Manfred scowled. "You said it was inside my head after I was flung away onto that flimsy chair. You know they complained to me about breaking that chair? Ha. And I could have saved that whiny old Servant of the Trinity as well. Only that force seemed much stronger."
Erik smiled. "There were two of us this time. Come on. Drink up. Time we got back."
Manfred shrugged. "They'll never notice if we don't. Erik, I've a need to accumulate a few sins to confess."
Erik shook his head, hiding a reluctant smile behind his hand. "Get up, before I turf you off the bench."
They were crossing the campo, under the eyes of the bunches of students still buzzing with hushed talk, when a woman came running up to them.
People, Erik had noticed--particularly the Venetians--tended to avoid the Knights. That was hardly surprising. The likes of Von Stublau were likely to knock anyone who got in their way into the nearest canal. So a young woman running up to them was something of a surprise. To judge by Manfred's expression--even if by her dress she was a serving-maid--it was a welcome change. She was pretty enough.
She curtseyed hastily, nearly dropping the bundle she bore. "Pardon your honors, the students says you are the ones who saved M'lord Calenti?"
Manfred bowed. "We are, signorina."
"Ooh! From demons seventeen feet tall with horns and lots of teeth! And dancing naked witches with six breasts--like dogs. And I heard the whole building was destroyed and Legions of Cherubim, not that I understand why fat baby angels can fight well, but Father Pietro always tells us they do. Then there were those with trumpets and the whole city shook. And the winged lion itself stirred in the piazza. And there was a rain of blood--" Her eyes sparkled, as she tilted her head, quizzical for more juicy details.
Even Manfred was gobstopped. "Er. No . . . It wasn't quite like that. . . ."
Well, if they weren't going to oblige, she'd help out. "And poor Lord Calenti, him so handsome and all, he fought like a tiger before he got so burned by the devils. They burned the clothes right off his back, with their pitchforks and I don't know why they say that because surely it must have got the clothes in the front, but that would have got his privates, or at least showed his smalls and he has such elegant knitted smalls." She giggled coyly. "Not that a girl like me would know anything about that."
"Er," Erik began.
That was quite enough interruption. "So when Signora Elena said she needed someone to take m'lord his best nightshirt, because he was too sick to move, and Silvia and Maria were both too scared to come for fear of demons, and all the boys at the Accademia ogling them, and I don't know why because Maria's been walking out with that rough Samarro boy--and what's a few noble students compared to that?--I said I would take it. Only then Signora couldn't find it and I've had to bring him his second best and it hasn't got nearly such nice embroidery, and now I don't know where to find him, and none of these students want to tell me."
They probably couldn't get a word in edgeways, thought Erik. "The chapel," he said, hastily, pointing.
"Thank your honors," she said, curtseying again. Then, peering at Manfred, "You're awfully handsome, your honor. And so big, too." Squeaking and giggling at her own temerity, she scuttled off towards the chapel.
* * *
"It's not that funny." Manfred shook his head at Erik, whose steel armor--proof against great dark magics--was in danger of being shaken apart internally.
Erik snorted, his shoulders still shaking. "You fancied her and she fancied you. I don't see the problem. Just the girl for you to take home to your mother."
Manfred raised his eyes to heaven. "Hah. Funny, funny. Icelander sense of humor. Cowpat in the face."
"That's Vinlanders'," grinned Erik. In the aftermath of the terrible encounter, and with the grappa burning in his veins, he was feeling unusually silly. "Icelanders are more likely to put sheep droppings in your stew."
"Huh. I'll watch out for 'olives' in ragout while you're arou--" Manfred stopped suddenly.
His face had gone serious. "Erik, that's the third victim that we know of that had just lost a piece of clothing. Remember old Maggiore was complaining about his cassock. And that coiner's housekeeper and his favorite cap. And now a nightshirt."
Erik's felt the blood drain from his face. "I've heard of this. Mammets with the victim's hair and clothing . . . We better tell Sachs."
Manfred pulled a wry face. "If we can persuade him to listen."
Erik shrugged and began to walk on. "If not, we can perhaps get Calenti to give us a lead on who could have got hold of one of his nightshirts."