Rogue Sword Read online

  Rogue Sword

  Poul Anderson

  Copyright ©1960, by Poul Anderson

  An Avon Original

  Prologue

  As he sprang through the window, Lucas heard steel whistle at his back. For an instant, he wondered if the sword had reached him. Then he was falling through darkness.

  He straightened in midair and hit the canal in a clean dive. The water shut thickly above his head. Memory stabbed: thus had he often gone over a certain low cliff, into the sea that encircled Crete. And when he came up, the waves had glittered, unrestful blue to the world’s rim, and had laughed with him. Was it only four years ago?

  He felt himself rising, and struck out underwater. When his lungs were near to bursting, he broke the surface. A piling was rough beneath his hand, supporting him in part. The house it upheld gave him a helmet of shadow. He felt the water warm and oily on his skin. It stank. No, he thought, Venice lies far from Crete.

  Cautiously, he glanced around. Thin night-mists lay on the canal, unreal beneath stars and a bit of moon. The houses lifted sheer from narrow walkways, doors barred, windows shuttered, blind with sleep. Yards behind and above him, one square shone with dull candlelight. The bulky black form of a man leaning out filled most of it. A metal gleam jumped about in his hand. Fear vanished in mockery as Lucas thought: If he failed to skewer me, why must he vent his anger on the unoffending air?

  Then the merchant began to shout. “Custodi! Ho, custodi!” Echoes clamored from wall to wall and back again, down the length of the canal. A squad of watchmen could not be far away; this city was well patrolled. Lucas bit his lip in returning unease.

  Another shape appeared at the second-floor window. The candle-glow touched her body and her unbound hair. She screamed above her husband’s bellowings, “Lucco, get away! He’ll have you blinded--” Gasparo Reni snarled and shoved her back into the chamber.

  Did torches bob as men came jogging along the walkway, somewhere off in the fog? Lucas didn’t care to find out. Moreta was quite right, bless her soul. Bless also her eyes and lips and arms and ... He reminded himself sharply of his peril. Worse, in a way, than before. If Gasparo had slain him and thrown him into the canal (who would ask that great merchant what he knew about the fate of a penniless orphan apprentice?) he would at least be dead. But now, if the watch arrested Lucas, Gasparo would take his revenge through the law. By all accounts, he was vindictive enough to demand the extreme penalty for this offense, when the offender could not pay substantial compensation: loss of a hand and both eyes.

  Even if the judge mitigated the sentence, Venice would be no place for Lucas the half-Greek.

  But where, then?

  He began to swim, quickly and softly. After he turned off along an intersecting canal, the window and Moreta were lost to him.

  It became very still. Few people were ever abroad after dark. He passed a number of moored gondolas, but their poles were stored indoors. Anyhow, a naked youth had best travel inconspicuously. Seeing the mouth of an alley gaping just beyond a ladder, Lucas climbed up and slipped into its concealing darkness.

  The air chilled his wet skin. He shivered, fought against a sneeze, and wondered with increasing desperation what to do. Sunrise would trap him as certainly as the men of the Signori di Notte. He had disreputable friends, here and there--no, he thought, not such good friends that they’d help one who was hunted. Especially if Gasparo Reni offered a reward.

  His throat tightened and tears stung his eyes. O all you saints, he protested, why did you have to let this happen? What am I to do?

  Bad enough being damned to dreariness here, among aliens, with no other prospect for my whole lifetime; but now this!

  A thought struck home. Terror, loneliness, self-pity scattered. By Heaven, he realized, this may be the very chance I’ve prayed for!

  He laughed aloud, and hurried from shadow to shadow, across the city to the waterfront.

  But at the Sclavonian Bank, he had to worm his way across the docks. Often he stopped, his heart almost bursting through his rib-cage at the sound of footsteps. When he reached shelter, his exhaustion was such that he could have gone no farther, though the watchmen’s pikes were to lift above him.

  He cradled his cheek on an arm. Sleep came like a thunderclap.

