Shadow of the Lion

Chapter 50 ==========

"I don't believe we've met before, Father Lopez, although I've seen you several times at the Doge's soirees." Francesca glanced at Pierre and Diego, who were sitting in their own chairs in her salon not far from the Basque priest. "I'm acquainted with your two companions, somewhat, from the last such event." She pointed at Diego, and then Pierre. "He has an excellent wit, and the other laughs quite nicely. But I suspect you didn't come here to engage in humorous repartee. Nor, I'm quite sure, for the other reason gentlemen pay me a visit."

Lopez smiled. "Call me Eneko, if you would. The first thing I'd like to dispense with is formality."

"Good enough. Call me Francesca. The name 'de Chevreuse' is a false one, anyway--as I'm sure you are already aware."

Diego cocked his head. "Why are you sure of that? You've gone to considerable trouble to establish the name."

Francesca snorted. "Please! Father Lop--Eneko, rather, is a special envoy from the Grand Metropolitan in Rome. No one seems quite sure what he--and the two of you--are doing here in Venice, although I suspect Metropolitan Michael knows. You seem to spend most of your time in the Ghetto, which is largely terra incognita to the Venetian haut monde. Charitable work, it's said."

"That is, indeed, what we have been mostly doing," interjected Pierre.

" 'Mostly,' " mused Francesca, arching an eyebrow. "That leaves--?" She answered her own question almost at once. "Investigation. That's what it leaves. Most people think you're trying to ferret out Strega witchcraft."

"And you don't?" asked Eneko.

"The idea's nonsense," replied Francesca. "First, why bother? The Strega have been in Venice for centuries, with no one any the worse for it. Second, you've been here for many months now. 'Ferreting out' Strega so-called witches in the Ghetto wouldn't take more than a few weeks, for any but the most incompetent of clerical magic-workers. Which you are--don't deny it--and I don't think the Grand Metropolitan chose to send fumblers."

Eneko nodded, accepting the compliment. "I thank you for that. Although I must admit I've wondered at our own 'competence.' The saints know we've had a difficult time ferreting out what we did come to find."

Francesca sighed. "Which, I suppose, was not my true identity."

Diego cleared his throat. "Ah . . . no. As it happens, Francesca--Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc, to use the name you were born with--we uncovered that little secret within a few weeks of learning of your existence."

"My condolences," murmured Eneko. "I can't say I approved of your family, but I would not wish such cruelty and destruction on anyone."

Francesca stared at him. She was a little shaken. "You learned that quickly?"

Diego began to say something but Eneko waved him silent with a little motion of his hand. "It is time for a full introduction, I think. Francesca, let me explain who we really are." He nodded toward Pierre and Diego. "By 'we' I include more than just the three of us. There are some others sworn to our cause. Most of them--which is not many; a half-dozen--still in Toulouse or Orleans. Another, Francis, now resides in Mainz. All of us, at one time, were students at the University in Orleans. That is where we first met, and forged our brotherhood. Which explains, of course, our intimate knowledge of Aquitainian affairs."

Francesca's lips twisted into a wry little grimace. "I wouldn't have thought Orleans--anywhere in Aquitaine--would make a good breeding ground for the creation of brotherhoods and the forging of causes. Except those leading to personal advancement, which--" She gave all three of them a quick inspection. "--does not seem to be the case here."

Pierre chuckled harshly. Diego's chuckle was a softer and warmer thing. Eneko simply smiled, a bit grimly.

"To the contrary, Francesca, Aquitaine explains much. It was there that all of us finally realized--and accepted--the extent of the rot within the Church. By which I mean the Petrine branch."

For a moment, Francesca's jaws tightened. "Do tell," she murmured. "I believe it took the Metropolitan of Orleans five seconds to decide to excommunicate my father. As much time as it took to fill both his hands with gold coin."

Her ensuing chuckle was even harsher than Pierre's. "I must say it's refreshing to hear this from a Petrine cleric. At least, I assume you consider yourself such. Difficult to imagine the Grand Metropolitan of Rome sending a Pauline envoy to Venice."

"Petrine through-and-through," agreed Eneko. "In fact, we have a close relationship with the Hypatian Order."

Hearing that, Francesca's eyes widened. In the complex welter of Church institutions, the Hypatian Order was considered--certainly by Paulines--the most extreme of the organized Petrine currents. Although they were generally regarded as ineffective and relatively harmless--

"Oh, God," she croaked. "Don't tell me." She sighed again, and this time far more deeply. "I was afraid you weren't really all that interested in my personal identity."

She rose abruptly, walked to the doors opening on to the balcony, and began to open them. She had a sudden need for fresh air.

"Don't," commanded Eneko. "Please, Francesca. We took great pains not to have our visit here noticed by anyone. If you open those doors--at night, with this room well lit--"

She closed her eyes, lowered her head, still clutching the door handles. "Please," she whispered. "All of that is behind me."

"Don't be stupid," said the Basque. "That's simply cowardice speaking. You are not a coward--far from it. And you don't even mean it, anyway."

She turned her head, staring at him. "Yes, I do," she insisted. In a very soft voice; which, she realized, didn't sound as if she really meant it.

The Basque's grin, when it came, was astonishing in its sheer charisma. Francesca got her first real glimpse of the personality which had forged this little band of . . . brothers.

"You adore the world of politics, Francesca," continued Lopez, still grinning. "All this--" He made a little circling motion with his finger, indicating the plush surroundings. "--is really fraud and fakery. You enjoy wealth, I'm sure, but is that really why you chose this life?"

"I didn't 'choose'--"

"Of course, you did! A woman as beautiful and intelligent and charming as yourself could have easily--long since--settled yourself into a nice comfortable situation."

"In fact, the Comte du Roure," added Diego, "asked you to marry him--the night before you fled with your mother to Avignon."

Francesca almost spat. "He was forty years old--and looked seventy--and almost as stupid as the hogs on his estates. He would have shut me up in that great ugly castle of his until he died. Which couldn't possibly have been soon enough."

Suddenly, she burst into laughter. "You're a shrewd bastard, Eneko. Pardon the expression. The Saints know, I've met few enough priests in my life who can see past the harlotry."

Again, she sighed heavily. But she found it easy enough to release the door handles and walk back to her chaise. "Yes, you're right," she admitted. "My fondest memories, as a girl, were the times I spent at the dinner table discussing the political affairs of the world with my father and his friends. I didn't realize at the time, of course, how deadly those affairs could become."

She plumped herself back in the chaise, making no effort to maintain her usual languid and seductive manner of sitting. "God help us all. You--that's what you're doing here, isn't it? You intend to organize a new Petrine order. The equivalent of the Servants of the Holy Trinity--say better, a challenge to the Sots."

"I prefer to think of it as a challenge to the Petrines, Francesca." All traces of humor left Eneko's face. "Who have grown soft, lazy--even corrupt, and not just in Aquitaine. The accusations leveled by the Servants of the Holy Trinity have far too much truth in them, as you well know. I leave aside their frenzied gibberish about heathens. I speak of the rest."

"I'll still take the Petrines over the Paulines," growled Francesca. "Any day of the month."

Eneko shook his head. "If things continue as they have, you will eventually not have a choice. The Paulines have been gaining in strength for a century, at least. Soon enough--if nothing is done--they will dominate the entire Church." Seeing the courtesan's little frown of protest, he pressed on. "It is inevitable, Francesca. For centuries, now, the Paulines have been the shield of Christendom. Their power and influence ultimately derives from that simple fact. So long as the Petrine church is willing to loll about in comfort, here in the soft and summery south, and allow the Paulines to wage the battle against the Evil One, the Paulines will continue to wax in strength."

He shrugged. "And deserve to, in all truth. Or would, except . . . their own theological errors leave them prone to a different kind of corruption. One which is, in the end, far more dangerous than simple avarice and sloth." Eneko paused, for a moment. "Indeed, I fear they have already fallen into that pit. The Servants, at least--leading elements within them, I should say--if not yet the Knights. But the Knights have become, more and more, simply the tools of the Servants."

Francesca stared at him for a moment, her hands making little movements on her thighs. Like caresses, only firmer--as if she were drying her hands before lifting a heavy weight.

"What do you want from me?" she asked abruptly. "I'm a whore, Eneko, not a theologian or a paladin."

"I did not use that term," he said mildly.

"Use it, then!" she snapped. "If you want something from me, speak plainly."

"I will not use the term, Francesca, for the simple reason that if I believed it I would not be here at all. Neither that term nor the term 'harlot.' " He smiled thinly. "I can accept a 'lady of easy virtue.' Easy virtue is still virtue, after all."

Again, Francesca burst into laughter. "God, I'd hate to argue theology with you! The Grand Metropolitan must tremble at the sight of you coming."

Eneko winced. "It is true, I suspect, that the Grand Metropolitan . . . Well. I seem to make him a bit nervous."

"I can imagine!"

"Which is why he sent me here, of course," continued Eneko. "You might think of this as something of a test."

Diego cleared his throat. "Probably best not to ask whether the Grand Metropolitan hopes we succeed or fail. I'm not sure he knows himself."

Francesca smiled. "I could guess . . ." The smile went away and she sat up straight. "All right, Eneko. But the 'lady of easy virtue' still needs to know what you want from her."

"You must understand the severe limits we are working within, Francesca. There are only three of us here in Venice. The Grand Metropolitan has provided us with some funds, but . . . nothing extravagant, I assure you." For a moment, his face grew pinched. "Which is why, to my regret, I was at first forced to accept the hospitality of Casa Brunelli. Diego and Pierre were not invited, so they found lodgings in a poor hostel, as I have now."

"Not to my regret," growled Pierre. "The hostel stinks--but not half as bad as Brunelli. The evil in that house practically saturates the stones."

Eneko's lips were very thin. "Indeed. But let's not get side-tracked, for the moment. In addition to our financial constraints, Francesca, we are also--more and more every day, it seems--being watched by spies. It has become difficult for us to move about, outside of the Ghetto, without being observed."

He raised his hand in a little gesture of reassurance. "We managed well enough tonight, I assure you. But when the time comes--which it surely will, before too many more months have passed--when we need to contact certain critical persons, we will not be able to do so directly. We need you to serve as our conduit."

" 'Certain critical persons,' " husked Francesca. "Who?"

"Petro Dorma, for one."

Francesca tried to keep from smiling. Not entirely with success. "That should not be, ah, too difficult. Who else?"

Eneko was silent for a moment, studying her. "You know perfectly well 'who else,' Francesca. When the crisis comes, the actions of the Holy Roman Emperor will be decisive. My own contact with the Emperor is circuitous and would take far too long to set into motion when the time arrives. And besides, I suspect I will be preoccupied with other matters. Whereas you--you are but one step removed from Charles Fredrik."

Francesca froze. Diego coughed into his fist, discreetly. "The Hohenstauffen dynasty," he murmured, "has perhaps dipped too often into that well for the subterfuge to work as nicely as it did once. And the Earl of Carnac is a rather distinctive young man. And . . . well, as it happens, I met him once." Hastily: "I'm sure he doesn't remember. He was only sixteen at the time, visiting Orleans with his mother. And, ah, quite drunk. Sad to say, the lad fell into bad company--roistering students, the city's plagued with them--and, ah . . ."

Francesca rolled her eyes. "I can imagine," she muttered. She brought her eyes back to meet Eneko's. "He doesn't even know that I know who he is. I'm his whore, not his confidant."

The Basque priest's gaze remained level. He said nothing. After a moment, Francesca looked aside. "I suppose I'm being a bit disingenuous."

"More than a bit, I think. The earl trusts you, Francesca."

The look which came on Francesca's face made her seem much younger, for an instant. "I think he does," she said, almost in a whisper. "Why is that?"

Eneko's gaze was still level. Francesca sighed again. "I'm a disgrace to the Aquitaine," she muttered. "What kind of respectable whore can be trusted?"

Still, level. Francesca threw up her hands. "All right, then! Damn you. I'll do it." She rallied briefly: "When the time comes, not before. And how will I know that?"

Still, level. Francesca glared at Diego and Pierre. "Does he ever glance aside?"

The Basque's two companions grinned. "Welcome to our brotherhood, Francesca," said Pierre. Diego coughed behind his fist. "In a manner of speaking," he added.

* * *

As they were about to leave, Francesca placed her hand on the door and held it shut. "This will cost you, Eneko."

He smiled. "Not in coin, I trust."

"Coin I'm not short of," she snorted. She glanced at Pierre. "Although I'm a little shorter now than I was. Your Savoyard here is not the only one who can smell the stink coming from Casa Brunelli. I hired a bodyguard a week ago, after the Doge's last soiree. I do believe Lucrezia Brunelli has placed me on her list of enemies, and she's got a reputation. At least two courtesans have been murdered in Venice in the past year, both of whom apparently attracted too much attention from her."

The three priests frowned simultaneously. "We did not notice any bodyguard, coming in," said Diego.

Francesca smiled. "He's very good. Cost me plenty, but it was worth it. Another Aquitaine, unfortunately. So he insisted on coin rather than, ah, taking part of his payment in trade."

"How long do you intend to keep poking me, Francesca?" asked Eneko. His tone was very mild. "It's quite pointless. I have no doubt you will set a record for the longest stay in purgatory, when the time comes. Purgatory is not my concern."

She made a face. "No, it wouldn't be. And how stupid can I be to get involved with a priest who doesn't care about my sins?" Stubbornly: "It'll still cost you. And you know the payment I want."

The Basque nodded. "Trust. Confidence. To play a part--as you thought you did once, as a girl--in the great affairs of the world. Sitting again at your father's table, excited by knowledge; excited, even more, by the feeling that your knowledge mattered."

She lowered her head and removed her hand from the door, squeezing her eyes shut to hold in the sudden tears. "Thank you." Then, in a very small voice: "Forgive me, Father, for my sins."

Eneko placed a hand on her head and kissed her forehead. "Not so many sins as all that, child." He chuckled into the glamorous hair. "Well . . . many sins, I admit. Or, at least, the same sin oft repeated. But, in the end, not such a great one, as sins go."

Pierre scowled. "It's still sinful, and you should give it up," the Savoyard grumbled. "But . . ."

Diego smiled. "He's a witch-smeller, you know. It's quite a rare talent. But that's really why he kept insisting on kissing your hand at the Doge's palace."

Francesca's eyes were quite dry, now. She peered at Pierre intently. "And?"

The Savoyard looked away. "You should still give it up," he insisted. "But . . . there's nothing here in the way of that stench coming from Casa Brunelli and the Imperial embassy."

"Enough, Pierre," commanded Eneko. To Francesca: "I will keep our end of the bargain, Francesca. Be sure of it. Whatever we discover will be passed along to you." Slyly: "This will be quite an adventure, you know?"

* * *

After she closed the door behind them, Francesca leaned her forehead against the ornately carved wood. She could still feel the slight moisture from the priest's kiss. And was not really surprised, when she thought about it, that Eneko Lopez did not have dry lips. Whatever his vows--and Francesca was certain he kept them--she didn't doubt for a moment that the Basque was also the most passionate man she'd ever met.

"Quite an adventure," she murmured. "Idiot woman!"

But when she pushed herself away from the door, she was smiling. And did not even try to deny, to herself, that she felt as if she'd shed years as well as sins.

The effect translated immediately into action. Francesca had been trying to decide for days . . .

She went directly to her little writing table and penned a note. Quickly, for all the impeccable handwriting. Then, sealed it with wax and went back to the door.

Her bodyguard was standing in front of her, not more than an instant after she opened the door. Francesca had no idea where he'd come from. Nor did she care--that was what he was being paid for, after all.

"Have this taken to Casa Montescue, Louis. No--better yet, take it yourself. I'll be safe enough here tonight and I want to be certain it goes directly to the person addressed. Let no one else see it. Understood?"

Louis examined the name on the note and nodded. "Easy enough," he said, and was gone. Francesca watched him leave, wondering if she'd hear any sound at all.

She didn't, of course. Louis Marillac had come highly recommended.

* * *

The next evening, when she opened the door, the man who entered made no attempt to walk quietly. Not that he clumped, even as big as he was. The noise his feet made was more in the way of a shuffle. As if he were trying to disguise embarrassment.

"Mademoiselle de Chevreuse," he said, bowing and kissing her hand. "I was delighted to receive your invitation to pay you a visit, of course. Didn't feel I could refuse. But--"

"Please, come in!" Smoothly, Francesca closed the door and guided him into a chair. "And I insist you call me Francesca."

The man cleared his throat. "Francesca, then. But--"

He fell silent, obviously groping for words. "I must explain--"

"You need explain nothing." Francesca smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I asked you to come, did I not? I am well aware of the straightened financial circumstances you are suffering from at the moment. I simply wanted the pleasure of your company, that's all."

The man stared up at her; his eyes disbelieving, at first. Then, slowly, the stiffness in his face began to ease. "It's been a long time," he murmured.

"Too long, I think." Francesca took his hands and lifted him out of the chair. "Come."

* * *

Quite some time later, as he stared at the ceiling of the bedroom, the man's face had lost all of its customary sternness. "I haven't felt this good in years."

"Not so old as all that, eh?" She lifted herself on one elbow and smiled down at him, running her hand across his wide chest.

He rolled his head on the pillow and met her gaze. "What do you want from me, Francesca?"

"I want you to think about the future, for a change. That's all, Lodovico. Your grand-daughter is my best friend. Your--obsessions--are not good. Neither for her nor for you."

For a moment, the old man's face grew fierce. Then, he chuckled. "I make no promises. But . . . yes, I'll think about it."

"You'll do more than think about it, you old vendettist!" Francesca laughed. "If you've got any coins to spend, I'll expect you to spend them on me. I dare say I'm a lot more capable at what I do than those incompetent assassins and spies you've been wasting your money on."

He grimaced. "True enough. And what else?"

She studied him for a moment. "Does there need to be anything else, Lodovico? Your company has been quite a pleasure, I assure you. It's not often I meet a man who understands--or cares--how a woman's body works."

"There's always something else, Francesca." He placed a hand on hers and gave it a little squeeze. "That's not intended as an insult. I sometimes think courtesans are less predatory than anyone. But there's always something else."

"As you say: 'true enough.' " She sat up in the bed. "I've decided I love Venice, Lodovico. And when something I love is threatened by enemies, I believe in taking steps."

"Well said!" he growled. A moment later, he was sitting up beside her. "Tell me what you know. If there's a threat--" The growl became a rumble, as if an old lion was awakening.

"There's your 'what else,' Lodovico," she whispered, placing a hand back on that great wide chest and giving it a caress. "There's still a lot of muscle there, you know?"

Chapter 51 ==========

"It smells like a trap, that's for sure," Erik said to Manfred, as they strode along the loggia. "Maybe Sachs is right."

Manfred felt his broadsword. "If it is, they'll regret it."

Erik looked at the abundant cover of the loggia. "If they don't shoot us from a distance. But why us? I mean, we never introduced ourselves to that Signori di Notte, that one time we met him when the coiner got burned. But that message was specifically for us. Sealed with what the doorman assured me is the signet of Lord Calenti."

