* * *
"Sire. This was given to one of the guards by the Venetian officer," said the factotum, handing Emeric a slip of parchment.
It read: Contact me. Deal.
Emeric smiled wolfishly. "Well. Captain-General Tomaselli. Maybe his wife did pass on that little letter to him."
"Additionally, the elderly imperial . . . who I accompanied when he went to relieve himself, asks that Your Majesty consider a private deal. The man said he has magical word from his master. The Emperor wants his nephew intact. For which he is prepared to pay a quarter of a million ducats and also Your Majesty's former territory of Ceska, and to withdraw from the districts of Soporon and Vas."
"What!" Emeric started forward. "What did he say?"
The Factotum repeated himself faithfully.
"Damn him! Damn him. He's letting me know what the Emperor is doing. Trying to draw me back to Hungary. Ha! Well, I'll play him at his game. The Citadel is so close to starvation I'll win soon enough anyway. Then I'll take back Soporon and Vas—and take Ceska in the bargain. "
* * *
"My principal fear about your plan, my dear," said Eberhard to Francesca, "is that it may backfire on us. I think we may just have told Emeric what a valuable card he has to play in Manfred."
Francesca shrugged. "Surely he's figured that out for himself by now, Eberhard."
The older statesman shook his head. "Emeric . . . I have serious doubts about his sanity, Francesca. He thinks himself vastly clever, and vastly superior. He has welded the fractious elements of the Hungarian kingdom into a unit. But his decisions are sometimes . . . odd. There is a theory that the Emperor has that someone else in Hungary is pulling his strings. It may well be true. I did very little time in Buda, and I've never been so glad to leave anywhere, not even the weather in Ireland. His capital is a pretty place—with a monster corrupting it."
"I can see I still need to stop thinking like an Aquitaine," said Francesca. "But I was sure we'd get an approach from his spies. Soon."
"We may," said Eberhard. "But first we'll get the attack. Emeric simply agreed to everything. You don't negotiate like that when you're in earnest. Trust me. Negotiations are one thing I've done so often that I know exactly how genuine ones feel. Erik is preparing for Emeric to break the truce."
* * *
Falkenberg yawned. "It was long, boring and windy and dusty." He grinned nastily. "The dust was getting to Emeric, too. Now, is there any wine? Eberhard rationed me on Emeric's. I wouldn't buy horses from that man."
"Who? Emeric? Erik never bought any of them." Benito had come, full of curiosity, to nose out what he might.
"No. Eberhard of Brunswick. He kept that dickering going all lifelong day, when we had no intention of surrendering—and Emeric has absolutely no intention of abiding by the terms he offered us. Man's a snake. Dresses like a pimp, too."
"Well, how long have we got before fighting resumes?" asked Manfred. "We've probably given the outer wall another two weeks' life with the work we've done to it today."
Falkenberg shrugged. "Eberhard insisted on until sunrise tomorrow to consult his principals. I suspect Emeric will try an all-out assault about an hour before the truce is over."
As events proved he was wrong. The assault came at midnight. It was overcast and as black as the inside of a cat out there, and Emeric obviously found the opportunity too good to miss.
Erik's men had also found the opportunity too good to miss. Since sunset, they had been outside the walls digging pits in the shingle and covering them with sailcloth and more shingle. The oil and pitch pots had been heating since dusk.
Sometimes a bad reputation is a serious impediment to treachery.
Chapter 91
Two days later, after the failed attack, the approaches Francesca had expected arrived. They arrived in a way she'd never expected, however—from someone she'd liked and trusted, who had given her a great deal of information: the little Greek secretary to the governor, Meletios Loukaris.
Francesca had put a lot of Manfred's money into watching. And she'd put a lot into the gossip grapevine. It had brought her a fair amount of information, but not the kingpin. Not yet. Now the gossip chain brought in another piece. The captain-general—having withdrawn from social life of any sort since his wife's arrest, and become almost entirely reclusive since her escape—was hosting a gathering. It couldn't really be counted as a party; the guest list was comprised of the worst bores among the Case Vecchie and Libri d'Oro. No women were invited. Francesca had a very good idea of the guest list for someone who hadn't seen it. An interesting group to choose for a party . . . and now on her watch-list.
"The awkward question," said Francesca, "is whether De Belmondo is involved, because his secretary is."
"Test him," said Von Gherens. "Tell De Belmondo we're going to arrest the man. And watch the secretary to see if he runs."
Francesca screwed up her face in disgust. "The thing I think I hate most about you military people is your crude attitude toward espionage. I was going to feed De Belmondo some information—confidential, and absolutely not to be repeated—and see if the Hungarians got it."
"And what were you going to tell him?" asked Manfred.
"I've been trying to think of something," said Francesca irritably.
"I think we should arrest this secretary and make him talk," stated Falkenberg.
Francesca shook her head. "The trouble with that, Falkenberg, is that some people will keep their tongues, even under torture. And you would make a feeble torturer, anyway."
Falkenberg tugged his moustache. "And why is that, milady?"
"Because there is a great deal you wouldn't do."
Falkenberg nodded. "True enough. But I've usually found that it's not what I would do, but what the ones being interrogated believe I am going to do."
Manfred sighed. "Look, Francesca, we'll do it your way—until tomorrow sundown. Then we do it Von Gherens' and Falkenberg's way. We'll tell the governor we're going to arrest the man at dawn. And arrive at midnight. If he's packing we know where we stand. If not, we put my one-eyed frightener on him. I just don't believe we can play around with this."
* * *
As it happened, they didn't need either step. Good fortune finally favored them.
De Belmondo came to see Manfred a little later, just after Francesca had left for her walk. The timing was too precise to be coincidental.
"Prince Manfred," said the old man, uneasily. "Forgive me intruding on you like this. But this morning one of the Libri d'Oro, a gentleman by the name of Alexander Konstantis, came to see me in secret." The old man looked embarrassed. "He and I share an interest in the collection of naturalistic curiosities. He is an avid collector of birds' eggs. Under this pretext he came to see me, privately, and not in the office. He, ah, has something of a reputation as a malcontent. I think he just likes to argue, but that is easily misconstrued. Alexander was invited to a gathering at the captain-general's rooms last night. Now, Signor Konstantis doesn't like Captain-General Tomaselli, and very nearly didn't go and only decided to do so to give the cloth-head—in his words—a good mocking. He found himself part of a group of very unlikely people. Either very wealthy landowners or people with a reputation—like himself—for being malcontents. His curiosity was pricked and he decided, instead of just enjoying himself, to find out why the captain-general wanted to mix the likes of him with those."