  A racket of shoes and voices, in the first vague light before dawn, awoke him. He tensed, instantly alert. Thank Heaven for youth, he thought in a wry corner of his mind; one needs the toughness to survive the consequences of the rashness. He was, in fact, only fifteen years old, of medium height but close-knit, well muscled for his age. His head was round, his face broad, with a freckled snub nose, high cheekbones and a wide full mouth, hazel eyes set far apart, reddish-brown hair.

  The new arrivals were longshoremen, come to finish the loading of a fleet. Lucas had known a convoy would leave today, with woolens, iron, and timber for Constantinople. He knew every ship in harbor, where it was from and where it was going and when and with what. The knowledge had fueled all his dreams, while he toiled in Gasparo Reni’s countinghouse. He waited for his chance. Simply stowing away was not likely to get him far. But something might turn up.

  His hiding place was in a stack of marble pieces, looted from Eastern cities and awaiting the day that some new building required them. A fluted column was hard against his hip, a frieze of centaurs like a barricade before him. Past the warehouses, he could see the twin spires of the Palazzo delle due Torri, near the Doge’s palace, and the top of the Campanile. All was dim and blue-black, under dying stars.

  An opportunity came, sooner than expected. The laborers were busy stowing deck cargo, but not far from Lucas another man went up and down a gangplank, carrying personal baggage that he had fetched in a gondola. Obviously he was some passenger’s servant. Yet his cheap brown mantle, of Venetian cut, and the general look of him, suggested he was no beloved old retainer but merely hired for this occasion. He seemed worth testing; if inquiry gave negative results, well, something else must be tried. Lucas waited catwise. The man stooped to pick up a bag of provisions, such as all passengers must carry for themselves--at an instant when the stevedore gang was preoccupied with several ships down the line.

  “Hsst!” called Lucas. “You, there!”

  “What?” The man straightened and approached. Seen closer, he was a scrawny one. Indeed, thought Lucas, feverishly excited, the saints are being most helpful.

  He kept his tones low and cool. “Would you like a bit of sport, Messer?”

  “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I have a sister. Young. Breasts like the dome of St. Mark’s.”

  The stranger paused, a few feet away. Lucas raised his head over the marble blocks, grinning, and saw lechery. “This is no time or place,” the man hesitated. “Against the law.”

  “True. But we’ve instant need of money, she and I, and there’s too much competition in the regular quarter. Only two grossi, Messer, the tenth part of a ducat, for as warm a half-hour as you’ll spend this side of Purgatory. And a good deal more pleasant, eh?”

  “My work--”

  “You’ve little left to do, I can see. Who’s your master?”

  “A knight of Aragon.” The servant preened himself. “He engaged me out of a hundred others, to accompany him to Constantinople and back. I have to make this place ready.”

  “You’ll be at sea for weeks, then. Perhaps a whole month. Heat, seasickness, crowding--”

  “No, he’s engaged a room in the deckhouse. He’s too well-born to mix with common merchants and that ilk, sleeping in the open. I can spread my pallet at his threshold.”

  “--bad food, worse water, and wine turned sour. Hardest of all, uninterrupted chastity. You might even perish at sea. Then think of my sister, as you gurgl
e down to the bottom!”

  “Two grossi is too much.”

  “Well, we can discuss that. Here, where no busybody watchman can spy us.”

  The man came around the barricade, in among the marbles, and saw Lucas naked. His mouth fell open. Before he could cry out, he was attacked.

  Lucas whipped him around, threw an arm about his neck, put a knee in the small of his back, and rapped sharply with the other hand. The man gasped once, and sagged. Lucas eased him down and undressed him. It was hard, acrobatic work in this cramped space, with the ever-present fear of discovery. His victim stirred and groaned. Lucas ripped a hem with the aid of his teeth, tore strips from the shirt, bound and gagged the man. Then he tucked him, helplessly squirming, in an entablature. Hastily he donned the remaining garments.

  “You can get loose before sundown, I’m sure,” he said kindly. “I shall offer prayers for your welfare.”

  He went out to the piled baggage and began loading it himself.

