The Ilkhan Mongol Empire stretched from Egypt to the Black Sea and no one really knew just how far into the Asian hinterland. The Ilkhan were themselves pagan, but had no qualms about their subject peoples worshiping gods of their choice. Christians, Muslims, Jews—many religions—all prospered in the Mongol realm. They enforced a degree of tolerance that the fiery Christian Metropolitan of Alexandria might find irksome, but it did make things peaceful in their dominions.
Eberhard's eyes narrowed. "They won't like that in Alexandria."
The Emperor shrugged. "Politics and war make for strange bedfellows, Eberhard. And it all comes down to Grand Duke Jagiellon trying to flank me, or force me to fight on two fronts, and the Holy Roman Empire trying to flank him. The Grand Duke is building up quite a fleet in Odessa. Then, too, there's this: The news Hans brings back from his long stay in Italy leaves me concerned that the Hungarians are up to no good, either."
The Ritter nodded. "The Ilkhan could at least bottle them up in the Black Sea. But surely Emperor Alexius VI can do that just as well from Constantinople?"
Baron Trolliger coughed. "We have a treaty with him, yes. But we've had word that a few ships—which are definitely not from Odessa—have been discharging visitors, who have gone on to visit the Imperial palace."
The old Ritter nodded slowly. "I see. That would indeed leave our flank wide open. Very well, Your Majesty, when do I leave?"
"Not until spring, Eberhard," said the Emperor. "Even if you left today, getting passage to Acre or Ascalon before spring would be impossible. You can have a few winter months to spend cooped up with your grandchildren. By the time spring comes, even the muddy road will probably look appealing."
Eberhard smiled. "There is some merit in what you say, Your Majesty. The last time I was home my daughter's youngest was teething. Yes, by spring it may even be good to be on the road without children."
Charles Fredrik coughed. "Well. Not strictly without. He's a bit old to be called a child, these days. But he is one of my heirs."
A look of horror came across the old statesman's face. "Not Manfred? Sire, I'm an old man!"
The Emperor nodded, ruefully. "It's a symbol of great trust, Eberhard of Brunswick. I am feeling my age, and my wound troubles me. I may not survive another winter and such a trip will take the boy a long way from the intriguers of court. If I die, the succession must be a simple matter of Conrad being the only candidate at hand. Not that I have the least fears about Manfred wanting the throne, but that has never stopped factions in the past. On the other hand, if by any evil chance Conrad and I are killed—as happened to the Emperor Maximilian and his son—I want Manfred safe and ready, where no one can get to him easily. Besides, you're the leading statesman of my Empire. I want him to learn from you. If there is time I'll send the boy to Ferrara to Duke Enrico Dell'este to see if he can learn strategy and tactics from the Old Fox, but statecraft needs to come first. And you'll find he's improved a great deal. Circumstances, Erik and Francesca have made him grow up a great deal."
But all the old man said was "Manfred!" with a face full of woe.
* * *
The messenger bearing dispatches from the Emperor to Francesca de Chevreuse only took ten days, and that was by spending imperial gold like water. A brief thaw and then a vicious freeze had made the roads full of iron-hard ridges and ruts . . . which was still better than fetlock-deep mud.
Francesca looked at the imperial seal—and the scrawl. Well, the Imperial tutors probably hadn't beaten him for untidiness.
She grimaced. One had to wonder what vagaries of imperial policy had stemmed from some terrified official doing his best to interpret this handwriting. It really was difficult. Looking carefully, though, she could see that was in part due to a definite tremor in the hand of the writer. Perhaps the rumors about the Emperor's health had some substance after all.
Francesca looked out over Copenhagen and the Sound. The water was gray, bleak, wind-chopped. She'd been out earlier, wearing her beautiful sable coat and muff. Her new venture into vertical diplomacy instead of the horizontal kind still required appearances. Even though, as the prince's leman, she was strictly off-limits, men could be just as foolish when flirting as they could in bed. More so, sometimes; in bed, they weren't trying to impress a woman with their brains.
So she needed to look as good, if not more so, than she had as one of the most sought-after courtesans in Venice. That, alas, meant keeping up with her rigorous exercise regime. The air had been biting cold and full of the dusty smell of coming snow.
Just the time for a little venture into the Norse wilderness. Ah, well. What the Emperor wanted . . .
The Emperor would get. Besides, she was a little worried herself about the lack of communication from Manfred.
She sat down at her writing desk and sharpened her quill. Then, in a hand that was both beautiful and legible, penned several letters. She shook the sand off them, and tinkled a delicate glass-and-silver bell. Poor little Heinrich could go out in the cold and deliver these.
Chapter 7
Winter in the Republic of Venice was not as bleak as winter in the Holy Roman Empire. It was still wet and cold, which made repair work a little more difficult than at other times.
This fact was relevant. The Casa Montescue was busy getting a facelift. True, the great house of Montescue was technically bankrupt twice over, but that was a good reason to do it now. "If we don't do it," said Lodovico Montescue calmly to his granddaughter Katerina, "everyone will think we are down to our last ducat."
Kat shook her head at him, smiling. "But Grandpapa, we are down to our last ducat!" She couldn't bring herself to be hugely worried about it. Come financial ruin or any other disaster, she had Marco. And it seemed, now that the feud between Valdosta and Montescue was finally healed, that Lodovico Montescue, once the Colleganza-genius of Venice, had found his verve once again.
He chucked her chin. "Cara mia, if we have the place looking too shabby, then we'll have our creditors on our necks. Watch. We start spending money, they'll back off. We've got political connections, even if not business. Something will turn up."
She shook her head and sighed at him, but without the despair that had plagued her, waking and sleeping, for so many years. "All that worries me is where the money to pay for this lot is going to come from."
"If need be, we'll borrow it," he said, making Kat raise her eyes. "But watch. Things will begin to right themselves." He stretched out his big, liver-spotted hands and looked at the slightly bulbous knuckles. "Marco has not come yet?"
"He said he'd be here by the terce bell." Kat felt the warmth of knowing this lift her.
"Good." Lodovico nodded his satisfaction. "I want him to work on these old hands again. I'll swear that boy of yours has magic in his fingers, never mind his skills as a doctor."
"He is going to be great physician!" said Kat defensively, trying very hard not to think about the other things that he was. Magician, for one. Vehicle for—something else—for another.