Manfred shrugged. "Search me," he said. "You might as well ask me 'why here?' At least it's daytime and there are a lot of people around this Accademia place. Too many with books if you ask me . . ."

"You're a fraud, Manfred. You were so busy reading in that embassy library, you didn't even hear me come in."

Manfred grinned. "My father's duniwasals say it's a sissy accomplishment. I don't think they wanted me to read or cipher or tally, so they can skive out of paying their hearth-loyalties. But with Francesca being a walking library I've had to do some reading up, or look a buffoon. It's not so bad now that I don't have some damned whiny tutor rabbiting at me about it. Where do we go now?"

"Through there, I think."

They walked through into a courtyard and then across to the described door.

Erik loosened his broadsword and checked the hatchet under the small round buckler strapped to his right forearm. Being left-handed had its negative points, but in combat it did have the advantage of discomfitting his enemies. Harder for them to deal with. It gave him an edge.

He pushed the door open fast. . . .

It was a pleasant enough chamber. And Lord Calenti did not appear to be waiting in ambush. He was perusing a huge pile of papers instead, very much alone, unless someone was balancing on the window frame behind these draperies. The Venetian was very grave-looking however, when he looked up to see who had thrust his door open. "Ah. Come in."

He stood up. "Gentlemen, I owe you an apology. I have come to realize that this treason nearly had the Knights . . . and myself . . . as unwitting dupes. Accounts are a more powerful tool than all the spies in the world. Now, about the incident at the House of the Red Cat . . ."

He paused. "I . . . I . . . My God . . . Luc . . ." His eyes bulged and he screamed. The hair on Erik's neck stood up. It was the same terrible shriek they'd heard on the night that Father Maggiore had been killed. He heard the hiss of Manfred's broadsword being drawn. He didn't even know how his own came to be in his hand.

"Reverse the blade!" yelled Manfred. "A crucifix!"

Erik did it. He began to walk forward. It was like pushing against the tide . . . the air seemed to be full of carillons of bells, all discordant. Sparks leaped and hissed from the steel. The words of the Lord's Prayer came instinctively to his lips.

To his right, Erik could see Manfred advancing also. Lord Calenti was tearing at his clothes; his face was contorted into the same terrible rictus of a smile they had seen on Father Maggiore. The flames and the cruel, vicious laughter began together with a maelstrom wind that plucked the papers up in a snowstorm. The velvet-seated chair skittered across the room; the writing table was hurled at them. It all stopped just short.

And still they continued to advance. A glance showed that Manfred's steel armor was almost purple with the sheen of crackling lightning. So was his own, Erik realized. The discordant bells were coming to a cracked and furious crescendo. He could scarcely hear his own chanting. They dropped to their knees on either side of the naked and burning man . . .

And there was silence. Blessed silence. And the flames died as if they'd never been . . . except for the ruin they'd left behind. Then Lord Calenti began to scream. It was a healthy, joyful sound, comparatively. It was merely the scream of a badly burned human in extreme pain.

At this point, Erik realized that they had an enormous audience. Students were peering in at the window, crowding in through the door. Awestruck and horrified faces gaped at them.

"Call a doctor!" yelled Erik at the crowd. "We need a chirurgeon here, fast!"

A man pushed his way forward through the crowd. Unlike most of the gaping young watchers, he was weather-beaten and wrinkled. He joined the knights at the side of the now moaning Lord Calenti, who was curled up in a fetal position on the floor of the ruined salon. The crowd was pressing forward, threatening to overwhelm them. Manfred got to his feet. "Back!" he shouted. "All of you out of here! Out!"

His bull-like bellows were accompanied by sharp swats with the flat of his broadsword, first on heads and then on behinds. So he was obeyed. Obeyed with alacrity--the fact that Manfred was able to wield that huge and deadly weapon in such a light and casual manner, causing no more damage that a schoolmistress with a switch, was even more frightening than the great blade itself.

"And fetch us a priest!" he bellowed after the retreating students. "We may need one."

Erik had stayed with the lean, wrinkle-faced man who was gently examining Lord Calenti. "Will he live?" he asked quietly, surveying the burned, whimpering man.

The weather-beaten man shrugged. "Might do. Might not. He'll need skilled nursing, and lots of fluids. He's going to be terribly disfigured even if he does live. Hell on a man who thought of himself as the ladies' delight. But I think you saved his soul. He should be grateful for that at least, even if he dies. It was devouring him. Here. Help me with these."

From a battered pouch at his waist he produced two poultices of neatly folded leaves, thick with some unguent. "I was taking these to someone else. Treatment for healing skin, not fresh burns, so they're not ideal, but they'll do. They'll sooth and keep the infection out of his face."

They were in the final stages of applying them to Lord Calenti's ruined face when a man in an elegantly tailored cardinal's red, with beautifully coiffured hair burst into the room. Despite the horror of the scene, the bishop's eyes were first drawn to the healer. His eyes grew as wide as saucers.

"Marina!" he choked. "What--what are you doing here? You've been gone for--I thought they said there was a doctor with him!"

The lean, weather-beaten man stood up, dislike written loud on his features. "And I thought they'd gone to fetch a priest, Bishop Capuletti, not a scavenger. I learned a thing or two about healing on my pilgrimage, and I was on hand. But I've done what I can. Get one of the Accademia's cadaver-masters if you prefer. I'm out of here. I don't like the smell--and I don't mean that of burnt flesh and parchment."

The bishop merely snorted dismissively as the weather-beaten man left. When he'd gone, he turned to the knights. "Pilgrimage, my foot! More likely, that Luciano Marina went to learn the dark arts from the devil himself. Now. One of you had better go and fetch a doctor, and the other find someone to send for the other Signori di Notte. And get me someone to tidy this room." He looked at the confetti confusion of parchment. "Might as well throw this lot away."

Erik shook his head. "I'm sorry, Monsignor. I think we should stay with him. Whatever attacked him may come back."

The bishop patted his crucifix-hung chain. "I will deal with it. I am, in case you cannot see, your superior in the Church."

Erik shook his head again. "Dealing with this magic requires steel, Monsignor. Not just holiness."

"So--as he is going to live and we don't need your priestly services, why don't you trot off to do the errands," said Manfred, with all the arrogance of an nineteen-year-old prince crammed into his voice. Because of Manfred's size and the fact that he'd seen a lot, Erik tended to forget his age. Sometimes however, like now, it showed.

The bishop goggled, his ever-so-white face suffusing with choler.

Erik thought he'd better intervene. "That's enough, Manfred! Go and bellow for someone at the door. I'll collect these papers. Lord Calenti seemed to ascribe some importance to them. Perhaps they'll mean something to one of the other Signori di Notte."

Bishop Capuletti sniffed. "They're just bills of lading and accounts from the bankers at the Rialto bridge," he said, in voice like iced vinegar. He deliberately ground one underfoot.

Erik calmly picked it up and smoothed it. It was indeed nothing more than a partly burned bill of lading. A spice-cargo from Acre. It seemed to be innocuous enough. Loading. Unloading. Damages. Signed by the captain and bearing official looking seals. The bishop snatched at it. Erik held it away.

* * *

Manfred watched as Erik lifted the piece of paper out of the portly bishop's reach. He'd known Erik for the better part of eight months now, and he knew the danger signals. He'd better be ready to intervene. Erik was easygoing and rational a lot of time. Hard to anger. But the Icelander had a rigid code of right and wrong--and the bishop had overstepped it. Erik would not let little things like the future stand in his way.

"A man has nearly died for what is contained in these pieces of paper." Erik's voice was absolutely level, utterly expressionless. "You will treat them with respect." Erik's gray-blue eyes bored into the red-clad prelate with an implacable stare. That look would have sent a ravening lion creeping off quietly to its lair.

The bishop, about to make some stinging comment, looked into those eyes. He shut his mouth. Raised his hands pacifically without even thinking about it.

Seeing Bishop Capuletti wilt, Manfred relaxed. Manfred knew himself to be much quicker to anger. But Erik, when he finally got angry, didn't cool easily. The famous Norse fury of ancient times didn't lurk all that far beneath the civilized and pious surface.

Relief in the shape of a doctor and a worried-looking Schiopettieri arrived.

"Ah! Father Belgio!" squeaked the prelate. "As you are both an ordained priest and a doctor, er . . . I think I'd better go and confer with the Accademia authorities." He left hastily, without his dignity--but with his head.

Manfred turned his attention to the doctor-priest. The Schiopettieri had taken one horrified look, a second to confirm just who the burned man was, and had followed the bishop's example of a hasty exit. Hopefully he was going to call someone more senior. The doctor, on the other hand, had knelt by the fetal-ball of burned man. He looked at the poultices.

"Where did these come from?"

"A weathered and wrinkled fellow called . . . Marina, apparently," Erik answered. "Your bishop didn't like him much. Do we take them off?"

The doctor-priest shook his head. "No. I wonder if he knows what he is dealing with? Someone . . . a woman . . . has imbued those with a great healing and soothing power. I sense the work of one of the neutrals . . . one of the ancient nature spirits about them. They may do more good than I can. Now. This man has been spiritually attacked as well as physically hurt. The physical hurt is great, but the spiritual hurt is greater. His life is like a guttering candle flame. This not a consecrated place, so we will need circles of exclusion and the evocation of guardians to secure and defend him. Are either of you skilled in the working of magic?"

Both Erik and Manfred hastily shook their heads.

The doctor-priest sighed; shook his head. The gesture seemed one of slight puzzlement. "Your auras . . . Never mind. Take these."

He dug into his bag and came up with a censer, salt, and a bottle of water. He hesitated a moment. "Water. Yes." He looked carefully at Erik. "Water. There is much latent force in you." He turned on Manfred. "And you can take the salt. It is . . . right. Neither of you must ever take fire or air." The enigmatic doctor-priest then placed candlesticks around the Venetian lord.

"Fiat lux!" The doctor-priest's voice, so gentle a few moments before, now commanded.

And there was light. The censer in his hand began to smoke.

"Let that which cannot abide, depart! In the name of Jesus, in the name of the Holy Spirit . . ."

He led them, praying, in the ninefold circle . . . of smoke, sprinkled salt, and water.

Then, when that was done and they were enclosed in a wall of smoke, they went to work under the doctor-priest's direction. First unguent, then poultices and then, as gently as possible, they rolled Calenti onto a blanket the doctor-priest had brought. As they worked the priest led them through various psalms.

Father Belgio called on names of power, evoking guardianship and protection on the burned lord. Then he led them in thanking and dismissing the Guardians and the wall of shifting smoke was gone . . . to reveal Abbot Sachs, Sister Ursula, several knights, and three people who were obviously Venetian nobility. All of whom wore expressions of irritation, worry, and perplexity in varying degrees.

"What in Heaven's name have you been doing in there?" demanded Sachs.

"God's work, brother," answered Father Belgio tranquilly. "Lord Calenti can be moved now. It is God's will that he should live, at least for now. And these brave knights saw to it that he was spared."

"But what were you doing?" demanded Sister Ursula. "We tried to reach you, to break in, but to no avail! Abbot Sachs and I are two of the most skilled practitioners of Christian magic in the Servants of the Holy Trinity!"

Father Belgio smiled tiredly. "I am a simple healer, and one whose gift it is to be sensitive to certain occult forces. A minor magician only." He looked at Erik and Manfred. "I can only think that some of the primitive nature forces lent their aid. They are capricious . . . And I am exhausted. Can some stout fellows be called to carry poor Lord Calenti to the chapel? I think it best that he be nursed there."

"Will he live?" demanded Ursula. She shuddered. "Burns are dreadful. I fear them." Manfred noticed that the nun's hands were balled into such tight fists that her knuckles were strained white. She looked ready to faint. It was the first time he'd seen the ice-woman display as much as a trace of any emotion.

Belgio nodded. "If it is God's will."

"We will accompany him to the chapel and pray. It was surely the hand of the Lord and his apostle Paul that brought the Knights of Holy Trinity here today," said Sachs.

"Actually, it was that letter from Lord Calenti, Abbot. The one you thought was a trap," said Erik, yawning.

"It is still God's work," insisted Sachs.

Manfred found himself yawning in sympathy. He suddenly felt drained.

Two sturdy-looking Schiopettieri took up the corners of the blanket and lifted Lord Calenti. He whimpered faintly. One of the worried looking Venetian noblemen cleared his throat. "May we talk to you about it?"

Manfred looked at Erik. The Icelander showed no signs of following the procession. "What do you say, Erik? A glass of wine would be nice."

Erik swayed slightly. "Some of that grappa might be even better."

Two of the Venetians looked a trifle taken aback. The third, a shorter balding man who was considerably younger than the others, smiled. "Why not? Lord Calenti is in good hands. There does not appear to be anything further to do here. Let us go and sit these good knights down, give them a well-earned glass and see what they have to say."

* * *

An alarm bell rang in Erik's head. Nothing more to do here? He looked hastily around the salon. Someone had righted the desk and taken away the smashed chair. They'd also taken away the laboriously gathered partially burned bills of lading and accounts from the bankers. Only two or three badly burned fragments, which must have been within the circle, still lay on the floor.

"Do you know what happened to the bills that were here? A whole stack of them? In that corner?"

The three shook their heads. "They will doubtless have been taken somewhere for safekeeping," said one, as Manfred gathered up the three remaining fragments.

"Not just thrown away?"

The balding, slightly plump man laughed. "In Venice! Never. We are a republic of traders. And that means records. Half the reason we make a profit out of you northerners is poor bookkeeping on your part. Come. There is a tavern just around the corner. Zianetti's. I remember it well!"

They walked to the tavern past knots of worried, peering students. In silence, except for the bald-headed nobleman quietly informing Erik and Manfred that he was Petro Dorma. He did not mention the names of the other two Venetian lords.

Inside Zianetti's, Dorma secured a room at the back. Once everyone was seated, he poured the strong Italian brandy which was already on the table.

"Now," said oldest of the three. "Tell us what happened."

Erik shrugged. "The doorman at the Imperial embassy received a note from a runner. The note was sealed with Lord Calenti's official seal. It was addressed to us, by name, but it was taken to Abbot Sachs who was meeting with the knight-proctors. They called us in."

"I expected them to haul us over the coals, like we were bad children," said Manfred with a grin.

"The abbot told me to open the letter and read it to the assembled proctors," said Erik, managing not to smile at Manfred's accurate assessment. "Lord Calenti asked us, and only the two of us, to please come to his rooms here before Sext. He said it was of greatest importance. Since it was then well past Terce, we left immediately, on the abbot's instruction. A party of knights followed some ways behind us, so as not to frighten anyone who might be attempting an ambush."

Manfred shrugged. "It looks as if someone tried to kill him before he spoke to the Knights."

"All he did manage to say to us was that he'd uncovered treason that almost had the Knights--and himself--as unwitting dupes. And that accounts are a more powerful tool than all the spies in the world. Then he started to say something about the incident at the House of the Red Cat, but the attack came before he got out more than a few words."

The three looked startled, obviously recognizing the name of the bordello. So Erik had to recount that episode. He edited it, cutting Francesca's part out entirely. He could still feel his face glowing despite that.

"Well, we can find out where those orders came from," said the eldest. He was plainly familiar with the near-dockyard bordello, which led Erik to suspect that he was--or had been--an officer of the Venetian fleet. Probably an admiral, judging from the man's easy assumption of authority. The main clientele of the House of the Red Cat were naval officers; common seamen frequented less expensive brothels.

"And I'll talk to Doge Foscari," said the second nobleman. "At least we know the Knights are not part of this conspiracy."

"I'm going to try to track down these accounts," announced the bald-headed Dorma. "Any idea what they're about?"

Erik shook his head. "I only saw one. A bill of lading. A cargo of various spices, and the damages."

"And there are these pieces," Manfred handed over the pitiful scraps of burned parchment. "I can't make anything of them."

Dorma examined them. "It's a tally of punched ducats being released to merchants in payment for goods. Probably a copy. I'll try to track down the original, but there are thousands of pages to go through. Unless I know where to start . . ."

The second one was a list of punched ducats exchanged for the whole ducats used in the city. Had been a list, at any rate. What was left of it contained only the names of two merchant houses, with no amounts surviving, and a third amount--with the name itself no longer readable.

The third scrap was simply a Capi di Contrada seal on a piece of paper.

The three signori thanked Manfred and Erik and left them to finish their drinks. Manfred chugged his and called for a second. Erik sat sipping. "Well. I owe you an apology. I heard the bells this time. Not very musical, are they?"

Manfred scowled. "You said it was inside my head after I was flung away onto that flimsy chair. You know they complained to me about breaking that chair? Ha. And I could have saved that whiny old Servant of the Trinity as well. Only that force seemed much stronger."

Erik smiled. "There were two of us this time. Come on. Drink up. Time we got back."

Manfred shrugged. "They'll never notice if we don't. Erik, I've a need to accumulate a few sins to confess."

Erik shook his head, hiding a reluctant smile behind his hand. "Get up, before I turf you off the bench."

They were crossing the campo, under the eyes of the bunches of students still buzzing with hushed talk, when a woman came running up to them.

People, Erik had noticed--particularly the Venetians--tended to avoid the Knights. That was hardly surprising. The likes of Von Stublau were likely to knock anyone who got in their way into the nearest canal. So a young woman running up to them was something of a surprise. To judge by Manfred's expression--even if by her dress she was a serving-maid--it was a welcome change. She was pretty enough.

She curtseyed hastily, nearly dropping the bundle she bore. "Pardon your honors, the students says you are the ones who saved M'lord Calenti?"

Manfred bowed. "We are, signorina."

"Ooh! From demons seventeen feet tall with horns and lots of teeth! And dancing naked witches with six breasts--like dogs. And I heard the whole building was destroyed and Legions of Cherubim, not that I understand why fat baby angels can fight well, but Father Pietro always tells us they do. Then there were those with trumpets and the whole city shook. And the winged lion itself stirred in the piazza. And there was a rain of blood--" Her eyes sparkled, as she tilted her head, quizzical for more juicy details.

Even Manfred was gobstopped. "Er. No . . . It wasn't quite like that. . . ."

Well, if they weren't going to oblige, she'd help out. "And poor Lord Calenti, him so handsome and all, he fought like a tiger before he got so burned by the devils. They burned the clothes right off his back, with their pitchforks and I don't know why they say that because surely it must have got the clothes in the front, but that would have got his privates, or at least showed his smalls and he has such elegant knitted smalls." She giggled coyly. "Not that a girl like me would know anything about that."

"Er," Erik began.

That was quite enough interruption. "So when Signora Elena said she needed someone to take m'lord his best nightshirt, because he was too sick to move, and Silvia and Maria were both too scared to come for fear of demons, and all the boys at the Accademia ogling them, and I don't know why because Maria's been walking out with that rough Samarro boy--and what's a few noble students compared to that?--I said I would take it. Only then Signora couldn't find it and I've had to bring him his second best and it hasn't got nearly such nice embroidery, and now I don't know where to find him, and none of these students want to tell me."

