"Signora," he said urgently, recapturing her attention. "Signora, the dreams. What about them? What did they tell you?"
She transferred her attention from whoever was behind him back to his face. "You don't care about the dreams," she said accusingly. "You just want my—"
The wood gave.
Benito made a desperate lunge as the woman shrieked and teetered on the brink of the gulf, one arm flailing wildly, the other still clutching the baby. He reached her—she fell, just as his hands brushed the cloth—
He grabbed for it and held, as he was falling himself.
A blow to his chest knocked breath and sense from him, but he had a handful of fine linen fabric, and he held onto it past all pain and sense. The universe spun, then came to rest again.
He was dangling face-down over the street, three floors down to the cobblestones. With one hand and both legs he held on to the timber-strut that had saved him. The other hand was clutched in the linen dress of the little girl-baby, who was likewise dangling head down over the empty darkness, howling at the top of her lungs.
He edged back until his chest was supported by the timber, then drew her up. Only when she was safely cradled against his chest did he breathe again.
And held her carefully, like the precious thing she was, murmuring her name over and over, hardly daring to believe he had her back safe. He might even have burst into tears of his own at that point, but suddenly the others were on him, hauling him to safety, praising him to the skies. Arsenalotti, Arsenalotti wives everywhere, pounding his back, touching his sleeve, crying over the baby. Maria, her face as white as fine porcelain held Alessia, and stared down at her, fierce tears in her eyes.
No one seemed to be thinking about old Mrs. Grisini. Benito tilted his head to look down; and then, wincing, looked away. The torchlight showed enough. The crazed old woman's body was a broken ruin.
* * *
In the crowd below, Bianca Casarini turned and began walking away. She was disgruntled, a bit, at the failure of the scheme—but not excessively so. It had been Fianelli's idea in the first place, not hers. Emeric's servant was now desperate to do anything that might placate his master, given that all the other attempts at treason and sabotage had failed. No matter how petty the attempt might be.
Under pressure, Bianca had agreed to inflict the dreams on the old woman. She hadn't wanted to, herself, because she could sense the net thrown by Eneko Lopez and Francesca de Chevreuse closing steadily around her. But Countess Bartholdy had insisted.
"I can't afford to have Emeric get suspicious, this close to success. Which he will, if Fianelli reports that you are suddenly balking. So do as Fianelli wants, Bianca."
"Yes, mistress."
* * *
Well, she'd made the attempt—and the attempt had failed. Now the net would be closing more tightly still. It was time for Bianca Casarini to prepare for her escape.
Chapter 90
"The entire point of the exercise is not to surrender," said Captain-General Tomaselli. "It is to waste time. We know Venice is coming to our rescue. We know they have been delayed."
Manfred was pleased to note that the captain-general seemed to have accepted the de facto situation that first Falkenberg and now Erik had simply assumed control of the military of the Citadel. Erik, especially Erik these days, was someone people tended not to question if they could avoid it. Besides, Erik had produced the letter from the Doge brought by Benito, putting him in overall command of "Any Forces in support of the Republic of Venice, who are still at large on the Island of Corfu."
Somebody might argue they weren't at large. But so far no one had been that stupid, not even Captain-General Tomaselli. Ever since his wife's escape from prison, Tomaselli had been a very subdued man. All the more subdued, Manfred thought, because he clearly had no idea what had happened to her. Francesca had Tomaselli under constant observation, and she was sure the captain-general had no contact with his wife.
Manfred knew that Francesca herself was puzzled by Sophia's ability to stay hidden, in such a relatively small place as the Citadel of Corfu, and was getting worried about it. Some of the possible implications were . . . disturbing.
Manfred shook off the thought. Erik was speaking.
"It is a possible idea," the Icelander agreed.
Falkenberg chuckled. "We'll send old Eberhard out. If there's anyone in the whole world who can turn 'please pass the salt' into a three month negotiation, it's him."
"We have to be wary whom we send," said Erik grimly. "Emeric's middle name should be 'treachery.' "
"Well, you're not going. He wants your head," said Manfred firmly.
"And you're not going either," said Von Gherens. "Too valuable as a hostage. Send Falkenberg or me. They don't know us, and we can observe the military layout on the ground."
"I think I should go," said the captain-general. "I am high-ranking but expendable."
Manfred blinked. That had been in his mind, but he'd kept his mouth shut about it. "Very well. I'll ask Eberhard. The old man has been feeling underutilized."
When the captain-general had left, Francesca stood up. "I must go and talk to Eberhard too. This has interesting possibilities for espionage."
* * *
"A parley?" Emeric smiled savagely. "Such a thing presents some opportunities. Yes. Raise a truce flag. We can use the time to move materials onto the causeway without hindering cannon fire."
"Sire." Dragorvich hesitated. "You don't think they're using this to buy a respite? This would be the first time for many months that the western half of the citadel will not be being fired on."
Emeric shrugged. "I think it worthwhile. Aside from anything else, we can see if their delegation is worth taking hostage."
Dragorvich kept silent, of course. But, not for the first time, he reflected that the king of Hungary was ultimately something of a fool. Emeric always thought rules were for other people, without ever once considering that his own behavior might bite him back. There was a good reason, after all, that civilized nations considered diplomatic envoys untouchable. The Mongols were utterly fanatical on the subject. They had, on three occasions that Dragorvich knew of, destroyed entire kingdoms for breaching that rule of war.
* * *
They were met by a delegation of Magyar officers. "His Majesty will not receive you with weapons. Weapons are to be left here."
Falkenberg, in full armor, creaked to Eberhard of Brunswick. "It is to be hoped that he doesn't want us mother-naked, as I hear these Magyar cavalry have to go now."
By the pinched lips and dull red faces, Falkenberg hadn't made any new friends. Eberhard of Brunswick smiled sweetly. "Now, Ritter. Accidents will happen when you are foolish enough to give Carlo Sforza's son trouble."
"The story will be a matter of interest to the brotherhood of Knights. I'm sure it will elevate the status of the Magyar no end," said Falkenberg, calmly putting down his sword. The Knight knew he was playing to the gallery watching from the walls. Plainly the Magyar knew it too. But by the looks of the bright eyes . . . it might not make any difference in a minute.
Fortunately, a factotum from Emeric turned up to escort them down the causeway to the king.