Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas was silent for a long time, frowning deeply. “You are challenging me to a…a duel of drinking to the death?”

  “No, no. Jeez, you hidalgos are a real serious bunch, aren’tcha? Look: you seem like an okay guy. And there’s been enough killing as it is-too much. So let’s toast my friend with wine and spirits until one of us can’t lift a glass anymore.”

  Castro y Papas looked long and hard at Lefferts. “You are mocking me.”

  “Damnit, Don Vincente, I’m not in the mood or place to do any mocking. Look: if I had been doing my job properly, I’d never have walked into your trap. But I was too sure of myself and my friend paid for that with his life.” Harry looked away for a moment. “A lot of people paid for that with their lives. But it taught me a lesson-one I might not have learned any other way. So, yeah, you pulled the trigger-but I set up the target. You were just a soldier with a gun who had set a good trap.”

  Castro y Papas looked either like he was going to spit or crydamn, these Spaniards can get so intense! — but then said, “Very well: I accept your terms, Senor Lefferts-and will happily toast your friend, whose name was-?”

  “Eh…we’ll talk about that later. That’s a name to be shared in a safer place, okay?”

  “Yes, this is acceptable. I must tell you, though, that the plan you speak of-the one which foiled you in Rome-was not of my design. I would not lay such a dishonorable trap, using a pregnant woman as bait.”

  “So, who did plot that ambush then?”

  Castro y Papas smiled. “Yet another name for a safer place, Senor Lefferts.”

  “Harry.”

  “My apologies. Senor Harry.”

  Oh, fer chrissakes… “Yeah, fine; I can live with ‘Senor Harry.’” They nodded at each other, and Harry had the feeling that something had changed, separately, in both him and in Castro y Papas. He had no guess what that something might have been for the Spaniard, and truth be told, didn’t have a much better guess of what change had begun in himself, but it felt vaguely like a resolution of some kind, of a mistake owned, a debt paid, a new door opened. Harry shrugged and put the incipient revelation on the same shelf where he had left almost all the others he had experienced since he had been about seven-but this time, he resolved to take it down and study it as soon as he got to a safe place. Which kindled a small, unusual flame of quiet pride somewhere in his chest. He smiled, liking the sensation, and looked out to sea.

  — Where he saw, at the same instant Castro y Papas did, two specks on the far southern horizon: the away-boats from the Atropos.

  Harry dug an elbow into the hidalgo’s ribs gently. “Hey, lookit who’s early for a change. C’mon, Don Vincente; let’s tell the others our ride is here.”

  Thomas North watched as the other ships of the flotilla headed away and were swallowed by the dark. And he smiled. Try to catch us now, you Spanish bastards.

  When the black llaut carrying his troops had cleared Palma Bay and reached the rendezvous point, she had blinked a signal lamp into the darkness. A quick flash responded, marking the precise position of the Guerra Cagna, which then relayed another signal to the west: far off, a light had winked back. That was the Atropos, confirming she had received the signal that announced both the safe return of North’s team at the rendezvous point and that the dispersal of the smaller ships would commence as soon as his men were on the Guerra Cagna.

  That transfer was a quick affair. Although there were no Spanish in sight, and they were moving at night, the little flotilla was still in sight of the shore and lighthouses (which was what had made a nighttime sea rendezvous possible in the first place). Consequently, they were not too far away from where the Spanish would begin their pursuit. The flotilla’s object was now to split up and give their pursuers the same problem that the enemy had given Lefferts and North in Rome with multiple carriages: the need to chase a number of tantalizing leads simultaneously, thereby diffusing their search resources.

  North’s smile widened. Your turn to play “find the pea,” you bastards. He looked back at his men, crowded on the deck of the Guerra Cagna. Some of them would later be tasked to tend to the oars if the pursuit got close, although they had also taken on the up-time motor from the black llaut. That local ship, along with the Bogeria, was heading due east and would not be part of the shell-game the rest were preparing for the Spanish. Instead, both ships would be swapped at a modest loss for equivalent hulls-probably on the northernmost Balearic island of Minorca-thereby removing these local boats from the area in which inquiries might be made, and hulls identified.

