“My disadvantage is Filippo’s obvious physical prowess—which he shows off every chance he gets. Every other Case Vecchie boy learned to fence. I know how to fight—I’d kill Filippo in a real street brawl—but not how to fence. And Filippo’s pushing it for all it’s worth. Still, I’m not worried about it. As I said, I’ve dealt with worse before, and—”
The relative quiet of the night was torn by the explosive boom of an arquebus. The sharper crack of wheel-lock pistols followed. A yell of “A rescue! Students! A rescue!”
“That was Luciano’s voice!” exclaimed Rafael.
They ran toward the noise, which was now an out-and-out riot, involving an influx of students pouring out of the taverns and lodging houses. Half of the Accademia were going to be there before them.
* * *
Half of the people in this “Accademia” must be involved by now, thought Erik. What a God-forsaken mess.
They were supposed to have moved in quietly and seized the entire group. Alive, for questioning. To that end, Abbot Sachs had insisted on cudgels instead of swords. Well . . . as they burst the door open, he’d had half a second’s worth of seeing the group busy with some sort of ritual, when the candles had blown out and all hell had broken loose.
Von Linksdorf had obviously triggered some kind of trap. Not only had the candles gone out abruptly, but a rigged arquebus had proved that steel armor might be effective against pagan magic, but it was damned useless against black powder. Von Linksdorf had been hammered flat by the heavy bullet.
In the charge and chaos that followed, the Knights had learned two more things. First, there was another exit—which they hadn’t known about. Second, the pagans were not intent on being arrested without a struggle. And they were not only armed, but at least two of them were apparently wealthy enough to possess pistols.
The melee had burst onto the narrow, mostly dark street, and some clever pagan had called for a rescue . . . in a place where attacks and brawls were not uncommon, and students were the frequent victims of attacks. Knights on horseback, in open fields, dealing with lesser armed and less-armored foes were a deadly force. Here, in the narrow confines, armor was perhaps good for stopping knife thrusts and cudgel blows. Otherwise, it simply slowed them down and hampered movement.
“God and Saint Paul!” shouted Sachs. “Slaughter the pagans! Slaughter them all! God will know his own!”
A branch of candles appeared on a balcony. “HOLD!”
The voice was elderly but full of power. “Stand! Put up your weapons!”
Erik looked up and recognized Michael, the Metropolitan of Venice. Bishop Capuletti was standing beside him, staring down on them.
In the distance he could hear the rattles of the Schiopettieri.
Erik sighed and lowered his cudgel. What a mess Sachs has gotten us into. Again.
* * *
“What a mess.” Petro Dorma, here in his role of Lord of the Nightwatch, was not smiling on anyone. Neither was the Metropolitan.
“I have forty-three of the scions of wealth, nobility, and gentry—including my own brother-in-law—arrested for affray. I have twelve monks, Servants of the Holy Trinity, involved in the same incident. I have nineteen belted Knights and Squires of the Holy Trinity in custody. I have three dead bodies to explain, as well as a number of injuries. Two of the dead are students of good family. There can be very little doubt that this will come before the Doge in the morning. He is going to ask me hard questions. I want answers, gentlemen.”
“How dare you arrest us?” demanded Abbot Sachs. “We are the Church!”
Metropolitan Michael looked as if he might just have apoplexy on the spot and add to the death-toll. “You are the Church? In my See!?”
The old cleric rose to his feet, trembling with fury and speaking between clenched teeth. “Lock this idiot away, Signor di Notte. Lock him away and throw away the key. The Church is no man’s! It is God’s.”
Bishop Capuletti bleated. “But, Metropolitan! They do but root out witchcraft. . . .”
Sachs was not so mild. “Petrine son of—”