They probably couldn't get a word in edgeways, thought Erik. "The chapel," he said, hastily, pointing.

"Thank your honors," she said, curtseying again. Then, peering at Manfred, "You're awfully handsome, your honor. And so big, too." Squeaking and giggling at her own temerity, she scuttled off towards the chapel.

* * *

"It's not that funny." Manfred shook his head at Erik, whose steel armor--proof against great dark magics--was in danger of being shaken apart internally.

Erik snorted, his shoulders still shaking. "You fancied her and she fancied you. I don't see the problem. Just the girl for you to take home to your mother."

Manfred raised his eyes to heaven. "Hah. Funny, funny. Icelander sense of humor. Cowpat in the face."

"That's Vinlanders'," grinned Erik. In the aftermath of the terrible encounter, and with the grappa burning in his veins, he was feeling unusually silly. "Icelanders are more likely to put sheep droppings in your stew."

"Huh. I'll watch out for 'olives' in ragout while you're arou--" Manfred stopped suddenly.

His face had gone serious. "Erik, that's the third victim that we know of that had just lost a piece of clothing. Remember old Maggiore was complaining about his cassock. And that coiner's housekeeper and his favorite cap. And now a nightshirt."

Erik's felt the blood drain from his face. "I've heard of this. Mammets with the victim's hair and clothing . . . We better tell Sachs."

Manfred pulled a wry face. "If we can persuade him to listen."

Erik shrugged and began to walk on. "If not, we can perhaps get Calenti to give us a lead on who could have got hold of one of his nightshirts."

"Do you think he's going to live?" asked Manfred. "Those are major burns."

Erik nodded. "He'll live. Just as long as he is in the care of that priest. He's a good healer, that man."

Chapter 52 ==========

Maria stared at the two golden hairs in her work-calloused hand. She stared at them, not for the first time, or the third time, or the thirty-third time. It couldn't be true.

Both hairs came from Caesare's pillow. And they certainly weren't his--or hers.

They didn't even come from the same head! One was much coarser, yellower and had a dark root; the other finer and more wavy.

There had to be some other explanation. There had to be. Only . . . it was hard to work out what it was. Her heart and mind felt as if they were tearing each other apart. This wasn't the first time she'd been suspicious. But this was the first time she'd had hard evidence.

"Whatcha starin' at, Maria?" Benito had come in, unobserved. She had thought she had the place to herself. The little scamp had probably come in the third-story window. He'd have to give that up one day. He had turned fifteen over the winter and he wasn't so little any more.

Hastily she thrust her hand into her skirt pocket before Benito could see. "None of your business!" she snapped.

Benito looked hurt. "Hey, come on, Maria. You can trust me. I carried that 'cargo' to Giaccomo's for you, right? And I got a bloody nose from Jewel as well as my ribs nearly kicked in--and I still got it there for you. Not one lira missing."

She felt herself floundering. He wasn't a bad kid, really. She had to talk to someone. If she talked to one of the cousins . . . they'd try to kill Caesare. Benito--and Marco too--had proved themselves both trustworthy and honest. But Marco was so . . . so good, even if he was nearer her own age. Benito she could at least talk to, about this sort of thing. He was more worldly than Marco. Marco's interest in girls was real but so--innocent. Sending them love poems! On the other hand, she'd seen Benito doing some experiments in heavy kissing with one of the Sarispelli girls. Those two girls were heading one way. . . .

She took a deep breath and rushed her fences. "Benito, do you think Caesare could be seeing some other woman?"

He looked as if she'd just smacked him in the face with a wet fish. But only for a moment. "Na! There ain't no one in Venice as pretty as you."

She snorted and took a swing at him. She'd noticed that hesitation. But his reply still gave her a smile. "You were born to be hung, Benito. I ain't pretty! Now, according to that Sarispelli girl, if only you could kiss as sweet as you talk, you'd be inside the pants of every girl in town."

* * *

Benito felt himself blushing. He had thought that he didn't do that anymore. Still, she'd spotted that hesitation. Merda. Women didn't feel the same way about this as men did. Well, except for Marco. But Caesare just did what a real man did. Played the field. At the same time he also felt for Maria. She so wanted Caesare. But there was no way she'd keep him except as a part-time lover.

And the funny thing was that Maria Garavelli was pretty. She was more than just pretty. She was . . . Maria. Tough as nails. She had to be, as a woman alone, working small cargos on the canals. But there was a gentle side to her too. She really was quite something, compared to, say, Lisa Sarispelli who was only a year younger than Maria, but good only for kissing, and . . . well a bit of fumbling experimentation. Maria was worth ten of her. Maria was working so hard with her speech, and getting Marco to teach her to read now . . . All to try to raise herself up to Caesare's level. To keep him. Regretfully, Benito knew that there was just no way she could do it. Caesare . . . well, he and Marco owed him. But Benito could sense that Caesare had ambitions that went a long way beyond a canaler wife. It would all come apart one day. And Benito didn't want to be around when it happened. Best to try to lead off the subject.

"I'm workin' on the kissing," Benito said, with a shrug. "I mean, how's a fellow supposed to get better without getting some experience?"

Maria snorted. Benito noticed she was smiling, however. "Just be careful it don't end up with her up the spout or you with the French pox, 'Nito."

She walked off. When she was well gone, Benito exhaled. Long and slow. He'd better have a word with Caesare about this. Men had to stick together.

* * *

Maria was too preoccupied to be keeping a proper lookout. Normally this was what she did well. Nobody could sneak up on her. It was a lesson a woman learned quickly out on the water . . . or else. Especially on a foggy morning like this. She knew she wasn't looking out properly . . .

But Caesare's infidelity was preying on her mind. Should she confront him? Did she hope it was just a once-off? Just pretend it had never happened. So many times she'd said to herself: Just enjoy now. Don't even dream about tomorrow. Just be grateful for what you have got, now. He was so beautiful. So refined. She was just a canal girl. . . .

Something bumped into her boat. Maria nearly dropped her paddle and jumped overboard. To her relief it was only a hooded girl in an even shabbier gondola than her own.

"Idiot! Look where you're going!" snapped Maria.

The girl held up a hand apologetically. "Sorry. This fog. I misjudged the distance. I just wanted to ask you something."

Maria had placed her now. Working nights--as she did sometimes for Giaccomo's cargos--she'd seen her before. Also, lately, in the early mornings. She was the one the canalers called "the Spook." Someone who sculled a gondola like she was canal born and bred, but nobody knew her. She was nobody's family. Looking at that dress under the hooded cloak, Maria guessed it was because she wasn't anyone's family.

The dress was old, but had once been very good. Too good for canal. And word was out on the water that you stayed clear of her. Word was she had connections that could get you hurt. Strega. Maria tensed. She really didn't need any more trouble now.

"Yeah? What?" she asked warily. She can't be more than a year older than me, thought Maria. And I've got bigger shoulders. I could tip her into the water and hit her over the head with a paddle. In this fog, nobody'd be the wiser. Hear what it was she wanted and if it was trouble . . . In her heart of hearts she wondered if she could do it.

The girl smiled uneasily. "Well, um, you go to Giaccomo's quite a lot."

Here came trouble. Maria tensed. Nodded but didn't say anything. Messing with Giaccomo's cargos meant trouble. And you didn't cross Giaccomo.

The girl continued. "I'm looking for a party that goes there sometimes. Only . . . I don't want to go there myself. Could you give him a message from me?"

Maria relaxed, slightly. "Depends. Who?"

"Well, his name is Benito. He's a kid--about fifteen, maybe sixteen. Dark curly hair. Round face. He's a runner with Ventuccio."

Suspicion leapt into Maria's mind. Was this woman somehow tied to whoever had tried to kill Marco? With the mess their mother had been involved in? Could be. Could be! It would explain the oddities.

"Might know him. Why?"

Even in the fog, Maria could see that the other girl was blushing. "Just . . . wanted to see him. That's all," she said airily "He's . . . he's a friend of mine. I'll be around Campo San Felice between seven and half-past most nights."

Somehow Maria restrained the bubble of laughter. That Benito! She'd have to warn him to stay clear of this girl. "Yeah. I'll tell him. Who do I say? Benito's got so many girls chasing him he'll need a clue."

The girl shook her head. "He's a kid! I mean . . . um . . . just tell him Kat wants to see him. It's not about business or anything," she said hastily. "Just . . . want to ask him something."

"Uh huh. Kat who?" Benito wasn't that much of a kid.

The girl looked faintly alarmed and taken aback. "Just Kat. Er. Kat Felluci."

* * *

Kat was surprised to see the canaler's eyes narrow like that. Then she remembered. It had been all over the canals. What a stupid name to choose for herself . . . it had just come from silly daydreams and just not being able to come up with a different name on the spur of the moment. She flicked her oar and sent the gondola off into the fog to hide her burning face.

* * *

Caesare hadn't been in when Maria had rowed her reluctant way to the water-door. She still hadn't made up her mind what to do about Caesare, but she'd been bracing herself to meet him. So--of course--he wasn't there. Both Marco and Benito were, however.

It set her off-balance not having Caesare there. All day she'd been making up her mind just what to say to him. And then changing it. She hadn't even had time to wonder too much about the girl's choice of surname. It obviously wasn't hers. . . . It could be coincidence. It wasn't that rare a name. Or she might know Marco.

"Met one of your girlfriends today, Benito."

Benito looked suitably embarrassed. "Aw. She's not really that. She's just . . ."

"Someone to practice kissing on?" she teased. "I didn't know about this one. She's a big girl, too."

Benito looked startled. "Huh? Who?"

Maria gave a wry smile. "Kat. Or that is what she calls herself."

"Kat?" Benito looked puzzled.

"Wears a hood," said Maria, taking a glass of wine from Marco. He was considerate like that. "And works nights, mostly. Girl from a good family by the way she dresses."

Light dawned on Benito. "Oh, that Kat! She's no girlfriend of mine!" he added hastily.

Marco looked amused. "I didn't know you were into the petticoat-line yet, Benito."

Benito looked a little shamefaced about growing up, thought Maria. "Um. Well, Kat's no girlfriend of mine. I've just done some work for her."

Maria shook her head. "Word is out on the water that she ain't someone you should mix with, Benito. Trouble. Anyway, she said you could find her at Campo San Felice between seven and half-past most evenings."

"I know she's to be steered clear of now, but, well, I didn't know then," admitted Benito with shrug. "Valentina and Claudia both warned me off."

Marco's amusement had entirely drained away. "If they did that I hope you listened to them, and have stayed away from her?"

Benito looked uncomfortable. "I figured out she was the kind of girl you don't mess around with, but well, you know when I had that spot of bother with Jewel?"

"Uh huh."

"Well after that marsh-loco showed up and beat him to a pulp, I was running on, but kind of sore and a bit spooked. And there she was and she owed me a favor, maybe. So I got her to give me a lift to Giaccomo's. She knew exactly where the Schiopettieri were working."

Maria swallowed her wine. "That's scary in itself. And that explains why she's looking for you at Giaccomo's. Anyway, do you know when . . . Caesare will be back?" She was irritated at herself for allowing that hesitation and hurt to show in her voice when she mentioned his name.

"Won't be in tonight," said Benito.

Maria was proud of her casual tone this time around. "Oh. Well, I'm pooped. I'm going to catch some shut-eye. He didn't say where he was going, did he?"

Benito laughed. "He never does, Maria."

She nodded and headed up the stairs.

* * *

Benito did however know where he was meeting Caesare. He had work to do for him. He felt a little uncomfortable about the evasions. Caesare had said it was best to give her time to get over it. And Benito supposed he knew. But Maria, trying to keep the misery out of her voice when she said Caesare's name, made him feel uncomfortable. Even a little miserable himself.

"Benito, who is this 'Kat'?" asked Marco. "And what's bothering Maria?"

"Kat? Just a girl I know. Got the sharpest tongue in Venice. I ran into her by accident, brother, and I'm keeping clear of her. I'll stay away from Giaccomo's for the next while."

"And Maria?"

Benito shrugged his shoulders. "She's worried about competition."

Marco pinched his lips. "Oh." He sighed. "I don't know what to do about it, because we owe him. But it's not right, brother."

Benito shrugged again. "A man's got to do what a man's got to do, Marco. And it's not our affair, huh?"

Marco sighed again. "It's not right."

Benito felt uncomfortable--as he frequently did when Marco drew the moral line. "Yeah. Well, nothing we can do about it. It's kind of your fault, Marco." That was unfair and he knew it. Caesare had always played the field. Just that Angelina in the last few months had been somewhat "in-your-face" to Marco. But that too seemed to be tapering off. As if the sheer heat of it was burning it out. "Anyway, I've got to go out. I'll see you later," he said hastily.

* * *

"I don't trust you, Aldanto." He could see the swarthy, heavy-bodied man was ready to leap like a cat. Whether it was at Caesare's throat or away, Benito couldn't be certain.

By Caesare's posture, Benito could tell that he too was keyed up. Small movements betrayed him. Benito, hiding in the deep shadows, on the roof across the alley, prided himself that he'd learned well from Caesare. He could even read his mentor. But Caesare's voice was dead-steady. "The feeling is mutual, Francesco Aleri. But it's business."

"You are not welcome back."

Caesare snorted. "I'm not coming back. And if I happen to die, some very interesting information will be forwarded to Ricardo Brunelli."

It was the heavy-set Francesco's turn to snort. "You've got nothing. We've changed things since your time."

Back on the shadowy rooftop Benito squinted, trying to absorb the details of his face. So, the man was a Montagnard agent. Well, his official title was "Milanese Trade Ambassador-at-Large." Benito knew that from delivering the initial message to the man at the German hotel next to the Rialto.

There was a flash of teeth from Caesare. "Everything?" he asked slyly. "Even your sleepers?"

Aleri gave a short bark of laughter "You don't know who those are. You were never on that part of the operation."

"Ah, but on the other hand--Lorendana Valdosta was," purred Caesare. "Now, why don't we talk business. In there. You've got the Dandelos in your pocket."

The two walked into the small shrine and, to Benito's frustration, he could hear no more than the indistinct murmur of their voices, no matter how hard he strained his ears. It had been something of a shock to hear his mother's name. But obviously Caesare had gotten something useful out of Marco's careful writings. Well, he was glad they'd paid something back.

Minutes later, the two emerged and went their separate ways. Benito waited a good minute before slipping away like a ghost.

* * *

A good minute after that, Harrow moved. Marco was at least asleep, safe. But this younger boy! He was old Dell'este reborn, if rumors about the old duke were to be believed. Harrow found Benito's preference for roofs made him hard even for an experienced former-agent to track. Basically Harrow had to try to second-guess him. Either he was a good guesser or the Goddess was doing more than her fair share of intervention. He'd get lost in the alleyways and then catch sight of Benito . . . against all probability. Harrow had decided that if the Goddess wanted the boy followed she'd make sure he succeeded. Marco was easier. For this Harrow was devoutly grateful. But he was also glad he'd followed the younger boy tonight . . . first into the hotel and then to this rendezvous. Obviously, the Goddess had meant him to witness this. Obviously, also, Aldanto hadn't meant Benito to be here. But just from following him, Harrow knew that Benito wasn't good at doing what he was supposed to do.

This meeting was a worrying one. He'd been sure that a meeting between Aldanto and Aleri could only be short, sharp--and end with Aleri dead. In his former life as Fortunato Bespi he'd seen both men's swordsmanship. Aldanto had the edge. Aldanto was perhaps the best he'd ever seen. So: what was this all about? No good, he'd bet. Interesting to hear Lorendana Valdosta's name. It had nearly startled him into moving. That had to be the Goddess's hand again. She watched Montagnards too.

Chapter 53 ==========

Luciano Marina had not expected to just move back to his old life. He thought he'd manage to scavenge a living around the Calle Farnese. What he hadn't realized was that the death of Gino Despini had left an empty hole at the center of Venice's Strega community. After Marina's disappearance, Despini had done his best to keep the city's Strega solid. But with Despini killed . . . by a still unknown hand . . . The Strega in the city were terrified--which, Luciano was now convinced, had been the purpose of the murder. And now that the Servants of the Holy Trinity were stirring up talk of burning out the whole of the Ghetto, being in a visible position of leadership was something all other Strega were shying away from.

He hadn't realized it when he slipped into Itzaak ben Joseph's shop, hoping to scrounge a few coins to start a life in the city. He had little enough to offer. Some medicinal herbs, a couple of twists of blue lotos, a little fly agaric, and his patchy memory . . .

He'd not expected Itzaak to peer at him warily, when he gave the old greeting, and once he recognized the face, fall on his neck. "Grimas! You have returned to save us in our hour of need."

Dressed in new clothes, and walking around in the city which had once been his home, he'd felt ready to chance his arm. Appointments to the Accademia were in the hands of the Council of Ten. But the Marciana Library warden-positions were within the gift of the Doge. And, given Luciano's past history with Giorgio Foscari, the Doge's majordomo had been persuaded to arrange an interview.

* * *

Luciano had been shocked to see how much Doge Foscari had aged. Still, he'd bowed low and hoped the Doge would remember him. He had, after all, provided working diagrams of several of the clockwork devices Foscari loved.

"Your Grace will perhaps remember the water-clock designs I obtained for you?"

It had indeed rung a bell with the old man. "Where have you been, Dottore Marina?" asked the old man querulously. "The idiots in library now never set anything out clearly."

"Doge Foscari, several years ago I undertook a brief journey to Fruili. On the way I was set upon, beaten and left for dead by bandits. It took me some months to recover under the care of a traveling monk. I could not remember who I was or where I came from. I'd been robbed of everything that gave any indication of my home or my station. The monk was on his way to the Holy Land. So, not knowing what else to do, I went there with him on foot. My memory was miraculously restored at the church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Now I have returned, a wiser and--I think--better man. But I must find employment. Does Your Grace need anyone in the Marciana?"

The Doge pointed a bony finger at him. "I need you there. I need more designs for my collection of mechanical marvels. All I ever get these days is reports of yet another ship lost. We've even lost galleys. Do you know when last--except at war--the Republic lost a galley? And now we have lost five to separate storms." His voice quavered slightly. "Send me some interesting plans for mechanical devices. You must have seen some things on your pilgrimage to inspire you."

Luciano accepted readily. It would be a short step from the Marciana to occasional lecturing slots at the Accademia. Marina was confident that within six months he would be able to regain his position in the Accademia.

* * *

Now that he was back, back in the heart of the academic and Strega worlds, the fragmented patches of memory were uniting. He nearly had it all back now. And his fear was growing steadily.

Strega were dying. And there was something very rotten at the Accademia. Money--lots of it, in a student community. Students were always broke. But from somewhere a river of coin was pouring in to the worst and most thuggish young noblemen. And knowing some of the families, it wasn't coming from their parents. There were also--unless he misread it totally--at least two cases of black lotos addiction among the students. Where was that coming from? Who would dare trade in the cursed stuff?

And these terrible magical murders. Naturally, many people blamed the Strega for the killings. But, leaving aside the fact that Strega themselves had numbered among the victims, anyone familiar with the principles of magic would understand that these killings could not possibly be the work of Strega. Everything about the murders shrieked demonism.