  The other four ships now turned to follow their preassigned compass headings. The Guerra Cagna was to head southeast. Although a swift ship, she was carrying the heaviest load and was the largest, and so needed to veer in a direction that also gave her a head start to her actual destination.

  Aurelio’s Minnow — currently under the command of one of his seemingly innumerable relatives-would head due south, aiming her pert, responsive prow at Algeria. And the Zora would head southwest, directly opposite the course her master most wanted to go, but the crew of the little gajeta was eager for the bonus connected with the job, and this was their final obligation. Although the Zora ’s crew would not be paid until they returned to Venice, they would leave the Rialto with enough money to support their families for half a year-more, if they were frugal.

  North felt the Guerra Cagna come around to take the freshening southwest wind over her beam. That maneuver-positioning a ship sideways in relation to the wind-was still a novel experience for him. Having grown up around square-rigged vessels, for the most part, he remained surprised-and rather enchanted-by the almost mystical versatility of the lateen rig. Although inferior at getting speed from a following wind, they excelled at using a wind from over their waists. But they made reasonable headway with breezes coming from almost any quarter, able to sail so close to the wind that they could still make progress by tacking back and forth across a head wind.

  This aspect of the lateen sail aided all the ships, now. For the Guerra Cagna it meant a maximally effective wind was already running into her two sails. North could already feel her speed picking up, and suspected that her master was going to need to slow her down so as not to overshoot their new loiter point, some ten miles southeast.

  For the Minnow, her close-hauled heading meant less speed, but being light, she needed less wind; she’d still make the ten miles to her own new loiter point comfortably. And even thought the Dawn was sailing straight into the wind, the skilled crew of that hull was doubtlessly tacking to-and-fro to make decent progress. If she didn’t make enough headway, no matter. She could take a more westerly heading for a while, and in bringing her prow out of the wind, she would make better speed to her own new loiter point.

  North looked east; no glimmers on the horizon, yet. Good, he thought, we’ll make it to the new loiter points just in time to give the Spanish something new to chase. Why hunt down enemy ships alone, when you can hunt both a ship and an enemy balloon together? Yes, each Spanish pursuit boat-too separated from its mates to signal effectively-would certainly press on alone if they believed themselves poised to also capture the mysterious airship that had attacked the Castell de Bellver. And that is exactly what Lefferts’ and Miro’s escape plan would lead them to believe.

  North’s smile became unpleasant. “Happy hunting, you bastards,” he muttered toward the distant lights of Palma.

  From the stern of the Atropos, and with the Llebeig running in from the southwest, Miro watched the mizzen’s lateen fill nicely. The Atropos herself had left Dragonera behind shortly before dawn, heading due north, almost out of the sight of the coast, and taking good, but not best, advantage of the Llebeig. With the yard mounted on the same side as the wind from that angle, the lateen was unable to work to optimum effect on that leg of their journey.

  But that brief sacrifice was worth it, for ultimately, Aurelio brought the Atropos over hard-a-starboard and into a due east heading. From this angle, the Llebeig came full into the lateen, the yard being on what was now the leeward side of the mast. The xebec seemed like a suddenly spurred horse, leaping through the swells with speed that, according to the up-timers, they associated with powered boats or racing yachts.

  That speed had been central to the overall escape plan: if the Spanish had not found the Atropos by the time it left Dragonera, it was very unlikely they ever would. Heading away from shore also meant heading directly away from potential pursuit. And now, with the wind at the most optimal position for the xebec’s rig, there was quite probably not a single ship in the Balearics that could overtake them. This was one of the two reasons Miro had been willing to take the risks necessary to seize the xebec in the first place: it not only had a large enough stern to support balloon operations, but it was also the fastest get-away ship in the Mediterranean.

