Manfred shook his head. “Intrigue, Erik. Italian intrigue, by Venetians who are the masters of it.”
There was an open tavern. The two went in. Manfred ordered wine and flaps of the local bread, in what was, day-by-day, becoming better Italian. Erik had little doubt where he was learning it from. But, on the other hand, at least Francesca was safer than any random street-women that Manfred might have amused himself with. Erik found it awkward, owing someone he should be protecting Manfred from, for their lives. They walked back outside and stood in the chilly morning. The promised sun failed them. But the crisp air off the sea was clean.
“I don’t understand about the intrigue, Manfred.”
Manfred grinned. “You wouldn’t. You understand battle, Erik. This is something else.” He took a deep pull from the wine goblet. “This is about what really makes treason happen.”
Eric shook his head. “Treason . . . Loyalty? Idealism? Ambition?”
Manfred grinned. “Ignorant Icelander. Money, of course.”
Erik grimaced.
“It’s like this,” Manfred explained. “The Venetians know that money and treason go hand-in-hand. They also know that you can’t spend anything in Venice except ducats.”
Erik shrugged. “Even trading with the skraelings we use them. They like the hole in the middle because they can string them like beads.”
“Uh huh. The mostly widely used coin with the purest gold in Europe. Even the best from the imperial mint at Mainz is not as good. The same coin you use trading in Vinland . . . except here it has no hole in it.” Manfred pulled out a coin. “See. If you’re a foreign trader, the bankers at the foot of the Rialto bridge won’t release your coin until your harbor tax is paid. The hole punched out. Any Venetian must on the order of the Doge exchange holed coins for entire ones. On which they pay tax. You can’t spend foreign coin in Venice without it going through the bankers and the Capi di Contrada—their tax collectors. And the Doge’s council keeps track of foreign money coming in. They have a good idea of just what is happening by the flow of money. That’s why a coiner is a problem. He can melt pure Venetian gold and recast it without the hole.”
Erik thought it through. “You could bring in goods, or offer bills of exchange.”
“True. And you can bet the Doge’s council watches those too. I suppose jewelry might offer a gap. But money is what’s usually wanted. Hard cash. Money for weapons. Money for bribes. Money to reward adherents.”
Erik looked askance at Manfred. “How do you know this?”
Manfred grinned. “Francesca. We talk sometimes too, you know. Quite a bit, actually. She’s a very clever woman. I was thinking of passing this on to Charles Fredrik. Come on, drink up. We can stop at Casa Louise on the way. I want to tell her about all of this.”
Chapter 34
The marsh and the wind swallowed up sound, and the rushes closed them almost into a small room, which was just as well. Chiano howled with laughter, his eyes vanishing in his wrinkles; Marco prayed at that moment that lightning would hit him and reduce him to cinder. It would hurt a lot less than what he was feeling now. He tucked his cold, wet feet under him, huddled under his cotte, and wished he was on the moon. Or dead. Or something.
“Shut up, ye old bastardo—” Sophia scolded sharply, her face crinkling up in anger as she pushed a stray bit of gray hair under her knitted cap; Marco had brought her that the last time he’d come. “Have some pity on the boy. Maybe it’s baby-love, but it hurts all th’ same—and a young one ain’t never been hurt that bad before.” She turned to Marco, huddled on one corner of the raft. “Marco-lad, don’t ye let him get to ye. I ain’t saying ye did right t’ leave—but I ain’t sayn’ ye did wrong neither.”
Marco made a helpless gesture. To these two, his protectors and friends, he could tell everything—and he had. It had lessened some of the burden, at least until Chiano had started laughing at him. “I—Sophia, after the mess I got him in, I can’t face Caesare, and I can’t keep on being a burden to him, either.”