The community was almost paralyzed with fear. And his carefully placed scrying spells . . . revealed nothing. Nothing more than several sources of darkness . . . and some ice. And something trying to get to him, personally. A creature of the water; perhaps a monster, perhaps a shape-changer. It might not appear to be more than an unrestful period, with trade being bad, disease rife, and factional stresses high--but magically, Venice was under siege.

Still. Something was stirring on the side of Venice also. One of the old pagan "neutral powers." Something the Strega treated with great respect, even if they did not fully understand it. The Lion of Saint Mark . . . It was stirring if not fully awake. Demons were not the only ones who could work indirectly, and in mysterious ways.

Luciano had fully accepted that the Shadow of the Lion was at work when he spotted young Rafael de Tomaso. De Tomaso's mother had raised her son in the Strega tradition. Luciano, in fact, had been there at the coming-of-age ceremony as one of the sponsors. Even if the young artist hadn't known Grand Master Marina by sight . . . He, Luciano, knew that boy.

He had expected to see him at the Accademia. What he hadn't expect to see was Marco Valdosta walking beside him, deep in conversation. When he saw Marco, Luciano studied the crowd in the campo. Long and carefully. It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to spot Harrow in the shadows by the loggia.

Circles within circles. Coincidences that shouldn't happen. The Lion casting its shadow . . . He was certain of it now. The knowledge brought courage with it.

He was standing looking at the scene, his attention absorbed, when someone spoke to him. Snarled at him, rather. He turned to see yet another familiar face. One much less welcome than Marco's. Especially now that he was a bishop.

Recognition was plainly mutual. "Are you deaf?" demanded Pietro Capuletti. "I asked you what you're doing here?"

Luciano smiled wryly. "Admiring the campo. It's a more attractive view than a fat fellow in red."

Capuletti's face hardened. "Your tongue will get you into a great deal of trouble with the Church. We want to know what you are doing back in Venice."

Luciano wondered who the "we" was. Luciano distrusted Pietro Capuletti. He'd been a sneaky boy and Luciano Marina would bet he was an even more devious man.

He also wondered if Pietro was still puppy-dogging after Lucrezia Brunelli. He was a fool, and always had been. There had never been any chance Lucrezia would have married him, even after he became a bishop. No Capuletti was ever going to be important enough to marry a Brunelli. Run errands for them, yes. Get fat on the crumbs from their table, yes. But curti like the Brunelli would never settle for lesser curti.

"As I've told you before, I've been on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and now that I've returned I intend to re-establish myself here at the Accademia." He smiled urbanely. "Don't try to threaten me, Pietro. I have many friends in the Church. More than ever, after Jerusalem." Let Capuletti sweat that one. Many pilgrims took vows of anonymity. A trip to Jerusalem, instead of wandering mindless in the Jesolo marshes, would have certainly given him some church contacts--perhaps of great importance.

"Ha." The bishop left without a further word, his anger proclaimed in his flaming cheeks and pursed little mouth.

Chapter 54 ==========

The rain was hissing down on the water. At a time when all sensible canal people--anyone with any sense at all--were indoors in front of a fire, maybe with a nice hot glass of mulled wine, Maria was out in the wet. But . . . things were rather tense between her and Caesare, right now. And he'd asked her to do this especially. And she really wanted to show him that she did love him. The last two weeks had been horrible. Left her sick to her stomach with a mixed mess of emotions.

He'd been so hurt when she had accused him. That hair might have blown in the window or something. Didn't she trust him? And, then, he'd been loving and attentive once he'd gotten over being distant and hurt.

She was still suspicious. But . . . she loved him. How could she let him go? So here she was getting soaked to the skin. She must be the only person on the water right now.

But, no. There was another gondola on the canal. As it went by without so much as a greeting from the other paddler, Maria realized that she knew her. That wasn't really surprising--she knew most of the boat people. And if anyone would be out in the half dark and rain, it would be "the Spook."

Maria was grateful, at least, that her destination wasn't all the way out to Guidecca to drop letters with Captain Della Tomasso this time. Tonight her rendezvous was comparatively close. Too close to the Casa Dandelo and the reek of its warehouses for comfort. You could smell the slaves even in the clean rain-washed air.

She pulled into the little landing. Good. There was no one around yet. She must be early. She shivered. She moved down off the stern to the duck-boards and sat down, huddled against the gunwale.

Someone loomed suddenly through the rainy darkness.

"Well, let's have it," grumbled Maria. "I'm wet and cold and I want to get home."

And then someone else jumped onto the stern behind her.

Maria stood up hastily, reaching for her knife. "Hey! Figlio . . ." Bright lights and stars exploded in her skull. But not before she'd seen that it had been Luciano Matteoni jumping onto the stern of the boat.

* * *

When she awoke it was to the betraying stench of the Casa Dandelo. But all she wanted to do was to be sick and pray the pain in her head stopped. Once she'd cast up everything that was inside her onto the rotten straw, blessed oblivion came again.

When she gradually awoke again . . . naked, cold, still sore, lying on the filthy straw a scant few inches from her own vomit . . . she was leg-shackled too. It was then that the true horror of situation dawned on her.

Casa Dandelo.

Slave traders.

Officially, they were not permitted to touch hide nor hair of Venetian citizens. Officially, their "cargo" was checked. The poor of Venice knew the truth: the Doge and the Case Vecchie turned a blind eye. The Dandelos took what they could and if the slave might complain to the Capi di Contrada signing the cargo outbound on ship . . . they took out the tongue that might wag. Or beat the victim senseless. Either way, the Dandelos never released any of those who found their way into their clutches. They brought a lot of money into Venice, and Venice looked the other way. After all, it was only the poor and unwanted who ended up in their clutches. The Dandelos didn't want a fuss. As far as the officials of Venice were concerned, their depredations were nearly the equivalent of "human garbage" collection. So long as it stayed that way, the Council of Ten and the Signori di Notte left them to it.

So: who would notice if she was gone? Well, Caesare would be waiting for his message. He'd panic.

A short, dark-visaged, thick-bodied man looked in at her. Instinct made her cover her nakedness. But this man wasn't interested. You could see it in his look. Merchandise. She was no more appealing to him than a bale of cotton would be. Calm now. Try to talk your way out. "Let me out. I've got friends with contacts. Ricardo Brunelli . . ."

The slaver grave a sardonic snort. "You wouldn't believe how many cousins of the Doge go through here. Anyway, the party wanted to know when you were awake." He turned and walked off.

"Can I have some water?" Maria called after him.

"If the man says so."

She was left to her fears. The minutes passed slowly.

The man who now entered walked like a cat. He was very like Caesare in that way. "I've got some questions for you about Caesare Aldanto. I will get answers. If I get good enough answers you'll go free."

And Caesare would die. "You can burn in hell, figlio di una puttana."

His hand twitched. "You are lucky there are bars between us woman," he snarled. "Any more lip from you and I'll see that you end up as a whore in Aleppo, servicing a hundred fresh-from-the-desert rancid camel drivers a night. You think you're tough. You might last a year."

She spat at him.

He wiped the spittle away from his face. "It seems you need to think about it. Let's see how well you spit after a day of being dry."

* * *

Tonio's whistle woke Marco. Sick child. Must be very sick to call Marco out of bed. Marco seemed to be suffering from a lack of sleep these days. He'd been to see Rafael the night before. He'd been for another private meeting with Milord Petro Dorma last night. He liked the balding, chubby, perpetually worried-looking Petro. He also got the feeling that, although Dorma would be funding his studies at the Accademia, Petro was using him as a window into the world of the tradesmen and canalers.

Again, Tonio whistled. Louder. Eyes bleary, Marco fumbled about, dragging on clothes. By the lack of light coming in through the shutter crack it was very early.

Tonio whistled again; louder still. He'd have the whole neighborhood awake in a minute. Benito thrust open the shutters. "He's coming," he said crossly to the boatman below on the dark water.

Tonio beckoned. "You too," he said.

The two of them, both more-or-less dressed, legged down the dark stairs.

"Who is sick?" demanded Marco, his herb bag in hand. His eyes were still half focused. It was still half dark.

Tonio pointed to the gondola attached to his vessel by a rope. "Couple of the night fishermen picked it up on the tide-wash. They brought it to us."

Marco recognized the boat now. Maria's. A terrible sinking feeling hit his gut.

"Maria?"

Tonio shrugged. "Maybe she fell overboard."

"Get real, Tonio!" snapped Benito. "Maria wouldn't even know how to fall off a boat, any more than you do. She was born on one."

Tonio shrugged. "Accidents happen," he said grimly. "Sometimes people help them to happen. You'd better go tell that fancy-man sellsword of hers." There was disapproval in the canaler's voice.

Benito took a deep breath. "Yeah. We'd better."

Caesare took it with a rigid face, allowing not one trace of emotion to show. "She'll be at the bottom of a canal with weights on her feet, I'm afraid. I should never have let her go out last night, in that rain. But she said they were relying on her. She said she'd overnight at Murano, if the rain got worse. I didn't worry too much . . ."

He shook his head, regretfully. "Leave me alone, please. I need some time."

"Sure, Caesare," said Benito quietly.

"Can I bring you a glass of wine, Caesare?" asked Marco.

Caesare smiled wanly. "No. Just leave me alone, please."

Benito and Marco went downstairs again. Marco found the emptiness and helplessness hard to bear. Benito snuffled slightly. It was a long quiet morning. Neither of them had it in themselves to go to work. Caesare had not come down, but they felt they should be on hand, perhaps . . .

The bells had just rung Sext when Marco decided he'd had enough. "Benito, I'm going across to Rafael."

"I'll tag along, if that's all right."

Marco understood the feeling. He didn't really like the idea of Benito being out and about and maybe in danger either.

* * *

"You're sure she's dead?" asked Rafael

Marco shrugged. "How can we be sure? But what else? They found her vessel, not her."

Rafael pursed his lips; looked at them thoughtfully for a while. "I do know someone who might be able to tell you if she's alive or dead. It is a little magical skill that he has. Do you have any of her clothing?"

Marco shook his head. Benito fished in his pockets. "Scarf she's been wearing?" he asked, pulling it out.

"That should work. Come on. He's over at the Marciana Library this morning."

* * *

Luciano looked up from the book he'd been peering at. The ink was old and fading. His eyes were tired. And there coming toward him was a sight for sore eyes: Rafael de Tomaso and Marco and Marco's brother. Well, it was time he made formal contact. He looked back among the stacks. There was Harrow. The boy was still protected.

* * *

Here, in between the books, he felt safe. Walking out to see Rafael, Marco had felt naked . . . as if they might be the next victims. Because he was utterly certain Maria hadn't disappeared by accident.

Still, he'd nearly fallen over his own jaw when Rafael brought them face-to-face with Chiano. Chiano wearing a fine cloak, and now calling himself Dottore Luciano Marina--but still unmistakably Chiano.

"Hello, Marco," his Jesolo guardian said with a smile.

It was Rafael's turn to look dumbfounded. "You know each other?"

For an answer, Marco embraced Luciano. "Better than you could dream, Rafael. And Sophia?" he asked. Seeing Luciano brought it back to him. He'd been forgetting a debt. He longed to see her, especially right now.

"She's still in the marshes, boy. Won't leave. Says it it's where she belongs, now. I went to see her a few days back. Misses you. You were always better with her medicines and potions than I was. So--what brings you here? I am delighted to see you, of course, but you came looking for me."

They explained.

Luciano looked grim. "The town is awash with trouble. Give me that scarf." He stretched both hands out, palms up.

Benito laid the scarf across them.

They waited.

Luciano shuddered briefly.

Took a deep breath.

"She is alive," he said slowly. "Hush. This is a library!"

"Sorry. We're just relieved."

"Don't be," said Luciano grimly. "All I can tell further is that she is a prisoner, and surrounded by water."

Benito took a deep breath himself. "Right! Well, we'll get a search organized. I'll get back to Caesare and have a word with all the runners. Marco, you could maybe get hold of Tonio. Get the canalers to look for anything."

Rafael smiled. "Your little brother's quite an organizer, Marco."

Marco took Luciano's hands. "Thank you, old friend. We'll find her. And even if she is in danger--we have friends." Turning to Rafael he smiled. "You don't want to try living with Benito, Rafael. He organizes himself out of all the bad chores. But Maria's important to him. She's important to me too, but Benito thinks the world of her, though he won't admit it. Anyway, I must go. Thank you both from the bottom of my heart."

* * *

Maria knew every detail of her cell by now. There wasn't much to learn. Three cubits by six, rusty iron bar-gate, and stone floor and walls. On the floor, moldy straw. On the walls, prayers and curses written in what could only be excrement. This was just one of some ten cells on this level. Solitary confinement for troublemakers and "specials," according to her neighbor. He claimed to be a wealthy cargo-master from Sicily, who had missed his ship and got himself into one bar brawl too many. He'd been mugged, robbed of everything but his breeches--and now these porco cane had taken even those.

There was no water. No place or container to relieve herself in. And a jailor who threatened to beat the pair of them if she spoke to her neighbor again. It wasn't worth it.

God, she was thirsty. And . . . eventually she had to use one of the corners of the cell. No wonder this place stank.

* * *

"How sure can you be of this, Marco?" asked Caesare. "I mean, as I said to Benito, these charlatans prey on the fact that it's hard to accept that someone you love is dead."

"He's no charlatan," said Marco, quietly. "He's the man who kept me alive in the marshes. I know you don't want to start hoping, Caesare. But he's a real magician. If he says she's alive, then she is."

Caesare stood up. "Then we'd better look for her. I'll get word out to some of my contacts. I'd better see Giaccomo. She did a lot of work for him."

Benito could be heard panting up the stairs. He was hot, tired, and enthusiastic. "I got her cousin Luigi and Fredrico. The Arsenalotti will be looking for her too. And I stopped by and woke up Claudia and Valentina. Once they'd gotten over it, they started to look too. We'll have everybody but the Schiopettieri out looking for her."

Marco smiled. It was best to be able to do something. "Well, now that you're back, you can go out again. Stick with Caesare, Benito. He's going to get to his contacts--but he might be the reason someone snatched Maria. I'm going to see if I can get Tonio to take me around to some of my 'patients.' I can get the bargees and boat-people looking too."

Benito stood up from the chair he'd flopped into. "Well, the other thing you could try is to stop by and see Kat. She's that 'Spook' I told you about. She has some contacts in among the Strega, I think. I was going to, but I'll be with Caesare. If you get a chance, go to Campo San Felice between seven and half past. She always wears a hooded cloak and she's got a shabby gondola. Anyway, just ask if her name is Kat and tell her you're my brother. Stick with Tonio if you can, Brother. I'm nervous about you being alone out there."

"I'll probably have my shadow, anyway."

"That you will," said Caesare grimly. "I don't want anyone on my back trail on this venture. You go out first."

They went their various ways. By the late afternoon, it seemed as if half of Venice was looking for Maria.

* * *

Maria was sitting in the one place that no one could go looking. And she didn't know for sure that anyone was looking for her.

"Are you ready to talk yet, sweetie?" asked her persecutor from the night before. The light was better now and she could see him clearly. She took in the details of his heavy-set face and his dress. He wore well-to-do merchant clothes. And, unlike the slave-warder's disinterest, his eyes roamed her naked body with an unpleasant eagerness.

He turned to the warder. "Take her out of there. Give her a smock and put her in the 'interview' room. We'll have some wine and some food."

Maria behaved herself when the slave-warder let her out. She was quiet and submissive, putting on the slave-smock when she was told to. She knew that this wasn't the time to try anything. She hobbled her shackled way along to a room off the passage.

The room was bare. Except for two chairs and a small table. "Sit." There was a mug of wine and a plate of pasta on the table.

She sat. He sat down across from her.

"Taste your wine."

The devil will let me have a sip and then take it away from me, she thought. She took the mug and drained it. It was cheap raw strong red wine. And there was a lot of it.

"That was stupid, but predictable," said her interrogator, with a horrible smugness. "That was a lot of wine on an empty stomach. Which is what I wanted you to have, but I thought I'd have to persuade you. Now, I want answers. You might as well give them to me. Even if I have to take them out of you with pain, I'm going to get them. If I get them . . . I'll have them let you go."

The wine burned in her stomach. It might have been his intent to get her drunk, but it did lend her some courage. And heaven knew she needed it right now. Somehow his calmness was more unnerving than shouted threats. "How about some more of that wine?" she said with an assumption of casualness.

Without any warning he hit her. Hard. A stinging openhanded slap that rocked her head back. Maria tasted blood. Put her hand to her cheek. The speed and sheer violence of it left her huddling back in her seat with a little whimper of pain.

"Don't play games with me, bitch," he hissed. "You'll lose."

Chapter 55 ==========

Marco loitered around the edge of the Campo San Felice. This was stupid. How was he supposed to recognize this "Kat"? He'd been here ten minutes now, and had seen two old men manhandling a barge, and a solitary gondola going past without stopping. It wasn't much of a description to go on. A shabby gondola and a woman wearing a hooded cloak. This was a depressing waste of time.

* * *

Kat was depressed. It had been just over two weeks since she'd run into that woman who said she'd pass a message on to Benito. Huh. Imagine thinking Benito was her lover! She'd been at the Campo San Felice dead on time every night, except last Wednesday. Finally, two days ago, she'd ventured into Giaccomo's. He wasn't there. And one of Giaccomo's flunkies had quietly asked her to leave.

It had been a quiet request. But it was backed up with a potential threat. Clearly enough, some people had grown suspicious of the cargoes carried by "the Spook," and Giaccomo didn't feel he needed the possible complications of having her on the premises.

She'd tried Barducci's also. Those two singers had simply given her the wall-eye when she'd asked after Benito. She'd left a message with them, but she was willing to bet he'd never get that message. The only option that was left now was to go into Ventuccio's and ask to speak to Marco Felluci. . . .

She'd give it a few more days, but she was certain that Benito wasn't going to be there. She'd seen that canaler-woman last night, her head bent against the rain. But, in that downpour, Kat couldn't really have asked if she'd seen Benito lately. Not really the right time for a chat--nor the right area for it, either. You seldom found anyone hanging around Casa Dandelo. Not that you weren't safe enough on the water, but still . . .

She sculled towards the Campo San Felice. She couldn't see anyone. But then last time she hadn't seen Benito either.

* * *

The sky held the last translucent skeins of vermilion cloud. The sun was gone and that first whisper of the night-breeze brought the sound of distant laughter with it. The zephyr had picked up the scent of the sea from over the barrier lidi. For a moment, it carried Marco away. Back to the time centuries ago when the first refugees from barbarian invaders had smelled that same breeze, and had seen, perhaps for the first time, the swampy Rialto islands not just as refuge but also as a place of beauty. Venice had been loved, was loved. As much as a place of bricks, mortar and marble facing, the city of the winged lion was a great ancient repository of hopes and dreams. A place the barbarians had never managed to conquer. A city of love and lovers.

