"You don't trust me," she pouted, tracing patterns on his chest. The sigil Ogerda, which Master Morando had told her was the sign for control. He'd also asked her for inside news on the siege. She was determined to find out something for him.
"Of course I trust you dear, but it is quite confidential."
"You're teasing me." She started teasing him, quite a bit more physically.
"Don't stop." His voice sounded somewhat breathless.
"Only if you stop keeping all these secrets from me!"
"Very well. If you go on . . . Well, you remember the prince's bodyguard?"
"Erik Hakkonsen. Handsome, blond, worried-looking."
"As handsome as me?"
"Of course not! Go on." To encourage him, she began applying some of the new skills Morando was teaching her. Her husband gasped a little, then:
"The prince lied to me about the Icelander being landed before they came here. I remember him. And now, he has somehow left the Citadel and started a campaign in the countryside, trying to rally some of the peasants. Silly business! War should be left to regular soldiers, not mules pretending to be men. But what's even worse is that"—Tomaselli's voice grew heavy with indignation as well as passion—" he sneaked out of here without my permission. Didn't even consult me! He's out there with that snotty Vinlander woman who tried to come and stay here in the Citadel."
"Really? This Erik broke out after the siege started? A likely story. He must be in league with the Hungarians. I wouldn't be in the least surprised to find this prince in league with them too, the way he openly consorts with that woman of his. Rumor has it she was a cortegiana. No morals at all."
By now, her husband's mind was addled enough by what Sophia was doing not to find anything amiss in the utterly illogical conclusions his wife was advancing. Sophia filled her mouth again just to keep from laughing. Addling Nico Tomaselli's mind was not much of a challenge.
* * *
"Yes, mistress, I think all is going well."
The image of Countess Bartholdy floating over the blood-bowl frowned a little. "Make sure it doesn't go too well, Bianca. I want this siege to drag on and on. It'll take months of frustration before Emeric will finally be willing to come to me for help."
"I understand, mistress." Casarini hesitated. Then, decided that risking Bartholdy's immediate displeasure was less dangerous than risking eventual failure. "But it would help me—considerably—if I had some better idea of what you are specifically seeking."
The frown on the countess's face deepened. Bianca grew tense. Elizabeth Bartholdy was less concerned than Bianca herself with the way in which grimaces could, over centuries and millennia, permanently distort her face. But she was not oblivious to the problem. To see such a frown on her face was . . . frightening, to anyone who really knew her.
Thankfully, the frown eased, replaced by that silvery little laugh. "Very well. I suppose I have kept you a bit too much in the dark. You needn't concern yourself with my final goal, Bianca, but . . . Let's just say that I need to inveigle my great-great-nephew to release some magics on the island which will advance my purposes. In order for that to happen, however, he will need to leave the siege and come visit me in my castle near the Carpathians."
Immediately, Bianca understood the point. Emeric of Hungary was one of those kings who insisted on meddling with the military details of his campaigns—much to his officers' despair and, often enough, grisly punishment. It would not be easy to get him to leave the siege in order to make the long journey from Corfu to the Carpathians.
A long siege, then, stretching through the summer and autumn and well into the winter.
Bianca had no control, of course, over the military side of the matter. Although—
"At a certain point, mistress, it may be necessary to have Captain-General Tomaselli removed. He's such an incompetent commander that, with him in charge—constantly interfering, rather—it may be impossible to prevent Emeric from simply taking the Citadel by force, before winter comes. The defense would be far stronger if it was fully in the hands of the garrison commander, Leopoldo—especially with Prince Manfred and his Knights here. They seem to get along well with Commander Leopoldo."
Elizabeth pondered her words, for a moment. "True. But keep in mind the opposite risk. I do also want Corfu to fall to my great-great-nephew, eventually." She cocked her head slightly. "You understand that if the military defense is capable enough, everything will eventually depend on treachery. Well . . . treachery combined with what I will unleash on Corfu. I will provide the magics—but will you be able, when the time comes, to provide the treason?"
This was no time for hesitation. Bianca nodded firmly. "Yes, mistress. I will."
"See to it, then." The image of the countess began to fade. Within seconds, it was gone.
* * *
For the next hour or so, after cleaning up all signs of the ritual, Bianca sat in her room simply thinking. She'd gambled, making her claim to the countess, and now she had to make good on it.
By the end, she'd reached two conclusions. One pleasant, one not.
She'd already reached the tentative conclusion anyway, once the siege began, that she'd have to have her "uncle and aunt" killed sooner or later. It was already cumbersome, the way she had to sneak around and keep her activities a secret from them. Over time, the needs of her work would be impossible to hide from people living in the same house—especially the assignations she'd have to begin with one of Fianelli's men.
That was the pleasant conclusion. Betraying those who had given you their trust was always enjoyable to Bianca—not to mention spiritually profitable. Casarini, like her mistress, hoped to cheat Satan out of her soul. But doing so required emulating the Great One in all respects. She was already doing quite well in that regard, she thought. Killing her "relatives" would enhance her progress further.
She began considering the ways to accomplish that. But then, guided by years of rigorous self-discipline, put the matter aside in order to ponder the other conclusion.
Not pleasant, that one. For some years now, sex had stopped being anything for Bianca Casarini other than a means to an end. Still . . .
Eventually, she was going to have to betray Fianelli also. And the surest way to do that was to form a liaison with one of Fianelli's three chief goons. Between the pleasures of her body and the lure of taking his boss's place, Bianca was confident she could manage it.
Paulo Saluzzo, she decided. That won't be so bad. At least he's Florentine and takes a bath more than once a week.
* * *
The next day, Bianca began both projects. At midday, by wearing a rather provocative gown when she went to meet Paulo Saluzzo in order to pass on further information to his boss Fianelli. Bianca was normally careful to wear nothing but modest attire whenever she met Fianelli or any of his goons.
Saluzzo noticed—immediately—but was suave enough to do nothing more than give her a fairly subtle ogle, and a leer that could charitably be called a friendly smile.
Bianca did not return the smile. Moving too quickly would make Saluzzo suspicious. He was Florentine, after all. This needed some finesse. In any event, Bianca was in no hurry.