“What can we do, Francesca?”
Francesca shrugged. “Us? Nothing. You must tend to the affairs of Casa Montescue. I can think of few things which would be better for Venice than to have that house back on its feet again. Me?” She chuckled. “I’m just a very fancy whore, girl.” She spread her arms wide, in a gesture of helplessness. “Do I look like the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire?”
Kat sighed. “No.” Then, giggled a little. “I’ve never met him, but . . . I don’t think he’s got your cleavage.”
* * *
The Emperor’s “cleavage,” at that moment, was quite invisible. Covered as it was not only by the thick velvet of his imperial robes of office but by his own thick hands, clasped and folded across his chest as he listened to his adviser.
Baron Trolliger came to the last item on the agenda. “Oh, yes,” he sighed, “that obnoxious Father Francis is still pestering you for another audience. I assume you’ll want to me brush him off again. He’s seen you once already. That’s more than enough for the demands of courtesy. Irritating man! I’ll tell him—”
“Send him in,” interrupted the Emperor.
Trolliger stared at him. “He’s just a priest, Your Majesty. Not even, from what I can tell, one in the good graces of Rome. He’s certainly not an official emissary from the Grand Metropolitan.”
Charles Fredrik’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I should think not, given his purpose here. I rather imagine the Grand Metropolitan has been tempted more than once to strangle him—even more so, the Father Lopez from whom Father Francis takes his directions.”
The look of surprise vanished from Trolliger’s face, replaced by impassivity. For all that the baron was one of the Emperor’s closest advisers and agents, he knew full well that there were matters which Charles Fredrik chose not to discuss with him. This mysterious business of giving an obscure and apparently unimportant priest another private audience was obviously one of them.
“As you command, Majesty.” Trolliger rose from his chair and began making for the door.
The Emperor stopped him. “I’d just as soon you were here for this audience, Hans. Have a servant bring the man.”
The baron cocked an eye at the Emperor. Then, sighed. “I suppose this means I’ll be traveling soon.”
Charles Fredrik smiled and spread his hands in a gesture which expressed, in part, uncertainty. But which, mostly, expressed irony at the complicated world of political intrigue. “Most likely.”
Trolliger managed, more or less, not to scowl.
* * *
An hour later, after Father Francis had come and gone, the baron was making no effort at all to keep his scowl hidden. “It’s insane, Your Majesty. What these lunatics propose amounts to creating a Petrine version of the Servants of the Holy Trinity. As if the Servants aren’t enough grief already. And then—then!—they want your permission to operate freely in imperial territory. I don’t even want to think about the mess that would create.”
Charles Fredrik studied his adviser under lowered brows, his heavy hands clasped over his purple robes of office. “I’ve already got a mess on my hands, Hans. Or are you so naïve as to think that the mission which the Servants sent to Venice was as innocent an affair as they claimed?”
Trolliger’s lips grew pinched. The Emperor chuckled. A suggestion of “naïveté” was perhaps the ultimate insult in the baron’s lexicon.
“No, I didn’t think so,” murmured Charles Fredrik. He rose to his feet and moved toward the narrow window nearby. “Then tell me, Hans—what are the Servants doing in Venice? Not to mention all those Knights they’ve assembled there.” Now at the window, he cocked his head and gazed at his adviser.
Trolliger shrugged. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. My spies tell me—”
“Nothing,” interrupted the Emperor curtly. “Nothing worth knowing.” He slapped the stone wall. “They’re up to no good, Hans. I can feel it in my bones. And I’ve felt for some time anyway that the Empire was relying on them too much. At this point, I don’t have a single magician worthy of the name who isn’t a damned Sot. Where does that leave me—especially if Jagiellon is undertaking a campaign against me? Which I am now certain is what’s ultimately at the bottom of these mysterious doings in Venice.”