  All the galleys of this convoy were identical, as Venetian law required: high in poop and forecastle, low in the waist, with oars and a single lateen-sailed mast. Catapults were mounted for defense against pirates; a shelter stood amidships for officers and the most important passengers. Lucas soon found the knight’s cubbyhole, the goods already there marked with the same emblem as those on the baggage he carried. He worked fast to get everything stowed before anyone paid attention to him. When at last he could close the door, he was all atremble. He unshuttered the little port, hoping the dawn air would clear his head. Now, more than ever, he needed nerve and wits.

  If his gamble failed . . . best not think of that. Think what success would mean--a way opened to the fabled lands of his most gorgeous hopes!

  Deck passengers bustled aboard. Sailors followed. Flags were hoisted, to flap brilliant in the sky above the vividly striped hulls. One by one, the galleys warped from the long quay. When all were clear, trumpets blew and oars rattled forth. They struck the water with an enormous noise, but fell at once into a steady creak-splash-thud as drums set their time. The ships formed convoy and stood out toward the Adriatic Sea.

  Lucas watched from the cabin. He caught a final glare, where sunlight crashed on the great bronze horses atop the cathedral. Far northward, the mountains made a wan blueness. When the fleet neared the Lido, he discerned other craft, not only fisher boats but merchantmen which had lain at anchor until sunrise made entrance possible. They bore to Venice the goods of a hundred lands: from her own possessions in Dalmatia, the eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea; from foreign countries from Iceland to Cathay. Saracen trade came here, despite all prohibitions of the Church. Even the hated Genoese came, though it did not seem that the uneasy peace between them and Venice could last much longer.

  And I, thought Lucas with a leaping in his breast, am outbound.

  The door opened. He whirled about.

  The man who stood there was tall, and increased his height by soldierly erectness. His face was narrow, with a jutting beak of nose, gray eyes, thin lips framed by a pointed beard and mustaches. His black hair was cut short immediately below the ears, like most men’s. His doublet and hose were likewise black, of rich material, but he wore a white blouse and red cloak.

  His sword leaped forth. “What are you doing?” he barked.

  Lucas bowed. “Good morning, Ser Knight.” His voice was not altogether steady. Sweat prickled him.

  The cavalier poised his blade. “Good morning to you, Messer Thief.” He snapped out the Venetian patois with a readiness indicating he had been some time in the Republic, but with a distinct accent of Catalonia. “Where is my attendant?”

  “Here, my lord, at your command.”

  The Catalan lowered his weapon, as blankly as hoped. “What? Have I entered the wrong--No! Where is Giovanni Moxe?”

  Need proved a sharp spur. Lucas found himself able to laugh. “Was that his name, Messer? Are you certain? Myself, I wouldn’t trust him to say a truthful Credo. Think!

  He abandoned his duty to go rest behind the marble heaped on the waterfront! Naturally, your effects could not be left unwatched, so I completed their stowage and assumed guard over them.”

  His educated vocabulary impressed the other, Lucas saw. “Who are you?” demanded the knight, but the creak and thrum of the ship overrode his words. He closed the door to the crowded deck and repeated his question.

  “Lucas, my lord. They called me Lucco in Venice.” With a rush of defiance, he tossed his head and declared, “Now I shall again be of my mother’s people, and bear the name she gave me.”

  “Do you know your father?”

  A calculated gibe. Lucas felt his cheeks go hot as he answered: “I know who he was, Messer. A younger son of the great Torsello family. He was stationed for a couple of years at the factory--the mercantile center--at Canea, on the island of Crete. Then he returned to Venice and died of sickness soon after.”

  “Leaving a discarded mistress and her by-blow. A common enough occurrence. But you have uncommon impudence, I must say. Do you know the penalties for illegal embarkation? There are worse ones for murder. Tell the truth, you! What did you do to Giovanni Moxe?”

  The sword lifted again. A sunbeam, sickling in as the ship rolled, turned it to bright menace. Lucas gulped.

  “As God is my witness, Ser Knight, I didn’t harm him!” he protested. “Not enough to matter. I only left him tied. He’ll get loose within hours. Need drove me. Are we not all commanded to preserve our lives as long as reasonably possible?”

  The Catalan’s weapon drooped once more. He stroked his beard and considered the boy with narrowed military eyes. “So?” he replied, smooth again. “Pray, tell me the whole.”

