Fieschi’s tone was quiet and dangerous. “Who is the girl, then?”
The cup creaked in the Bear’s hand, whining with distress from the man’s heavy grip. “Who is the priest?” he countered.
There was a whisper of cloth, and the thump of items striking the table. The Bear vanished from the window, and Ocyrhoe risked a quick peek to see what had drawn him away. Fieschi had produced a satchel from beneath his robe-after a moment, she recognized it as the one the priest had been carrying-and had strewn its contents across the table. “I don’t know who he is,” Fieschi said. “But I know what he is. He is another vote.”
Ocyrhoe shifted to her left to get a better look at Fieschi. He was slouched in his chair, his attention on the contents of the priest’s satchel. His fingers idly drummed on the table.
“In which case you can quit that hellhole so much sooner,” Orsini said, interrupting the cardinal’s reverie.
“Can we?” Fieschi snapped. “He evaded the Emperor’s blockade into the city, which means that the Emperor wanted him to get into the city. Why? Because he is one of the Emperor’s men-the very sort of man we do not want voting in this election.”
“We do not know that he is Frederick’s man,” Orsini insisted defensively. “He might be just the opposite, in fact.” He rifled roughly through the contents of the satchel as if somehow seeking proof of this. His jaw tightened and lines creased his forehead. Ocyrhoe leaned forward, nearly putting herself in plain sight. Her eyesight was sharp, but she couldn’t see much. On the table, in addition to the Holy Bible, there was a large piece of parchment with writing on it, a short knife in a plain sheath, several tiny purses (one that made the musical sound of coins as the Bear dropped it on the table), and a few other items the Bear dismissed.
“He’s sick,” Fieschi said. “Weak from infection and delirious. There are wounds on him that have not healed well. Combat wounds. Not recent ones.” That got Orsini’s attention, and Ocyrhoe’s as well. “Yes, he has seen battle in the last six months.” Fieschi leaned forward. “Now where would a man such as this see battle?”
The Bear picked up the knife again and pulled it out of its sheath. “There are many places,” he said carefully. “The roads aren’t safe.”
Sinibaldo laughed, and the sound made Ocyrhoe flinch. Realizing how exposed she was, she drew back. “Very few places are safe anymore,” the cardinal said. “Which is why few travel alone. The only ones who do are those who have the protection of the Holy Roman Emperor.” He emphasized this last phrase impatiently, clearly wanting some kind of reaction from Orsini.
Orsini resheathed the knife and put it down, refusing to give Fieschi the satisfaction of an emotional response.
Sinibaldo slammed his hand against the table. “Orsini! Your men threw him in the Septizodium without bothering to learn who he is, where his loyalties lie. They picked him off the street and tossed him inside like he was a common criminal. And now we’re stuck with him. Now he has a voice in the election-the decisive voice, given our stalemate.” His voice was hard, and the words flew out of his mouth in a rush, as if they had been held in him too long. “For all we know, those halfwits of yours have just effectively offered up St. Peter’s throne to Frederick. We don’t know who this man is, and if he is Frederick’s man, then he will guard himself well. We won’t know anything about his allegiances until we take another vote-”
“You are a guest in my house, Sinibaldo,” Orsini snapped, cutting the other man off. “I would suggest some care with your tone. I agree the circumstances are unfortunate, but based on your inflated sense of your own powers, I advise you to use his confused state to your advantage. If he is indeed delirious, find a way to make him yours.” It was a challenge.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then Fieschi looked away. He picked up his knife and returned to eating. “Very well, let us allow the possibility that he might be something other than Frederick’s tool,” he said around a mouthful of food.
Orsini picked up the piece of parchment and held it up to the light. “What’s this?”
The Bear was too intent on squinting at the page to notice the other man’s reaction, but Ocyrhoe watched Fieschi. She saw his hands stop moving; she saw him slowly put the utensils down. “That? It’s nothing,” the priest said. “A scrap from an illustrated manuscript. A book not unlike-”
“And this?” The Bear pointed to something on the page. “Here, in the margin.”
Fieschi picked up his cup and drank slowly. “The scribbling of a madman,” he said. “Translate it if you wish, but I can tell you what it says. It is heretical nonsense, a prophecy filled with astrological prattle-references to the influences offered by Saturn and Jupiter. Naturally, it talks of the downfall of the Church, and it intimates that everything will come to an end in less than twelve years. This is the very sort of apocalyptic rabble-rousing that will inflame the citizens should it find its way into the hands of the wrong sort of miscreant.”
The Bear put the page down. “Who is he?” Orsini asked.
Fieschi waited for a long moment, and when the larger man started to fidget with the items on the table, he smiled. Orsini noticed the cardinal’s expression and his face tightened. He picked up the wine flagon in an effort to draw attention away from his grimace, but he poured the wine sloppily, splashing some on his hand and the table.
The cardinal let out a low laugh. “As you suggested, as long as he’s delirious and confined with me, I can control him, so why should you fear anything?” He leaned forward. “But the girl and his friend. And the ring. Those are out of my control. Are you certain you shut down the witch network?”
Orsini’s face colored. “They’re gone,” he insisted. He gulped his wine. “I’ll find the ring,” he said. “You do your work.”
“Of course,” Fieschi said smoothly. “As you said, he is another vote, and perhaps he could be convinced to help us. Even if he did set out on his journey as the Emperor’s man, if he is deranged enough now, he might not understand what he is to do. Perhaps the fact that he isn’t in his right mind might be useful.”
An owl hooted close behind Ocyrhoe and she started forward, her hand accidentally tapping against the frame of the window. She threw herself flat on the balcony floor, and a second later was hustling over the railing and back down the stone lion. She had been too noisy this time. They must have heard her. She dropped down to the lion’s feet and hung on, her legs dangling over open space. She couldn’t see the window, but she could see the play of shadow and light change as Orsini came to the window again.
She held on, her fingers cramping, but the light didn’t change. He was still there. Her arms started to scream with exertion. How long was he going to stand there?
Her left hand slipped, and she bit down on her tongue to keep the fear in. The stone was warm and slippery. She wasn’t going to be able to hang on much longer. The fall wasn’t that far; she would be able to land easily. But she couldn’t do it quietly. He was bound to hear the sound of a body hitting the tiles of the roof below. He’d raise the alarm, and the palazzo grounds would fill with soldiers and torches. She’d be caught, killed on the spot most likely. They’re gone, he had said. She was the only one left. No one was going to save her.
The owl hooted again from the nearby tree. Orsini grunted, and something flew over Ocyrhoe’s head. His cup, trailing a rain of red wine, struck the trunk of the tree and clattered through the branches, startling the owl.
As it clattered, Ocyrhoe let go.
10
The first week, they had covered ground quickly on European horses taken from the Livonians. They had carried some fodder with them. When this ran out, they slackened their pace and gave the horses leisure to forage in abandoned farm fields where wild grain was richly interspersed with the native feather grass. A fortnight into the journey, Vera had guided them to a market town on a great river where they had traded for steppe ponies, which were smaller but capable of traveling indefinitely on nothing but fresh grass-and in fact rejected provender as unpalatable. That was the last place they had seen that could answer to the name of city or town. Vera knew where it was that Raphael wanted to go, but rather than guiding them along a straight course to that destination-a range of low hills east of the Volga-she allowed the horses to trace the invisible boundary between the tall feather grass of the north, where they could enjoy level footing and richer forage, and the spiky bunchgrass that prevailed farther south.