Then, cutting through the rippled, reflected last splendors of the day, came a gondola. Moving silently along the canal between the gothic-fronted buildings, sliding across the water, the dip and sway of the gondolier was as easy and graceful as a dancer's movements.

Marco looked across the water into the eyes of his kindred spirit.

The grace, romance, and beauty of the moment ended in a splash. His dream girl, her eyes locked on his, hit a mooring pole, dropped her oar, lost her balance and fell--fortunately--down onto her own duckboards.

The gondola was close to shore and Marco managed the jump without even thinking about it.

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.

"Fine." said Kat, sitting up, her face blazing. "Er. See if you can grab my oar."

He leaned over the side and pulled it inboard.

* * *

Kat seized the moment to pull herself together. What an absolute idiot he must think her. What a complete fool! And what a way to meet him! She'd have wanted to put on some better clothes. Maybe some belladonna to widen her eyes . . . She must talk to Francesca about it.

One minute ago, she'd been sculling easily, putting minimal effort into it. The next she'd lost her concentration; lost her balance; lost her dignity; lost her oar . . . what should she say? Reality was with her, now. He might turn out to be a lot less likable than her imagination had painted him.

He pulled the oar onto the gondola; then, offered her a hand. "I'm sorry," he said smiling. "Maria says it's really bad manners to board a boat without permission. But I thought you might be hurt."

Whoever "Maria" is, she's going to have to go.

Now that he was up close, Kat found herself tongue-tied for the first time in her life. She settled for smiling at him. God, he was handsome. No. That was the wrong word. He wasn't ruggedly handsome. He was beautiful. No wonder this Maria was chasing him.

"You've hurt your hand!" he exclaimed.

There was indeed a thin trickle of blood running down her hand and onto her cuff. Kat looked at it and looked away. She really didn't like blood. "Oh, it's nothing," she said hastily.

"Here." He held out a tentative hand. "Let me see to it. . . . Signorina. I'm hoping to be a doctor one day."

"It's fine. Really."

He smiled. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

God in heaven, he could cut the hand right off if he wanted to. Well, if he wanted her as a practice patient she could have lots of injuries. Lots. If he wanted to lie her down on the duckboards--

Her mind shied away from that line of thought. She held out the hand.

He was gentle and surprisingly professional about it. "Just a scratch, I think. If you would just come over there to the light I could clean it and bandage it quickly."

"Thank you," she said, wishing he hadn't let go of her hand. "And I think we'd better tie up because we're drifting."

Two minutes later, the hand was neatly and professionally bandaged; the ragged scratch cleaned out. "There. Good as new within two days."

"And how do I find the doctor if it needs further attention?" She did her best to make the question sound casual.

"Oh. Well, I spend quite a lot of time over at Zianetti's near the Accademia."

So all this time hanging around Giaccomo's and even venturing into Barducci's had been vain endeavor! "Well . . . I'll find you there." If have to invent an injury. "What's your name?"

"Marco. Ah, Felluci." He bit his lip; then: "Well, I'd like to ask you to have a glass of wine with me, but I've got to wait for someone for Benito. Then we've got to go back to looking for Maria."

That explained it. He worked with Benito! What could be more natural than the scamp would send his friend off to see what she wanted. And what a friend to choose! But if this "Maria" was a girlfriend, then she--Kat Montescue--was going to do her best to make sure she stayed lost. "And this 'Benito,' did he tell you who you were to wait for?" she asked, managing to keep a straight face.

Marco shook his head. "Someone called 'Kat.' He's been avoiding her because she's trouble, but with Maria gone missing . . ."

It was Kat's turn to bite her lip. "Trouble," was she? Well, there was some justification to that that description. She'd partly orchestrated it herself, and, well, she did have dangerous associates. The story Benito brought back couldn't have enhanced a saint's reputation, she'd bet.

Then the humor of it all got through to her.

* * *

She has the most delicious laughter in the whole world, thought Marco. I could listen to it forever, even though I don't see what is so funny.

Finally she stopped laughing. "Sorry . . . I'm Kat." And she started laughing again.

Marco found himself drowning both in her laughter and his own embarrassment. And yet, as bad as that embarrassment was, it was all right: He'd finally got to meet her. He'd kill Benito! Either Benito had known and had been keeping his brother from another entanglement--for which he couldn't really be blamed, after the last time.

No. Benito must not have worked out that Marco's "dream girl" and Benito's "trouble" were one and the same. But at least he'd found her. Now if he could keep from putting his foot in his mouth while he talked to her. Maybe he could even find out where she lived. She was everything Angelina was not. While he'd worshipped the ground Angelina walked on, and dreamed one day of kissing her hand . . . this girl made him want to fold her in his arms and . . . well, better stop these thoughts dead right there . . .

"I'm sorry. I'm sure they didn't mean it," he said humbly.

Kat smiled broadly. "I'm sure they did!" she said. "And they were right too, but I promise, not to you."

Marco had put two and two together. "Um. The girl you sent the message to Benito with. You haven't seen her, have you? We're looking for her."

* * *

Ah. So that was Maria. "Yes," said Kat, thinking back to the driving rain of last night. After her experience in the church she'd given up taking shelter. "But not today."

"She went missing yesterday," said Marco. "Caesare is worried sick."

"Who is this 'Caesare'?" asked Kat carefully.

He smiled again, and it did odd things to her insides. "Oh, sorry. Caesare Aldanto. Her . . . her boyfriend."

Relief was like the sun coming out. "She's not your girlfriend, then?"

He looked surprised. "Maria? She's crazy about Caesare. She wouldn't even look twice at me." He looked slightly sheepish. "Um, I . . . I'm not involved with anyone right now."

"Well, I'm not either." There. What an opening. "Although I have had several suitors." That seemed important to say too.

"I'm not surprised," he said warmly. "But about Maria. When did you last see her? We . . . we've had word she's a prisoner somewhere."

Kat cocked her head, put a finger to her jaw. "It was long after Vespers, but before midnight. Maybe a hundred yards from the Casa Dandelo. I . . . wanted to ask her about Benito. But it was raining too hard."

"I'd better go and tell Caesare. Why did you want to see Benito? I can give him a message."

"Oh . . . I, um, just wanted him to get hold of a friend of his for me," said Kat airily. "It's all right now. How about I take you to where I saw her?"

"You haven't got other work to do?" asked Marco. "I want to talk to you, but if you've got work . . ."

Her heart warmed. He was an ordinary working man, after all. And a considerate one. She wished the Montescue could somehow sponsor him to do what he should be doing: medical studies. Already he was worth six of any Case Vecchie scion-doctors she'd ever met. But unless her father came home laden with half the jewels of the Indies, there was no way. Casa Montescue limped on from day to day as it was. Extra expenses just couldn't be borne. Only yesterday her grandfather had said to her that he didn't know how they'd have managed without her. "No. Nothing this evening. I'd be happy to help."

They rowed along and Kat found that conversation was as easy as breathing. It was obviously his interest, so she led him to talk about medicine. The more he talked, the more Kat decided that her first look had led her unerringly. He wasn't--unlike most of the elderly roues at the occasional functions the Casa Montescue still attended--at all inclined towards over-the-line flattery and flirtation. Instead he talked with passion about medicine. About what could be done.

"By the way--how do you know that this Maria is definitely alive?" she asked, as they neared the Casa Dandelo.

Marco pursed his lips. "Well, you wouldn't know him but we went to see Luciano Mariana--"

"But I do know him! He was my tutor! But--he went away, years ago. I was afraid he was dead."

Marco pauses. "Um. Well. They say he's just got back from Jerusalem. I know him well, too, from--from earlier. I owe him my life in part. Anyway, he's--ah--good at divining. And he says she's alive, a prisoner and surrounded by water. We've got half the town looking for her."

Kat pointed to the mess of heavily barred old buildings, isolated on their own islet across the Rio della Crea. "Casa Dandelo. That's where she'll be. Nobody knows what happens there."

Marco pulled a wry face. "You don't have any contacts?"

She shook her head emphatically. "I'd sooner sell black lotos," she said with distaste.

"Yes. It's a disgrace to the Republic," said Marco grimly.

She got the feeling that if he were the Doge for a day, the Casa Dandelo would be among the first festering sores to go. "Come on, let's go find Benito and this Caesare."

They actually found an irritated-looking Caesare and a still-eager Benito within two hundred yards.

"Ciao, Kat. I see Marco's got you working too," said Benito cheerfully. "Listen, old Beppi saw her at the corner of the Canale di Cannaregio. She was definitely heading for this part of town."

Caesare shook his head. "After which she could have been taken anywhere."

Marco smiled. "Except that Kat saw her too. Right near the Casa Dandelo. That's where we reckon she must be."

Caesare nodded. "I suppose it's possible. We can't get in there. Well, I'll get the Capuletti. One of them is Capi di Contrada for the Dandelo shipments. Relax. They won't be able to take her out. She's a citizen of the Republic. Now I think we ought to go back, maybe stop at Giaccomo's in case there is a message or a ransom demand."

"Let's just go on down to the Casa Dandelo. Please," pleaded Benito. "See if any of Marco's patients are about. Or you could go back--I'll go on. Case the joint."

So, little Benito did care about someone. He'd talked about a brother once. But obviously this Maria was important to him. It was odd to realize that she'd met this Caesare Aldanto too. He'd been at a rather raffish ridotto she'd found reason to leave early. His partner, with whom he'd been flirting outrageously, was definitely Case Vecchie. A masked blond. Not his Maria--who, to judge by their one meeting--was canaler through and through. "I'll give you a lift down. Quicker than walking. And safer, too."

Benito laughed. "Not many would want to mix it with Caesare, Kat."

There was admiration in that voice. He needs to be more selective about his role models, thought Kat. But what would a wharf-and-canal brat know of such things? Well, enough to choose one good loyal friend at least, it seemed.

Marco was all agreement about going back down to the Rio della Crea outside the Casa Dandelo. However, Caesare put his foot down firmly. "You leave the Dandelos alone. Come. We'll go back to the house. Get some food. You two will stay there. I'm going to see the Capuletti."

"I'll take you," offered Kat. At least that way she'd be able to find out where he lived. But she still worried about their loyalty to this Caesare. Obviously what he said went.

* * *

"Your loyalty is misplaced," said Maria's questioner. "How do you think we knew exactly where to find you? He wanted to be rid of you so he made a deal with us. He's the pig who betrayed you. What do you owe someone like that?"

Maria's head was spinning a little. She'd had a lot of strong unwatered wine on an empty stomach. The blows hadn't helped either. "Can't tell you what I don't know," she said sullenly. "Caesare kept his business private." He was lying. They weren't going to let her go. No matter what she told them.

Her questioner sat back. "It's going to be a long night. But you are going to tell me everything you do know." He leaned forward. His hands shot out and he grabbed her by the throat. The strength in those hands was terrifying. And she'd learned by now that resistance only made him worse. "Understa--"

Someone started screaming. A terrible, awful scream, even by slave-trader standards. At least her tormenter let go of her.

By the sounds of it, pandemonium was breaking loose. Yelling and panic around the screams.

The slaver who had brought her in here said: "Ask questions later, signor. She goes back to the cell! There's trouble out there." He pulled her to her feet and thrust her, stumbling in her hobbling leg-irons, out of the door. It was here that the wine came to her rescue. She tripped and fell against the wall, into a little alcove, intended by some long ago builder for a saint's shrine. Maybe the place was still blessed.

The stampede of panicked prisoners and warders thus missed her. But her warder and her questioner were swept off with the mob. The screaming had turned to a terrible laughter. Looking over her shoulder, she could see her interrogator glaring back at her. He was shouting something, but the words couldn't be made out over the general din. A moment later, the stampeding crowd had taken him out of sight.

Hurriedly, Maria got to her feet and went the other away, moving toward the horrible sound, half-laughter, half-screaming. The sound made her scalp crawl, but that was the only direction in which she might escape. Fortunately, before too long she found an unlocked door and pushed her way in.

She was apparently inside Casa Dandelo's warehouse area. She made sure the door was shut behind her and then plunged into the cluttered, cavernous interior. Maria wasn't moving very fast. Leg-irons didn't help. Neither did being a little drunk and completely lost in a strange building. She wanted down, but the only staircase she found went up. Not having any choice, she climbed the stairs, struggling with the leg-irons.

The staircase led to a heavy, iron-reinforced door--which obviously was normally bolted and locked from the outside. But now it was ajar. Maria stepped through and out of one world and into another. This place was soft with carpets and rich hangings. This was the living quarters of the slavers.

For a moment she hesitated. Then, hearing voices behind her, she stepped into the first room and held the door handle up. It was dark in here.

She heard the bolts being shot. She--and the other slaves--were being safely locked in. Only . . . she was already on this side of the door. It had been panic and drunken luck that had gotten her this far. But one thing she was determined on--she wasn't going back. She'd kill anyone who tried to take her. She felt about the darkened room for a weapon. She decided the shutter-bar would do as well as anything else. She shuffled--so as not to clank her leg-irons--over to the crack of light and lifted the bar. The shutters swung open. Moonlight touched the canal below.

To young Benito the climb down would have been a joke. To her . . . with leg-irons and a bit dizzy with wine, hunger and fear . . . it seemed impossible.

She heard voices, and her determination returned. She could just jump, taking the shutter-bar with her. Whatever else, at least she'd be outside and with a weapon.

Taking a deep breath, she struggled up onto the sill and jumped.

Moments later, she realized she should have thought about swimming in leg-irons first.

It took all her strength to haul herself out of the canal on the far side, and onto the walkway. Then spotting a nearby alley, she crawled toward it, too exhausted to walk. She could only hope that all their attention was distracted by the riot going on in the building. She could only bless whatever had caused the commotion in the first place.

Maria crawled on, into the alley and then down it, keeping to the shadows. If somebody found her now, in this part of town, she'd be dead meat. Or--worse--returned to the Casa Dandelo. At length the alley ended next to a canal.

She was so tired and turned around. This could be Canale di Cannaregio. Oh, God. She was such a long, long way from home. If only she could spot a boatman she could trust. But the barge moving slowly along the water was not familiar.

Then a gondola came into view . . . a bit scruffy . . . It was that Kat! A moment of indecision, mostly due to sheer exhaustion, and Maria called out.

By the startled look on her face, Kat was not used to being greeted or summoned. But she peered; and as soon as she saw who it was she came in, pulled up and hauled the manacled Maria into her boat. Maria was so exhausted she simply tumbled onto the duck boards. Kat pushed off hastily. "Marco, Benito, and your Caesare have been looking for you. Let's get away from here, before someone else finds you."

Maria groaned. "Ow. Yes. The farther from the Dandelos the better."

Kat looked down at her. "I told them that's where you'd be. You're in a bad way. Do you know if the Dandelos are looking for you?"

Maria shook her head. "Dunno. Probably. But they may not have figured out that I got out of the building already."

Kat exhaled. "I think . . . I'd better take you to my home. We are close. Get you off the water and out of that slave-smock. But you must promise me you won't tell anyone where I live."

"Promise," said Maria tiredly. "Swear to God. Just keep me away from those Dandelo bastardos."

Kat took a deep breath. "You'll be safe enough. I swear. Just pull that canvas over yourself." And she bent to the oar. "I think we'll try for speed rather than being unobtrusive right now. They could take me for you, and then we'd both be for it."

She concentrated on her sculling. Then, panting a little, glanced over her shoulder. "There are a few boats in the distance. They're too far off to see us in the moonlight but when we get to the Casa, you must move as fast as you can. Please."

Maria tensed her tired body. "Won't they just follow us?"

Kat snorted. "Not . . . huh . . . likely." They bumped against a tiny landing. Kat leaped forward and dropped a painter over a pole. She turned and helped Maria up and they staggered up the stairs. Kat rapped a hasty pattern on the water-door.

Maria heard the bolts slide. She and Kat half-fell and were half-dragged within by a white-haired old man with "family retainer" written all over his wrinkles.

The bolts sliding home were a wonderfully secure sound. But as Maria slumped against the wall and felt the suspicious angry gaze of the old man wash over her, she wondered whether this was security or worse trouble. The old man had a wheel-lock pistol in his belt and looked ready to use it. "And now, Signorina Katerina! What's this?" He pointed at Maria as if she were a long-dead alley-cat. "Milord won't be pleased. Trouble." His tone would have rimed boiling minestrone with ice.

Kat wasn't pleased either. "Oh, Giuseppe! Stop behaving like an old woman. As if I didn't learn half my troublemaking from you in the first place! See if you can find something to cut this chain with. And if you see Madelena, ask her for some food, some wine, and some hot water. We'll be in my room. Please."

The old man shook his head doubtfully, as Kat helped Maria to her feet. "Ai, signorina. You are like your father all over again. Still, the master won't be pleased."

"Then we won't tell him," responded Kat quietly, but firmly. "He has enough worries already. Now get Madelena for me, Giuseppe, do. Please."

He nodded and turned away. His rolling gait as he left--still muttering--said that this family retainer was an old seaman. Kat led Maria down a succession of corridors, up a staircase, down another corridor and into a bedroom. By the time they got there, the leg-irons felt like lead weights.

Chapter 56 ==========

Maria realized that the bedroom she'd swayed into was the finest she'd ever seen. Or must once have been very fine. But there were subtle signs of decay everywhere. The gilt-trimmed mirrors were old and fogged. The silken hangings on the carved bedstead were slightly tattered. The beautiful cassone had a little chip in it.

"Sit here on the bed." Kat thrust her gently onto it. Maria sat. Obedient, bewildered, but at least no longer terrified. Benito certainly picked his girlfriends! Kat went to the dressing table, took a branch of candles and lit them at the wall sconce. She rummaged in the closet and came out with a gown of some sort before returning to the bed. "My God! Your poor knees!"

"I crawled. From the Casa Dandelo to where you found me. It was better than staying there," said Maria quietly.

Kat took a deep breath. "Well, you're safe now. Lord. I wish Marco was here. He's so good at doctoring. Let's get you out of that smock anyway."

Marco? Maria's tired mind took a moment to work this one out as she managed to stand and hold her arms up to allow Kat take off the coarse slave-smock. Marco . . . Marco? By the worshipful tone, Benito had lost his Case Vecchie girlfriend! Well, it was keeping her alive. And Marco was a good soul. Too good for comfort, at times. But he would at least be nice to her, even if he was still daydreaming about his "girl in a boat."

The dress Kat dropped over her was soft twilled . . . silk.

From the doorway came a horrified squeak. "Katerina! You can't dress some slave-girl in your best taffeta!" The little bright-beady-eyed old woman with the tray of food and wine looked utterly horrified.

Kat clicked her tongue. "Madelena, just leave me to my business. And she's not a slave." To Maria: "It's not a new dress. But we've got to get you back to . . . to Caesare and they won't be looking for someone dressed in clothes like these. Put the tray down, Madelena, and get me some hot water. Do. Please."

Madelena set the tray down, pinching her lips with disapproval. Then she took a deep breath and, with the attitude of a stern taskmistress, shook a bony finger at Kat. "You can't do this, Milady Katerina! I'm going to go and talk to the master, no matter what old Giuseppe says."

