“Her real name is Marie-Françoise de Guemadeuc,” said the priest. “You can be certain of it. We investigated quite thoroughly.”
The count grimaced. “A bad business, that was. Even by the standards of the Aquitaine.”
The Emperor’s expression was a study in contradiction—as if he were both relieved and disturbed at the same time. “You are certain, Francis?” he demanded.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The priest nodded at the letter in the Emperor’s hands. “My brothers in Venice have even more at stake in this matter than you. Their lives, in the end.”
“True enough,” admitted Charles Fredrik. His brows lowered again. “Which is perhaps the part about this that bothers me the most. You had given me no indication, prior to this moment, that your . . . ‘brotherhood’ was involved at all with my nephew.”
Father Francis spread his hands. “And we are not, Your Majesty. Not directly, at least. But, you may recall, I did tell you—several times, in fact—that we had established a line of communication with you which was less circuitous than the letters I receive from Father Lopez through our brothers in the Aquitaine.”
” ‘Less circuitous!'” barked the Emperor. He jiggled the letter in his hand. “That’s a delicate way of putting it!”
Father Francis did not seem abashed. “Well. Yes, it is. We have taken solemn vows, after all.”
After a moment’s worth of imperial glowering, Charles Fredrik’s heavy chest began to heave with soft laughter. “I’ll give you this much, Francis. You have a better wit than the damned Sots.” The amusement passed. “Let’s hope that extended to your wits also.”
He laid the letter back on the table, planted his thick hands on the armrests of the chair, and levered himself to his feet. Then, almost marching, went to the window and gazed out. There was not much to see, beyond the lights of the sleeping city.
“I agree with this Francesca’s assessment of the situation,” the Emperor announced abruptly. “The troubles in Venice have been carefully orchestrated to leave the city helpless and at odds with itself—while Jagiellon has moved to precipitate a war in northern Italy. A war whose sole purpose is the destruction of Venice itself.”
Von Stemitz had not actually read Francesca’s letter. She had given it to him already sealed. “That seems a bit farfetched, Your Majesty, if you’ll forgive me saying so. Why would anyone want to destroy Venice? The city is the key to the wealth of the East.”
Before Charles Fredrik could answer, the count made a little waving motion with his hand, forestalling objections. “Oh, to be sure—Duke Visconti wishes Venice all the ill in the world. But he wants to control the city, not ruin it. And how could he do it, anyway? Venice is an island and its fleet is far more powerful than anything Milan and its allies could muster—” He broke off suddenly.
“Unless Emeric of Hungary comes onto the scene,” finished the Emperor. “Which he surely would if it appeared that Venice was falling into ruin.”
“But—” Von Stemitz was clearly groping, his face tight with confusion.
“Think,” commanded the Emperor. He spread his arms wide. “But think on the largest scale, because that’s how—I’m certain of it now—Jagiellon is thinking.” He turned away from the window entirely. “At first glance, of course, Jagiellon would seem to be the least likely source of trouble in the Adriatic. The Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Poland is very far from Venice, and has no common border with it. No apparent source for mutual conflict.” He shrugged heavily. “Not even the commercial rivalry which periodically agitates the Hungarians and the Genoese and the Greeks in Constantinople.”
“Exactly. So why in the world—”
“Who is the great rival of Lithuania?” interrupted the Emperor.
Von Stemitz frowned. “We are, of course. The Holy Roman Empire.”
“Precisely. And what will happen if Venice is destroyed? Who will fill the sudden power vacuum in northern Italy and the Adriatic? Not Milan!”
Von Stemitz stared at him. Then, slowly, the count’s face began to clear. And seemed, as well, to grow slightly pale.
“Precisely,” grunted Charles Fredrik. “Grand Duke Jagiellon’s reputation for insensate brutality is well earned, Count. But I think that’s as much of a maneuver as anything else he does. Don’t be fooled by it. He is also a consummate manipulator; a schemer, quite unlike his father. A man—we’ll call him that, for the moment—who would prefer to let others bleed themselves to death, if at all possible, while he marshals his forces elsewhere.”