Sharon sighed, looked back at her staff, and saw that, for the first time in weeks, they were smiling. Wide, happy, unworried smiles-not the ones that signify willing obedience, or encouragement, or resolute cheer in the face of adversity. These were just folks enjoying themselves without a care in the world.

  And they were enjoying themselves with a vengeance: instruments had materialized seemingly out of nowhere. Odo the radio operator was playing a well-worn cittern, two of the staff were keeping up with more traditional lutes, and no less a personage than Cardinal Antonio Barberini was putting a reasonably skilled hand to the strangest stringed instrument Sharon had ever seen: an oddly-fretted (was it almost double-necked?) monstrosity about the size of an overgrown bass guitar with a lutelike body and two sets of strings. The lower set, the ones Barberini was working currently, sounded like-well, probably what an electric bass guitar would sound like if someone could make it acoustic. Sharon shook her head at that inherent contradiction and was immediately struck by the powerful mezzo that rose up to meet the rollicking tune that had emerged.

  The voice was coming effortlessly out of the wide mouth of the embassy’s somewhat hefty cook: usually cheery, always passionate, and now saucily belting out lyrics that went too fast for Sharon to follow.

  But it was, of all people, Pope Urban VIII who identified the song. “Ah!” he shouted, with a clap of his hands and suddenly bright eyes, “ A Lieta Vita! As it was played in my youth!” And, from behind the cook, he commenced to roar out a harmony-more or less. Vitelleschi looked as though he was going to die of heartburn, but kept clapping anyway.

  As Sharon stared, Carlo the messenger-boy came prancing into the circle that had been cleared for the cook and, like some upland sprite, twirled to the music, delighted to cavort about her skirts. And in the way she looked at him, eyes warm and her voice suddenly richer, huskier, Sharon understood: in her heart, the cook had adopted orphaned Carlo. And the little fellow knew it.

  Ruy touched Sharon’s elbow, whispered, “Shall I stop them after this song? It is a short one.”

  Sharon smiled. “Oh, I don’t suppose another ten minutes will hurt.”

  When Valentino returned to the camp near Valsondra, it was three hours later than he had intended. His group had hit upon a new lead after scouting the skirts of Monte Campolon, and had actually hoped to find a sign of the renegade embassy, but it had been a dead end.

  Consequently, Valentine was surprised when the camp, instead of being tense with worry over his tardiness, seemed to be quiet, waiting. Not that these men loved him-the nearly sixty cutthroats and ruthless mercenaries with him certainly did not-but they loved the notion of getting paid, and it had been made clear to them all that if Valentino did not come back alive and successful, the drink money they had been given upon signing up would be the only coin they would see from this venture.

  “Linguanti?” Valentino called. “Is there news?”

  Linguanti’s long face turned toward him, painted faint yellow by the firelight. “Ask Odoardo. When he came back, I had to ask a lot of questions which he didn’t feel like answering. Because he is not scared of me. And because he was sure it was unimportant.”

  Valentino turned toward Odoardo, who had his obscenely broad back to the fire. “Odoardo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What did you see?”

  “Didn’t see anything.” A long pause. “Heard something, though.”

  Valentino closed his eyes and counted to five. Extracting information from Odoardo was about as swift and interesting a process as watching a sliced apple slowly turn brown. “So what did you hear?

  “Recorders. One was really high pitched.”

  “Probably a sopranino,” muttered Linguanti who kept his background as a failed musician fairly secret. Which was fairly easy, given how little he said.

  Odoardo shrugged. “I don’t know what they’re called. It’s just higher than anything I heard growing up. And then, when we got closer, there was singing. Lots of singing.”

  Singing? Out here? And Odoardo didn’t think that was important? I will truly enjoy killing him when this is over. “Where?”

  “We were near Laghi again, seeing if we could bypass it without being seen. It was coming from beyond there.”

