That same summer sun could kill in the south, drying streams and pools, scorching pastures brown and the mountainsides where sheep and goats were herded in the heat.
Plague came in summer (so many times) on merchant ships or with travellers arriving overland. The wealthy fled their cities. Whole villages were savaged by it, bodies left unburied in the sun. White flags by a boundary stone marked a place you did not go.
Summer could be a hungry season, too, before the harvests were in, the last year’s granaries (even where leaders had been prudent) trickling towards emptiness. The whole world knew stories of children dying and being eaten, of unwary travellers murdered in their sleep to answer that same need.
You could be robbed of all you had in any season. Your village could be burned to ash, lost to time, forgotten. Your children could be taken into slavery, sold to the galleys—Jaddite or Asharite. All ships of all faiths needed men to row them, chained to their benches, fouling where they sat. The stench of galleys could be smelled from far across the sea if the wind was that way. You rowed until you died, usually, and were discarded into the sea.
And spring? Glorious springtime when the land quickened and the earth was tilled and planted, when wildflowers returned with all their colours and pale-green leaves showed on trees, when desire rose like sap running and whatever hope one had somehow carried deep inside through the cold months and the long nights struggled to emerge again . . . spring, alas, was the season of war.
It was a remarkable letter, the Duke of Seressa had decided. Both the words that were visible and those written in their invisible ink between the lines.
The Council of Twelve was an agitated group this morning. Unsurprisingly. He was bemused by how calm he himself seemed to be. He had slept well last night after reading the letter. Yet none of these tidings were good and some were deeply troubling. Was he becoming too detached from matters of state? Shouldn’t he be as disturbed as the others?
He put his spectacles back on. He held the original letter from Dubrava. Copies had been made for the others.
He remembered Leonora Valeri very well, from a late night in this room. It hadn’t been so long ago. Jacopo Miucci had been with her, part of their clever devising here. Miucci was now dead. That was openly recounted by the woman.
In the secret ink, revealed by application of the juice of lemons to the pages, she had written: It is unfortunate, but there can be no doubt Dubrava will now come to know—and others will be informed by them—of the actions of the last Eldest Daughter here . . . and her associations.
Even in a hidden text she was circumspect. Not writing association with Seressa. It revealed a maturity even beyond what she’d shown in this chamber. He reminded himself that he’d meant to learn more about her family.
He read again: It does appear that she purposed the death of a Senjani woman on this isle, and that purpose was detected, leading to her death. Dubrava has taken possession of concoctions that suggest others might have been similarly dealt with in the past. A trusted male servant of the Eldest Daughter—may she rest with Jad—has been implicated in untimely passings here. He is also dead.
In short, the duke thought, the world would soon know who Filipa di Lucaro had been, and Seressa’s role in a long deception practised in a holy retreat.
The High Patriarch would, very surely, be communicating with them, in thunderous terms. He enjoyed thundering. Money, a substantial amount, would be required to ease this wrath. The good news was that money could do that with him.
A loud fist banged the table, halfway along. Lorenzo Arnesti’s piercing voice followed it in the subsiding of talk. “It is all too clear,” he snapped, “that the Lucaro woman was not capable enough for her position. It was an error, placing her there!”
The duke had placed her there. His detached state vanished. Arnesti could do that to him. He removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses, taking his time, decided something was now necessary.
He said, quietly, but clearly, “You behave like the son of a donkey and a brothel-keeper, Signore Arnesti. You embarrass us. Remind me why you are permitted in this room?”
Shocking. But it pleased him to say it. The words established a fraught, frightened silence. The councillors were like a sculpted frieze around the table now, the duke thought.
He had a wider intent, given the manœuvring for position taking place of late. Arnesti purpled, so outraged he couldn’t speak. For once. The duke was happy with his phrasing. He had never offered that particular insult before. If they had been younger men, there would likely have been a challenge and a duel.
He said, “Signora di Lucaro served us ably for years. From a time before any man here but myself sat on this council. She provided regular, accurate information from reliable sources, even on the rectors’ councils. She dealt with people we needed dealt with, and did so with discretion. Does any other fool in this room desire to malign her now that she is dead?”
No one appeared to so desire. Glances were lowered, throats cleared, chairs scraped. One man made the sign of the sun disk.
Only Arnesti spoke again, reclaiming his voice. “You have insulted me mortally, my lord duke! I demand a retraction!”
“Retracted,” said the duke promptly. (Some things were too easy.)
Arnesti opened his mouth and closed it. He was a fool. Too nakedly ambitious, manifestly thoughtless, all posture and bullying. He might buy a certain number of votes in any election, but he had enemies—and would have more before an election began, if the duke had anything to do with it.
“What follows now?” It was Amadeo Frani, on his left.
Frani was a steady, humourless man. His younger son, who liked boys a little too visibly, had been posted away—to Dubrava, in fact—with the duke’s blessing and support. Since then, Amadeo Frani would follow him in anything.
