The Shadow of the Lion by Mercedes Lackey

By Mercedes Lackey

3 writers collaborate in this sizeable concoction of trade historical past, excessive delusion, and historic romance set within the sixteenth-century Venice of another global during which Catholicism is factionalized.

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Damn the Saints and damn the trap. His only hope was the chance that the fish might relax when it died, enough to let him slide it out. Or if he could find a fisherman with a harpoon. He would lose half the value of his catch, but he might get something. He poled the raft toward the wharves in hopes of finding a fisherman; there was just the barest possibility there would be someone there with a bit of a coin or something edible to trade—he'd willingly swap fish, trap and all for a little bread.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Sea birds mewling, reeds whispering, nothing else. He jumped off the raft—water was just a bit more than waist deep here, though the bottom sucked at his feet—and picked up an edge of the islet. It was a kind of basket made to look like a hummock with reeds sticking out of it, resting on a much larger raft. Marco heaved his little raft atop the big one, climbed onto them, and lowered the basket down to cover himself and his "home" again. There was just enough room under the "roof" to sit hunched over, with his chin on his knees—but it was safer than anywhere else in the swamp, especially with Them out after him.

More than I wish to," she replied in a breath. "Something terrible has come, bound in a strong box of iron and guarded by men in steel, hedged about with spell and sword. " For once, he felt a stirring of hope. There were enough Christian mages in the city, surely there was no need for one broken old man! "If it is hedged about—" he began. "The hedges are . . peculiar," the Silvani said, frowning severely. "And among the guardians at least one is unclean. " The Silvani looked so human it was easy to read their expressions, and this one assumed an air of pleading.

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