Kat hugged the old lady. "Please, Madelena. He's asleep by now. And this is the honor of the Casa at stake here. Papa would have told me to do this."

The old lady sighed. "I wish he would come home." But she turned and went out.

Kat shook her head as she lifted the hem of the newly loaned dress above Maria's raw and bleeding knees. "Sorry. My old nurse, and my father's too. She won't accept that he's never going to get back, or that I'm not five years old any more. If I set this tray here on the bed, do you think you could eat a little? And maybe drink a glass of wine? You're as pale as a sheet. I'll try to clean up these knees. I'm not much of a doctor, I'm afraid. And it is not much in the way of food either."

Maria looked at the tray. Bread, the crumb finer and whiter than any she'd ever eaten. Slices of prosecco, salume, taleggio cheese, some early melon, something wrapped in pastry, olives, a tiny sweet cake bursting with raisins and almond slivers, dusted with sugar. Huh. Kat's ideas of "not much"! Case Vecchie ideas.

Maria sighed. This was Caesare's background. This was the world he belonged in. It was a world that left her feeling like a fish on a mountaintop. "Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly.

Kat shrugged. "Honor. I promised I'd help to find you."

Both the old man and old woman bustled in, arguing. "Hush!" snapped Kat. "You'll wake the house. And I do not want Alessandra here!"

That shut them both up. Madelena had brought a crock of warm water, cloths, soap. Giuseppe had in hand a small fine-toothed saw and a huge pair of pliers. He set to work on the chain. "You'll need a blacksmith to break the locks, or cut through the shackles. But if we cut the chain you can walk properly," he said. "Or run if you have to. You a local girl, missy?"

Maria nodded. "Born and bred." By his walk he was a seaman. All caulkers did a stint with the Republic's galleys and, as often as not, other vessels. "My family are caulkers."

She was right in her guess. That brought a look of frosty approval to the old man's face. "So what are you doing in slave clothes and slave chains?"

Maria shrugged. "The Dandelos don't care much where they get their slaves."

Giuseppe nodded, his face growing heavy with anger. "This time you were right, signorina. We must talk to milord about this. He can take it up with the Signori di Notte or even the Doge. This ought to be stopped!"

Kat sighed. "Do some more sawing, Giuseppe. I can just hear Grandpapa saying: 'Well, Your Grace, my granddaughter was just out for a little midnight row, on her own, when she found this runaway slave who happened to be a citizen of the Republic. Now, that's not allowed, Your Grace. Yes, my seventeen-year-old granddaughter is often out alone at midnight. For starters, the Dandelos and their allies would laugh us out of the council. How could we prove Maria was a captive of theirs? For seconds, we don't need any attention. We have too much business of our own we don't need examined too closely."

"It still ought to be stopped," grumbled Giuseppe, going on sawing.

Madelena said nothing. She just snorted. But Maria noticed that she was more gentle about the cleaning. Maria sipped at the wine and tried to work out just how Kat was planning to get her home. The wine too was fine. A vintage red. Unless she was completely turned around this was one of the old great houses that looked onto the lagoon, towards the mainland. That was a long way from home, if the Dandelos were out looking for her. And they would be, for a certainty. They wouldn't want a citizen well known to canalers and Arsenalotti to escape their clutches and tell her story. That could cause them a lot of trouble.

* * *

Getting Maria home if the Dandelos were combing the canals could be tricky, thought Kat. But from the moment she dropped the dress over Maria's head, Kat realized that this was, potentially, a very beautiful woman. True, her jaw was very square and firm. But it simply enhanced the strength of those dark features. The dress suited Maria far better than it had her. Out of her baggy canaler's clothing, which was all that Kat had ever seen Maria wearing, it was obvious that the canaler girl's figure was . . . female. Decidedly so, in fact.

Giuseppe had cut his way through the chains for the second time and left to return the tools. Maria now had two heavy iron anklets. But, if need be, she could run. And she could walk normally. "Madelena, we need to dress her hair up. Do you think you could steal one of those Spanish combs from Alessandra's dressing room?"

The old woman smiled evilly. Madelena loathed Alessandra. The feeling was mutual. Alessandra detested a servant she could not dismiss. At least once a week, Alessandra accused Madelena of anything from theft to poisoning. Perhaps once--long ago--the war between them had sparked out of jealousy of a new wife for an old nurse. But especially after the death of Alessandra's baby, it had degenerated into simple warfare. "I'll bring some of her makeup too, Katerina." She got up and went out.

Kat surveyed Maria, weighing up the possibilities. "Shoes will be a problem. But the rest will be easy." She grinned at Maria. "Let me do that lacing on your bodice. No Case Vecchie is going to be at a party unlaced. Or at least they'd get someone to lace them again afterwards. If you keep your feet tucked under you and don't talk, we can do a remarkably fine pair of ladies going home for the night after a party."

Maria took an embarrassed look at her feet. "They're too big," she said wretchedly. She began to cry.

Kat hugged her. "It's all right. It's all right."

Maria gave a determined sniff. "I don't cry. I'm a canaler. I don't cry. I get even," she said gruffly. Then she sobbed. "But I've got very big feet. Canaler feet. And he's so fine."

* * *

No one could possibly have recognized Maria Garavelli the canaler and "Spook" the night-cargo runner, in the two finely arrayed and made-up Venetian Case Vecchie ladies who made their way through the maze of passages to the front of the house. Giuseppe bowed. "The gondola will be here in a few moments, signorinas."

Maria felt . . . odd. She could hardly recognize the elegant woman in the mirror in the hall. Her hair was dressed up onto an ornate comb, her face heavily made up, her cheeks and lips red, her eyes widened with belladona. In one hand was a fan of lacquered sticks and silk. In the other a little reticule . . . in which rested the comforting solid bulk of a pistol. It was a small and very finely made wheel-lock, the kind of weapon which only extremely wealthy people could afford. Kat had one identical to it in her own somewhat larger purse. Maria hoped that Kat knew how to use hers; she had only the sketchiest notion herself.

"If you see anyone," said Kat, "flirt with the fan--like this--over your mouth and nose. It makes it very hard to recognize you."

Maria tried it, looking at the stranger with the fan in the mirror.

"You're a natural," said Kat with a grin. Maria was quite relieved to see that expression. It was the only familiar thing about her rescuer: that wide-mouthed grin. Kat didn't smile that often. But it transformed her face when she did. Maria saw the smile change to a frown.

"And where are you going?" demanded the cause of the frown. The willowy-figured woman who had come into the hall looked every inch a wealthy Case Vecchie. Maria guessed her at mid to late twenties. Her complexion was as flawless as a master of the paintbrush and rouge pot could make it, except that she had a little mole on her cheek, just above the rosebud mouth. It seemed to accentuate the perfection. Her hair too was a lustrous black, dressed into a perfect frame for her face. She looked as sour as vinegar, despite her beauty.

"Out, Alessandra." Kat's face had closed down. There was now no expression on it at all. "Family business."

Alessandra looked as if she'd just swallowed a cup of gall. "What nonsense!" she snapped. "This trollop is no family of ours. And why is she wearing your best gown?"

"My mother's family. And Maria spilt wine on her gown. It's in that bag." Kat pointed to the bag at their feet. It actually contained a hooded cloak.

Alessandra sniffed. "Oh. I didn't know we had anything to do with them." Her expression said she didn't want to know either. She let them leave and get into the waiting gondola--which was not shabby--without a word.

Only when they were well away down the canal did Kat give way to helpless laughter. "Oh, she is such a snob! If she'd noticed the comb in your hair, we'd have been for it."

"Or my feet," said Maria, tucking them under the folds of the dress. "Who is she?"

"My dear sister-in-law," answered Kat. "And my mother's family were just merchants. Not even curti. She pretends they don't exist."

Maria sat back tiredly against the squabs. "Who are you, Kat?"

Kat shook her head. "Best if I don't say. Not that I don't trust you, but, well, what you don't know can't slip out even by accident. And remember: you promised."

Maria nodded. It felt odd with all her hair piled up. "Even wild horses wouldn't drag it out of me. But I owe you."

Kat shrugged. "I promised I'd help."

* * *

They waited next to Alberto's barge. "He's trustworthy?" Kat asked for the third time.

"He's fine." Maria soothed. "He's Tonio's brother and a sort of cousin of mine." Here, out of her place, Kat was as uneasy as Maria has been in Kat's home. "They could be watching the building, as they know who Caesare is. I'm sorry I lost the water-door key when they took my clothes, because we could row up safely enough. But two ladies walking down our calle at this time of night would be in danger--even if the Dandelos aren't watching. So--best if Alberto fetches them. Can your gondolier be trusted to get you back?"

Kat nodded. "They do work for the family. And old Giuseppe knows who took us. Pietro would be insane to come back without me. Besides I have my little friend in here." She patted the reticule. "I can shoot. Quite well."

There was the sound of running footsteps. They both hastily reached for their reticules. Maria was still struggling with the fussy little catch when she heard Benito's voice. "Maria! Maria!"

He bounced over the barge and looked down at the two of them, and their patient gondolier. Benito was obviously a little startled to find himself staring into the muzzle of Kat's hand-cannon, but he didn't let it stop him. "Maria?" he asked incredulously.

"Who else, Benito?" said Maria tiredly. "Where's Caesare?"

Benito swung down onto the deck. He grabbed Maria and did a fierce little jig. Then he hugged her. Benito never even touched her, normally. Not that she had encouraged it, but . . .

"He's seeing the Capuletti. In case the Dandelos had you. Marco is off with Rafael over around Accademia looking for you. They were going to some Marina guy, the one who told us you were alive but a prisoner, to see if he could tell them anything else. They left me alone here to hold the fort. I reckon they both knew that way I wouldn't go back to the Casa Dandelo. That Kat said to Marco they must have you. And here you turn up looking like the queen of Sheba! Where have you been? We've been worried sick!"

For an answer Maria lifted her dress to reveal her bare feet and the iron anklets. " 'That Kat' was right. Casa Dandelo. I escaped. And Kat saved my bacon. I owe her, so you treat her with respect, see."

"Oh she's not so bad," said Benito with a grin. "Got a snappy tongue when she's cross though. She brought us back here, but Rafael was waiting, so Marco went off with him, and she left. So who's the friend with the cannon?"

Maria realized that Kat was hiding behind her fan. "Just a friend, little sneaker. Leave her alone. Katerina--I'll get these clothes back to you. And . . . thank you. Thank you a million times. You ever need to find me, you leave a message with Giaccomo. I'll tell him. I owe you. Go carefully, huh?"

Kat nodded, without taking the fan from her face. And--with her other hand, still holding the pistol--pointed to the bag on the duckboards.

"Good idea," said Maria. "You take care now, see." She took out the hooded cloak and pulled it over her borrowed finery.

The gondolier had pulled the boat next to the walkway and the two of them alighted. The gondola pulled away.

Maria waved. Kat, having returned the pistol to the reticule, waved back.

"Mighty silent friend, that," said Benito curiously.

Maria yawned. "Be a good thing if you buttoned your lip sometimes, Benito. Let's get home. I can't wait to bathe myself." She could hardly believe that he hadn't recognized Kat. But then, looking in a mirror, she'd hardly recognized herself in these clothes.

"She reminded me of someone," said Benito. "But I can't think who. I don't know any posh women like that. But I hardly even recognized you in those clothes." He hesitated. Then, speaking much less brashly than usual, almost shyly: "You're real pretty when you dress up nice, Maria Garavelli. Real pretty."

Maria swatted his ear. Gently, though. She was quite sorry Caesare hadn't seen her in Kat's best gown. She was tempted to hang on to it for long enough to model it for him, but on reflection that wasn't a good idea. For Kat's safety, it would be best if she revealed as little about her part in this as possible.

Chapter 57 ==========

When Father Mascoli saw the three figures entering his little chapel in the Cannaregio, he sighed. "Come into the back," he said. "I don't want to discuss the matter out here."

He led them through the door behind the statue of Saint Raphaella and into his private quarters. Then, seeing them pause, he waved his hand. "Further in the back," he muttered. "We need someplace that I'm certain is safe."

He opened the water-door at the rear of his cell and led them into the small water-chapel beyond. There was just enough room for four men to stand there.

The three other priests examined the chapel with interest. Their interest was aroused further when the heads of two undines broke the water and gazed at them. The undines' eyes seemed wary--or perhaps simply watchful. Both of them were female.

"It's all right," said Mascoli. "These are . . . friends." There was just a slight hesitation before the last word.

The undines studied the three strange priests, their eyes spending most of their time examining the shortest one. "I hope so," hissed one of them. Pointing at the short priest: "That one could be dangerous. Very powerful."

The priest in question pulled a wry face. The solid eyebrow line twisted into an S-shape. "First time I've ever been called that. Even before my leg got mangled."

"She's not speaking of your physical strength, Father Lopez," replied Mascoli, almost snapping. "As you well know."

"He likes to practice modesty," said one of the other priests, his Savoyard accent very pronounced. "Good thing, too. He'd be insufferable otherwise. I'm Pierre, by the way. The other one is Diego."

Despite the tension of the moment, Mascoli chuckled. "Well said. All right, then. I assume you've come because you heard the news about Dottore Marina. Reappearing in Venice--out of nowhere, it seems--after all these years."

Lopez nodded. "We need to speak with him. But it would be dangerous--very dangerous--to do so openly. We thought . . ."

"I can place you in touch with him," agreed Mascoli. "But for the moment, at least, I think you should have no direct contact at all. I doubt if Marina would agree, in any event. He is very frightened by the state of things in Venice." Mascoli nodded toward the undines. "The dottore has a special relationship with them. They can serve as the messengers."

"Difficult," hissed one of the undines. The tone of her voice was distinctly unhappy. "The stupid dottore has gone too far from the water."

"Not safe," hissed the other.

Diego eyed them curiously. "From the rumors which have been swirling through the city for months, the water is the most dangerous place to be. Because of the so-called 'canal monster.' "

The undines gaped shark-toothed grins. "Dangerous for most. Dangerous for us, even. Not dangerous for the dottore." One of the undines sank below the surface for a moment, then came up gushing water out of her mouth in an undine version of laughter. "The dottore eat that one easily."

"That makes sense," murmured Eneko. "A Grimas would be vulnerable to steel-clad enemies. Another great sorcerer; the most powerful of demons. And not much else."

Mascoli cocked his head in a quizzical gesture. As close as he was to the undines, he had no doubt at all that the rumors of a "canal monster" were quite accurate. "And what makes you think this thing is not a most powerful demon."

"Doesn't make sense," replied Lopez. "The thing--whatever it is--is a servant of Chernobog. I'm quite sure of it, now. Chernobog would have lamed it in some manner. Broken it to his service."

Mascoli ran his hand across his bald pate, grimacing ruefully. "You move in a strange world, Father Lopez. That thing is quite too powerful for my taste, thank you."

Lopez shrugged. "I did not say it wasn't dangerous. I am simply pointing out that it is, in the end, nothing more than a tool in the hands of another. It is that other that I am truly concerned about."

He looked down at the undines, moving slowly in the waters of the chapel. "Very well. Would you take this message to Dottore Marina: Tell him to concentrate all his efforts on finding the Lion. We will see to the rest."

The undine's mouth gaped wide. "And who is 'we'?" demanded one.

"He's a special envoy from the Grand Metropolitan of Rome," explained Diego.

The undine's mouth gaped wide again. "That means precious little to her," murmured Mascoli. The bald priest squatted by the edge of the water. "Just tell him that they are friends of mine. And I trust them."

A moment later, in a little swirl, one of the undines was gone. The other remained, swimming slowly through the water-chapel.

Father Mascoli stood up. "I hope Sister Evangelina is not mistaken." He gave Eneko a hard look.

The Basque priest smiled and spread his hands. "I could give you assurances of my own, Father Mascoli. But would they really mean very much? In the end, you must make your own decision."

"I already have. Doesn't mean I have to like it. I'm just a simple priest, Father Lopez." Mascoli pointed a finger at the still-swirling surface of the water-chapel. "These waters here are quite deep enough for me. "I tend to my flock--in whatever form they appear. I'm Hypatian--"

He gave the Basque another hard look, as if saying: as you are supposed to be. "I don't make judgments. Let God judge. That's His business, not mine. God has given me the gift to make it so that evil can't freely enter here, so anything that enters freely deserves my help."

Pierre had opened his mouth when Mascoli proclaimed his unwillingness to make judgments as if to protest, but closed it after that last sentence, looking far more satisfied.

Mascoli led the way out of the water-chapel. Once in his cell, with the water-door closed, he paused at the entrance to the main chapel. "There are still other waters too deep for me," he added, facing Lopez. "The Marco boy you asked about."

"Valdosta."

Mascoli winced. "That secret is getting too frayed, I fear."

"What 'secret'?" demanded Pierre. "Dell'este sent word to Casa Dorma. From there, it is spreading like fire."

"Not quite that," demurred Diego. "But it is spreading. I fear Petro Dorma has spies in his household."

Mascoli looked even more unhappy than ever. "The boy is--has the potential, I should say--to be a powerful user of magic in his own right, Father Lopez. Especially healing magic. I will not be able to train him properly much longer. I am reaching the limits of my own talent and knowledge."

Eneko nodded. "Consider the bargain made, Father Mascoli. But . . ." He hesitated. The Basque priest seemed to be experiencing one of his few moment of uncertainty. "In truth, I am not well versed in the healing arts myself." After another pause, grudgingly: "Nor, I confess, is that a branch of magic in which my own talents are particularly, ah--"

Pierre snorted. Diego laughed. "Ask a Viking berserk to be a nursemaid, Mascoli--you'd do better."

Lopez glared at him. His companion responded with an insouciant smile. "It's the truth, Eneko. You know it as well as I do." To Mascoli: "I will be glad to assist you with the boy's training. And, if all goes well, in a few months others of our brotherhood should be arriving in Venice. At least two of them--Francis, in particular--are superb with healing magic."

"Thank you," said Mascoli softly. "I have become very fond of Marco." He studied Eneko for a moment. "Does this--ah, Viking berserk--magic of yours extend to protective spells? Or is it simply a specialty in smiting the ungodly?"

Lopez's glare at Diego was in full flower now. "See what you've done?" he demanded. "My reputation was bad enough already."

Diego simply smiled. After a moment, sighing, the Basque looked at Mascoli.

"What do you desire, Father?"

Mascoli groped for words. "I would like--something--don't know what--to protect the brothers somehow. A shield of some sort, I suppose. Marco is swimming in those same deep waters, whether he knows it or not. And Benito--" He rolled his eyes; he couldn't help it. "Benito dives into every bottomless pool he can find. And dives to the bottom of everything else as well."

Pierre grinned at this assessment of the younger brother, but sobered as Eneko shook his head. "At this point, that would be more dangerous than anything. I don't think the enemy--not Chernobog, at least--has any sense yet of the potential danger to him which rests in those two boys. A shield of the sort you're suggesting would just draw his attention. Attention which, for the moment, I would much prefer centered on Dottore Marina."

