Mercedes Lackey & Eric Flint & Dave Freer - The Shadow of th

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey,

Eric Flint & Dave Freer

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and

any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3523-0

Cover art by Larry Dixon

First printing, March 2002

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lackey, Mercedes.

The shadow of the lion / Mercedes Lackey, Eric Flint & Dave Freer.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-7434-3523-0

1. Venice (Italy)—History—1508–1797—Fiction. 2. Brothers—Fiction.

3. Monsters—Fiction. I. Flint, Eric. II. Freer, Dave. III. Title.

PS3562.A246 S53 2002

813'.54—dc21 2001056466

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To the world's firefighters;

and, especially:

to the hundreds of those in the

Fire Department of New York

who died in the line of duty on

September 11, 2001.

BAEN BOOKS by MERCEDES LACKEY

BARDIC VOICES

The Lark & the Wren

The Robin & the Kestrel

The Eagle & the Nightingales

The Free Bards

Four & Twenty Blackbirds

Bardic Choices: A Cast of Corbies

(with Josepha Sherman)

The Fire Rose

Fiddler Fair

Werehunter

Lammas Night

(edited by Josepha Sherman)

The Ship Who Searched

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (1 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

(with Anne McCaffrey)

Wing Commander:

Freedom Flight

(with Ellen Guon)

URBAN FANTASIES

Bedlam's Bard

(omnibus with Ellen Guon)

Beyond World's End

(with Rosemary Edghill)

Spirits White as Lightning

(with Rosemary Edghill)

The SERRAted Edge:

Chrome Circle

(with Larry Dixon)

The Chrome Borne

(omnibus with Larry Dixon)

The Otherworld

(omnibus with Mark Shepherd & Holly Lisle)

THE BARD'S TALE NOVELS

Castle of Deception

(with Josepha Sherman)

Fortress of Frost & Fire

(with Ru Emerson)

Prison of Souls

(with Mark Shepherd)

BAEN BOOKS by ERIC FLINT

The Philosophical Strangler

Forward the Mage (with Richard Roach)

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Fortune's Stroke

The Tide of Victory

The Tyrant (with David Drake)

(forthcoming)

1632

Mother of Demons

BAEN BOOKS by DAVE FREER

The Forlorn

Rats, Bats, and Vats

(with Eric Flint)

Pyramid Scheme

(with Eric Flint)

Prologue

April, 1537 A.D.

MAINZ

The yellow lantern-lights of Mainz's dockside inns reached out across the dark Rhine. Standing

on the prow of the riverboat, Erik Hakkonsen stared at them, thinking of little more than food and

a bed. He'd left his home in Iceland three weeks earlier, to answer the Emperor's summons. They'd

had a stormy crossing. Then the late spring thaw had ensured that the roads of the Holy Roman

Empire were fetlock deep in glutinous mud. And, finally, the river had been full and the rain

steady. Tomorrow he would have to go to the Imperial palace, and find out how to seek an interview

with Emperor Charles Fredrik.

But tonight he could sleep.

The riverboat nudged into the quay. A wet figure stepped out from under the eaves of the inn.

"Is there one Erik Hakkonsen on this vessel?" he demanded, half-angrily. The rain hadn't been kind

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (2 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

to the skinny courtier's bright cloak. The satin clung to him, and he was shivering.

Erik pushed back his oilskin-hood. "I'm Hakkonsen."

"Thank God for that! I'm soaked to the skin. I've been here for hours," complained the man.

"Come. I've got horses in the stable. The Emperor awaits you."

Erik made no move. "Who are you?"

The fellow shivered. "Baron Trolliger. The Emperor's privy secretary." He held out his hand to

show a heavy signet. It was incised with the Roman Eagle.

That was not a seal anyone would dare to forge. Erik nodded. "I'll get my kit."

The shivering baron shook his head. "Leave it." He pointed to the sailor who had paused in his

mooring to stare. "You. Watch over this man's gear. Someone will be sent for it."

As much as anything else, the alacrity with which the sailor obeyed the order drove home the

truth to Erik. He was in the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, for a certainty. In his native

Iceland—or Vinland, or anywhere else in the League of Armagh—that peremptory order would have been

ignored, if not met with outright profanity.

"Come," the baron repeated. "The Emperor is waiting."

* * *

Passing from the narrow dark streets and sharp-angled tall houses into the brightness of the

imperial palace, Erik had little time to marvel and gawk at the heavy gothic splendor of it all.

Instead, Baron Trolliger rushed him through—still trailing mud—into a large austere room. As soon

as Erik entered, the baron closed the door behind him, not entering himself.

