* * *
As he returned to his own islet, wading through the reeds, Luciano did not notice the sudden swirl in the nearby deep water, as if a large fish had been attacked by a larger and was making a desperate escape. Nor did he notice the undine, a short time later, slowly raising her head above water and studying him as he made his way back to the camp he shared with Sophia.
A small streak of blood dripped from the undine’s sharp-toothed mouth. The mouth gaped wide, expressing satisfaction. Then the undine slid beneath the surface of the water and was gone.
Chapter 35
When the shaman’s human form had returned sufficiently to enable him to speak, the grand duke leaned forward from his throne and touched the shoulder of the man squatting before him. Then, brought the fingers to his heavy lips and tasted the water which soaked the shaman’s fur cloak. The taste was that of the stinking waters of the Jesolo marshes; that, and some blood.
“Well?”
The grand duke’s shaman shook his head. The gesture was not one of uncertainty; it was one of fear. The man’s lips were trembling.
“It is dangerous, lord. The Strega is not powerful, but he knows a great deal. Even now. And so long as he remains in the Jesolo, he has protectors.” The shaman winced, rubbing his shoulder. As always, the shape-change had healed the wound, but the pain lingered. The undine’s teeth had been sharp and jagged.
“The priest? Did you find him? I need to know where he goes when he leaves his quarters.”
The shaman hesitated; tried to control his trembling lips. This question was far more dangerous than any undine. “I sensed him, lord, yes. Impossible not to, anywhere in Venice. Even in the marshes, I could sense him. Though not strongly. His presence is very strong anywhere in the vicinity of the Ghetto.”
The shaman paused, hoping that answer would satisfy his master. He kept his eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched under the heavy cloak. At all costs, he wished to avoid the grand duke’s gaze. Jagiellon’s eyes were . . . frightening.
“Do not annoy me, slave. Or I will send you back into the forests of Karelen with your shape-changing powers severely stunted. Difficult to be a shaman without a hide. I will eat your skin.”
The shaman was frozen, for a moment. The grand duke’s threat was not an idle one; not in the least. The shaman had seen his master eat a retainer’s skin thrice before. The first time, the skin had belonged to the shaman’s predecessor. The grand duke had required the shaman to taste the meal first, before Jagiellon devoured the remainder, on the off chance that a fanatic might have poisoned his own skin before displeasing the ruler of Lithuania with his incompetence.
“It is dangerous, lord,” whined the shaman. “For you as much as me. The priest is much less knowledgeable than the Strega, but—he is very strong. Very strong!” The shaman rubbed his temples with both hands; brackish water soaked through the fingers. “It hurt my head just being near him.”
A massive hand seized the shaman’s shaggy hair and jerked his head up. “Look at me.”
Despite his terror, the shaman dared not disobey. For all that he desperately desired to close his eyes, he met the grand duke’s stare.
The moment lasted for . . . the shaman knew not how long. It seemed endless. But, eventually, the grand duke relinquished his iron grip and allowed the shaman’s head to sag forward.
“I will tolerate your cowardice. For the moment. There is some truth to what you say. The priest is, indeed, very strong.”
The grand duke’s huge hands tightened on the armrests of his throne. He swiveled his massive head and stared at the window facing to the south. As was true of all the windows in Jagiellon’s private chambers, this one was covered with heavy drapes. The drapes, dark red against the dark brown wooden walls, gave the room an almost funereal atmosphere.
“I have already punished those who did not prevent his mission to Venice,” said the grand duke, so softly it almost seemed as if he were speaking to himself. “Intolerable incompetence. The man himself asked leave to go to the Holy Land; and the Grand Metropolitan is a weakling. It should have been easy to arrange.”