Manfred’s charge would have driven down an ogre. Unfortunately, ogres don’t know how to wrestle. Erik had learned the art from an old Huron thrall on the Hakkonsen steading, and polished it during his three years in Vinland—much of which time he had spent among his family’s Iroquois relatives.
Manfred flattened nicely against the stone wall, like a griddle cake. The palace almost seemed to shake. The prince himself was certainly shaking, when he staggered back from the impact.
Not for long. Erik’s hip roll brought him to the floor with a crash, flat on his back. The knee drop in the gut half-paralyzed the prince; the Algonquian war hatchet held against the royal nose did paralyze him. Manfred was almost cross-eyed, staring at the cruel razor-sharp blade two inches from his eyes.
“You’ll learn,” grunted the Emperor. “Give him a scar. He’s overdue.”
Erik’s pale blue eyes met Manfred’s brown ones. He lifted an eyebrow.
“Which cheek, Prince?” he asked.
Manfred raised a thick finger. “One moment, please,” he gasped. “I need some advice.”
The prince rolled his head on the floor, peering under the bed. “You’d better decide, sweetling. Right or left?”
A moment later, a girlish voice issued from under the bed. “Left.”
The prince rolled his head back. “The left, then.”
Erik grinned; the hatchet blurred; blood gushed from an inch-long gash. He was still grinning when he arose and began wiping off the blade.
“I think the prince and I will get along fine, Emperor.”
The most powerful man in Europe nodded heavily. “Thank God for that.” He began to turn away. “Tomorrow, we will speak about Venice.”
“No politics,” insisted Erik.
There was no response except a harsh laugh, and the sight of a broad purple back receding into the darkness.
ROME
“Come, brothers,” said the slightly-built priest who limped into the small chapel where his two companions awaited him. “The Grand Metropolitan has made his decision.”
One of the other priests cocked his head quizzically. “Is it the Holy Land, then, as we hoped?”
“No. Not yet, at least. He has asked us—me, I should say—to go to Venice.”
The third priest sighed. “I begin to wonder if we will ever make our pilgrimage, Eneko.” The Italian words were slurred, as always, with Pierre’s heavy Savoyard accent.
The small priest shrugged. “As I said, the Grand Metropolitan only requires me to go to Venice. You—you and Diego both—are free to carry out the pilgrimage we planned.”
“Don’t be a typical Basque fool,” growled Pierre. “Of course we will accompany you.”
“What would you do without us?” demanded Diego cheerfully. Again, he cocked his head. “Yes, yes—granted you are superb in the use of holy magic. But if it’s Venice, I assume that’s because of the Grand Metropolitan’s scryers.”
“Do those men ever have good news to report?” snorted Pierre.
The Basque priest named Eneko smiled thinly. “Not often. Not since Jagiellon took the throne in Vilna, that’s certain.”
Pierre scowled. “Why else would we be going to that miserable city?”
Eneko gazed at him mildly. “I wasn’t aware you had visited the place.”
Pierre’s scowl deepened. “Not likely! A pit of corruption and intrigue—the worst in Italy, which is bad enough as it is.”
The Basque shrugged. “I dislike the city myself—and, unlike you, I’ve been there. But I don’t know that it’s any more corrupt than anywhere else.” Then, smiling: “More complicated, yes.”
Diego’s head was still cocked to one side. The mannerism was characteristic of the Castilian. “Eneko, why—exactly—are we going there? It can’t be simply because of the scryers. Those gloomy fellows detect Lithuanian and Hungarian schemes everywhere. I’m sure they’d find Chernobog rooting in the ashes of my mother’s kitchen fire, if they looked long enough.”
“True enough,” agreed Eneko, smiling. “But in this instance, the matter is more specific. Apparently rumors have begun to surface that the Strega Grand Master was not murdered after all. He may still be alive. The Grand Metropolitan wants me to investigate.”
The last sentence caused both Diego and Pierre to frown. The first, with puzzlement; the second, with disapproval.
“Why is it our business what happens to a pagan mage?” demanded Pierre.
Again, Eneko bestowed that mild gaze upon the Savoyard. “The Church does not consider the Strega to be ‘pagans,’ I would remind you. Outside our faith, yes. Pagans, no. The distinction was implicit already in the writings of Saint Hypatia—I refer you especially to her second debate with Theophilus—although the Church’s final ruling did not come until—”