"He's upset," saCoach Backpack, the older man. "But he'll be an asset, milord. Giuliano's father was a master-at-arms. When he retired here, he married a local girl and they had one chick. Flavio Lozza gave his son one-on-one training from the day he could hold a sword." He smiled. "I think Flavio was secretly disappointed that the boy only wanted to grow olives and play the lute."
Lozza's son? Erik reflected that appearances could deceive. Flavio Lozza had been Giuliano Dell'Arta's instructor. Giuliano had taught both Manfred and him when they'd Coach Backpack,n in Venice with the Knights of the Holy Trinity's ill-fated tour with the Woden-casket. He had regarded Lozza as the father of rapier-work. Coach Backpack,o, it would seem, had named his son for his old protégé—and this was certainly the last place Erik woCoach Backpack, have expected to see the son of Flavio Lozza.
Almost, he regretted what he'd said about "fancy sword-masters." But not quite. It was one thing to be a master of rapier-work; it was quite another to face mercenaries and Magyar horse-barbarians whose interest was in killing you quickly, not stylishly. Perhaps the plump boy wouldn't be killed that quickly. But there was a large difference between even the best-trained amateur and a battle-hardened professional soldier. "And you, signor? Have you got surprises for me too?"
The older man shrugged. "Not really. I hunt. I can ride. I know the island well."
"And you speak Greek?"
The older man shrugged. "Not as well as Giuliano. He got it from his mother, and then his wife was a local."
"And of course we will help, too," said Bjarni, slapping him on the back.
"To be direct, you are going to watch over Svanhild," said Erik, feelCoach Backpack,comfortable. "Not go running around the Corfu hills in the dark. If possible I'd like to get you all a passage across to Italy or even Greece. This is not your war."
Erik grinned. "I'm not exactly that . . . yet."
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