  “Where there are two communes, yes? Menara and Molini?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Valentino took another deep breath. “Did it sound close to Laghi, or like it was coming from farther back in the mountains?”

  Odoardo thought. “Farther. It was pretty faint.”

  “And there was singing. You are sure of that?”

  “Are you deaf? Yes, I am sure.”

  “Lots of singing?”

  “Yes, damn it.”

  “And any instruments other than recorders?”

  “Uh, probably some strings. Lutes, I think. Like I said, it was pretty faint. Why?”

  “Well, let’s see, now: what would a lot of people be doing making noise at either a small hamlet like Menara, or at a poor, dilapidated villa like Molini, which we’ve been told is the only building back at the far end of the Val Lagio? And why are they singing? And accompanying themselves with expensive instruments?”

  “So you’re thinking-?”

  “I’m thinking that the sound was too distant to have been coming from Menara, and that this old Villa Molini might not be as shabby or under populated as the shepherds down in Posina said it was. I’ll bet they haven’t actually been up that way in a year, rather than a few weeks ago, as they claimed. Just trying to make themselves sound worldly, I expect.”

  Linguanti nodded. “So what do you want to do?”

  Valentino motioned everyone to rise. “If we start marching hard now, we can reach the caves south of Monte Cengio before dawn. That will give us a base camp only a half hour out from Molini. If it is indeed where the pope is hiding, they will have watch posts keeping an eye out for us. So tomorrow, we’ll need to move in to observe it first. Only three of us are going to go ahead to do that; the rest of the group will stay behind in the base camp, out of sight.”

  “So when do we attack?” asked Odoardo.

  “When I tell you to. You’ll have tomorrow to clean your weapons while we go over the final plan. And remember, you have to remain silent: no shouting, no loud talking, and particularly”-Valentino smiled; sharks showed their teeth less menacingly-“no singing.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Frank and Giovanna, who were enjoying their fifteen minutes of daily freedom strolling around the lazarette’s small roof, saw movement beyond the outer gatehouse below. Dr. Asher had arrived early, judging from the sound of the cranky mules and the equally cranky passenger. As usual, he had brought several sizable casks of ethanol with him.

  Gia stood on the tips of her dainty toes to get a better look at the day’s cargo, which was being offloaded by the same, dull-looking assistants who seemed incapable of speech. “He seems to bring more and more of the spirits every time.”

  Frank considered that observation, clucked his tongue, and smiled. “Yes, he does at that, Gia. Let’s go and be ready for him.”

  Dr. Asher was approximately halfway through his exam when Giovanna’s eyes opened wide, and she let out a yelp rather like that of a puppy whose tail has been trod upon. She looked over at Asher, alarmed.

  Who soothed her. “There, there, do not fret. Just a little tenderness. There should be nothing to worry about. Not as long as I’m here to keep an eye on things.”

  He turned to Dakis, who had decided to observe the scandalous proceedings himself. Frank saw Asher’s face change the moment he was no longer facing Giovanna. “Take me to the governor at once,” he muttered.

  Don Sancho Jaume Morales y Llaguno frowned, his incipient glee dampened by his simultaneous worries of professional failure. “So the Italian she-goat will miscarry, you think?”

  Asher sighed and closed his eyes. “It is possible. I cannot be sure.”

  “Well, what specifically did you find? How do you know this?”

  Asher looked at the small man through thinned eyes. “I was not aware that you have a secret fascination with gynecology and obstetrics, Governor. Is your wife aware of these interests? If so, she must be a singularly open-minded woman.”

  The governor flushed, sputtered. “See here-I am not-not at all-but-well, these are prisoners, and I must ascertain if…if you are…”

  “If I am lying?” When Don Sancho nodded brusquely, Asher folded his arms. “Respectfully, Governor, how could you tell if I was lying?”

  The governor’s mouth opened; no sound came out.

  “Let me make this easy for you,” grumbled Asher. “There are certain changes in the womb-of texture, more than structure-which can be signs that it will harden and expel the fetus early.”