In the center of the room, staring at Erik, stood the most powerful man in all of Europe. He

was a large man, though now a bit stooped from age. His eyebrows seemed as thick and heavy as the

purple cloak he was wearing; his eyes, a shade of blue so dark they almost matched the cloak.

Charles Fredrik. The latest in a long line of Hohenstauffens.

Guardian of the Church, Bulwark of the Faith. Lord of lands from northern Italy to the pagan

marches in the Baltic. Ruler over millions of people throughout central Europe.

The Holy Roman Emperor, himself. In direct line of descent from the great Fredrick Barbarossa.

All of that mattered little to Erik. His tie to the Emperor was a clan tie, not a dynastic

one. He was there to become the Emperor's servant, not his subject. So, Erik simply bowed to the

old man, rather than kneeling, and spoke no words of fealty. Simply the old oath: "Linn gu linn."

The words were Gaelic, but the oath that bound him came from the cold fjells of pagan Norway.

An oath that went back generations, to the time when a Hohenstauffen prince had rescued a pagan

clan from demons set loose by their own foolishness.

Charles Fredrik spoke like an old man—despite being no older than Erik's father. But he voiced

the ritual words strongly. "From generation to generation."

He held out the dagger that Erik had heard described with infinite care all his life. The

dagger was iron. Old iron. Sky iron. Hammered with stone in the pagan Northlands, from a fallen

thunderbolt. The hilt was shaped into a dragon head—the detail lost in the blurring of hundreds of

years of use.

It still drew blood for the blood-oath like new steel did. "Blood for blood. Clan for clan."

Erik renewed the oath calmly.

After binding their wounds himself, Charles Fredrik took Erik by the elbow and led him across

to a window. The window was a mere arrow-slit, testimony to the palace's ancient origins. Against

modern cannon, such fortifications were almost useless. But . . . there was a certain undeniable,

massive dignity to the huge edifice.

There they stood, silent for some time, looking out at the scattered shawl of lights which was

the great sleeping city of Mainz. Erik was quite sure that those lights represented more people

than lived in all Iceland. Their lives, and those of many more, rested in the hands of the old man

standing next to him.

The Emperor seemed to have read his thoughts. "It is a great load, at times," he said softly.

His heavy jaws tightened. The next words were spoken almost harshly. "I have called for the

Clann Harald because my heirs have need. My son is . . . very sickly. And I do not expect my only

surviving brother to outlive me. Not with his wounds. So I must take special care to watch over my

two nephews, for it is quite likely that one of them will succeed to the throne after I am gone."

The Emperor sighed. "Your older brother Olaf watched over my nephew Conrad for his bond-time,

as your father Hakkon watched over me." A slight smile came to his face. "To my surprise, I find I

miss him. He used to beat me, you know."

"He has told me about it, Godar of the Hohenstauffen." Erik did not add: Often.

Charles Fredrik's smile broadened. "According to your brother Olaf—'often.' " He chuckled. "It

did me the world of good, I eventually came to realize. Nobody had dared punish me before that. Do

you know that your family are the only people in the world who don't call me 'Emperor,' or 'Your

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (3 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

Imperial Highness?' I think it is why we trust you."

"Our loyalty is to the Godar of the Hohenstauffen. Not to the Empire." That too his father had

said. Often.

"You must sit and tell me the news of them once I have given you your task. I warn you, it

will be a more onerous chore than Olaf's. Manfred, my younger nephew, reminds me of myself at that

age. You will have to—as your father did with me—serve as confrere in the monastic order of the

Knights of the Holy Trinity. Of course—as then—your identity and purpose must remain secret.

Manfred's also."

Erik nodded. "My father has told me about the Knights."

The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "Yes. But things have changed, Hakkonsen. It is one of the things

that worries me. The Knights have always been—nominally, at least—independent of the Empire.

Servants of God, not of any earthly power. In practice they have served as the Empire's bulwarks

to the North and East. In your father's day the nobility from all the corners of the Holy Roman

Empire came to serve as the Knights of Christ, in the pious war against the pagan. And many brave

souls came from the League of Armagh, not just the handful of Icelanders sworn by clan loyalty to

the service of the Emperor."

Erik nodded again. "My grandfather says that in his day, Aquitaines made up as many as a

quarter of the order's ranks."

The Emperor clenched his fist, slowly. "Exactly. Today, no knight from that realm would dream

of wearing the famous tabard of the Knights of the Holy Trinity. Once the brotherhood Knights were

truly the binding threads in the cloak of Christianity. Today . . . the Knights of the Holy

Trinity come almost entirely from the Holy Roman Empire. Not even that. Only from some of its

provinces. They're Prussians and Saxons, in the main, with a small sprinkling of Swabians. A few

others."

