1635_ Cannon Law - Eric Flint [207]
He hissed, and she fell silent. "Not so loud," he said. "I figure so long as they think I'm out they won't do anything. I think I woke up when that guy was in here."
"Captain Papas?" she asked.
"Was that him? I thought that was a dream—" his breath rattled as he spoke—"water?"
She offered the jug, and he drank the last of the water greedily. Giovanna knew she could wait for more, but Frank had had no more than the dribbles she had dripped through his lips for days.
"God, that tastes good," he whispered, his throat still plainly raw. "I feel weak as a kitten. I don't think I could move much even if I wanted to."
"Don't," Giovanna whispered back. "Your leg is broken, and you have other injuries."
"Yeah, I can feel—God, I can't tell. Everything hurts. The leg's bad, though."
"Lie still, Frank, if we can fool them long enough . . ."
"Yeah." His smile seemed to outshine the starlight that lit their cell. "Something's bound to turn up."
Padua, Italy
"Well, that's that," said Tom Simpson, demonstratively slapping his hands together, as if clearing them of dust.
"What's what?" demanded Melissa. She was glaring at the Venetian soldiers who were barring the road to Venice—and doing so just as demonstratively.
Tom gave her a sage look. "We've done what we can, come as far as the road takes us. If you give me a minute or two, I can probably drum up a few more clichés."
"Very funny," snapped Melissa.
"He's got a point, hon," said Dr. Nichols. He nodded toward the soldiers. "On the positive side, they've got ten times as many troops guarding the road into Padua. I figure the pope's safe enough for the moment, now that we're in Venice's terraferma."
"Don't call me 'hon,' " Melissa snapped.
Nichols rolled his eyes. "Sure, babe, whatever you say."
Sharon couldn't suppress a gurgling laugh. Just . . . couldn't. Melissa's face had practically turned purple.
Melissa started to glare at her, but halfway through started a gurgling laugh of her own.
"Okay, I surrender!" she exclaimed. " 'Hon' it is. Anything's better than 'babe.' For God's sake, James, I'm sixty years old."
"Don't look a day over fifty-five, hon," Nichols assured her.
"Indeed so!" boomed Ruy, who had just emerged from the door of the very big taverna they were standing not far from. He gave Sharon a smile and a little nod. Then, swept off his hat and gave Melissa a sweeping bow that would have dazzled the court at Madrid. "I, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, swear it is true!"
That was good for a real laugh, and from everybody.
When that was over, Melissa asked: "So now what?"
"At a guess," replied Rita, "Italy starts going up in flames. A good chunk of the rest of Europe as well. With those two over there"—she wiggled a thumb in the direction of the pope and his nephew, who were engaged in some sort of negotiations with three Venetian senators—"pouring on the gasoline."
Tom studied them. The pope and the cardinal were enjoying the shade next to the taverna's wall. Also enjoying a bottle of wine.
"I say we join them," he proposed.
"By all means," said Sharon. "You do so."
"You're not joining us?" asked Rita.
"No. Maybe tomorrow. For the moment . . ." She took Ruy by the hand. "My husband has made arrangements for a room."
"Rooms for everyone," Ruy added. "Separate rooms."
Seeing that everyone was staring at her, Sharon sniffed haughtily. "The stresses of the past period may have scrambled your brains and made you forget everything. But not me. Our wedding was interrupted, remember?"
And she was off, Ruy in tow.
"Well, that's that," said Tom.
Madrid, Spain
Philip IV had been staring out the window of the Alcazar throughout the count-duke of Olivares' report on the situation in Rome. Now, his hands still clasped behind his back, he hunched forward a bit. As if he were looking for someone in the gardens below.
"How many assassins do we have in our employ, Gaspar?"
The count-duke had been afraid of that royal reaction. He inhaled, preparatory to launching