may be right,” mused the grand duke, eventually. “It is certainly true that when I let the Woden escape, the results were . . . unfortunate. I had thought the Lion’s slumber to be a heavier thing.”
The shaman dared to speak again. “That was the strength of the priest at work, Lord. He is dangerous.”
“Yes.” Again, silence. “Impervious to seduction also, it seems. I had hopes for that tool, but she is proving less useful than desired.”
There was a slight edge to the last words. From long experience, the shaman knew that a death sentence had just been passed. He felt a small regret. The tool in question was as beautiful as she was evasive. Thus far, unlike the other female in Venice, she had managed to retain her own soul. But the shaman knew it would have been only a matter of time before Jagiellon broke her to his will. After which, as was his way, he would allow his chief underlings to enjoy the woman.
But the regret was small, and fleeting. There would be other beautiful women. Being in service to Jagiellon was as rewarding as it was perilous.
Still . . .
“She may be of use yet, Lord,” murmured the shaman. “If she has failed in that task, she has succeeded in many others.”
Again, the great body shifted; and, again, the shaman grew tense. But, again, it was simply an obese ruler’s discomfort.
“True. We will see. In the meanwhile, I have decided you are correct. We will continue the murders, but keep the Woden on a tight leash. And make no attempt, for the moment, to remove either the mage or the priest. Time is on my side, after all. Venice grows more ragged by the day. So long as the priest remains