Not even Trolliger could keep a look of surprise from his face. “Jagiellon?” For a moment, he fumbled for words. “But—he’s the archdemon in the Servants’ pantheon of evil. Has been ever since he came to the throne four years ago.”
“So?” shrugged Charles Fredrik. “It wouldn’t be the first time in history that people got too close to their enemy, would it?” He scowled through the narrow window. “Which is what I suspect happened to Jagiellon himself. Until he seized the throne from his father, there had been no indication that Jagiellon was anything more than another ambitious and bullying Lithuanian prince. Since then . . .”
“There’s something dark about the man,” admitted the baron. “Even by the standards of the Lithuanian nobility.”
” ‘Dark’?” snorted the Emperor. “Say better: ‘black as night.’ ” He rubbed his heavy jaw thoughtfully. “Why does he wear that mask at all times, for instance? Simply to disguise the scars he claims to have received when he tried to fend off his father’s assassins?”
Charles Fredrik turned away from the window and resumed his seat behind the heavy desk he used for working audiences. “I think not. I don’t believe for an instant that Grand Duke Jagiellon is truly blind. Nor more than you. I think he keeps his eyes covered so no one can see the monster shining through them.”
Trolliger took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That is,” he admitted, “my deepest fear also.”
“Exactly,” said the Emperor, nodding. “Which means that if Lithuania is behind the situation unfolding in Venice, we face something far worse than simple political intrigue. And if that’s true, then I think I’d be a fool to keep relying on the Servants of the Holy Trinity.”
“The Empire is Pauline, Your Majesty. The populace and the dynasty both. To allow—”
“Bah!” The Emperor’s thick hand slammed down on the desk. “Do I care about the quarrels of theologians? I have an Empire to maintain, Hans. Be damned to all that!”
Again, the baron took a deep breath; again, let it out slowly. Then abruptly nodded his head. “True. And, as always, I am at your command.” He pushed back his chair, beginning to rise.
“Venice it is, then. God in Heaven, I detest that city.”
The Emperor waved him back down again. “It’s not quite that bad. I think we can rely on Father Francis to pass on my message to his Father Lopez in Venice. No reason for you to go there. Instead—”
Trolliger didn’t so much resume his seat as fall into it. The baron was quite familiar with the intricacies of northern Italian politics. He could see immediately the logic of the Emperor’s train of thought.
“Oh, no,” he groaned.
Charles Fredrik grinned. “Ferrara’s not so bad. A very pretty little city, in fact, as I recall.”
The baron’s scowl would have frightened ogres. “Who cares about the city? Have you ever—personally—negotiated with Enrico Dell’este? You think they call him ‘the Old Fox’ for nothing?”
The Emperor’s grin didn’t so much as waver. “That’s why I have advisers and trusted agents.”