He paused. Then he looked Erik in the eyes. "They're beginning to take an interest in

politics. Far too much for my liking. And they're also—I like this even less—getting too close to

the Servants of the Holy Trinity. Damn bunch of religious fanatics, that lot of monks."

Charles Fredrik snorted. "All of it, mind you, supposedly in my interests. Some of them

probably even believe it. But I have no desire to get embroiled in the endless squabbling of

Italian city-states, much less a feud with the Petrine branch of the church. The Grand Duke of

Lithuania and King Emeric of Hungary give me quite enough to worry about, leaving aside the

outright pagans of Norseland and Russia."

Again, he sighed. "And they're not a binding force any more. Today, the common people call the

church's arm militant 'The Knots,' more often than not. And, what's worse, the Knights themselves

seem to relish the term."

"The Clann Harald do not mix in Empire politics," stated Erik firmly. His father had warned

him that this might happen.

The Emperor gave a wry smile. "So your father always said. Just as I'm sure he warned you

before you left Iceland. But, Erik Hakkonsen, because you guard Manfred . . . do not think you

will be able to avoid it. Any more than your father could."

The old man turned and faced Erik squarely. "Politics will mix with you, lad, whether you like

it or not. You can be as sure of that as the sunrise. Especially in Venice."

Erik's eyes widened. The Emperor chuckled.

"Oh, yes. I forgot to mention that, didn't I?"

He took Erik by the arm again and began to lead him toward the door. "But we can discuss

Venice tomorrow. Venice, and the expedition of the Knights to that city, which you will be

joining. An expedition which I find rather . . . peculiar."

They were at the door. By some unknown means, a servant appeared to open it for them. "But

that's for tomorrow," said the Emperor. "What's left for tonight, before you get some well-

deserved rest, is to meet the cross you must bear. I suspect the thought of Venice will be less

burdensome thereafter."

About halfway down the long corridor leading to the great staircase at the center of the

palace, he added: "Anything will seem less burdensome, after Manfred."

* * *

It took the Emperor, and quite a few servants, some time to track down Manfred. Eventually the

royal scion was discovered. In the servants' quarters, half-drunk and half-naked, sprawled on a

grimy bed. Judging from the half-sob and half-laugh coming from under the bed, Manfred and the

servant girl had been interrupted in a pastime which boded ill for the prince's hope of attaining

heaven without spending some time in purgatory.

Erik studied the young royal, now sitting up on the edge of the bed. Manfred was so big he was

almost a giant, despite being only eighteen years old. Erik was pleased by the breadth of

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (4 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

shoulders, and the thick muscle so obvious on the half-clad body. He was not pleased with the roll

of fat around the waist. The hands were very good also. Thick and immensely strong, clearly

enough, but Erik did not miss the suggestion of nimbleness as the embarrassed royal scion hastily

buttoned on a cotte.

He was pleased, also, by the evident humor in the prince's eyes. Bleary from drink, true, but

. . . they had a sparkle to them. And Erik decided the square, block-toothed grin had promise

also. Whatever else Prince Manfred might be, he was clearly not a sullen boy.

It remained to be seen how intelligent he was. There, Erik's hopes were much lower.

The Emperor, standing in the doorway of the servant's little room, cleared his throat. "This

is your Clann Harald guardian, you young lout. You'll have to mind your manners from now on."

The prince's huge shoulders seemed to ripple a bit, as if he were suppressing a laugh.

"This—willow? Uncle! The way you always described these Icelandic sheep farmers, I got the

impression—"

Manfred gasped, clutching his belly. Erik's boot had left a nice muddy imprint. The prince

choked, struggling for breath.

"You stinking—" he hissed. A moment later the prince was hurling himself off the bed, great

arms stretched wide. Erik was pleased by the rapid recovery. Just as he had been when his driving

foot hit the thick muscle beneath the belly fat.

Manfred's charge would have driven down an ogre. Unfortunately, ogres don't know how to

wrestle. Erik had learned the art from an old Huron thrall on the Hakkonsen steading, and polished

it during his three years in Vinland—much of which time he had spent among his family's Iroquois

relatives.

Manfred flattened nicely against the stone wall, like a griddle cake. The palace almost seemed

to shake. The prince himself was certainly shaking, when he staggered back from the impact.

