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The Cannon Law—ARC(171)

By:Eric Flint & Andrew Dennis




She choked down the urge to hurl herself at him and try to choke the life from him. Getting herself killed would not help Frank and, anyway, the man had been under orders from that foul priest who had spent hours making her feel filthy with his eyes.



"Yes?" she said, after taking a deep breath, and then stopped. What else to say to such a man?



"It is no large thing I can do, Señora Stone y Marcoli," the captain said, "but I felt I must make at least some small apology, however humble, for my part in what has happened."



"My husband is still alive—" Giovanna resisted the urge to spit Spaniard! at the man in lieu of a name she did not know. "—Spanish soldier. He may awaken any time now."



"I pray for this happy outcome," the man said, and Giovanna wondered to see that he clearly meant it. There was sincerity written all over his face, despite his somewhat cracked Italian.



"Thank you, sir," she said, wondering what the man's name was. She'd caught that he was a captain when she'd been held there on that street, watching them shoot cannons at the place she'd made home for all those months, the place where her husband had been hiding and had come out of to be shot. "He sleeps now. He has slept for days. I worry, but they will not send a doctor again. I have asked and asked, but they will not send a doctor, and I have done all I can."



She ached to ask for his help, and pride would not stop her. What stopped her was fear of what the answer would be. She could keep herself warm with hope in a cold cell. If he said no, even that paltry rag of comfort would be taken away.



The pleading must have shown in her face. "I will ask on your behalf, señora," the captain said. "And while the pleas of Don Vincente Jose-Maria Castro y Papas may count for little, I will not have it said that they were not entered in the right ears. I do not know if you are military prisoners, civil prisoners or in the hands of the Inquisition, señora, but it may be that I can sow some little confusion and see to it that the standards of the military are upheld. Even the standards of the Inquisition would be an improvement, I think."



Giovanna bowed her head in gratitude. Gratitude and not a little fear—would he demand—?



She looked up, and saw no lechery in what she now realized was the face of quite a young man. Thirty-five, no more. And yet a face lined with cares. She had seen him argue with the other Spaniard, the priest, and realized that the argument, and what he had had to do when he lost it, had both cost him in their own way.



"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.



"I would say that what happened was entirely against my will, señora," he said, "but this is no comfort. Please, accept my apologies nevertheless. There is little about this business"—he waved a hand in the air, taking in the whole of Rome in one weary little circle—"that I can atone for in any way save what was placed in my hands to do. I did it, but there is no honor in it, no pride."



There was nothing Giovanna could think of to say. Could she even say she forgave him, when she felt no forgiveness, no pity? Even as recompense for the crumb of charity he had offered? The words would not come. After a long and uncomfortable silence, the captain left.



She went to sit by Frank. "Do you hear, my love?" she whispered to his sleeping ear. "They may send another doctor to help you. I pray they will."



"I pray they will too," he whispered back. "I feel like shit."



"Frank?" she cried aloud, "Are—"



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."