Rogue Sword Read Free Page B

ahead of him; now it lay behind.
    And scarce a ducat to show for it all, he added ruefully. His clothes--blouse, breeches, hose, shabby leather doublet and stained cloak, faded red bonnet--were a goodly proportion of his entire wealth. From time to time he had known riches, but . . .
    “Ah, good evening, my friend.”
    Lucas bowed. “Good evening to you, Brother Hugh.” They spoke in Genoese, the dominant Western tongue hereabouts, though both were also familiar with Romaic Greek. A chance encounter yesterday had led to mutual liking; both had considerable free time, and the city was well worth their joint exploration.
    “Did your business speed?” asked Lucas.
    “No,” said Hugh. “After cooling my heels in an antechamber, from morning until almost now, I was told the official could not see me yet. Oh, the underling was most polite, but his glee was plain.”
    “Aye, they’d enjoy baiting the representative of a Catholic brotherhood, in this most Orthodox capital. I would do them a mischief, were I you.”
    Hugh smiled. “If I lose my temper, will they not have succeeded in their aim? I can be patient; sit there as many days as need be, thinking my own thoughts. In the end, I’ll outlast their delayings.” Sadness crossed his countenance. “After all, they do have good reason to hate everything Western.”
    They began to walk, off the forum and down narrow streets between high walls. Daylight should linger long enough for them to visit the famous Mangana building. Afterward they would share supper. Hugh limped, the result of an old wound, and leaned on a staff; but his leathery frame did not seem to tire. He was tall and bony, with England plain to see in his long face and long straight nose. Against the weather-beaten skin, his eyes were a startling blue. The grizzled hair was cut short, and he wore a close-trimmed beard. His dress was the humble garb of the Knights Hospitallers of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem: over plain clothes, a black mantle with an eight-pointed white cross on the breast.
    But that organization of warrior friars held lands across half Europe. Hugh himself had fought at Acre, when the Moslems drove the last Christian dominion out of the Holy Land. Since then, the Knights of St. John had found refuge, like their Templar rivals, with the Frankish King of Cyprus; but their wealth and power remained. They acquired warships to guard the Christian and harry the infidel by sea, and lately they nursed some larger plan. What that was, Hugh kept secret. However, this gentle, drawling second son of a Lincolnshire baron had risen to the rank of Knight Companion of the Grand Master. He would not come hither to interview officials of the East Roman Empire, subtly probing strengths and weaknesses, for nothing.
    “What have you heard about the trouble at Gallipoli?” he asked.
    “Little enough truth,” said Lucas. “I can relay any number of rumors, if you like.”
    Arrived here from Trebizond, he had sought passage farther and engaged a place easily enough. The Golden Horn was filled with galleys, westbound after trading in the Black Sea, and more were arriving every week. But that was because war had broken out at the mouth of the Sea of Marmora, between the Byzantines and a rebellious troop of foreign mercenaries. They held the area of Gallipoli, and the Imperial forces were besieging them. While the fighting lasted, no prudent shipmaster would risk passing through the narrows.
    “I expect the trouble will soon be over,” said Lucas.
    “I am not so sure,” mused Hugh. “Perhaps you haven’t realized how enfeebled the Empire is. Whole provinces torn from her, her master a venal government under a vicious dynasty. . . . Well-a-day, it need concern you little.
    Did you say you were bound for Negroponte? You’ll be safely distant from New Rome and her woes.”
    Lucas nodded. Negroponte, the Venetian-owned island of Euboea, lay just across a narrow channel from the Duchy of Athens. He dared