The Bear was too intent on squinting at the page to notice the other man’s reaction, but Ocyrhoe watched Fieschi. She saw his hands stop moving; she saw him slowly put the utensils down. “That? It’s nothing,” the priest said. “A scrap from an illustrated manuscript. A book not unlike—”
“And this?” The Bear pointed to something on the page. “Here, in the margin.”
Fieschi picked up his cup and drank slowly. “The scribbling of a madman,” he said. “Translate it if you wish, but I can tell you what it says. It is heretical nonsense, a prophecy filled with astrological prattle—references to the influences offered by Saturn and Jupiter. Naturally, it talks of the downfall of the Church, and it intimates that everything will come to an end in less than twelve years. This is the very sort of apocalyptic rabble-rousing that will inflame the citizens should it find its way into the hands of the wrong sort of miscreant.”
The Bear put the page down. “Who is he?” Orsini asked.
Fieschi waited for a long moment, and when the larger man started to fidget with the items on the table, he smiled. Orsini noticed the cardinal’s expression and his face tightened. He picked up the wine flagon in an effort to draw attention away from his grimace, but he poured the wine sloppily, splashing some on his hand and the table.
The cardinal let out a low laugh. “As you suggested, as long as he’s delirious and confined with me, I can control him, so why should you fear anything?” He leaned forward. “But the girl and his friend. And the ring. Those are out of my control. Are you certain you shut down the witch network?”
Orsini’s face colored. “They’re gone,” he insisted. He gulped his wine. “I’ll find the ring,” he said. “You do your work.”
“Of course,” Fieschi said smoothly. “As you said, he is another vote, and perhaps he could be convinced to help us. Even if he did set out on his journey as the Emperor’s man, if he is deranged enough now, he might not understand what he is to do. Perhaps the fact that he isn’t in his right mind might be useful.”
An owl hooted close behind Ocyrhoe and she started forward, her hand accidentally tapping against the frame of the window. She threw herself flat on the balcony floor, and a second later was hustling over the railing and back down the stone lion. She had been too noisy this time. They must have heard her. She dropped down to the lion’s feet and hung on, her legs dangling over open space. She couldn’t see the window, but she could see the play of shadow and light change as Orsini came to the window again.
She held on, her fingers cramping, but the light didn’t change. He was still there. Her arms started to scream with exertion. How long was he going to stand there?
Her left hand slipped, and she bit down on her tongue to keep the fear in. The stone was warm and slippery. She wasn’t going to be able to hang on much longer. The fall wasn’t that far; she would be able to land easily. But she couldn’t do it quietly. He was bound to hear the sound of a body hitting the tiles of the roof below. He’d raise the alarm, and the palazzo grounds would fill with soldiers and torches. She’d be caught, killed on the spot most likely. They’re gone, he had said. She was the only one left. No one was going to save her.
The owl hooted again from the nearby tree. Orsini grunted, and something flew over Ocyrhoe’s head. His cup, trailing a rain of red wine, struck the trunk of the tree and clattered through the branches, startling the owl.
As it clattered, Ocyrhoe let go.
10
Into the Land of the Khazars
THE FIRST WEEK, they had covered ground quickly on European horses taken from the Livonians. They had carried some fodder with them. When this ran out, they slackened their pace and gave the horses leisure to forage in abandoned farm fields where wild grain was richly interspersed with the native feather grass. A fortnight into the journey, Vera had guided them to a market town on a great river where they had traded for steppe ponies, which were smaller but capable of traveling indefinitely on nothing but fresh grass—and in fact rejected provender as unpalatable. That was the last place they had seen that could answer to the name of city or town. Vera knew where it was that Raphael wanted to go, but rather than guiding them along a straight course to that destination—a range of low hills east of the Volga—she allowed the horses to trace the invisible boundary between the tall feather grass of the north, where they could enjoy level footing and richer forage, and the spiky bunchgrass that prevailed farther south.
A subtle shift in the ground, the patterns of birds in the distance, a fragrance on the breeze told them that they were descending into the watershed of the great river—the last river of any consequence that, Vera assured them, they would be seeing for a very long time. There were no bridges and no fords; they would have to be ferried across, a fact that obliged them to gather round the fire one night and hold a council of war. The fire was a feeble glimmer, reflecting the lack of trees hereabouts, and Raphael hoped that this was not an omen of what might emerge from the discussion.