He glanced at the crucifix on the wall. "But I think something else might be of use. The boys already have a guardian. Two of them, in fact, if my suspicion is correct. I can place a finding spell of sorts on them--not a geas, something much more delicate--which would . . ." It was his turn to grope for words. "Enable the guardians to find them very easily, and know where to bring them in case of trouble. Think of it as lubricating an axle, if you will, and perhaps giving the cart a push over the rough spots."

Diego winced at the crude analogy. Pierre, on the other hand, beamed from ear to ear. "We'll make you a good Savoyard yet!"

They heard the sound of the church door opening. "Wait here," said Father Mascoli. "I'll let you know when you can leave without being observed."

* * *

But he was back within a short time. Behind him came a woman whose face could not be seen because of the cowl over her head. But that she was a woman there could be little doubt, even under the heavy and utilitarian clothing.

"And now this," muttered Mascoli. "What have you gotten me into to, Lopez?"

The woman swept back the cowl. Francesca's smiling face appeared. Even without her usual elaborate coiffure and cosmetics, the woman's beauty seemed quite out of place in Father Mascoli's austere living quarters.

"Nice to see you again, Eneko," she said. "You've heard the news about Dottore Marina, I imagine?"

Lopez nodded. "I assume you have more tidbits to share," he added, with a wry smile.

"Does a chicken have feathers?" snorted Francesca. She glanced around the small room. "Is there anywhere a bit more commodious? I have quite a few 'tidbits,' in fact."

Sighing, Mascoli opened the water-door and led the way back into the water-chapel. "There's no place to sit, I'm afraid."

"No matter," responded Francesca cheerily. "We'll squat. I have very strong legs."

Once in the water-chapel, she spotted the undine immediately. "Oh, thank heaven! Another female."

The priests' faces grew stiff. "You have nothing to fear--" Pierre began to growl.

"Nonsense," snapped Francesca. "And why would I be afraid of a mortal sin in a Hypatian chapel, anyway? The peril lies elsewhere. Men don't know how to gossip properly."

The undine's mouth gaped wide. "Truth!" She swam to the side. "Did you hear--"

Chapter 58 ==========

It was dark, and it was dangerous, and Benito was so happy he could hardly stand himself. If it hadn't been too risky to chance any sound, he'd have been singing. Or humming, anyway.

He was upside-down, hanging by his knees from one of the dozens of timbers supporting Casa Dandelo's leaky, half-rotten roof--the kind of position he'd held so many times in the past that he was almost as comfortable upside-down as he was on his feet. Hidden by the darkness, three stories beneath him the canal-water lapped quietly against the foundations of Casa Dandelo, but there was not much else in the way of sound. There wasn't even so much as a breeze to make the timbers of the building sway and creak, which made it all the more imperative that he keep silent.

He was sawing most of the way through the bolts that held the metal grilles and bars protecting the slave-quarters' upper-story windows. Most of the way, not all; just enough so that someone who was determined on a breakout had only to give a good hard pull to break the grilles free--but from inside or outside, to everything but a close inspection, all was secure. To really hurt the slavers you had to hit them where it counted most--the pocket. That meant slave breakouts . . . for which Benito was now cheerfully preparing the way.

He grinned to himself, working the cable saw carefully, slowly, back and forth on the bolt currently under his fingers. Valentina had threatened his life if he lost that very expensive saw--but had been quite willing to lend Benito the tiny thief's tool when she heard whose place it was going to be used on. Little more than a bit of wire with two handles, it would cut through damn near any metal, and was making short work of Casa Dandelo's soft iron bolts.

It was as black as the inside of a cat tonight, no moon, nary a star showing through the clouds of a warm, overcast spring night. No matter. Benito hadn't ever needed to see, to know what he was about. Valentina and Claudia had taught him to work blind. It was best working blind in some ways: the darkest nights were a thief's best friends.

One: case the place till you know it like the inside of your mouth. Two: take it slow. Three: go by feel and know by feel.

Those were Claudia's rules for nightwork. She might have added the one Benito was abiding by tonight.

Four: have you a lookout.

And Lord and Saints--what a lookout!

Down there somewhere on the canal below him, hidden in the darkest shadows and straining eyes and ears against the thick blackness, was no less a personage than Maria Garavelli--and a more unlikely banditry pairing than himself and Maria was hard to imagine.

* * *

The greater wonder was that Maria had come to him to ask for his help.

Runners had lunch after the rest of Venice; not the least because runners were often sent to fetch lunches and drink for their employers. It made for a long morning and a rumbling stomach, but Benito had gotten used to it. Besides, it meant that the rest of the afternoon until knock-off time was that much shorter.

And you could pick up some nice stuff at half-price from vendors anxious to unload what was left, now that the noontime crowd was fed. So this afternoon Benito had been pleasing his palate with several slabs of castagnaccio that were only slightly old. He was pleasing his hide with warm spring sunshine, and his mind was at ease with the fact that his behind was firmly planted on the upper steps of the Casa Ventuccio. He had a good view of the canal from there, and no one hassled a kid in Ventuccio-livery there--so long as he kept his butt near enough to the edge of the steps that he didn't impede traffic.

He had been dangling his feet over the edge, and had both arms draped over the lower bar of the guard rail, watching the traffic pass in the half-light below him. He was rather pleased that he knew a good many of those passing by name--even if those good folk would hardly appreciate the "honor." He watched, feeling his back and shoulders ache in sympathy, as Gianni and Tomaso labored against the current, poling what looked to be a nice little cargo of barrels of some kind up the canal. He noted one of the younger Baldasini boys go by, riding in one of the family boats, and old man Mario in a hire-boat going in the opposite direction. And he saw a double handful of canalers he recognized besides Gianni, and rather wished he had his brother's incredible memory. There might be valuable information there if he only could remember who he saw going where. The one real pity about having his lunch break late, was that he and Marco couldn't sit together.

He hadn't had a decent talk with Marco since Maria's return from captivity. Marco had gotten back from looking for Luciano Marina even later than Caesare had returned from his visit to Casa Capuletti. Marco, at least, had been sober. Benito sighed. Marco was walking around with that moonstruck look on his face again. Doubtless yet another girl. Benito couldn't understand it. Girls were . . . interesting. But not this walk-into-walls-and-die-for-you stuff. And what did he mean by that "One person's trouble is another person's delight"? Benito sighed again. More trouble for Benito and the rest of them no doubt. But right now the sun was warm and the chestnut-flour castagnaccio was superb.

He was halfway through his lunch when he saw Maria tie up down below. So far as he knew she had no business with Casa Ventuccio today, so he wasn't much surprised when she strolled up the steps and planted herself beside him; feet dangling, like his, over the edge, the rest of her hugging the bottom railing.

"Bite?" he said, offering her a piece of castagnaccio to be sociable. It didn't pay to be less than polite to Maria at any time--but most especially Benito walked softly these days. What with her being short-fused and in a muddle over Caesare Aldanto, and them being short of cash, and Benito's brother more than half the cause of both--and now this Dandelo thing--

"No," she said shortly. "I ate."

He shrugged. She'd say her say when she was ready; he wasn't about to push her.

He kept watch on her out the corner of his eye all the same. After living these months with Caesare Aldanto, Benito knew Maria Garavelli about as well as he knew anybody--and the storm warnings were definitely out. The sleeves of her dark blue dress were pushed up over her elbows, which only happened when she was nervy; her battered hat was pulled down low on her forehead, like she was trying to keep her eyes from being read. But Benito was close enough for a good view, and he could see that her square jaw was tensed, her dark eyes gone darker with brooding, her broad shoulders hunched, her fists clenching and unclenching--storm-warnings for sure.

Well, she and Caesare had "celebrated" her return from captivity in the Casa Dandelo two days ago with an almighty fight. Things definitely hadn't been right between the two of them lately. He should talk it through with Marco, but he'd barely seen Marco since the night Maria had gotten back.

"You've got the sneak thief's ways, Benito Valdosta," she said at last, softly, so softly her voice hardly carried to Benito.

Benito tensed up himself; in all of Venice only Alberto Ventuccio, Maria Garavelli, and Caesare Aldanto knew his real name, his and Marco's. Only they knew that Marco Felluci and Benito Oro were real brothers; were Marco and Benito of the Case Vecchie, the last of the longi family Valdosta. Only those three knew that the boys had fled from assassins who had killed their mother, and were still very probably under death sentence from Duke Visconti for the things their dead mother Lorendana might have told them and the names and faces they knew. Even the Ventuccio cousins didn't know.

For Maria Garavelli to be using his real name--this was serious.

"I ain't no sneak thief," he said shortly. "'Less Caesare wants a job done. It don't pay, 'cept to buy a piece of rope at nubbing cheat. Unless you're real good." He thought of Valentina, of Claudia, their skills and bravado, with raw envy. "I'm good; I ain't that good."

"What if I wanted you to turn sneak thief for a bit . . . for me?" came the unexpected question.

"Huh? For you?" he responded, turning to stare at her, his jaw slack with surprise.

She moved her head slowly to meet his astonished gaze. "Casa Dandelo," she said tersely.

He nodded, understanding her then. Somebody--Montagnards, likely--had kidnapped the redoubtable Maria Garavelli; had kidnapped her, and truly, truly, frightened her, something Benito had never thought possible. She said that nothing else had happened. Benito believed her, but most of the canalers didn't. They assumed Maria had been molested, maybe raped, and was lying about it out of shame.

That assumption was fueling the seething anger which was steadily building among the canalers and the Arsenalotti. Most of Venice's working poor had no love for the Dandelos at the best of times. Now that the Dandelos had crossed the line by messing with a well-known citizen of the Republic . . . a poor one, true, but a canaler, not a vagrant . . .

There was going to be an explosion soon, Benito thought. And a lot bigger one than the initial rash of attacks on Dandelo retainers who had been unlucky enough to be caught in the open when the news of Maria's escape--and the identity of her captors--had raced through the city. Four Dandelo hangers-on, one of them a distant relation of the family, had been stabbed or beaten to death in two separate incidents within hours. After that, all the Dandelos and their retainers had hastily retreated to their fortresslike building to wait out the storm.

The canalers and Arsenalotti were now waiting to see what measures, if any, the authorities would take against the Dandelos for their flagrant transgression of the unspoken "rules." So far, however, all the signs were that the Signori di Notte intended to remain carefully blind to what the Dandelos had been up to. In which case . . . all hell was going to break loose, soon enough.

Maria herself, it seemed, had already waited long enough. She intended to start her own vendetta--now!--and she'd come to Benito first. He felt a strange, great thrill at that fact.

"Si!" Benito replied. He owed them too. Maria gave him hell sometimes, but he was fond of her. Kind of like a sister, except sometimes she made him think unsisterly things. Ever since he'd seen her in those Case Vecchie clothes . . . he'd realized she was beautiful. Not that she was interested in anyone but Caesare, of course. "Si, Maria, you got me. You say, how and when."

The hunched shoulders relaxed a bit; she favored him with a ghost of a smile. "Knew you wasn't all bad," she said, grabbing the railing and pulling herself to her feet.

* * *

Benito wasn't all fool, either; he knew where his primary loyalty lay--with the man he'd privately chosen as his model and mentor, Caesare Aldanto. When Benito had arrived at Caesare's Castello apartment--which they all called "home" now--that afternoon, he'd first checked to make sure that Marco and Maria weren't home. Caesare was sitting reading. Benito felt no qualms about disturbing him with a terse report of Maria's attempt to recruit him.

The warm, comfortable sitting room seemed to turn cold as Aldanto's expression chilled. Aldanto's hands tightened a little on the sheaf of papers he was holding; his blue eyes went cloudy. Benito knew him now, too--knew by those slight signs that Aldanto was not happy with this little piece of news.

Benito clasped his hands in front of him and tried to look older than his fifteen years--older, and capable; capable enough to run with Maria. Maybe even to ride herd a little on Maria.

"Caesare--" he offered, then before Aldanto could speak to forbid him to help, "you know I'm not bad at roof-walking. You've seen me; you've set me jobs yourself. You know if I tell her 'no' she's just going to go it alone. Let me help, huh? Happens I can keep her out of real bad trouble. Happens if she's got me along, she maybe won't go looking for bad trouble so damn hard, figuring she's got to keep me out of it."

A good hit, that last; Maria was likely to feel at least a little bit responsible for Benito, if only because she was maybe two years older than him. That was the line Valentina had taken when he was along on one of her jobs, and she was one of the least responsible people Benito knew. Aldanto tilted his head to the side and looked thoughtful when Benito had finished, then put the papers down on the couch to one side of him, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his lips with one long, aristocratic finger. "How about if I tell you to keep her out of trouble?" he asked finally.

Benito winced. That was nothing less than an impossibility, as Aldanto should very well know. "Ask me to fly. I've got a better chance."

Aldanto managed a quirk of the right corner of his mouth. "I'm afraid you're probably right. I should know better than to ask you to do something no one else can." He stared at Benito, then stared though him; thinking, and thinking hard. "All right; go ahead and give her a hand. See if you can't keep her from being totally suicidal."

Benito grinned and shrugged; so far as he could see, both he and Maria had won. He'd told Caesare--and he hadn't been forbidden to help or ordered to hinder. What little conscience he had was clear, and he was free to indulge in the kind of hell-raising he adored with Aldanto's tacit approval--

He prepared to turn and scoot down the hall to vanish into the downstairs bedroom he shared with Marco, when Aldanto stopped him with a lifted finger.

"But--" he said, with the tone that told Benito that disobedience would cost more than Benito would ever want to pay, "I expect you to keep me informed. Completely informed. Chapter and verse on what she's doing, and when, and how. And I want it in advance; and well in advance."

Benito stifled a sigh of disappointment.

"Si, milord," he agreed, hoping his reluctance didn't show too much. Because he knew what that meant. Maybe he wasn't going to have to try to stop Maria--but now he was honor-bound to keep her from trying to do the kind of things he'd like to pull. And what that meant, mostly, was keeping things quiet. Damn. "Quiet" wasn't half the fun.

* * *

Hey, this one didn't work out too bad, Benito thought, inching along the rough beam to the opposite corner of the grille and ignoring the splinter he got in a palm. Pain was for later. He attacked the next bolt.

Quiet--and nothing to connect me or Maria to the mess when all hell breaks loose. Caesare was happy enough about that. We're here earlier than planned but I told him every detail. And we've been doing well tonight; this is two more windows than I'd figured likely to cut when we planned this.

He had gotten this bolt nearly sawed through when a feral cat yowled from the invisible canal below him. She did a good cat-yowl. . . . It was somewhere to his right, which meant upstream.

Maria had spotted possible trouble.

Benito coiled up the cable saw and stowed it safely away in the buttoned pocket of his breeches, making damn sure the button was fastened and the saw in there. Then he inched, still hanging upside-down, back along the support beam until he met the cross-brace. He switched to it, using both hands and legs, taking it slowly and carefully to avoid making the wood creak, until he reached the end that met the roof, where the gutter was. The drainpipes and gutterwork on Casa Dandelo Isle were sound, even if most of the rest of the building wasn't; Dandelo got most of its potable water from rain.

Might ask Marco if there's something we could drop into the roof-tank, give them all the heaves and trots. Benito grinned again in the darkness--he had a fair notion Maria would like that idea real well. It was another quiet one--which would please Caesare. And it was an idea that would cost the Dandelo's money, real hard-cash money--cash for the doctors, for clean water when they figured out what the cause was, and for somebody to come clean and purge the system. That pleased Benito--and there was always a chance that the fear of plague or sickness in Casa Dandelo would flush some of the Montagnard agents out of their safe-house and maybe into the hands of the Schiopettieri. Hmm--another thought; if they had any human cargo in there, they might have to find another place for the captives. And that would give the slaves a chance to escape. That pleased Benito even more; he didn't have much in the way of moral scruples, but he was flat against slaving.

He continued to think about this new plan as he grabbed the edge of the gutter and hauled himself up onto the roof with its aid. The metal groaned a little, and he froze, but nothing further untoward happened. He continued easing himself up over the edge. He crawled from that point along the roof-edge, feeling his way and moving slowly to avoid any more noise, until he found the outside corner of the roof and the place where the gutter met the drainpipe. He stopped, taking stock with his ears, and nodded after a bit. The echoes from the water lapping against the building were right for where he thought he was; and he thought he could make out the sable pit of the Grand Canal, a blacker blot in the night-shadows ahead of him. He should be right on the point of Casa Dandelo where the building fronted Rio della Crea--and Maria should be right below him, holding her gondola steady against the pull of the current.

"Woo ooo," he called softly, and was rewarded with a yowl almost directly below. He eased himself over the edge of the roof, dangling blindly for a little until he got his legs around the pipe, then shinnied silently down the drainpipe. It went in through the wall to a tank within, but in a full stretch he could reach the narrow ledge that ran around the edge of the islet.

"Woo ooo," he chirped, struggling to hold his balance on the cold, slippery, slimy ledge, as he positioned himself with his back to the wall. Come high tide, this would be underwater, and it tended to collect unsavory stuff. He was having to hold to the drainpipe above him with both hands; the ledge was barely two inches wide.

Meeeow, came the answer, and the soft bump of a boat-nose against the ledge beside him, black blot against the reflective water. Benito squirmed about like a real cat, grabbed the gondola's nose with both hands and leapfrogged aboard her before Maria had a chance to say a word.

He felt his way down off the nose, worked his way past the barrels occupying the slats of the bottom, and sat down on the worn boards of foredeck, knowing she knew he'd gotten aboard safely by the gondola's movement. He heard and felt her heave with the oar, moving the gondola into the current of the Grand Canal. There was a tense moment as they passed the bulk of the residential side of Casa Dandelo, but it stayed quiet, with hardly a light showing anywhere in the building. Then they were past, down into Cannaregio, where Maria had legitimate--well, sort of--business. A barrel delivery from Giaccomo, and not all the barrels were empty. This wasn't the first night she'd had him along on the skip to help--nor would it be the last, hoped Benito. Maria's company grew on you, away from Caesare.

Make it look like business as usual, and that's what everybody is going to figure, was another of Valentina's maxims.

When they finished this delivery, they'd head home by way of Barducci's. Benito would pass Valentina her little tool under cover of buying her a drink, and that would be her signal to spread the word tonight along certain channels that Casa Dandelo was no longer as impregnable as the Dandelos thought.

Benito grinned yet again as he picked the splinter from his climb out of his palm with his teeth. Figure as many as two of the slaves hit them--and they'll fall out. With a small pry bar, anyone could pry them loose. Lord and Saints--I damn sure wouldn't want to be the fellow responsible for those grilles! he thought, smugly.

He heard Maria start to whistle through her teeth, and guessed she was thinking the same thing.

Well, that was a little more off the tot-board for what he and Marco owed to Maria and Caesare. A good night's work, profitable for everybody--except Casa Dandelo.

Chapter 59 ==========

"Message for you, Maria," said Jeppo laconically, as they unloaded the barrels at Giaccomo's. "That Spook came here for you. The boss don't like her here. Giaccomo's real nervous about that 'magic' crowd. She ain't a good contact to do business with."