Not for long. Erik's hip roll brought him to the floor with a crash, flat on his back. The

knee drop in the gut half-paralyzed the prince; the Algonquian war hatchet held against the royal

nose did paralyze him. Manfred was almost cross-eyed, staring at the cruel razor-sharp blade two

inches from his eyes.

"You'll learn," grunted the Emperor. "Give him a scar. He's overdue."

Erik's pale blue eyes met Manfred's brown ones. He lifted an eyebrow.

"Which cheek, Prince?" he asked.

Manfred raised a thick finger. "One moment, please," he gasped. "I need some advice."

The prince rolled his head on the floor, peering under the bed. "You'd better decide,

sweetling. Right or left?"

A moment later, a girlish voice issued from under the bed. "Left."

The prince rolled his head back. "The left, then."

Erik grinned; the hatchet blurred; blood gushed from an inch-long gash. He was still grinning

when he arose and began wiping off the blade.

"I think the prince and I will get along fine, Emperor."

The most powerful man in Europe nodded heavily. "Thank God for that." He began to turn away.

"Tomorrow, we will speak about Venice."

"No politics," insisted Erik.

There was no response except a harsh laugh, and the sight of a broad purple back receding into

the darkness.

ROME

"Come, brothers," said the slightly-built priest who limped into the small chapel where his

two companions awaited him. "The Grand Metropolitan has made his decision."

One of the other priests cocked his head quizzically. "Is it the Holy Land, then, as we

hoped?"

"No. Not yet, at least. He has asked us—me, I should say—to go to Venice."

The third priest sighed. "I begin to wonder if we will ever make our pilgrimage, Eneko." The

Italian words were slurred, as always, with Pierre's heavy Savoyard accent.

The small priest shrugged. "As I said, the Grand Metropolitan only requires me to go to

Venice. You—you and Diego both—are free to carry out the pilgrimage we planned."

"Don't be a typical Basque fool," growled Pierre. "Of course we will accompany you."

"What would you do without us?" demanded Diego cheerfully. Again, he cocked his head. "Yes,

yes—granted you are superb in the use of holy magic. But if it's Venice, I assume that's because

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (5 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

of the Grand Metropolitan's scryers."

"Do those men ever have good news to report?" snorted Pierre.

The Basque priest named Eneko smiled thinly. "Not often. Not since Jagiellon took the throne

in Vilna, that's certain."

Pierre scowled. "Why else would we be going to that miserable city?"

Eneko gazed at him mildly. "I wasn't aware you had visited the place."

Pierre's scowl deepened. "Not likely! A pit of corruption and intrigue—the worst in Italy,

which is bad enough as it is."

The Basque shrugged. "I dislike the city myself—and, unlike you, I've been there. But I don't

know that it's any more corrupt than anywhere else." Then, smiling: "More complicated, yes."

Diego's head was still cocked to one side. The mannerism was characteristic of the Castilian.

"Eneko, why—exactly—are we going there? It can't be simply because of the scryers. Those gloomy

fellows detect Lithuanian and Hungarian schemes everywhere. I'm sure they'd find Chernobog rooting

in the ashes of my mother's kitchen fire, if they looked long enough."

"True enough," agreed Eneko, smiling. "But in this instance, the matter is more specific.

Apparently rumors have begun to surface that the Strega Grand Master was not murdered after all.

He may still be alive. The Grand Metropolitan wants me to investigate."

The last sentence caused both Diego and Pierre to frown. The first, with puzzlement; the

second, with disapproval.

"Why is it our business what happens to a pagan mage?" demanded Pierre.

Again, Eneko bestowed that mild gaze upon the Savoyard. "The Church does not consider the

Strega to be 'pagans,' I would remind you. Outside our faith, yes. Pagans, no. The distinction was

implicit already in the writings of Saint Hypatia—I refer you especially to her second debate with

Theophilus—although the Church's final ruling did not come until—"

"I know that!" grumbled Pierre. "Still . . ."

Diego laughed. "Leave off trying to teach this stubborn Savoyard the fine points of theology,

Eneko. He knows what he knows, and there's an end to it."

Eneko chuckled; and so, after a moment, did Pierre himself. "I suppose I still retain the

prejudices of my little village in the Alps," he said grudgingly. "But I still don't understand

why the Holy Father is making such an issue out of it."

"Pierre," sighed Diego, "we are not talking about some obscure witch-doctor. Dottore Marina

was considered by every theologian in the world, Christian or not—especially those versed in the

use of magic—to be the most knowledgeable Strega scholar in centuries. He was not simply a Magus,

you know. He was a Grimas, a master of all three of the stregheria canons: Fanarra, Janarra and

Tanarra. The first Grimas since Vitold, in fact."

