Rogue Sword by Poul Anderson Page A

watchers, like the first sough before a hailstorm.
    “No!” Lucas shouted. “This is some connivance of my enemies!” He had no idea what he would say next, but the vision of fetters raised his tones to a roar. “Captain, arrest that impostor! “
    “What?” The skipper blinked. “But, but he’s from the Bailo.”
    “He says!” Lucas forced his mouth into a sarcastic grin. “What’s his touchstone?”
    “This.” The messenger held up the paper.
    “Can you read it, Captain?”
    “N-no,” stammered the mariner. “D' you think me a priest? But he told me--”
    Dim as one star seen through a winter tempest, his plan came to Lucas. He shot a look around. Between him and the others was a clear space, perhaps two yards wide, with the passengers and idle crewmen forward of it. Behind him rose the poop. He pushed the girl a little aft. He himself moved toward the messenger.
    “I have enemies,” he stormed. “I didn’t imagine they’d be so bold as to take the name of the State in vain. Yes, and falsify an official seal! O God of justice, strike down this knave!”
    Going red and then white, the Venetian sputtered, “I have never heard such impudence in my life! All men know me, Zorzi da Carrara, assistant to his excellency the Bailo. This wretch dares--” He became incoherent.
    Lucas snatched the paper from him. “Do you call this a warrant?” he sneered. Zorzi opened his mouth. “Silence, you lying rogue! Let me show you, Captain, how clumsy a forgery this is. See here--”
    All the while, he scanned the writing. A chill fastened upon him. This was indeed a properly secured document, demanding the arrest of Lucco or Lucas, nicknamed Greco, natural son of the late Pietro Torsello, on several sworn accusations. Assault and robbery did not surprise him. It followed almost as a matter of course that he should be charged with breaking the confines, fleeing the jurisdiction in which he stood accused, even though he had not been notified. What brought the blood draining from his heart was the count of desertion. Which was stated to be a capital offense!
    Venice had not been at war when he fled. Nor was there then a death penalty for bolting from armed service. It must have been decreed subsequently, during the long conflict with Genoa. But that made no difference to his case: not in Venice. At least, not if so powerful and vindictive an enemy as Gasparo Reni were to ask for the severest judgment.
    The fact remained, he had left the arbalestiers without permission. The boy had given that matter no thought; the man would be hung in an iron cage and starved to death.
    Gasparo, beyond question, had wrought this. Without his urging, surely no one would have troubled about such ancient peccadillos. A fine might have been set. Or, quite likely, no punishment at all. But Gasparo, thought Lucas, each realization streaking across the clamor in his skull, Gasparo had gone to the Bailo, made out an affidavit (perjuring himself about the alleged assault, but that was safe enough; who could reconstruct a street brawl with certainty?)--he had used his influence, possibly a substantial bribe as well, all to destroy one penniless wanderer.
    The insane malevolence of it shook Lucas as much as his own danger. The man must be possessed!
    Zorzi da Carrara took the warrant back from lax fingers. “Captain,” he said frostily, “if you are foolish enough to heed this rascal for one moment, then there are worthy men aboard my ship who can identify me and my office. He is to be taken in irons to Venice and held until his accuser--”
    What he must do came back to Lucas, driving out that horror of Gasparo which had crawled under his skin.
    His performance had only been to divert attention. There was no chance, there had never been any, to escape by cunning. But he stood next to one of the pike-bearing sailors. They were all agape, staring at the Venetian signor.
    Now!
    Lucas gauged the spot on a bare, hairy stomach. Just under the