The Venetian Betrayal

A blessing and a problem.

Six hundred years ago Venice had been an oligarchical republic, governed by merchants through a complicated political system designed to prevent despotism. Faction and intrigue were thought foiled by processes that relied heavily on chance. No one person ever held sole authority. Always groups advising, deciding, and acting. Groups that changed at regular intervals.

But corruption still crept in. Plots and pet projects flourished. Webs of conspiracy were woven.

Men always found a way.

And so had he.

Thirty days.

More than enough time.

“What of Supreme Minister Zovastina?” one of the Council asked, breaking his thoughts. “Will she be all right?”

“Now that,” he said, “may well become the talk of this day.”

SEVEN

SAMARKAND

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

6:20 A.M.

ZOVASTINA SPURRED HER HORSE. THE OTHER CHOPENOZ WHIPPED their mounts, too. Mud splattered up at her from wet turf obliterated by hooves. She bit down on the whip and gripped the reins with both hands. No one had, as yet, made a move on the goat carcass lying in its earthen pan.

“Come now, Bucephalas,” she said through clenched teeth into the horse’s ear. “Time to show them.” She yanked and the animal bolted right.

The game was simple. Grab the boz, ride with it in hand to the far end of the field, round the pole, then return and deposit the dead goat in the circle of justice, outlined in lime on the grass. Sounded easy, but the problem came from the chopenoz who were allowed to do most anything to steal the boz.

An invitation to play buzkashi with her was considered an honor, and she chose the participants with great care. Today’s were a mixture of her personal guard and nine invited guests, making for two teams of twelve.

She was the only woman.

And she liked that.

Bucephalas seemed to sense what was expected of him and closed on the boz. Another player slammed into the horse’s right flank. Zovastina retrieved the whip from her mouth and slashed a blow at the other rider, popping the man’s face with leather tendrils. He brushed aside her attack and continued his assault, now joined by three other horsemen trying to stop her.

Two of her team closed ranks and battled the three opponents.

A storm of horses and riders orbited the boz.

She’d told her team earlier that she wanted to make the first run around the pole and they seemed to be doing their part to accommodate her.

A fourth player from the opposing team drove his horse close.

The world spun around her as all twenty-four chopenoz circled. One of her opponents’ whips found her chest, but the thick leather jacket deflected the blow. Usually, striking the Supreme Minister was a capital offense, but that rule was waived during buzkashi. She wanted players to hold nothing back.

A horsemen slipped from his mount and slammed to the ground.

No one stopped to help. Not allowed.

Broken limbs, cuts, and slashes were common. Five men had actually died on this field during the past two years. Death had always been common during buzkashi. Even the Federation’s criminal code contained an exception to murder that applied only during the game.

She rounded the shallow pit.

Another rider reached for the boz, but she pounded his hand with her whip. She then pulled hard on the reins and slowed Bucephalas, whirling them both around and, once again, charging the carcass before the others caught back up with her.

Two more riders plunged to the ground.

Each of her breaths came laced with grass and mud and she spat out the sediment, but she welcomed the scent of sweating horseflesh.

She stuffed the whip back in her mouth and leaned down, one hand keeping a stranglehold on the saddle, the other yanking up the carcass. Blood squirted from where the goat’s hooves and head had been severed. She dragged the dead goat up and held tight, then signaled for Bucephalas to sweep left.

Only three rules now governed.

No tying of the carcass. No striking the hand of the holder. No tripping the horses.

Time for a run at the pole.

She spurred Bucephalas.

The other team closed.

Her teammates galloped to her defense.

The carcass was heavy, maybe thirty kilos, but her strong arms were more than capable of holding on. Blood continued to soak her hand and sleeve.

A blow to her spine caught her attention.

She whirled.

Two opposing horsemen.

More swarmed inward.

Hooves pounded the damp earth like thunder, pierced by the frenzied screams of horses. Her chopenoz came to her defense. Blows were exchanged. She held the boz in a death grip, her forearms aching.

The pole stood fifty meters away.

The field spread out behind the summer palace on a grassy plain that eventually ended at thick forest. The Soviets had utilized the complex as a retreat for the party elite, which explained how it had survived. She’d changed the layout, but a few aspects of the Russian occupation had been wisely retained.

More riders joined the fray as both teams fought with each other.

Whips snapped.

Men groaned in pain.

Obscenities were exchanged.

She surged into the lead, but only slightly. She’d have to slow to round the pole and begin her return to the circle of justice, which would give them all an opportunity to pounce. Though her team had been accommodating to this point, the rules now allowed anyone to steal the boz and make a run of their own.

She decided to catch them all off guard.

Kicking, she directed Bucephalas to angle right.

No out of bounds governed. Riders could, and did, venture anywhere. She arced their galloping path outward, the bulk of the chopenoz massed to her left, stretching her advance to the field’s fringes where rows of tall trees guarded the perimeter. She could weave between them-she’d done so before-but today she preferred a different route.

Before any of the others could react to her sudden shift, she hooked left and crisscrossed the field, cutting off the main body of galloping riders, causing them all to slow.

Their instant of hesitation allowed her to sweep ahead and loop the pole.

The others followed.

She turned her attention ahead.

One rider waited fifty meters down the field. He was swarthy, bearded, with a stiff face. He sat tall in the saddle and she saw his hand emerge from beneath a leather cape, holding a gun. He kept the weapon close, waiting for her.

“Let’s show him, Bucephalas, that we’re not afraid.”

The horse raced forward.

The man with the gun did not move. Zovastina stared him down. No one would ever cause her to retreat.

The gun came level.

A shot echoed across the field.

The man with the gun teetered, then collapsed to the wet ground. His horse, spooked by the retort, raced away riderless.

She trampled the corpse, Bucephalas’ hooves digging into the still-warm flesh, the body swept away in their wake.

She kept riding until the circle of justice came into view. She rode past and tossed the boz into its center, then brought Bucephalas to a stop.

The other riders had all halted where the dead man lay.

Shooting a player was absolutely against the rules. But this was not part of any game. Or maybe it was? Just a different contest. With different players and different rules. One none of the men here today would either understand or appreciate.

She yanked on the reins and straightened herself in the saddle, casting a glance toward the palace roof. Inside one of the old Soviet gun stations, her sharpshooter signaled success by waving his rifle.

She returned the gesture by rearing Bucephalas onto his hind legs and the horse whi