"And we all know how that Lithuanian swine wound up," growled Pierre. His Savoyard accent was

even heavier than usual.

Eneko's eyebrows, a solid bar across his forehead, lowered. "Pierre! I remind you—again—that

the Church does not extend its condemnation of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania onto their subjects."

The Savoyard priest looked away. Then, nodded acknowledgement of the justice of the reproof.

"Besides," continued the Basque, "the criticism is unfair in any event. Vitold's fate derived

from his boldness, not from sin. Rashness, if you prefer. But I remind you—"

Eneko's stern gaze swept back and forth between his two companions. "I remind you, brothers,

that we have set ourselves the same purpose as that of doomed Vitold—to stand firmly against

Chernobog and all manner of evil."

For a moment, his eyes roamed the austere interior of the chapel. Finding comfort there,

perhaps, but not forgetting how long it had taken them to find such a chapel in Rome.

"To challenge it on the field of holy battle," he continued softly, "instead of lolling in

comfort while our Pauline brethren wage the struggle alone."

Hearing the Paulines referred to as "brethren" brought a momentary tightness to Pierre's lips,

but the Savoyard did not challenge the term. As often as Eneko Lopez's odd views grated on the

Savoyard's upbringing and attitudes, he had long since made the decision to follow the man

anywhere he chose to lead them.

As had Diego. "Well enough, Eneko. Venice it is. And we should send for Francis in Toulouse as

well. He would be invaluable in Venice, dealing with Strega."

Lopez shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I want Francis to go to Mainz and try to get an

audience, if he can, with the Emperor. I'm not certain yet, but I think he will be far more useful

there than he would be in Venice with us."

The Basque priest's words caused his two companions to stiffen. Again, Diego made that cocked-

head quizzical gesture. "Am I to take it that the Grand Metropolitan is looking more favorably on

our proposal?"

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (6 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

Lopez shrugged. "He keeps his own counsel. And he is a cautious man, as you know. But . . .

yes, I think so. I suspect he views this expedition to Venice as something in the way of a test.

So do I, brothers. And if I'm right as to what we will find there, we will need a private conduit

with Charles Fredrik."

Those words cheered Pierre immediately. "Well, then! By all means, let's to Venice!"

* * *

The next morning, as they led their mules through the streets of Rome, the Savoyard finally

unbent enough to ask the question again. This time, seeking an answer rather than registering a

protest.

He did it a bit pugnaciously, of course.

"I still don't understand why we're looking for a Strega scholar."

"We are not," came Eneko's firm reply. "We are soldiers of God, Pierre, not students. Battle

is looming, with Venice as the cockpit—on that every holy scryer in the Vatican is agreed. We are

not looking for what the scholar can explain, we are looking for what the mage can summon.

Perhaps."

Pierre's eyes widened. Even as a boy in a small village in the Alps, he had heard that legend.

"You're joking!" he protested.

Eneko gazed at him mildly, and said nothing. It was left to Diego to state the obvious.

"He most certainly is not."

VILNA

Not for the first time, the shaman thought longingly of the relative safety of the lakes and

forests of Karelen from which he had come. It required all his self-control to keep from

trembling. That would be disastrous. His master tolerated fear; he did not tolerate a display of

it.

As always in his private chambers, Jagiellon was not wearing the mask which the Grand Duke

wore in his public appearances. Jagiellon was officially blind—due to the injuries he had suffered

in his desperate attempt to save his father from the assassins who murdered him. Such, at least,

was Jagiellon's claim. The shaman doubted if very many people in Lithuania believed that tale;

none at all, in the capital city of Vilna. Most of the populace of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania

and Poland were quite certain that Jagiellon had organized his father's murder in order to usurp

the throne.

Few of them cared, in truth. Succession in Lithuania was often a bloody affair, to begin with,

and in the four years since he ascended to the throne Jagiellon had made it quite clear that he

was even more ruthless than his father had been.

But, if they doubted his other claim, few Lithuanians doubted Jagiellon's claim of blindness.

Indeed, they took a certain grim satisfaction in the knowledge. Jagiellon was more savage than his

father, true—but at least the father had managed to blind the son before succumbing to the

usurpation. Not surprising, really. Jagiellon's father had been as famous with a blade as

Jagiellon himself.

The shaman suffered from no such delusion. In the time since he entered the grand duke's

service, the shaman had realized the truth. Jagiellon had made his way to the throne by delving

into magic even blacker than his father had been willing to meddle with. And . . .

