The shaman relaxed a bit. As was always true with Jagiellon’s underlings, the news of another’s punishment came as a great relief. The grand duke needed punishment in his diet as much as food, and he ate both in prodigious quantities. Still, he was not exactly a glutton. One or two Lithuanian agents in Rome dead—most likely by poison or knife; possibly by magic—meant less chance of a shaman’s skin being fried in Vilna.
The shaman even made so bold as to speak. “For all his strength, lord, the priest is groping in the dark. Best to leave him there, until it is too late. Whereas, if you strike at him . . . and the thing is mishandled or goes awry . . .”
Ensconced in his heavy robes of office, the body of the grand duke filled the chair to overflowing. When the body shifted, as it did now, the sturdy piece of furniture creaked alarmingly.
With as much alarm, if not more, the shaman studied that shifting form surreptitiously, from under lowered eyelids. Suggesting that the grand duke might be contemplating error, as the shaman was now doing, was risky.
The shaman was relieved to see that the shifting seemed more a matter of a heavy body adjusting its weight than of one gathering itself for the attack. The grand duke’s obesity, as the shaman had many occasions to recall, was deceptive. Beneath the rolls of fat lay slabs of muscle whose power went beyond the human. And while Jagiellon was now a great sorcerer in his own right, the ruler of Lithuania was partial to more physical means of expressing his displeasure. As a prince, before the fat which came upon his body after the change, Jagiellon had been a famous warrior.
“Um.” Jagiellon said no more than that, for a few minutes. Throughout that time, the shaman squatted silently, unmoving, his eyes hidden under the lowered brow and the great mane of shaggy hair. Trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
“You may be right,” mused the grand duke, eventually. “It is certainly true that when I let the Woden escape, the results were . . . unfortunate. I had thought the Lion’s slumber to be a heavier thing.”
The shaman dared to speak again. “That was the strength of the priest at work, Lord. He is dangerous.”
“Yes.” Again, silence. “Impervious to seduction also, it seems. I had hopes for that tool, but she is proving less useful than desired.”
There was a slight edge to the last words. From long experience, the shaman knew that a death sentence had just been passed. He felt a small regret. The tool in question was as beautiful as she was evasive. Thus far, unlike the other female in Venice, she had managed to retain her own soul. But the shaman knew it would have been only a matter of time before Jagiellon broke her to his will. After which, as was his way, he would allow his chief underlings to enjoy the woman.
But the regret was small, and fleeting. There would be other beautiful women. Being in service to Jagiellon was as rewarding as it was perilous.
Still . . .
“She may be of use yet, Lord,” murmured the shaman. “If she has failed in that task, she has succeeded in many others.”
Again, the great body shifted; and, again, the shaman grew tense. But, again, it was simply an obese ruler’s discomfort.
“True. We will see. In the meanwhile, I have decided you are correct. We will continue the murders, but keep the Woden on a tight leash. And make no attempt, for the moment, to remove either the mage or the priest. Time is on my side, after all. Venice grows more ragged by the day. So long as the priest remains ignorant and the mage remains too terrified to act . . . good enough.”
The grand duke planted his hands on the arm rests of the chair and heaved his great, gross body erect. “Leave now.”
The shaman bobbed his head, rose, and scuttled from the room. He left behind him a trail of foul-smelling water, in addition to the pool which had collected before the grand duke’s throne where he had squatted. But the shaman was not concerned about that. Jagiellon was not fastidious. Not in the least.