  The governor leaned forward, listening and nodding earnestly.

  “However, with proper care, such an event can often be averted, or at least delayed until such time as the child can be born with a reasonable chance of survival. That change in texture is how I know what I know. And now you want to know how you can be sure that I am telling the truth.” Asher shrugged and sighed. “Let me ask you to consider this, Governor: what happens to us xueta s every time you Spanish become displeased with us?” Don Sancho raised his proud, if almost nonexistent, chin in silent reply to Asher’s baleful stare. “So, Governor, tell me: if I fail you, would you treat me any differently than the other xueta s?”

  The governor shook his head. “I would not.”

  “Then there is your assurance that I will do my very best work for you: fear. Fear for my own safety, and for that of my people. Plain and simple. Now I must leave.”

  “Leave? Why?”

  “Because the trip back to Palma is long and I am old. But I shall return soon, Governor.”

  “Don’t think you are ever welcome here, Jew,” the governor grumbled.

  Asher smiled. “Just because I was foolish enough to accept this commission does not mean I am a complete fool, Governor. I know my place-and now, I shall return to it.”

  When dinner was taken-and his manuscript along with it-Frank stared at Giovanna. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What happened during the exam today? What did-?”

  Giovanna reached into her skirts and produced a very small, smooth, oblong vial. It had a small scroll inside it.

  “What?” asked Frank. “He put that in your-in-”

  Gia smiled mischievously. “No. Asher is not stupid. He would not insert it there-for medical reasons as well as practical ones. After all, what if this beast of a governor had his own doctor secreted near at hand, to check me after Asher had? It could have been found.”

  “So then how-?”

  “Dr. Asher was uncommonly thorough today, husband: he took the precaution of conducting a rectal examination, as well.”

  “Ah. How-inspired.”

  “Actually, it is. Now, let us see what the message is.”

  Working quietly, making other noise to cover their actions, they crushed the vial, which had been sealed with molten glass, and removed the small scroll. Giovanna ground the glass into a powder that she shook out the window to mix with the sand and grit in the dry moat.

  Meanwhile, Frank puzzled at the brief message: X3=10; X3=20. “Huh?” he grunted. “How can ‘x times three’ equal both ten and twenty?”

  Giovanna, dusting her hands off, came to stand behind him, looked over his shoulder for two seconds, and then turned to snatch up the one book they were permitted-were compelled-to have in the room.

  “The Bible?”

  “Of course, Frank. Asher has recorded book and verse in a manner that our idiot warders would not understand. Even the governor would probably see only an equation.”

  “And instead, you see-?”

  “ Exodus, chapter 3, verse 10, and Exodus, chapter 3, verse 20. It is a most obvious cipher.”

  “Uh…sure, if you say so.” Frank wondered, as he often did, why someone as beautiful and intelligent as Giovanna had married someone as dimwitted and clueless as himself.

  “So, here it is,” she said, setting her shoulders to read forth-albeit quietly: “‘So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt… So I will stretch out my hand and strike the Egyptians with all the wonders that I will perform among them. After that, he will let you go.’”

  “So Asher is Moses?”

  “Or the representative of those who are intent on bringing us out of ‘Egyptian’ bondage.”

  “Yeah, by performing wonders among them first. Sounds like a high-tech rescue to me.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps these were just the least ambiguous verses. I do not care. It means we are escaping. And soon!”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And this does not make you want to celebrate?”

  “Well, sure it does. Except, well…I just hope they bring back my book before we get rescued.”

  “Ah. The reluctant author has become attached to his work. Or perhaps it is just an excuse for spending less time with me? Am I growing too round for you, husband?”

  Frank eyed his wife with a grin. “Not at all.”

  “Good. I believe you.” She flopped down on their bed. “Now: entertain me. Tell me what you would have been writing about tonight.”