Had delved too deeply. The demon Jagiellon had thought to shackle to his service had been too

powerful for the rash and ambitious young prince. And so, while Jagiellon had indeed lost his

eyes, that loss had been the least of it.

Eyes were still there, after all. Easily seen—naked and visible—with the mask removed. But

they were no longer Jagiellon's eyes, for all that they rested in Jagiellon's face.

The eyes were black, covered with eyelids so fat and heavy they turned the orbs into mere

slits. But the shaman could see them well enough. Far too well. Those eyes had neither pupils nor

irises, nor any trace of white eyeball. Ebony-colored and opaque; uniform throughout; appearing,

at first, like two agates—until, deep within, the emptiness could be sensed. As if stones were

really passageways into some place darker than any night.

"Do it," commanded Grand Duke Jagiellon, and his huge hand swept across the floor, re-opening

the passage.

Stifling a whimper of protest, the shaman underwent the shape-change again. As always, the

transition was accompanied by agony—and even more so the passage through which his master sent

him. But those agonies were familiar things. The source of the shaman's terror lay elsewhere.

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (7 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

* * *

Nor did the terror stem from the lagoon itself, as much as the shaman despised the stink of

the waters—in his new form even more than he would have in his human one. His fishlike body swam

through the murky shallows, nosing the scents drifting through the mud swirls and reeds.

He detected the mage soon enough, as familiar as he now was with that scent. Again, as before,

the odor was very faint. The mage remained near water at all times, but rarely ventured into it.

To do otherwise would have been dangerous.

More dangerous to leave the water's vicinity than to enter it, in truth. The shaman's jaws

gaped wide, displaying teeth that could rend human flesh easily. But the display was more for the

purpose of driving away the shaman's own fear than any prospect of savaging the mage. The mage had

protectors in these waters. The shaman was not the only thing swimming there which possessed sharp

teeth.

And there were worse perils than teeth, anyway. Much worse. It was to detect the greatest of

those perils that Jagiellon had sent the shaman back—again and again—to scour the waters of Venice

and the Jesolo.

Keeping a wary eye out for undines, the shaman swam for two hours before turning away from the

marshes. He made no attempt to cut short his investigation. Jagiellon would be watching him. The

grand duke could see through that magic passageway as well as send the shaman through it—or return

the shaman to the palace in Vilna, in the event of disobedience. Once given to Jagiellon's

service, escape was impossible for the servant.

For the same reason, the shaman did not stint in his ensuing search through the canals of the

city. That search also lasted a full two hours, despite the fact that the shaman hated the canals

even more than the marsh waters. True, the canals were not as dangerous. Undines rarely ventured

into the city. But the stench of human effluvia sickened the shaman. He was, in the end, a

creature born and bred in the wilderness of Finland. Civilization nauseated him.

Enough. Even for Jagiellon—even for the thing which Jagiellon truly was—this was enough. The

shaman swam back into the open sea and waited for his master's summons.

The summons came soon enough, and the shaman underwent the agony. Almost gaily, now that he

knew he had escaped once again from the peril which lurked in Venice. The Lion still slumbered.

* * *

Fear returned quickly, however. Great fear, once the grand duke explained his new plan.

"You would do better to use the broken god," the shaman said softly, trying his best to keep

the whine out of his voice. Simply a counselor, offering sage advice.

* * *

In the end, his master took the advice. But not before flaying the shaman. Jagiellon's

conclusion rested on the frailty of shamans as compared to simple monsters. He accepted the fact;

punished the frailty.

* * *

The next day, the new shaman was summoned to an audience in the grand duke's private quarters.

The shaman, just arrived in Vilna, was also from the lakes and forests of Karelen. The grand duke

was partial to that breed of Finns, especially for water work.

"Sit," commanded Jagiellon, pointing a huge finger at the heavy table in the center of the

kitchen.

The shaman stared. Whatever else he had expected, the shaman had never thought to see the

ruler of Lithuania cooking his own meal over a stove. The sight was incongruous. Erect, in his

heavy robes of office, Grand Duke Jagiellon seemed as enormous as a bear. The ease and agility

with which those great thick hands stirred food frying in a pan was equally incongruous.

Despite his astonishment, the shaman obeyed instantly. Jagiellon was . . . famous.

Grunting softly, the grand duke removed the pan from the stove and shoveled a portion of its

contents onto a wooden platter. Then, as if he were a servant himself, laid the plate before the

shaman.

"Eat. All of it. If your predecessor poisoned himself, I will need to discard the rest. Which

would be a pity. It's one of my favorites dishes."

