Emeric's curiosity and caution were aroused immediately by the indifferent one. There was something very odd about that blond man. It made Emeric suspicious.
But he had no intention of revealing anything. Instead, Emeric nodded slightly, barely acknowledging the respectful bows.
"Well. Count Dimetos, you have taken some time to get back to me."
The emissary held out his palms. "My apologies, King Emeric. Travel is slow at this time of year. But for a few small details, about which I am sure we can reach a speedy agreement, I bring happy news."
Emeric was careful to look unimpressed. "I'm not some Turkish-bazaar merchant, Count. I do not bargain."
* * *
Actually, Emeric was impressed. The counterdemands he'd made a few months earlier when the Byzantines had first approached him with an offer for a secret alliance against Venice had been extreme:
Forty galleys, full crews, thirty carracks capable of carrying at least two hundred men each, and five hundred thousand ducats to cover the cost of the campaign. And Zante and Crete. Nothing less, and all that in exchange for simply seizing Corfu from the Venetians—which the Hungarians would keep, not the Greeks—so that the Byzantine Empire could finally be rid of the untaxed and commercially aggressive Venetian enclave in Constantinople.
To call it an "unequal exchange" would be like calling an elephant a mouse. Yet, to Emeric's surprise, the Byzantines were apparently willing to settle on his terms.
It all seemed opportune, much too opportune. If Alexius came up with the money, Emeric would know that it was indeed too good to be true. There was only one place Alexius could still raise that kind of money: by making a secret alliance with Lithuania.
Emeric suppressed a vicious smile. If Grand Duke Jagiellon wanted to give him money and ships to do exactly what he had already intended to do, so be it. Emeric couldn't see Jagiellon's exact plan yet, but his target was plainly the Venetian Republic. That was also fine. Emeric wanted Venice and its holdings, too, eventually, but he would take things one step at a time. Corfu, first. That would cripple the Venetians and allow him to turn on the Byzantines. Before that weak fool Alexius knew what was happening, Emeric would have Negroponte, and then . . .
The hell with merely holding the Golden Horn as the Venetians did. Constantinople itself would do. And Alexius himself—Jagiellon also, it seemed—would provide him with the wherewithal to do so.
Now he did smile, but pleasantly, and his voice was smooth and urbane. "However, please continue, Count Dimetos. I do not object to some small adjustment of the terms. Not necessarily."
"Just details to be arranged, not really adjustments," said the emissary, fluttering his hands. "The agreement we spoke of the last time was not entirely complete."
He's nervous, thought Emeric, incredulously. The Greek is nervous.
What did it take to make someone like Dimetos nervous? Dimetos's quick flicker of a glance at the expressionless blond man answered that question.
Emeric leaned forward. "Introduce me to your companions, Count."
The Count bowed. He indicated the tallest man of his party. "Your Majesty, this is Admiral Lord Nikomos of Volos. He is our naval expert. This is General Alexiou. He is, as you might gather, a military man. Mavilis here has come to support me with any financial . . . details."
Emeric raised his eyebrows. "That is one detail about which there will be no discussion." He pointed to the blond man, who looked back at him with dead eyes. "And who is this?"
"Ah . . . An advisor to the emperor," the emissary stated uncomfortably. Decidedly uncomfortably. "Milord Aldanto, is his name."
Emeric nodded with feigned disinterest, and yawned, his voice at variance to the curiosity sparked by Dimetos's reaction. "An Italian name. Interesting. Where are you from, Aldanto?
"Milano." There was a toneless quality to the voice that matched the man's stony expression. Toneless? Rather say, lifeless.
Emeric simply raised his eyebrows again, and turned back to the emissary. "Well, Count. Perhaps you should explain these little details that you believe require—what did you call it?—'completion,' I believe."
There was a slight beading of sweat on the Count's face. "Well. The galleys—"
The admiral interrupted. "We just don't have that many ships to spare, King Emeric. It would leave us with too few for—"
"If I had wished you to speak, Admiral, I would have told you so," Emeric said curtly. "I need those vessels. Mine are not a seagoing people. I have enlisted what I can, but we are talking of blockades, escorts and transports. I can move men overland as far as the mouth of the Narenta. The rest will have to be achieved by sea. If you don't provide those transports, then the assault is a waste of time. The Narenta pirates have been brought into my fold for this task. Backed up by the galleys of Byzantium, you should be able to deal with any Venetian vessels. Provided we time this right, that's the key."
He studied the pole ornaments for a moment. The one on the left had now apparently died also. Pity. Emeric had hoped, idly, that he wouldn't be too preoccupied to observe the last moments.
"We must allow the Eastern and Western convoys to pass," he continued, looking back at the Byzantine envoys. "The commander of the Corfu garrison will send a request for replacement stores by coaster afterward. At that point we attack. If we fail to take the fortress and the island, we will have some months to lay siege before the Venetian ships can return."
"The emperor Alexius has arranged that neither fleet will be returning," said the blond-haired man expressionlessly.
Emeric had not asked for him to speak, either, but he let that pass. Instead, he snorted. "The last time that was tried it failed."
"This time it will not fail." The man made that statement with the same certainty with which he might have said, The sun will rise tomorrow. Which was . . . also interesting.
Emeric shook his head. "I don't gamble on my campaigns. Certainly not based on empty promises." His tone made clear his opinion of the spendthrift and debauched young Alexius.
"We do not make empty promises." There was such a cold certainty in that voice! Who was this fellow, that he could make such pledges on behalf of Alexius?
Emeric dismissed that with a wave. "We will calculate as if you are not that sure. First, let us settle the important question: money."
An unpleasant conviction was growing in his mind about this blond man. He would have to check with the Countess Elizabeth Bartholdy, his principal advisor in magical matters. Despite his reputation, fiercely cultivated, Emeric was little more than a hedge-wizard compared to her.
He was now almost sure that the money was coming from Jagiellon. That did not worry him. Money was not a potential threat, nor a potential spy. Gold had no loyalty, and was never a traitor or an assassin.