“It will cost money,” Duke Ricci said. He smiled, to take away that eternal sting, let them know he had thought this through. The council needed reassurance at times such as this. They wanted the seas as safe as they could be, ports open, profits coming in. Everything else was incidental for most of these men. It was the duke who tried to look to the wider world and a longer stretch of time.
He had grown weary doing so. There was an isle in the lagoon, a small chapel, he saw a garden . . .
He said, “We’ll pay Dubrava a sum, and send a gift for their main sanctuary, new windows, something of the sort. Perhaps a Blessed Victim relic. They owe us compensation for the doctor’s death on their ship. This can be sorted. We’ll also have to make amends to the Patriarch for using a holy office for our own purposes.”
“Amends being money?” Frani didn’t smile.
“Well, he may demand that one of us be hanged.”
“What?”
“Or we might have to make a pilgrimage together. Go on our knees to Rhodias.”
“My lord duke . . . !”
Humourless man. Duke Ricci refrained from grimacing. “I am jesting, only jesting, Signore Frani. It will be a sum of money, with a letter of contrition. I am sure of it.”
Amadeo Frani had paled. It ought to have been amusing. The man swallowed, nodded. “And Obravic? The emperor?”
The others were letting Frani ask the questions. Interesting.
“He won’t matter. He owes us for loans. He’ll need more. He’ll also send a letter, but will wait to see what the Patriarch does. They’ll enjoy our embarrassment. We could send him another clock.” He saw his principal clerk make a note.
Frani nodded again. If he’d had a little more imagination, the duke thought, he might even have made a competent successor. But he didn’t have that, and he wouldn’t be.
“And the woman writing us? Signora Miucci, as Dubrava believes her to be?”
“Leonora Valeri seems to have solved that problem herself,” the duke said. “We appear to be fortunate in her.”
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“They will permit her to become Eldest Daughter?”
“You read the letter. They already have. I imagine the empress played a role.”
“Ah. Yes, yes. The empress.” It was clear that Frani had no idea what this meant. He said, “This woman won’t be able to do for us what the other one did.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then we might give thought to placing someone else in Dubrava.”
Duke Ricci smiled encouragingly. Frani did have his moments.
“Let us do that,” he said.
Before setting out from Seressa to take up his post in Obravic, as envoy to the imperial court, Orso Faleri had, of course, reviewed the dossier of letters sent by his predecessor.
He had also consulted, on arrival, with the staff at the Seressini residence, who were, in at least two instances, more acute than ordinary servants would be. They’d be watching him as much as helping him. Seressa trusted few people, including its envoys.
Before leaving home he had also sat through two sessions in the ducal palace with that same predecessor, Guibaldo Piccati.
Unfortunately, the Faleri and Piccati families, equally respected, had a feud going back to a night in a celebrated brothel. A Faleri had been a little too amusing about the dubious parentage of a Piccati in the room, the suggestion being that the young man’s father had been the artist commissioned to paint his mother. It did happen on occasion, and there was (alas) a resemblance.
Although it had been fifty years ago, the incident had effects that lingered, including some violence. This made the meeting between the returned and the outbound ambassadors less cordial and useful than it might have been. In truth, this wasn’t unknown even without a feud: a dramatic success by a new envoy could reflect badly on the preceding one who had failed to achieve whatever the triumph might be.
His own triumphs had been limited. He’d only had a single cold, wet winter in Obravic, mind you, and spring brought a different set of elements into play, the way an alchemist (hah, he thought) deployed new compounds in his attempt to conjure gold, or devise an elixir of immortality, or just one that eased gout.
Obravic was worried about its defences in Sauradia. They expected word, any day, as to whether the Osmanlis were on the move again this year against the great fort of Woberg, key to those parts of Sauradia still held for holy Jad.
And a gateway, in grim truth, to Obravic.
There was no sure way to gauge how far the ambitions of Grand Khalif Gurçu might extend. Could the khalif truly imagine Asharite bells ringing the faithful to prayer right here? Sanctuaries of Jad converted (as they had been in golden Sarantium) to profane temples of Ashar?
Distance had been their ally thus far. And rain. Rain was what they needed, each and every spring. Not here, but to the south and east where the cavalry of Ashar and the infantry—including the dreaded djannis—and the great cannons they wheeled ponderously with them came through Sauradia towards the children of Jad.
There was a certain delicacy to the Seressini position, of course: they traded happily with Asharias. They guaranteed the safety of Osmanli cargo in the Seressini Sea. Their lagoon-bound city stayed afloat (poets had written) on the tide of that trade.
Even so, one didn’t want the star-born moving too far this way. Power needed to be balanced. If only the khalif would be content with the empire he had, with trade and wealth. With his sumptuous palaces and gardens and (by all accounts) the languorous beauty of his women.
There were so many elements in all this. Conflict brought danger, death, grief—and opportunity. Emperor Rodolfo needed money. Urgently. Fortresses that endured sieges required repair. Seressa, through its honourable ambassador, the esteemed Signore Faleri, had been pleased to offer additional loans at generous rates—in solidarity, Faleri had said, with the Jaddite cause and faith, and honouring the courage of the emperor’s brave soldiers.
