Highness. Your humble servant, Messeri." Nevertheless, the smile that followed upon his words seemed a bit glassy. Behind him, the dark courtier crossed his arms and fought a look of amusement.
"Signore," Etienne murmured, bowing, as Antonio recovered enough from the shock of this new development to do the same.
"Likewise. We are much obliged to you, Signore." Etienne could almost read his brother's thoughts there on his furrowed brow: With a little Ventrue fop for a nursemaid? We shall be lucky to accomplish anything at all!
"Escort them to their house now, Benedio, and see that they are well settled and provided for. Messeri, should you have any needs yet unanswered, we pray you will not hesitate to make them known."
"You Highness is indeed gracious and magnanimous," Antonio replied. "Again, we give our deepest thanks for your Highness' hospitality. We hope not to be too much trouble."
"To receive the subjects of Lucia Magdalena is a pleasure, not a trouble. In return, we ask only that you will make your discoveries known to us as they occur. We take the keenest interest in your brothers' fate, especially since what threatens one of the Blood threatens us all. Do you not agree?"
"Completely, your Highness."
"Good. Then we bid you good night, Messeri, and wish you the best in your task."
"Thank you, your Highness. A most pleasant evening to your Highness and your Highness' fair court." Antonio bowed yet again. His relief at escaping was suddenly quite palpable. Still, he had survived. And in some ways it was an advantage: intriguers in Ercole's court would now dismiss them both, Antonio for being inexperienced with the subtleties that governed their existence, Etienne for being subordinate to him. They might not move as cautiously as usual, and perhaps some vital fact would slip into view. Taliesin and Alexander might have met their deaths miles away from these chambers, but surely these people had, between them, a fair accumulation of observations and rumors that would prove useful once unearthed.
"Your house lies in the direction of the Porta Vercellina," Benedio said as soon as the hall doors had closed on them and they were alone in the great antechamber. His tone was notably brusquer. "Pray come with me, gentlemen, and I will show you."
The halls were emptier than one would expect with such a glittering company assembled nearby. Evidently the palazzo's everyday staff had not been called to wait upon Ercole and his guests; perhaps they had even been expressly instructed to behave as though nothing special were going on. Benedio called a page to come light their way through the more cavernous areas: a single lamp's radiance fell tentatively on the forms of parquet tables, bookstands, and tremendous carved cabinets, picking out their shapes more than clearly enough for vampire eyes but somehow rendering them off-limits as well, as though they belonged to another world.
"Who's there?" called Antonio softly, stopping dead and stretching out a hand to restrain Etienne as well.
"What?" Benedio turned back to frown at them.
"Gentlemen of House and Clan Uninvited," came an unfamiliar voice, "we most earnestly piously bid you welcome to this Milan, this jewel of the north —"
"Petrucchio." The word was a tiny explosion of annoyance on the young Ventrue's lips.
"None of that now," the voice rang out. "Play your part, as we must play ours." A shadow entered the outer edge of the lamp's halo: a dwarf, the same creature whom Etienne had glimpsed behind the throne, came forward, drawn as tall and straight as his squashed legs would allow. Around his shoulders he clasped a rich carpet, which on a man his size trailed out to a fine length for a coronation robe. He raised his free hand in an arc of beneficent grandeur, encompassing first Antonio, then Etienne.
"Messer Notte, Messer Giorno."
Etienne looked down and got a sudden nasty start. The dwarf's gesture had been low-slung for inescapable reasons of anatomy, but following it served to call Etienne's attention to a fact that had escaped him for weeks. They were day and night, he and Antonio, going by the hues they were clad in. It had been completely unintentional, but would the court misinterpret?
"He's at one of his burlesques," Benedio explained to the nonplussed Tremere. "Aping Ercole. Just ignore him and he'll lose interest — usually."
"What threatens one threatens us all, do you not agree, gentlemen?" The little man did indeed have the cadence of the Prince's speech down pat. Even his expression would have been eerily correct had the two faces been built at all alike. "That is why we are sending young Brandini to protect and assist you...truly, the matter deserves no less a talent than his."
Benedio's voice hardened further. "This way, Messeri."
"Perhaps he'll even get as far as the courtyard this time."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Antonio said immediately.
"Nothing," Benedio snapped. "Only that we asked at the chantry house after your brothers."
"We?"
"I did, on his Highness' orders."
"And what did they say?"
"Nothing useful. I'm sure the old man there will be happy to tell you. He seemed desperate enough for you to arrive." He kept walking.
Antonio sent Etienne a glance, pregnant with contempt for courtiers everywhere. "Well, the sooner we get there the sooner everyone will be satisfied, I suppose." Then he turned to follow.
Etienne hesitated, oddly captivated by the sight of Petrucchio, who had now frozen as though in tableau, still in his regal attitude. He was so utterly still that Etienne began to wonder despite himself if something beyond theatricality were at work, and he stepped closer to see.
Just as he got near enough to touch, the dwarf's eyes slid sideways to look at him; then he winked. "Rehearsals are at midnight sharp, Wednesdays and Fridays," he whispered. "Come early tomorrow. I'm almost done with you, but I have a little feeling you're the sort to get picky in costume fittings."
"Rehearsals?"
"Oh, and Signore," Petrucchio added out loud, toward Benedio's retreating back. "You might like to know that the rest of the Mass went beautifully. I'm sure he would have been touched, poor fellow. But there was no one left to weep for him. A shame..."
"Come along, Etienne," Antonio called.
Etienne spared the little actor one last puzzled glance, but there was no answer of any sort, only a motionless retreat into the murk as page and lamp moved farther away. At last he shook himself and obeyed.
"Coming, brother."
| The Dragon's Masque | Cainites of Milan, 1490 | The Chronicle |