1635 The Papal Stakes (63 page)

“Oh, yeah? What’s the big difference?”

“This group used an unusual method of victualing.”

Odoardo spat; thick and phlegmy, the gobbet didn’t carry as far as he intended. It hit his own horse square in the eye. The beast bucked; Odoardo smiled and wrestled it back under control, sawing at the reins cruelly. “That’s bullshit, Valentino. From what we’ve been able to learn at each town this group visited, they bought the right amounts of food and drink for a big group. So what’s so unusual?”

Valentino smiled and resolved to kill Odoardo in his sleep just as soon as the pope was dead. “Odoardo, you should pay a little more attention to the details. Yes, the men seen in the towns always bought the right amount of supplies for the group they claimed to be traveling with, but then why did that whole group never pass directly through any of the towns where they got their provisions?”

Odoardo frowned and shrugged a single shoulder diffidently. “Maybe they’re shy.”

“No one’s so shy that they don’t want to bring their horses or wagons to load up the provisions directly from the supplier, instead of dragging them off beyond each town’s outskirts and
then
loading them.”

“I thought you said that they didn’t have wagons,” Odoardo muttered, half annoyed, half confused.

“I was just trying to make a point—but you’re right: we’ve not found much in the way of wheel ruts and the other spoor we’d expect if the group had any heavy wagons. So the reason they traveled so quickly is that they traveled light. And they took precautions so that no townspeople ever saw but a few of them, and usually not the same ones, from what we can tell.”

“I thought the English-speakers always went to town.”

“Odoardo, my boy,” Valentino patronized, enjoying the rare opportunity to torture the insolent behemoth, “you really must pay more attention to the details. Yes, an English speaker—or several—were always in the group that went to town. But that might simply be because most of the party are English-speakers. Which would be exactly what we’d expect from a group of up-timers, don’t you think?”

What Odoardo lacked in perspicacity, he made up for in stubbornness. “If this group is our target, then they’d have servants—from their Roman embassy. They could’ve sent them to do the ‘victualing.’ Then no one would have known there were so many people who could speak English. If they were trying to travel without being detected, that’s what they’d have done.”

“Yes. Of course they would. They’d send their servants. Servants who probably can’t keep from inadvertently revealing their secrets any more than you can resist blabbing your own to anyone who’ll listen. Not exactly the team I would send to buy provisions if I wanted to maintain a low, largely undetected, profile. And besides, although each provisioning group always contained English speakers, the shop keepers have reported very different accents: a few were genuine English, a lot used this Amideutsch that you hear Germans speaking these days, some say they heard genuine up-time dialect, and a few report strange accents, maybe from Ireland or Scotland. Which, when you consider the group we’re looking for, matches the mix of expected nationalities.”

“Merchants might be that mixed.” Odoardo tried to sound confident.

It was Linguanti who answered. “If they’re merchants, then where are their wagons?”

Odoardo’s head went forward in a silent sulk.

Valentino had already forgotten him, looking at the northern panorama of mountains; far to the left, the Little Dolomites were leaning north, in the direction of the true Dolomites, whose distant peaks were painted bright pink and silver by the setting sun. “No,” declared Valentino, “every other lead we found north of the Po checked out, made sense. But this one, this group—no. And what the devil would merchants be doing heading up into this country, anyway? If they wanted to traverse the alps from western Veneto, they would have gone via Lake Garda and then Trent, up toward Bolzano.”

Odoardo’s voice rumbled up from where his chin was tucked into his chest. “Maybe they’re trading to the valley folk.”

Valentino laughed heartily. “Oh, yes. Of course. How foolish that I didn’t see it earlier. But I see it clearly now—thanks to you, Odoardo. In fact, we are actually tracking a multinational rabble of merchants who have journeyed all the way from the British Isles and Germany. For here, in PreAlpine Italy, they mean to set up a thriving trade going from one unpopulated valley to another, selling their big city baubles to the local troglodytes in exchange for riches such as smelly cheese, old goatskins, and the dubious favors of their cross-eyed daughters.”

Odoardo was silent, except for the steady grinding of his teeth.