He had also seeded his ground in the palace with the usual scattering of bribes. Not for the chancellor: Savko was unimpeachable, a succession of ambassadors over the years had confirmed that. The man disliked Seressa personally, it was believed. No one had been able to determine why.
But there were others with the emperor’s ear, carrying less meticulously arrayed scruples. Seressini largesse had found its way over the winter to several of these.
At the same time, this court was working on Faleri, of course. The dance of it was amusing. The yellow-haired girl, Veith, the one from his first evenings here, had become a regular visitor after dark. Over time she had induced him to adjust his views as to the preeminence of Seressini courtesans. She deployed certain accessories that were new in Faleri’s experience, and she had not yet exhausted either her devices or her imagination.
He still didn’t let her into the room on the main level where he worked. On nights when he let her stay (more often, through the winter) he had a servant posted outside that room in case he fell asleep and she wandered—purely by happenstance, of course—to the desk where the papers were. Gaurio, his own manservant, did some of this guarding, then others in the house relieved him. Faleri’s letters were double-masked, she’d learn nothing, but he didn’t want it reported back to the Council of Twelve that he was careless with documents out of stupefied lust or some such thing.
She did leave him deeply satiated on the nights she visited, though. Certain women, you might say, understood a man.
It was all done to a purpose, and Faleri knew it. Everyone who befriended him here was looking to know more about him, about Seressa. She was subtle when they talked in bed. An intelligent woman. Worthy of Seressa, he had decided.
They didn’t actually talk a great deal after lovemaking. He tended to be exhausted, and sometimes in pain.
He had come to enjoy this ceaseless dance of under-the-surface intentions, despite hating to be so far from home. His mistress was no longer his, among other things.
It had always been likely. He had thoughts as to what he might do to regain her on his return. It depended on achieving a seat on the Council of Twelve. Annalisa would like that very much, even more than his wife and daughters, perhaps. His daughters remained unwed, though it was past time. His wife had chosen her tactics the way a military commander might do on campaign. She had made it clear she was relying on his elevation to the council to improve their matches.
There was a great deal riding, in short, on his ability to persuade this court and its absurdly distractible monarch that the pirates of Senjan really did need to be—for once and forever—destroyed.
The chancellor to Jad’s Holy Emperor had much on his mind that spring. He always had a great deal to contend with, but some seasons were worse than others and this was one of those.
They had needed to borrow additional funds from Seressini banks to repair the great fortress of Woberg and to supply and pay the garrison there. There was no question the garrison needed to be paid. They were the main defence to the emperor’s richest lands. Woberg had been the principal target of the Osmanlis for three campaigns now. Mighty as it was, those troops couldn’t be left hungry and unpaid and expecting a renewed assault.
There was also the problem of being so much indebted to Seressa.
He had asked aid from Ferrieres, pointing out (again) that all the Jaddite world was at risk if Woberg and its environs fell under the Osmanli yoke. The young, ambitious king of Ferrieres sent back eloquent letters of agreement and encouragement—but not money, and certainly not soldiers.
The Jaddite world was more divided and mistrustful than ever, the chancellor thought grimly. And, really, if the siege of Sarantium twenty-five years ago had not been able to unite them, what would do that today?
The High Patriarch also sent encouragement and, when winter ended, he had dispatched fifty of his personal guards to journey by sea and land to Woberg. Not a significant force, but fifty good men did help in a fortress. The cha
ncellor replied on behalf of the emperor with appreciation, and a request for prayers.
They needed soldiers, though. Even more, they needed rain. They required the heavens to turn dark and open and drench the roads of Sauradia. They needed holy Jad above to soak the infidel armies. Cold water in their boots, dripping into their tents at night, bringing disease, slowing them in thick mud, and—more than anything—preventing their terrible cannons from reaching Woberg in time.
It was always about time, distance, speed.
The fortress gateway to the emperor’s heartlands lay at the very end of the Asharite army’s fighting range. The Osmanlis had to delay setting out for their horses to be fed and strengthened at winter’s end, which meant giving them time to graze on new grass. Then they had to get across land and rivers (the god be thanked for rivers) a very long way, feeding a very large army (and the horses). And then assemble a siege outside Woberg’s great walls (great only if they had been repaired) and invest it closely, pounding with their cannons . . . and still leave themselves time to get back home.
They could not overwinter in northern Sauradia until they controlled it. It was a blessing for the emperor. It was what had saved them thus far. There was no way to feed and shelter so many horses and forty thousand men in winter in the lands south of Woberg when the north wind and the hard cold came.
Distance and time weighed in the balance of the scales of war.
And rain. They prayed for rain in all the sanctuaries of Obravic, and the High Patriarch’s letter promised that he and his clerical college would do so every morning and evening. Rain, blessed, saving, necessary rain. The destiny of empires turned on spring rainfall.
It could make a man, thought Chancellor Savko, feel as if all his devising was of limited significance. That was a bad line of thought. He pushed it away when it came. You needed to prepare as best you could for a spring of mild sunshine and dry roads—with the massive guns of Asharias rumbling remorselessly north to blast the fortress walls with a noise like the thunder that had failed to come from heaven.