"I owe her," said Maria shortly, pushing her hair back from a sweaty brow. "Ain't business. But I got stuff to give back to her. What's the message?"

"Said she'd be over at Zianetti's tonight."

"Uh huh." Maria sighed. "All the way over to Accademia tonight."

Jeppo grinned. Twitched a thumb at Benito. "You better teach the apprentice to row."

* * *

Zianetti's was never as noisy as Barducci's. There'd been trouble years ago about a tavern in the middle of the Accademia area disturbing students--who were of course the ones who made the disturbance, and not the ones who complained. So Zianetti's wasn't a music place. The food was good and relatively cheap. The drink slightly more expensive than elsewhere. This simple recipe kept those intent on serious drinking going elsewhere, while making sure there were always customers. The big common room had been split up into a succession of smaller rooms, so rowdy argument--about everything from politics to paints--was limited to the crew who could fit in the smaller salons. Benito found it too quiet for his taste.

He and Maria looked into several rooms before finding Kat in one of the smaller back ones.

With Marco.

Oh, great. One man's trouble is another man's delight. It made sense now. And by the way Marco looked at that snappy-mouthed smuggler-girl, this was real trouble. What on earth did Marco see in her, besides someone shrewish enough to give Maria words? He had to grant--now that he could see her coppery curly hair--that she was prettier than he remembered. And sort of aglow. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling.

Wonder if she's stuck on Marco too? he thought. That'd be a change! Normally the girls who want Marco don't even get noticed by him, and he's all eyes for the ones who don't know he's alive.

"Hey, ciao, Kat," said Maria cheerfully, leaning over their table. "What brings you to a dump like this? Got no music. And the wine is expensive."

Benito flopped down next to them. Maria was pleased to see Kat. That was obvious. Great. Now he had a brother and Maria to get away from trouble. Caesare didn't know how right he'd been in telling Benito to be her minder.

Kat dimpled. "The company is good though. Listen--a word of warning. There's going to be a Schiopettieri sweep through the town tonight."

Benito shivered. If they hadn't gone early they'd have been caught up in it.

Maria sat down abruptly, scowling. "Bastardos! They're just trying to intimidate anyone from hitting the Dandelos." She stared at Kat, the scowl turning into a crease of puzzlement. "How do you know this stuff, Kat?"

Kat's face took on a guarded look. "Business. Let's just leave it out of this."

Benito got to his feet. "I'd better go over to Claudia and Valentina. I've got something to give back--uh, to deliver to them."

Maria nodded. "Si. I'll take you. Quicker. Look Kat, I've got a bundle I need to get to you."

"I'll be here on Thursday." She glanced shyly across at Marco.

He nodded.

Like that was it? thought Benito grimly. Have to break this up. "You'd better come with us, Marco. Hear Claudia's got some . . . doctor who wants to talk to you."

Marco stood up, reluctantly. "I suppose so." He smiled at Kat. "Thursday then."

She drained her wine, and stood up. "I might as well go too. Time I got home."

They walked out. As they got to the door there was something of a press of older men. Benito realized he recognized one of them. It was the short, red-haired man with the single line of dark eyebrow . . . who had seen them that first early morning outside the Imperial embassy--and then again when they'd recovered Kat's parcel. He was the Spaniard who had been staying with Ricardo Brunelli.

The redhead looked across the crowd . . . his eagle eyes taking them all in. The eyes narrowed and he began to push towards them.

"I've got to get out of here," said Kat, genuine fear in her voice.

But there was a real crowd at the door. A masque must have finished across at La Fenice, and this was the drink-after-the-show bunch. "Follow me." Benito dropped to his knees and began squirming between legs. He collected a few slaps on the rump, and by the squawks behind him, so did a few of the others. But they were out in a minute, all of them.

"It'll take more than a crowd to stop that man," said Marco. Sure enough the redhead was outside the inn, peering into the night. And, as luck would have it, he'd come out closer to the canal.

Benito didn't know this area as well as he did some the richer areas he'd cased along the Grand Canal. But knew it well enough. "We can just nip up that alley. If the tide is out enough we can walk along the ledge around to where the gondolas are moored."

The alley a few yards from the corner of Zianetti's stank just like what it was often used for. They moved down the dark curve of it quietly. And then, Maria--who happened to be in the lead--stopped them. Outlined by lights on the far side of the canal, at the mouth of the alley, were two people . . . kissing passionately.

"Merda," whispered Maria. "Him!"

Benito recognized the man too. It was that Milanese trade mission fellow he'd taken the message to at the German Hotel. The one he'd seen Caesare in the alley with afterward. The fellow had a very recognizable profile, even in bad light.

"There are some stairs back there," whispered Kat.

Benito thought he was good at managing without light, but she was obviously as good as a real cat. They went back a few yards and up the little walled staircase. There they crouched and waited. Sure enough, someone came past beneath them.

The person stopped a few yards further on. And then turned and walked far more quietly back.

"That's the figlio di una puttana who questioned me in the Casa Dandelo," hissed Maria.

"Who? Senor Lopez?" whispered Kat. "The man who saw us at Zianetti's and chased us? You mean it was you he was after?"

"No." whispered Maria. "I'm talking about the man kissing the woman. I've never seen that Lopez fellow in my life before. Who is he, anyway?"

Benito heard Kat take a deep breath, and whisper nervously. "He pretends he's just a visitor to Venice. But I think he's a witch-finder from the Grand Metropolitan in Rome, hunting Strega."

"I thought the Petrines believed in tolerance of other religions?" whispered Marco.

Kat snorted quietly. "Did he look tolerant?"

Benito had to agree. He didn't. Determined; powerful, yes. Tolerant, no.

"You don't know the other man? The one at the end of the alley? Or the woman?" Whispered Maria, before they got bogged down in theology.

"No," said Kat.

Benito actually bit his tongue to stop himself from saying "Francesco Aleri." He must talk to Caesare. He didn't have a clue who the woman was.

* * *

Kat bit her tongue. She had no idea who the man was. But the silhouette of Lucrezia Brunelli's hairdo was unmistakable.

And from the foot of the stairs someone rasped. "All right, Lorendana's kids. Aleri and the other guy have gone. You can go home."

Kat hadn't realized she'd been holding Marco's hand. She felt him relax. Whoever this was, he wasn't bad. "Thanks, Harrow," said Marco.

The relieving party said nothing, just walked away up the alley. So they all got up and left too. Two minutes later she was out on the Grand Canal. Why was Lopez after her? The thought was scary. She'd better prompt Giuseppe to not have her at home to any visiting Spaniards. And she'd take the long way home to avoid the sweep.

* * *

Maria worked her oar in silence for a while. Then she said "Marco, what did your Spook say?"

"Kat? She's not 'mine.' " Marco sounded almost wistful about it. "She's a wonderful girl, isn't she? And you heard what she said . . ."

Maria clicked her tongue in irritation. "Tch. Lord and Saints, Marco. Not Kat. That burned-face troll that follows you around! Ugliest guardian angel in the universe."

"Oh. Harrow." Marco shrugged. "He's just somebody who--knew our mother."

"And the other name?" asked Maria, intently. "Aleri?"

"Well," said Marco thoughtfully. "There was a high-up Montagnard in mother's time by that name. Francesco Aleri."

Benito wished like hell Marco's memory was less good. He really had to talk to Caesare about this before Maria went in like a bull in a china shop. Aleri would have to die. But Maria must be kept well clear. Best to change the subject before Marco remembered something else inconvenient. "So now you're crazy about Kat, Marco. What happened to the dream girl in the boat?"

Marco laughed happily. "Kat is the dream girl in the boat, Benito."

There was a long moment of silence from both Maria and Benito. Benito wound his jaw back up. Bossy-boots Kat, with too big a mouth, and a tongue that could scour brass?

"What!?" he croaked--in unison with Maria.

* * *

Late that night, there came a knock on Eneko's door. When the priest opened it onto the dimly lit Ghetto alley, a burly man with a badly scarred and burned face seized the Basque by the lapel of his cassock and forced his way inside. Then kicked the door shut behind him.

Eneko made no attempt to resist. The man's strength was enormous.

"Why are you following the boys?" the man rasped.

"I'm not," replied Eneko calmly.

"You've been watching them," snarled the scar-faced man. "I've seen you--you and the other two. And tonight, at Zianetti's--"

Eneko laughed softly. "I wasn't trying to talk to them. I wanted to talk to the girl they were with. The one they call 'Kat.' "

The man released the cassock and stepped back a pace. "Why?" he demanded.

"None of your concern," said Eneko, shaking his head. "But I will tell you that I mean her no harm. I simply wanted to pass a message on to another through her. Unfortunately, she left too quickly."

The man grunted. "The whore."

Eneko cocked his head. "That's not a term I use. But . . . if we're speaking of the same woman, I wonder how you know who she is."

The man took another pace back. "I'm charged with protecting the boys. I watch everything--everyone--they come into contact with."

"Charged by whom?" asked Eneko mildly.

The man shook his head. "None of your concern." He turned on his heel and left, not bothering to close the door.

Eneko followed, standing in the entrance. "Stop," he said softly. The man, now halfway down the alley, paused and looked over his shoulder.

"Should you ever have need," said Eneko, "I will help you with your task. Those boys are vitally important."

The man's eyes seemed to widen a bit. "Smart, for a priest." Then he was gone, moving more quickly and silently than Eneko would have imagined such a scarred lump of a man could possibly do.

When he turned back into his room and closed the door, he found Pierre and Diego already there. The door to the adjoining cells was open. Pierre held a cudgel in his hand.

Seeing the cudgel, Eneko clucked. "We are not a militant order, Pierre."

"Define your terms," came the instant retort. "And remember that I'm a Savoyard peasant, not a theologian."

Chapter 60 ==========

Swords clashed in a high-speed flurrying dance of steel. Not for the first time, Manfred wondered how Erik could be so damned quick. The edges were blunt, there were buttons on the points, and they wore quilted jackets. So why did Erik always leave him feeling he had been half skinned and half beaten? He put in another determined rush. If he was going to feel like that, so was Erik.

"Hold." A voice commanded. They put up the practice swords. "You must go to Abbot Sachs's chambers." Von Stublau looked sour enough to curdle milk. "He has some Venetian lord to see you." He looked disdainfully at the training rapiers. "Pah. Too light for a knightly weapon."

"But very fashionable," said Manfred with a grin, knowing this would irritate the surly Altmark knight.

"Enough, Manfred," said Erik before the slow-thinking knight had time to respond to Manfred's lure. "We train with broadswords on the pells, Ritter. But these give us more of a chance to learn how to respond to a live opponent. Come Manfred, the abbot and this Venetian lord won't thank us for keeping him waiting. Help me out of this jacket. We need to get some kind of mask also, if we're to do this 'fencing' properly."

Manfred pulled the quilted jacket off his mentor, and turned so that Erik could do the same for him. "We're neglecting the legs, too. We need a trainer, Erik. A master of this Italian bravura style. I'll ask Francesca."

Erik turned hastily, to see if the supposedly celibate knight-squire had an audience. But fortunately Von Stublau had left. "It's not a bad idea, Manfred. I don't care what Von Stublau says--for marine warfare, anyway, armor is history."

"I like armor myself," grumbled Manfred, as they made their way up to the abbot's rooms. "But I'll admit having a horse to carry it helps."

* * *

The Venetian waiting for them with the abbot was the balding one of that group of Signori di Notte that they'd met after they'd saved Lord Calenti from being magically murdered.

Abbot Sachs was doing his best to be pleasant. It sat ill with the cleric. "Ah, Ritters. Signor Petro Dorma has requested specifically to speak to you two."

"You were quite correct in your surmise," said Dorma. "Each of these vile murders--except possibly one, where the fire destroyed the entire building it was in and therefore we can't be certain--has been found to have recently involved a missing item of clothing."

"Mammet witchcraft!" barked Sachs.

Petro Dorma cleared his throat. "Well, the expert on magic I have spoken to says there are several other possibilities. But I wanted to thank you gentlemen for your efforts on behalf of my fellow Signori . . . and also to tell you the sad news about Father Belgio and Lord Calenti. Despite our hopes, Lord Calenti died last night. And in a separate type of murder, someone killed Father Belgio as well."

"Father Belgio was not killed by magic?" asked Erik, intent.

Petro Dorma shook his head. "No. Just straight assassination. A misericord pushed in behind the ear while he slept. A thoroughly professional killing."

"Why?" Manfred demanded. "He didn't seem the sort of man to attract enemies."

Sachs snorted. "He was a man of God. That's enough for these Godless Strega."

Petro Dorma's expression was pained, for an instant. "We have had Strega murders from time to time, Abbot. Poison, not steel, is their way. We're following several lines of inquiry. That is only one of them."

Dorma paused for a moment, studying Erik and Manfred. "I came for another reason, as well. There was another magical murder last night. In the slave quarters of Casa Dandelo, of all places! According to my investigator who examined the scene, once again the victim had lost--or claimed to other prisoners to have lost--all of his clothing." Petro Dorma frowned. "Whoever murders these people by whatever demonic means, and for whatever reason, there is certainly no respect for rank. From Lord Calenti, to a slave."

Again, Dorma paused. Then: "But the reason I asked Abbot Sachs to speak to the two of you is tangential to the murder. Rumors are flying all over Venice that the Dandelos abducted a citizen into slavery, just before the killing. A canaler by the name of Maria Garavelli. She apparently took advantage of the confusion caused by the magical murder to make her escape."

Erik's jaws tightened. In the months since he had arrived in Venice, he had developed a detestation for the type of chattel slavery tolerated in the Republic--throughout most of the Mediterranean, in fact. Slavery had been legally abolished in the Holy Roman Empire for more than a century. And while it was still officially practiced in his own League of Armagh, Celtic and Norse thralldom had little of the sheer brutality and degradation of the Mediterranean variety of servitude.

"I'll bet that's causing a stir," snorted Manfred.

Dorma pulled a wry face. "To call it a 'stir' is to understate the matter considerably. Bad enough that the Dandelos tried to enslave a legal citizen. To make matters worse, the girl is a well-known canaler from a large family of caulkers at the Arsenal."

Manfred whistled softly. "All hell's going to break loose, then. They abducted a daughter of the Arsenalotti? Are they insane?"

"I have no idea what motivated the fools. They are trying to deny everything. But the facts seem well enough established." Dorma scowled. "And, at this point, I no longer care what their reasons might have been. If the authorities do not act decisively--" He nodded at Manfred. "As you say, 'all hell will break loose.' "

By now, Erik understood Dorma's purpose. "And you want us--Manfred and me--to be part of the, ah, what shall I call it?"

" 'Punitive expedition' will do quite nicely," said Dorma firmly. "Yes, exactly. There are enough factional tensions in the city. If some Knights of the Holy Trinity are involved in the affair, no one will be able to claim the raid was done for partisan purposes." He glanced at Sachs. "The Dandelos are known to have Montagnard leanings."

Erik was a bit puzzled by the abbot's apparent willingness to go along with Dorma's plan. But Sachs cleared up the mystery immediately.

When the abbot spoke, he almost seemed to be choking on the words. "Naturally, Lord Dorma. Given the recent unpleasantness . . . misapprehensions of the Knights' motives . . ."

Erik almost laughed. You mean the mess you've stirred up with your idiot witch-hunts.

"Both the servants and Knights of the Trinity are only too pleased to help serve God and your Venice," finished the abbot, lamely. "Eh, Ritters?"

Erik nodded. "It would be our pleasure."

Manfred bowed deeply. Which was a good thing, thought Erik. It helped to hide his grin.

Dorma bowed in return. "Thank you. If you would be ready by Lauds, tomorrow morning, I will have some of my Schiopettieri come to meet you here. I'll take my leave now." He sighed. "Affairs of state, business, and at the moment, family. The last are the worst, believe me!"

Sachs motioned to the two knights to stay, and showed his guest out. When he returned, his face was sour.

"A silly business, asking knights to serve as common policemen. But . . ." He shrugged irritably. "You are to make yourselves available for Lord Dorma. Whatever he wants. You are dismissed."

* * *

Erik was not surprised to find Petro Dorma waiting for them around the corner. He had been certain that Dorma had said as little as possible in the presence of Sachs.

"You'd like more than just the two of us, I imagine."

The Venetian lord nodded. "Yes, please. At least half a dozen, as heavily armed as possible." He smiled grimly. "I want to overawe the Dandelos from the very beginning. And for that purpose, Knights of the Holy Trinity will serve far better than Schiopettieri."

He hesitated. "Of course, I do not expect you to do anything which would jeopardize your good standing with the abbot."

Manfred snorted. Erik just smiled. "We were told 'whatever Lord Dorma wants.' That seems clear enough." He and Manfred exchanged glances.

"Von Gherens, for sure," said Manfred. "Let him pick the others. Except I'd like Gerhard Bach along."

Erik's smile widened. "Bach, eh? Yes, I agree."

Dorma looked back and forth from one to the other, his eyes expressing a slight question.

"Gerhard Bach's our gunnery expert," explained Manfred cheerfully. "He's got a new little bombard he's been dying to test under field conditions."

Dorma seemed to choke a little. Then, after a moment, grinned himself. "A bombard, you say . . . Well, why not? The main door to Casa Dandelo may not open quickly enough."

"I can guarantee it won't open quickly enough," growled Erik. "No matter how fast they try."

* * *

"I must talk to Francesca," said Erik, as they walked down the passage after parting company with Dorma. "We've got some time. And--" He glanced at Manfred. "At this time of day she won't be, ah, occupied."

Manfred looked at him with some amusement. "So long as it's only talk. But why?"

Erik shrugged. "Because she understands all this intrigue and I do not. And it is my task to keep you safe in it."

* * *

"The way I see it," said Manfred, going into the breech, "these 'Strega' are not in the clear at all when it comes to Father Belgio's murder. They can hire their killing done as well as anyone else."

Francesca smiled at him the way a teacher smiles at a bright pupil . . . who has managed half the answer. She ruffled his hair and neatly evaded his arm, going to sit instead on the arm of Erik's chair. "True. But as you rightly point out, so could anyone else--if it was paid for. But," she held up an elegantly manicured hand, "it would have to be a rich anyone. The Church does not take kindly to its clerics being assassinated. And beside the chance of excommunication, their investigators are ferocious. This was professionally done, and that doesn't come cheap. And there are very few who do it well."

She paused, thinking. "If it was paid for . . . well, the first name that springs to mind is your blond friend Caesare Aldanto. Or, as a second choice, Giuliano Dell'Arta. Although Giuliano probably makes more as swordmaster than he does killing people. Both of them have powerful protectors, and are pretty much immune to Petro Dorma. If it was done to further the aims of the factions, Bruno Di Netto is Rome's man. The Metropolitan's chief executioner in Venice. Francisco Aleri is in charge of Milan's--and he has the whole Montagnard faction at his command. They ship men in and out. The Republic's Council of Ten . . . well, they keep their secrets. So do the imperials, although I suspect Count DeMarien or Von Stemitz." She smiled. "Enough, Erik?"