Valentino ignored him. He looked up at the failing light that was plunging the strange mix of both naked and pine-forested peaks into a rosy pre-dusk gloom. “No,” breathed Valentino to no one in particular, “we’ve finally got the scent of these damned up-timers and their renegade pope. They’re up here. Somewhere.”

PART FIVE

July 1635

All venom out

CHAPTER FORTY

Harry Lefferts sat in the stern of the boat. He was well-cloaked and, thinking back, reflected that the monk’s habit that had been his disguise from Palestrina to Rome hadn’t been so bad by comparison. The Piombinese fisherman-turned-sailor manning the tiller glanced sympathetically at him and offered a water skin that Harry waved away regretfully. All he needed to complete his collection of discomforts was an urgent need to relieve his bladder—because there was no way to do so without getting up. And getting up would mean having the cloak fall away. And that would be disastrous.

Because, against all odds, the three Mallorcan fishermen in the little ketch that they had spotted working only two miles off the Cap des Pins, were now engaged in animated discussion with Miro, who sat in the bows of the
scialuppa
.

The three fishermen had been leery of the close approach of the unfamiliar and bigger ship, and put hands to oars for a while before it became obvious that, with the newcomer approaching from windward, flight was useless. They had been pleasantly surprised to be hailed in the colloquial—and unintelligible—Mallorquin of a native speaker. Their attitudes had quickly changed from suspicion to welcome as Miro leisurely plied them—from a distance of about ten yards—for the latest news of pirates, trade, fishing, and coastal watches.

At least, that’s what Harry was told by the fellow in front of him, a half-Corsican Piombinese who had sailed to the Balearics once or twice in the journeys of his youth. Harry could not make out any of the exchange, other than a few common nouns and verbs, here and there. Which annoyed him considerably. He’d taken high school Spanish, and had passed it, largely due to his innate facility for languages rather than any scholastic diligence. And so he had felt—with some pride—that his old familiarity with Spanish would prove to be a profoundly useful skill on this operation.

But here he was, sitting on a bobbing boat off the east coast of Mallorca, baking in the sun, straining his ears and hearing only indecipherable chatter. Catalan was not merely a “different form” of Spanish as one of the temporary teachers in Grantville High School had airily assured him years ago; it was a god-damned different language. Oh sure, you could hear the Spanish roots in it, but it was more like Spanish that had been hijacked by French, but also with some of those sloppy Portuguese vowel sounds blended in for good measure. And to make matters worse, the specific dialect used here was punctuated with buzzing z’s and choppy x’s and those hard, choked ch’s he associated with German and Yiddish.

Although here, those phlegm-rolling ch-sounds were inheritances from Arabic. Mallorca had been in Moorish hands for many centuries, and afterward remained a prime hunting ground for North African pirates. The worst of the depredations had been carried out by the two Barbarossa brothers just a century earlier. Which was why Estuban had been so careful making his approach: the island was ringed by pirate watchtowers, and, although the last eighty years had seen a marked decrease in the size and frequency of the raids, they were still frequent enough to be a source of worry, particularly out here on the comparatively wild and sparsely populated eastern coast.

And now, yes, to make matters even worse, Harry Lefferts felt uncomfortable pressure beginning to mount in his bladder: he’d sipped too much water when the sun started getting truly intense at about ten AM. And now he was going to pay for it. So Harry gritted his teeth, tucked his knees tightly together and hissed a question at the half-Corsican in front of him. “What are they talking about now?”

“Signor Miro is asking harmless questions about the garrison at the tower just inland here.” He jutted his stubbled chin toward the end of the rocky coastline hanging over them to the north like a pine-strewn shelf. “Then he asks about fishing. Then about the olives near Manacor. Then about the Torre de Canyamel.”

“That’s the big tower protecting the next bay to the north, right?”

“
Si
, although the tower is somewhat inland. It seems the garrison there is not large, and they do not mount many coast patrols. Which is good, because if they did, we would not be able to make use of the Caves of Arta.”

“So the news is good.”

“Mostly.”

“What do you mean?”

The Corsican turned, looked at Harry’s posture, and smiled sympathetically. “It seems that these fishermen worry about pirates, too. In fact, there seems to be an unknown fishing ship working these waters. Except they don’t think it is a fisherman at all.”

“A pirate?”

The Corsican shrugged. “They do not know. They do not want to find out. But they fear it is. Boats do not travel from afar to fish these waters. The catch in them is good enough, but they are not, how you say, with fish in teams.”

“You mean, ‘teeming with fish’?”

“
Si
; what you have said. So a new boat in these waters—a big
llaut
, carrying over twenty men—that stays five, even ten miles out?” The Corsican shook his head. “They are right; it sounds like a pirate.”

“Lying off-shore while a small landing party looks for, and gathers intelligence on, some easy targets.”

“
Si
. What else?”

Miro was waving farewell to the fishermen who at first refused a
real
as a token of his appreciation, but then, seeing he was not trying to press it on them, relented and accepted it when he offered it again. He moved back to the stern and smiled sadly, “You may urinate soon, Harry.”

“That’s the best news yet, Estuban. So, can we get into the caves, as planned?”

“Well, we can get into the caves. But not as planned.”

“Huh? Whaddya mean?”

“According to these fellows, when pirates prepare for a quick raid, they land shore parties in advance. Those shore parties usually conduct their reconnaissance at night, and spend their days hiding out in the caves.”

“So you mean we’re not just going to be able to stroll into the caves and set up our first staging area and camp.”

“I can’t tell, but the odds are good that we shall find the Caves of Arta occupied.”

“So if we go in and take the caves, will the pirates waiting off-shore just leave, or come to the caves, looking for their missing buddies?”

Miro shrugged. “They will probably not abandon their shore party without making some attempt to contact them.”

Harry noticed that his left knee had begun to bob vigorously. “So, how long do you figure we have before the off-shore pirates arrive?”

“There’s no way to even make a guess. If there is a scouting party in the caves, it may have put ashore today, or a week ago. And how long are they supposed to survey the area? A day? A week? Or perhaps there is no prearranged time; perhaps they will summon the completion of their reconnaissance with a small signal fire at the peak of the headland, Cap Vermell, and wait elsewhere.”

“So once go to the caves, everything that comes next is a crap shoot.”

“I do not know what firing guns at feces would achieve, but if you mean that subsequent events are uncertain, then yes, that is so.”

“Good. Just one more thing, Estuban.”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Are those guys far enough away that I can take a piss, now?”

Thomas North threw up his hands in exasperation and suddenly realized he had started reprising his father’s trademark gestures. He dropped his hands quickly and glared at Miro instead. “First you go crawling around in these damn caves with Harry and almost get yourself killed, showing him where to find the pirates.” North turned to Lefferts. “Good clean, job, that. Wish we could have taken a prisoner to get some intelligence on their ship.”

Harry shrugged. “They weren’t cooperative.”

“I’ll bet not.” Turning back to Miro, North continued his gripes. “And now you propose to stroll to one of these little, one-eyed hamlets, these, these—”

“
Alqueries
,” furnished Miro calmly.

“Whatever. You propose to stroll into one, get a ride on the back of a wagon into Manacor where—with luck, as you say—you hope to find a horse for hire, and so ride on to Palma.”

“That’s the plan. About which you have questioned me at length, Thomas.”

“Well, I have one more question.”

“Which is?”

“Which is—are you stark raving mad, Estuban?”

The no-longer-ex-patriate
xueta
smiled. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I do. You are in charge of this operation. You are the one operating at the direct behest of Ed Piazza to accomplish the military and political objectives of the USE here and in Italy. And now you are going to just toddle off into the night, without so much as an escort?”

“Yes, Thomas, that is exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Well, that is—”

“Thomas you asked me a question; hear my answer.”

North silenced himself with an effort, but kept glowering.

“I am home, Thomas. I know this land and this people better—far better—than any other. I know where trouble lurks and where it does not. I have a hundred possible identities and stories at my fingertips to explain my presence here, and the odds are good that I know some of these peoples’ distant relatives. An escort would only ruin my disguise.” He smiled. “My greatest protection is that I belong in this place, am native to it, and everyone who meets me will know that immediately. My gear and dress announce I am a man with friends and not to be treated lightly, and that harm done to me will result in pointed—or, better yet, pointy—inquiries by those same friends.