  “Well, I was mostly thinking about revisions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well-I thought that maybe I should change the name of where the hobbits come from.”

  “So? Not from the Shire, anymore?”

  “No. I was thinking of ‘Brigadoon.’”

  Giovanna frowned as she mouthed the word silently. “It is a strange name. Besides, I thought you said that the original author-the one to whom you are making your homage-specifically used the name ‘Shire.’”

  “Yeah, well-consider it meaningful artistic license on my part. Trust me: the allusion works.”

  “The allusion to what?”

  “To Brigadoon.” Seeing the look on her face, Frank shrugged. “Maybe you’re right; maybe I should just stick with the Shire.”

  “I think so. And have you written the manifesto we outlined?”

  Frank kept from smiling; properly speaking, it was the manifesto she had outlined, but he let that detail slide by. Instead, he affirmed, “Yes. And I kept the page hidden from the guards. But you can’t read it.”

  Giovanna reared back. “You would keep your writings from me?”

  “No, no. I don’t mean I won’t let you read it: I mean you can’t read it. I wrote it in Tengwar.”

  “In what?”

  “Tengwar is the alphabet of the elven language, Quenya. Except I can’t remember all of the letters. So I had to make some of them up.” Frank wiggled the rolled paper out of his trousers. “But this kind of invented alphabet was the only safe way to put it on paper, Gia. Otherwise, the Spanish might get hold of it and-”

  “Yes, yes, husband; you are very wise. Now, quickly: what revolutionary fire has burst from your pen?”

  Frank held it up, cleared this throat and read: “We, the people of Italy, solemnly declare our resolution to ordain and establish

  1) The unification of our country;

  2) The expulsion of the Spanish oppressors, and any other foreign powers that might occupy Italy;

  3) A democratic and secular state;

  4) Freedom of religion;

  5) The church to renounce its claims to temporal power;

  6) Universal suffrage for all adults.”

  He put the paper down and shrugged apologetically. “It’s not much. It’s certainly not as important as the book.”

  Giovanna rose, frowning. “You may discover you are mistaken about that, husband.”

  Frank shrugged. “I don’t disagree with you, Gia. But the book was what came to me first. I guess because it’s what I’m familiar with. You grew up as the child of a political firebrand. Me? I was the child of a man who taught me and my brothers about ethical behavior-and the perseverance of goodness-in the stories he read to us. I’m just doing what I know best.”

  “I think you underestimate how famous you have become in Italy. Coming from you, this proclamation will be taken seriously.” She smiled. “First we have to smuggle it out, of course, but I don’t see any difficulty there. No one is likely to inspect Dr. Asher that closely.”

  She walked over to his writing desk and laid the Bible down upon it gently. “So,” she said, her voice shedding much of its prior gravity “what happens in the last scene of your book? What happens to the hobbits?”

  “Hey, never rush an artist! I haven’t written that yet. And I don’t want to talk about it; it might disrupt my delicate creative processes.”

  Her smile widened; she rubbed her belly. “I seem to recall that not all your creative processes are delicate, at least when it comes to pro creative ones.” She looked at him from under very dark, and very sexy, brows.

  Frank swallowed, trying to fight his instincts back to some semblance of prudence and self-control. She was pregnant, after all. Which he pointed out: “You’re pregnant.” He said it with all the conviction of a drinker denying the appeal of a tumbler full of whiskey.

  “Am I? I hadn’t noticed. I don’t even know how I got this way.” Giovanna’s smile became positively demonic as she rose and walked toward him; the baby-bump was suddenly just another alluring curve in motion. “Perhaps,” she said innocently, “you could show me how it happened in the first place.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The watchtower at Cala Pi appeared abandoned as the now-familiar llaut from Miguel Tarongi wound its way out of Cala Beltran. Once in open water, it headed straight toward Miro’s larger llaut, the one his men had captured near the Bay of Canyamel and had named the Bogeria, or “Folly,” in Catalan.