  Miro leaned into the wind. Hours ago, the flotilla’s four swiftest boats-each readying one of the large kongming lanterns that Meir had purchased for him-had, at the same time, gone to their new loiter points well south of Palma. There, with the first hint of graying in the east, they lit the lamps and sent them aloft, each tethered to its ship by a silken string.

  Each lantern had been a flickering airborne lure, visible to one or maybe two of the Spanish chase ships. Being unable to communicate with the others as their search pattern carried them farther apart, the Spanish had been almost sure to follow whichever enemy ship-and-balloon combination they first espied. With the enemy barely visible upon the horizon, each Spanish captain would reasonably believe that he-and only he-was chasing the right ship: the one towing the balloon that had been seen during the attack on Castell de Bellver.

  And right about now, if Miro guessed the position of the sun correctly, those captains would be discovering the final trick that had been played upon them: that the separate balloons they had each been chasing had been released from their tow ships at least half an hour earlier. And, more distressingly, that the balloons had actually been nothing more than aerial lanterns, common in the Far East but quite unfamiliar in the Mediterranean-and, as they had now learned, very misleading as to their size and range, particularly when seen at a great distance and against a uniform backdrop such as the sea. Miro smiled; there was a satisfying irony in having misled those captains by giving them exactly what they had expected to see-since that was just what the Spanish had done to the rescuers in Rome.

  Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Miro noticed that they had come back in sight of the shore; the dark gray coastline swept up higher to the north. The Atropos ’ course would parallel those peaks-the barren Tramuntana mountains that marched across the top of his home island like a wall-all the way until they reached the dramatic northeast promontory known as the Cap de Formentor. From there, the Atropos would maneuver to rendezvous with the Guerra Cagna and the Minnow, and let off a quick series of radio squelches that would signify “all well, hostages rescued, team returning.” But even then, Miro would not presume they were safe-not until they reached the Ligurian coast, just north of the Golfo de Spezio, from whence they would relaunch the dirigible toward Brescia, one hundred and five miles inland and safe behind the Venetian border.

  However, Miro conceded, leaning back against the taffrail and enjoying a sudden dappling of sunlight through the light overcast, it was reasonable to indulge in at least a small amount of satisfaction, even before they arrived in Italy. After all, the rescue plan that Harry and he cobbled together had worked. Miro smiled. In fact, it had worked quite acceptably.

  Quite acceptably, indeed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Larry was standing alongside Urban, looking out the rear window of the Garden Room, one of the few that had not been severely damaged during the prior night’s combat. Out upon the villa’s rear grounds-arrayed in rows between the herb and vegetable gardens-were all the dead. Mazzare swallowed, not having seen so many bodies since the Croat cavalry rode into Grantville in an attempt to slaughter all of the recently arrived up-timers.

  “How many?” murmured Urban.

  “Us or them?” asked Mazzare.

  Urban closed his eyes. “How many of God’s children, Cardinal Mazzare?”

  Larry felt a pang of shame-not the first one he’d felt in the past day. “Er…eighty-four in all, Your Holiness.”

  Urban nodded, and after a time, opened his eyes. “There on the end, is that the boy who ran messages-Carlo? And is that the cook, the one with the lovely voice, beside him?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “I could not tell. They are almost completely covered.”

  “Their wounds-and dignity-demanded no less.”

  Somewhere, out near the small barn, a hoarse cry rose up and dwindled back down with a whimper. Larry closed his eyes. Even with Sharon here, there had been wounds too grievous to treat-and in the borderline cases, the preference had been routinely given to the staff and defenders of the embassy, rather than the attackers. Those whose wounds would ultimately prove mortal-and there had been many-had been moved to the barn, from whence screams and cries had emerged all night long. Shortly before dawn, the frequency and volume of the agonized screams had begun to taper off. Now, they were rare. If Sharon’s triage assessments were correct, there would be final silence shortly past noon. And he, Cardinal Larry Mazzare, champion of peace, declaimer of war, had put at least four into that death house, himself. He felt a quiver start deep inside his body Urban put his hand on Larry’s shoulder. For the first time in Mazzare’s memory, the pope’s grip felt almost frail, but it drove off whatever demon of guilt and remorse had been rising up in him. “This has been a hard night, Lawrence. How many assassins attacked us?”