The shaman recognized the . . . food. Fortunately, he managed not to gag. More fortunately

still, he managed to choke it all down. As he ate, he was aware of Jagiellon moving to the door

and opening it, but did not dare to watch. Jagiellon was . . . famous.

When the shaman was done with the meal, Jagiellon's huge form loomed beside him again. "Take

the platter with you to your quarters," commanded the grand duke, his heavy voice sliding out the

words like ingots from a mold. "Do not clean it. Display it prominently. It will help you to

remember the consequences of failure."

The shaman bobbed his head in nervous obedience.

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (8 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

"My project in Venice will require subtlety, shaman, lest the spirit that guards the city be

roused from its slumber. That is why I summoned you here. My last shaman was subtle enough, but he

lacked sufficient courage. See to it that you have both."

The shaman was confused. He had heard of Venice, but knew nothing about the city. Somewhere in

Italy, he thought.

"I will explain later. Go now. You may take this with you also. It will remind you of the

consequences of success."

As he rose from the table, clutching the platter, the shaman beheld a woman standing next to

the grand duke. She was very beautiful.

"You will not have the use of it for long," warned the grand duke. "Soon enough, the thing

must be sent off to Venice."

The shaman bobbed his head again; more with eagerness, now, than anxiety. The shaman was not

given to lingering over such pleasures, in any event. In that, too, he was a creature of the

wilderness.

* * *

By the time he reached his chambers, the woman following obediently in his wake, the shaman

had come to realize that she was no woman at all. Simply the form of one, which his master had

long since turned into his vessel.

The shaman did not care in the least. A vessel would serve his purpose well enough; and did

so. But the time came, his lust satisfied, when the shaman rolled over in his bed and found

himself staring into an empty platter instead of empty eyes. And he wondered whether he had made

such a wise decision, answering the summons of the Grand Duke of Lithuania.

Not that he had had much choice, of course. Jagiellon was . . . famous.

FERRARA

Each hammer blow was a neat, precise exercise of applied force. Enrico Dell'este loved this

process, this shaping of raw metal into the folded and refolded blade-steel. His mind and spirit

found surcease from trouble in the labor. At the moment, as for the past several years, he needed

that surcease. Needed it badly.

Besides, a duke who worked steel was intensely popular among his steelworking commons. Duke

Dell'este, Lord of Ferrara, Modena, Este, and Reggio nell'Emilia, needed that also. Ferrara stood

between too many enemies in the shifting morass of Italian politics in the year of our Lord 1537.

Ferrara had no natural defenses like Venice, and no great allies. All it had was the Duke Enrico

Dell'este—the Old Fox, as his populace called him—and the support of that populace.

A page entered the forge-room. Shouted above the steady hammering. "Milord. Signor Bartelozzi

is here to see you. He awaits you in the sword salon."

The duke nodded, without stopping or even looking up from his work. "Antimo will wait a few

moments. Steel won't." He forced himself to remain calm, to finish the task properly. If Antimo

Bartelozzi had bad news he would have sent a messenger, or simply sent a letter. The fact that he

needed to talk to the duke . . .

That could only mean good news about his grandchildren. Or news which was at least hopeful.

Dell'este lifted the bar of hammered metal with the tongs and lowered it into the quenching

tank. He nodded at the blacksmith standing nearby, who stepped forward to continue the work. The

duke hung his tools neatly and took the towel from the waiting factotum. "The Old Fox," he

murmured, as he dried the sweat. "Tonight I just feel old."

* * *

The room the duke entered was spartan. Stone-flagged, cool. Its only furnishings a wooden

table which leaned more to sturdiness and functionality than elegance; and a single chair, simple

and not upholstered. Hardly what one would expect the lair of the Lord of the cities of Ferrara,

Este, Modena, and Reggio nell' Emilia to look like. On the wall above the fireplace was a solitary

piece of adornment. And that was absolutely typical of Dell'este. It was a sword, hung with

crimson tassels. The pommel showed faint signs of generations of careful polishing. The wall

opposite the fireplace contained an entire rack of such weapons.

The Old Fox sat at the table and looked at the colorless man standing quietly in the corner.

Antimo Bartelozzi had the gift of being the last person in a crowd of two that you'd ever notice.

He was also utterly loyal, as the duke well knew. Bartelozzi had had ample opportunity to betray

the Dell'este in times past.

The duke used other spies and agents for various other tasks. Antimo Bartelozzi was for family

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (9 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20Mercedes%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt

affairs. To the duke that was the only thing more precious than good sword-steel.

"Greetings, Antimo. Tell me the worst."

