“And when that day comes,” said Erik between tight jaws, “I strongly urge you to have found another employer. Or your guts will be the carpet he uses to get to Visconti’s throat.”
Sforza’s dark eyes swiveled toward him. Erik’s grin was quite savage. “Believe me, Carlo Sforza. I’m an Icelander, and I know a feud when I see one. I’ve met Benito also.”
“I’ll consider your words.” The dark eyes got even harder. “I told Filippo Visconti this was a fool’s errand. Damn all dukes and their complicated schemes. But . . . he pays well. Very well.”
Manfred snorted. “Idiot. Benito’ll spill your purse before he spills the rest of you.”
“That’s my boy,” murmured the Wolf of the North. “Others doubted. But I never did.”
Chapter 90
The grayness swirled thick, carrying the sounds of combat and dying. Despite everything they’d done, some of Aleri’s agents had survived. Fire bloodied the fog to the south, and the smell of it was thick in the air.
Marco turned to Kat, a heaviness in his chest, and the edge of despair in his voice. “We’re losing. In spite of everything, we’re losing. Count Badoero must have brought at least a thousand men. Caesare has made sure the damned militia are ineffectual. The Arsenalotti and the boat-people fight well. But this fog—it confuses everything. There’s something wrong with this fog. It’s like it’s fighting for them.”
“It feels heavy. Not natural,” said Kat. She’d acquired a cut on one cheek and two ash smudges on the other. With or without them, Marco still thought she was the most beautiful, wonderful person he’d ever met. She lightened the fog around her, and in the face of her hope and determination, he lost some of his despair. If Kat believed in him, in their cause, maybe—
She patted his arm. “You’re a good general, Marco. People rally to you.”
He pulled a face; he didn’t want to be a general, and it wasn’t what he was good at. If only there was something he could do to make a bigger difference than merely whacking at people he’d rather be meeting over a glass of wine at a taverna! “Benito is twice the organizer. And I hate this killing.”
Someone came running out of the fog. It was Rafael, gasping for breath. “Luciano says . . . needs you . . . the Marciana . . .”
They headed across at a run. They weren’t that far from San Marco anyway.
Rafael led them upstairs to a room, and they burst through the door. Sigils and arcane symbols were chalked on the floor and all three of them came to an abrupt halt before they so much as touched a toe to one of those sigils. A complex triple circle with squares at the cardinal points and an internal octagon occupied the center of the room—that wasn’t chalked, it was inlaid onto the floor of the room.
This is a—a working chamber, Marco realized. A place for magic, and nothing else. Christian magic? Jewish? Strega? All three, perhaps? There was some overlap—more than just some if Brother Mascoli was to be believed. Emeralds twinkled from the cardinal square nearest them—sapphires from the one across the room—topaz to the left and rubies to the right. The lines of the diagrams were laid out in—gold and silver? Well, for some Strega magic, the magic with the purest intentions that called only great spirits, silver and gold were a good thing, not something to be avoided. Silver for Diana, and gold for Dianus. Or silver for the Moon and gold for the Stars. Or silver for Earth and gold for Heaven. The jewels glittered, and the whole of the diagrams seemed to scintillate. The boundaries weren’t fully up yet, but the energies that would create the walls between the realms weren’t white, they were opalescent, rainbowed. The air was thick with incense.
Luciano, clad in a long white robe, loomed out of the scented smoke. He looked old and tired—older than Marco had ever seen him before. And frail. His skin seemed translucent, as if the motral part of him was wearing thin and his soul shining through it. “Are we winning?”