  “We’re not sure, Your Holiness. There are fifty-one of their bodies out there. Some escaped, but not many.”

  “And how many of our own friends have gone to be with their Maker?”

  “Twenty-one of the embassy workers, nine of the Marines, one of the Hibernians, and Fleming. And-” Mazzare paused.

  “-and George Sutherland. Yes, I know. I think I will see his face for the rest of my days.”

  Someone cleared a throat behind them; they turned.

  Sharon and Ruy stood just within the doorway. “Holy Father,” she said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need a moment of your time.”

  Urban sighed but put on a smile; it was arguably the saddest expression that Larry Mazzare had ever seen. “Of course, Ambassadora Nichols.”

  “I know it seems that, after last night, we should all have time to rest and recover, but we don’t. We’ve got to move you again, Holy Father. We can’t be sure that there is only one group of assassins.

  “Tom Stone in Venice, and the USE leadership, both know our situation here. We just got a message from Venice that they are preparing our back-up site, have sent half of the embassy Marines-cavalrymen, every one of them-to reinforce us up here until we can move. They’ll ride through the night and pick up an additional twenty troops along the way, mostly trusted retainers of four different nobles known to support you, and who are said to be incorruptible.”

  Personally, Larry wondered if there were really four such paragons of aristocratic virtue to be found in the entirety of this most materialistic of republics.

  “I see,” Urban said as the other clerics entered. “When will we be leaving?”

  “That’s just it, Your Holiness. We have to leave the second the cavalry comes over the hill.”

  Urban stood particularly straight. “So it must be. Can you tell me where we are going?”

  Sharon sighed. “Actually, Your Holiness, that’s the exact question I was coming to ask you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Sharon put out her hands helplessly. “We got a signal just a few minutes ago that Frank and Giovanna are safe and on the way back to Italy. So we have to make travel and security arrangements for all our ‘at risk’ persons as soon as possible. We don’t want to give Borja another crack at you or them. But we’ve got one problem: we still don’t know where you want to go.”

  Urban stared at the ground a moment. “I see your quandary. And I owe you that answer-now. Particularly after all of this. So, I assume we have some hours, yet?”

  “At least a day, Your Holiness. And if there is another group of assassins who are able to reach us in that time, I’m not sure how much we could do to stop them-not if they are as large as this bunch was.”

  “Very well. Then here is what we shall do.” He turned toward Antonio. “Cardinal Barberini, you will need your pen, ink, and parchment. I will give my judgment on what I have heard in the debates.”

  Vitelleschi raised on eyebrow. “Indeed? How soon?”

  “In five minutes, my friend.” He turned to a speechless Sharon. “Would you be so kind as to announce to those who can, and wish, to attend that they are welcome to do so?”

  Wadding frowned. “Holy Father, is that wise?”

  “I do not know, Cardinal Wadding, but I know this: no person who was in this house last night, sharing our peril, shall be kept away from our deliberations today. Now, Lawrence, let us go fetch a pitcher of cold water.” Urban smiled crookedly. “Pontificating is thirsty work.”

  The audience in the Garden Room was less than a dozen persons. After fetching water with the pope, Larry had sidled off to buttonhole Ruy and point out that it was defensive suicide to allow the security forces to attend. Ruy politely declined to undermine the pope’s offer, but pointed out that all the security personnel were so deeply engaged in their duties, and so far away from the villa itself, that they could not possibly be summoned in time. Then, as three of the Hibernians walked by, not ten yards away, Ruy smiled at Larry.

  Larry stared at the nearby soldiers, then at the ironic smile on Ruy’s face, and said, “Oh.”

  If Urban detected, or was upset by the suspiciously limited audience for his pronouncements, he gave no sign of it. He simply stood and began.