The lean gray-haired man smiled. "Always the same. The worst first. The 'worst' is that I did

not find them, milord. Either one. Nor do I have knowledge of their whereabouts."

The Old Fox shuddered, trying to control the relief which poured through him. "My grandsons

are alive."

Bartelozzi paused. "It's . . . not certain. To be honest, milord, all I've established is that

Marco Valdosta was last seen the night your daughter Lorendana was killed. And I had established

that much two years ago. But I did find this."

The duke's agent reached into a small pouch. He handed over a small, sheathed knife, whose

pommel was chased and set with an onyx. "This dagger is a signed Ferrara blade that turned up in

the thieves market at Mestre. The seller was . . . questioned. He admitted to having bought it

from one of the Jesolo marsh-bandits."

The duke hissed between his teeth. He took the blade and unscrewed the pommel. Looked at the

tiny marks on the tang. "This was Marco Valdosta's blade." He looked at the wall. At the empty

space next to one of the hereditary blades on its rack. The space for a small dagger given to a

boy, next to the sword—still in its place—destined for the man. His grandson Marco's blades.

"And you don't take this as another bad sign? Perhaps whoever stole the dagger from him killed

the boy." The Old Fox eyed Bartelozzi under lowered eyebrows. "You found one of the bandits.

Questioned him."

Antimo nodded. "They robbed the boy, yes. Beat him badly. Badly enough that the bandits

assumed he would not survive. But . . . there are rumors."

"The Jesolo is full of rumors," snorted Dell'este. "Still, it's something."

He moved toward the blade-rack. "Tell me that I can return it to its place, Antimo. You know

the tradition."

Behind him, he heard a little noise. As if Bartelozzi was choking down a sarcastic reply. The

duke smiled grimly.

" 'No Ferrara blade, once given to a Dell'este scion, may be returned until it is blooded.'

You may hang it in the rack, milord. That blade is well and truly blooded. I slid the bandit into

the water myself. The thief-vendor also. There was barely enough blood left in them to draw the

fish."

Dell'este hung the dagger and turned back. "And the younger boy? Sforza's bastard?"

Antimo Bartelozzi looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Milord. We don't know that the condottiere

was his father."

"Spare me," growled the duke. "My younger grandson was the spitting image of Sforza by the

time he was ten. You knew my slut daughter, as well as I did. She was enamored of all things

Milanese, and Sforza was already then the greatest captain in Visconti's service."

Antimo studied Dell'este for a moment, as if gauging the limits of his master's forbearance.

It was a brief study. For Bartelozzi, the Old Fox's limits were . . . almost nonexistent.

"That is a disservice to her memory, milord, and you know it perfectly well. To begin with,

her devotion was to the Montagnard cause, not to Milan. Your daughter was a fanatic, yes; a

traitor . . . not really."

The duke's jaws tightened, but he did not argue the point. Bartelozzi continued:

"Nor was she a slut. Somewhat promiscuous, yes; a slut, no. She rebuffed Duke Visconti

himself, you know, shortly after she arrived in Milan. Quite firmly, by all accounts—even

derisively. A bold thing for a woman to do, who had cast herself into Milan's coils. That may well

have been the final factor which led Visconti to have her murdered, once she had fallen out of

favor with her lover Sforza. Not even Visconti would have been bold enough to risk his chief

military captain's anger."

Dell'este restrained his own anger. It was directed at the daughter, anyway, not the agent.

Besides, it was an old thing, now. A dull ember, not a hot flame. And . . . that core of honesty

which had always lain at the center of the Old Fox's legendary wiliness accepted the truth of

Bartelozzi's words. The duke's daughter Lorendana had been headstrong, willful, given to wild

enthusiasms, reckless—yes, all those. In which, the duke admitted privately, she was not really so

different from the duke himself at an early age. Except that Enrico Dell'este had possessed, even

as a stripling prince, more than his share of acumen. And . . . he had been lucky.

Bartelozzi was continuing. "All we know about the younger boy is what we learned two years

ago. He was thrown out of Theodoro Mantesta's care once the true story of Lorendana's death leaked

out. Mantesta, not surprisingly, was terrified of Milanese assassins himself. Your youngest

grandson seems to have then joined the canal-brats."

"Damn Mantesta, anyway—I would have seen to his safety." For a moment, he glowered,

file:///F|/rah/Mercedes%20Lackey/Lackey,%20M...des%20-%20The%20Shadow%20of%20the%20Lion.txt (10 of 355) [6/4/03 10:36:52 PM]

Mercedes Lackey & Eric Flint & Dave Freer - The Shadow of th

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: