wanted to break them. Going off in the dark with Lozza would be a relief. He hoped that it would be to do something stupid and dangerous. At least he would be more in control then.
* * *
The water was black, nearly as dark as the mood on the boat. Even the wise-cracking Spiro was less than himself.
"You realize," said Guiliano, "that if this goes wrong, Maria will kill all of us tomorrow." He was being perfectly literal. She would, and Guiliano understood Maria's "wifely" role with Aidoneus better than most Venetians. His wife believed firmly in the Goddess, and had told him where things stood.
Spiro looked at the dark mass that was Illyria, straight ahead. "If it doesn't go right, there won't be a tomorrow."
Taki, sitting at the tiller-bar snorted. "The Lord of the Mountains keeps his word. Relax. And give me some more wine."
"You've had enough," said Thalia. She'd refused to remain behind.
"I'm still upright. So how can that be true?" asked Taki cheerfully.
"If we sail back, then I have every intention of not being upright," said Spiro. "So we need to save a half a cask."
"Never put off drinking until afterwards, just in case there is no afterwards," said Taki. But he didn't insist on more wine. Instead he guided the fishing boat toward a pair of lanterns set up in a dark cove, lining them up very carefully.
A little later Benito Valdosta sat at a rough oak table in a small shepherd's hut, facing the beak-nosed lord of southern Illyria. The humble setting did not seem to bother the man. Lesser men might need regal trappings so that one did not confuse the king with a hill-shepherd. Iskander Beg claimed descent from Alexander the Great of Macedon, and he didn't need fine clothes or a rich hall to tell you who he was. All Iskander needed was enough light for a man to see his eyes.
They burned. And looking at them, Benito knew that he had found a kindred spirit, albeit one reared in even harsher soil than he had sprung from. This was not a man who would be cowed by threats or worried by the odds against him. On the other hand, he looked very shrewd indeed. This was a good thing, Benito decided, because what Benito had in mind was more like commerce than devilry.
"Once," Benito said, "there was a road from here to the Adriatic."
"The Via Egnata. From Phillipi or Christopolis to Appolonia or to Dyrrachium. Durazzo, as the Venetians call it. Days past. A route for conquerors," said the Lord of the Mountains, dismissively. Yet . . . was that a hint of a smile under his moustache? And, whatever else he was, ignorant of history he was not. Iskander also spoke good Frankish for a hill-chieftain in a remote, mountainous piece of nowhere.
"The Romans built it to conquer Illyria. Did they succeed?" asked Benito airily.
Iskander gave a snort of laughter. "Oh, for a little while. You can never really conquer the land of the eagles. People try."
"The Byzantines are that foolish," said Benito idly.
Teeth gleamed through the moustache. "Not often. The emperor tells them to be. The field commanders do not, in reality, try very hard any more. We've discouraged them."
Benito grinned back. "Then why worry? I gather we share a love for Emeric of Hungary."
The Lord of the Mountains nodded. "He does seem to have had a sharp lesson from you in Kerkira. And another for crossing my land without my permission."
Benito clicked his tongue. "A pity he succeeded."
Iskander Beg shook his head. "Not really a pity. He's a fool. And it is better to have the fool we know for an enemy, than to have him succeeded by man of competence. Emeric's mouth and vanity are worth a good thousand soldiers to us." Iskander's eyes narrowed a little. "On the other hand, I have been told that your death would be worth a great deal of gold, besides several thousand warriors."
Benito smiled urbanely at the Lord of the Mountains, showing no sign of the tension he felt. "You don't have to flatter me."
The Lord of Mountains beamed. "I like you, boy. And I
* * *
The water was black, nearly as dark as the mood on the boat. Even the wise-cracking Spiro was less than himself.
"You realize," said Guiliano, "that if this goes wrong, Maria will kill all of us tomorrow." He was being perfectly literal. She would, and Guiliano understood Maria's "wifely" role with Aidoneus better than most Venetians. His wife believed firmly in the Goddess, and had told him where things stood.
Spiro looked at the dark mass that was Illyria, straight ahead. "If it doesn't go right, there won't be a tomorrow."
Taki, sitting at the tiller-bar snorted. "The Lord of the Mountains keeps his word. Relax. And give me some more wine."
"You've had enough," said Thalia. She'd refused to remain behind.
"I'm still upright. So how can that be true?" asked Taki cheerfully.
"If we sail back, then I have every intention of not being upright," said Spiro. "So we need to save a half a cask."
"Never put off drinking until afterwards, just in case there is no afterwards," said Taki. But he didn't insist on more wine. Instead he guided the fishing boat toward a pair of lanterns set up in a dark cove, lining them up very carefully.
A little later Benito Valdosta sat at a rough oak table in a small shepherd's hut, facing the beak-nosed lord of southern Illyria. The humble setting did not seem to bother the man. Lesser men might need regal trappings so that one did not confuse the king with a hill-shepherd. Iskander Beg claimed descent from Alexander the Great of Macedon, and he didn't need fine clothes or a rich hall to tell you who he was. All Iskander needed was enough light for a man to see his eyes.
They burned. And looking at them, Benito knew that he had found a kindred spirit, albeit one reared in even harsher soil than he had sprung from. This was not a man who would be cowed by threats or worried by the odds against him. On the other hand, he looked very shrewd indeed. This was a good thing, Benito decided, because what Benito had in mind was more like commerce than devilry.
"Once," Benito said, "there was a road from here to the Adriatic."
"The Via Egnata. From Phillipi or Christopolis to Appolonia or to Dyrrachium. Durazzo, as the Venetians call it. Days past. A route for conquerors," said the Lord of the Mountains, dismissively. Yet . . . was that a hint of a smile under his moustache? And, whatever else he was, ignorant of history he was not. Iskander also spoke good Frankish for a hill-chieftain in a remote, mountainous piece of nowhere.
"The Romans built it to conquer Illyria. Did they succeed?" asked Benito airily.
Iskander gave a snort of laughter. "Oh, for a little while. You can never really conquer the land of the eagles. People try."
"The Byzantines are that foolish," said Benito idly.
Teeth gleamed through the moustache. "Not often. The emperor tells them to be. The field commanders do not, in reality, try very hard any more. We've discouraged them."
Benito grinned back. "Then why worry? I gather we share a love for Emeric of Hungary."
The Lord of the Mountains nodded. "He does seem to have had a sharp lesson from you in Kerkira. And another for crossing my land without my permission."
Benito clicked his tongue. "A pity he succeeded."
Iskander Beg shook his head. "Not really a pity. He's a fool. And it is better to have the fool we know for an enemy, than to have him succeeded by man of competence. Emeric's mouth and vanity are worth a good thousand soldiers to us." Iskander's eyes narrowed a little. "On the other hand, I have been told that your death would be worth a great deal of gold, besides several thousand warriors."
Benito smiled urbanely at the Lord of the Mountains, showing no sign of the tension he felt. "You don't have to flatter me."
The Lord of Mountains beamed. "I like you, boy. And I
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