And there were worse perils than teeth, anyway. Much worse. It was to detect the greatest of those perils that Jagiellon had sent the shaman back—again and again—to scour the waters of Venice and the Jesolo.
Keeping a wary eye out for undines, the shaman swam for two hours before turning away from the marshes. He made no attempt to cut short his investigation. Jagiellon would be watching him. The grand duke could see through that magic passageway as well as send the shaman through it—or return the shaman to the palace in Vilna, in the event of disobedience. Once given to Jagiellon’s service, escape was impossible for the servant.
For the same reason, the shaman did not stint in his ensuing search through the canals of the city. That search also lasted a full two hours, despite the fact that the shaman hated the canals even more than the marsh waters. True, the canals were not as dangerous. Undines rarely ventured into the city. But the stench of human effluvia sickened the shaman. He was, in the end, a creature born and bred in the wilderness of Finland. Civilization nauseated him.
Enough. Even for Jagiellon—even for the thing which Jagiellon truly was—this was enough. The shaman swam back into the open sea and waited for his master’s summons.
The summons came soon enough, and the shaman underwent the agony. Almost gaily, now that he knew he had escaped once again from the peril which lurked in Venice. The Lion still slumbered.
* * *
Fear returned quickly, however. Great fear, once the grand duke explained his new plan.
“You would do better to use the broken god,” the shaman said softly, trying his best to keep the whine out of his voice. Simply a counselor, offering sage advice.
* * *
In the end, his master took the advice. But not before flaying the shaman. Jagiellon’s conclusion rested on the frailty of shamans as compared to simple monsters. He accepted the fact; punished the frailty.
* * *
The next day, the new shaman was summoned to an audience in the grand duke’s private quarters. The shaman, just arrived in Vilna, was also from the lakes and forests of Karelen. The grand duke was partial to that breed of Finns, especially for water work.
“Sit,” commanded Jagiellon, pointing a huge finger at the heavy table in the center of the kitchen.
The shaman stared. Whatever else he had expected, the shaman had never thought to see the ruler of Lithuania cooking his own meal over a stove. The sight was incongruous. Erect, in his heavy robes of office, Grand Duke Jagiellon seemed as enormous as a bear. The ease and agility with which those great thick hands stirred food frying in a pan was equally incongruous.
Despite his astonishment, the shaman obeyed instantly. Jagiellon was . . . famous.
Grunting softly, the grand duke removed the pan from the stove and shoveled a portion of its contents onto a wooden platter. Then, as if he were a servant himself, laid the plate before the shaman.
“Eat. All of it. If your predecessor poisoned himself, I will need to discard the rest. Which would be a pity. It’s one of my favorites dishes.”
The shaman recognized the . . . food. Fortunately, he managed not to gag. More fortunately still, he managed to choke it all down. As he ate, he was aware of Jagiellon moving to the door and opening it, but did not dare to watch. Jagiellon was . . . famous.
When the shaman was done with the meal, Jagiellon’s huge form loomed beside him again. “Take the platter with you to your quarters,” commanded the grand duke, his heavy voice sliding out the words like ingots from a mold. “Do not clean it. Display it prominently. It will help you to remember the consequences of failure.”
The shaman bobbed his head in nervous obedience.
“My project in Venice will require subtlety, shaman, lest the spirit that guards the city be roused from its slumber. That is why I summoned you here. My last shaman was subtle enough, but he lacked sufficient courage. See to it that you have both.”