  Hopefulness brought Lucas’ smile forth, and the words tripped from his tongue.

  “Consider, Messer. I did not force Gasparo Reni’s wife. True, I did not repel her, either. She is pretty, and not much older than I, while her husband is a sullen oaf who went to Eastern lands less than a year after he wed her and was two years gone. Meanwhile I was an apprentice in the countinghouse. She would come visit it--ah, like a sunbeam in the strangling gloom! We would talk. On some holidays I was invited to the house, most decorously. At last I took to serenading beneath her window. One night she let a rope fall from her sill, down to my borrowed gondola. . . . Well, when old Reni came back, a few weeks ago, I thought a very sweet time had ended. But yesterday she sent me a message: he was to be gone after dark, to an entertainment at the Rialto. Would it not have been churlish and ungrateful of me not to respond, Messer? Yet how could we have known he would return home hours before any man who has any sense of joy in life should, and enter without the simple courtesy of knocking?”

  Despite himself, the Catalan could be seen to fight an answering grin. To the haughty nobles of Iberia, a merchant’s honor was of no account. “So you chose this means of escape,” he said. “Well, I can understand Venice is no longer healthful for you.” Harshly then, as the thought smote him: “But you were craven to abandon the woman to his wrath.”

  “Oh, no fear for her, Messer. Donna Moreta is of the Grimiani, and you know how powerful that family is. He’d never dare use violence on her. In fact, now that there is no object for his revenge, why should he make himself ridiculous by saying anything at all of what has happened? Better to keep the whole affair secret, no? Wherefore I did her the best service by fleeing.”

  “A rascal is never at loss for a reason. But can you give me one for not handing you over to the captain, that he may return you to your just punishment?”

  “I can give you many reasons, Ser Knight.” Lucas throttled his fear to speak glibly. “Imprimis, Our Lord bade us forgive the wrongdoer. Secundus, I have done you no harm, except to rid you of a servant so lazy and stupid he would leave his work to talk with a pimp. Tertius, you would be without a servant if I was arrested, which is not suitable to your dignity. Quartus, I am a most excellent servant. Besides menial tasks, I can read, write, and do sums; sp
eak flowing Greek, with more than a smattering of other languages; sing rather well, play on whistle or cither, compose poems in all approved forms, sail a boat, fight, spy on your enemies, advise on affairs of the heart, and learn anything else my master cares to teach me.”

  “Ah, so.” With a sudden gesture, the man put sword back in sheath. He was getting more than a little interested. “Where have you gained these marvelous abilities?”

  The story was soon told, however much Lucas yielded to the temptation of embellishment when he saw ids persuasion succeeding. After her Venetian lover departed, his Cretan mother had gone back to her own fisher people and married one of them. Lucas learned the handling of small craft from his stepfather. But an uncle of his mothers, a monk, saw uncommon possibilities of another sort and educated the lad in the Greek and Roman alphabets. Likewise he learned the speech both of the Cretans and their unloved Venetian overlords. His mother died when he was eleven and her husband, with an eye to making good connections, inquired about his natural father. Pietro Torsello turned out also to be dead. But under Venetian law, no child could be totally disinherited, and Lucas’ paternity was demonstrable. So another of the Torselli undertook, grudgingly, to make provision for him and brought him to Venice. Here he was apprenticed in the countinghouse of Gasparo Reni.

  It suited him ill. He became the wildest of his fellows, always ready for a fight or a frolic--and the Queen of the Adriatic offered both, in rich variety, to those who explored her byways. Though often in trouble, the boy showed such a potentially useful talent for languages that he was never severely punished. Simply by spending time in that polyglot city, he had become able to get along in half a dozen tongues. As for his warlike capabilities: he had been in more than his share of rough-and-tumble encounters; and early this year, on reaching his fifteenth birthday, he was enrolled in the arbalestiers like any other Venetian youth.

  At the end of the tale, the knight said weightily, “If half what you claim is true, you’ll indeed be more valuable to me than that Moxe fellow. But since I plan to return through Venice, you must be left in Constantinople when I go.”