“I sent him off to be locked up,” said Manfred. “We don’t want trouble, Dorma. In fact I need to talk to you . . .”
“Ciao, Petro,” said Francesca, sweeping forward with her hands outstretched, as if greeting an old family friend.
Dorma’s mouth fell open. His face seemed to flush a bit.
Francesca smiled at him. “You look like a catfish with your mouth open, Petro. Close it, dear. You really do need to talk to them. They’ve just foiled a plot against you—and the Holy Roman Empire. This large young man is the Emperor’s nephew, as it happens. Who would have thought it? And, I believe, also his Emissary Plenipotentiary.”
Having obeyed Francesca’s first injunction to close his mouth, Petro Dorma then did an even better catfish imitation.
“You’d better come inside,” said Erik. “We have found out who has been committing those murders.”
“Do you have her prisoner?” asked a slight man with an aquiline nose and a solid single dark line of eyebrow. “I am Eneko Lopez, a Legate of the Grand Metropolitan of Rome. We demand to speak to ‘Sister’ Ursula.”
Erik shook his head. “Too late. We’ve found her foul chapel. But she’s gone. Come.”
The doors were opened. Dorma and some of his party were escorted to the desecrated Lady chapel. One of the priests gagged immediately and clutched his nose. “Chernobog!” he gasped. “The stench is horrid! Fierce!” Even under the circumstances, the man’s broad Savoyard accent was unmistakable.
Erik looked curiously at the fellow. He’d heard of witch-smellers, but had had no faith in them in times past. Now . . .
Erik sniffed experimentally himself. Yes. It was the same odor he’d smelled in Sachs’s study that one day. He’d thought it was sister Ursula’s perfume—and how odd it was for a nun to use perfume. It was . . . sort of sickly sweet. Confined in Sachs’s room it had made him want to sneeze. Perhaps Sachs himself had been the victim of a powerful amount of magical manipulation.
Manfred was talking to Petro Dorma. “—three parties. Ten will remain here. The message to Trieste should stop the Knights. If not . . . well, those who remain here can pass on Charles Fredrik’s orders. The rest are split into the party going to tell Emperor Charles Fredrik that I’m not dead yet, and the bulk of us are riding after Sister Ursula.”
“Take us with you,” said Lopez. “She is what we seek.”
Manfred looked him over. “We want to leave as soon as we can get a boat to the mainland. Mounts may be a problem.” He hesitated. “And it’ll be a hard chase. Even for soldiers.”
Lopez snorted. “I was a soldier once, lad—and longer than you’ve been, I venture to say. You think I got this limp from the stairs in the Vatican? Nor have I led what you’d call a soft life since.”
Dorma interrupted. “I can solve one of your problems. We have remounts on the mainland at the landing at Chioggia. I’ll send Capi D’Strozza with you. He’s from Chioggia, and will see you through to the forts. And, as he says, Senor Lopez was once a knight. Despite the limp I think you can still ride, no?”
Lopez smiled. “Better than any Ritter, I suspect. We’ll find out.” The last sentence came out almost gleefully. Holy the man might be now—but, clearly enough, there was still that Basque truculence lurking somewhere within his soul.
* * *
Over on Saint Mark’s Square a bell began to ring, frantically.
Petro looked despondent. “The alarm tocsin! Now what?”
Erik smiled. “Part of this conspiracy that we have partially unraveled, I suspect. Give us your Capi and we’ll be moving, and you can get back to Saint Marks.” He peered into the darkness, at the hazy, haloed moon. “Looks like you’re in for fog. I hope your Capi is a good navigator.”
Petro smiled back. “The best. He was a smuggler before I recruited him. Fog was one of his favorite kinds of weather.”
* * *
Down on the water, on the mainland side of Rialto, Benito could have told Erik the fog was thick enough to cut with a knife already. It smelt . . . odd. Marshy. Not the usual wet-wool and smoke smell of Venice fog. Benito wasn’t going to let it worry him. Giaccomo was enough to worry about.