Erik smiled dryly. “I don’t think the Venetians would like it much either. Charles Fredrik is forgetting his writ doesn’t run here.”
A bell began to toll, furiously, over at the piazza. “Sounds like a fire or something. We’d better get back.”
* * *
This was Venice. Word, racing like wildfire along the canals and alleys, beat them back to the embassy. The doorman greeted them with “Milan and Verona have embargoed Venetian barges coming up the Po and the Adige!”
Manfred took a deep breath. “It’s starting,” he said to Erik.
When Erik got back up to his room he found the quill pen had been moved. Slightly—but enough for him to notice. He hoped they’d enjoyed his letter regarding his wishes of best health for his sisters.
* * *
Francesca pulled a wry face. “Men always think there is a profit to be made from war.” She looked at the emerald Manfred had given her. “There is, but for very few. For most, even the whores in an army’s tail, war is a drain.”
She sighed. “Now it seems you want me to become one of those who make a profit out of it.”
Manfred showed he’d learned a great deal—about tact, at least. “In this particular case, you can bet that the Holy Roman Emperor does not want war.”
Francesca looked speculatively at him. “And how would you know, Manfred?”
Manfred chuckled. “I’ve met Charles Fredrik a couple of times. He’s an old woman who likes to stay in Mainz and fiddle with his map collection. He hates changing borders.”
Erik had to admit it was masterfully done. He didn’t know if it would fool someone like Francesca. But as they’d learned from Giuliano, the Venetian fencing-master, bravura was sometimes enough. This time it looked like Giuliano was right. But there was also the double feint . . .
Francesca nodded. “True. The Emperor has small running wars on the northern and eastern borders, but he has a reputation for not bestirring himself. And I’ll bet the Empire is richer for it.”
“There is a time for war,” said Erik, mildly.
Francesca looked sharply at him. “Those who don’t know you, Erik, are fooled by that tone of yours. Yes, there is a time for war. There are enemies who will use a desire for peace to weaken and devour you. And if I have to put my finger on what is happening here, these are the moves being enacted now. Have you noticed any shipping coming in?”
Manfred shrugged. “I don’t really pay any attention.”
Erik was far more geared to noticing vessels. “Lateen-rigged coasters. I haven’t seen any bigger round ships for a week or so.”
Francesca dimpled at him. “Trade has been down for the last while. You can bet the Spleto pirates are at work. By now I think there is a blockade. And how convenient all of this is, just after the spring convoys leave. The better part of eight thousand men at arms are out of the city. The cream of Venice’s fighting boatmen. The Arsenalotti are still here of course, but my next prediction of trouble would be in the next biggest concentration of young disaffected men in the city. The Accademia and the various Scuolo. They’ll build up pressure, trying to get Venice to start fighting from within.”
She looked thoughtfully at the two. “Someone—or possibly several someones—is trying to orchestrate all this. The magical murders are part of the plot, I’m sure of it. You can tell your uncle Charles Fredrik that he’s too early. The whole thing won’t come to the boil until late summer.”
Her reference to the Emperor as Manfred’s uncle brought an instant silence to the room. Erik and Manfred were as rigid as boards.
“How the hell did you know?” demanded Manfred. “I didn’t tell her, Erik—I swear!”
Francesca shrugged. “You’re a Breton nobleman. Important enough to keep your identity and the fact you have a bodyguard secret. You have contacts with the Imperial Court—high enough to know fine details of the Emperor’s movements. You have kept your own first name. I know a great deal about the royal houses of Europe. A Breton—with the same name as the Duke of Brittany’s son, familiar with the court at Mainz. There are other possibilities . . . But none that have Erik ready to kill me.”